“So you’ll be taking one for the team, eh? You poor, poor boy. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Tony’s ears heated up. “That’s not what this is.”
“Whatever you say, boss.” Cam hung up before Tony had a chance to respond. He was still staring at his phone when the paramedic found him.
“So I hear you’re the big hero. Let’s take a look and make sure you’re okay.”
Tony crossed his arms over his chest and tried to stare down the paramedic. “I’m good.”
“Come on, guy, I’m just doing my job here.” Judy, according to her name tag, dropped her duffel on the street and slammed her hands on her hips. “Stop being a baby and let me get a look at your back.”
His instincts screamed run. His head knew better. Judy looked like she’d wrestled alligators before breakfast and wasn’t into dealing with any more shit. He could identify.
Feeling like a twelve-year-old facing the principal, Tony shrugged out of his dad’s old motorcycle patrol jacket and lifted up the back of his shirt.
Judy tsked. “Now, that’s going to be one beauty of a bruise in the morning.” Her latex-covered hands made quick work of checking that his spine and ribs were all in the right places. “Lots of ice to take out the swelling, and no more kissing the concrete for a while.”
He knew better than to make promises. A whiff of Sylvie’s lavender perfume announced her arrival a second before she sashayed over.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll make sure to find him something more appropriate to kiss.” Sylvie flashed him a saucy smile that sent a message his cock immediately understood, even if his mind was mystified. “Come on, sweetie, let’s get you back home for a little TLC.”
Shell-shocked didn’t begin to describe the white wall of confusion that decimated his brain at her endearment. He didn’t think he’d whacked his skull on the street, but he was beginning to have doubts. Lots of them.
“I already talked to the police,” she said. “They think this was just a case of a distracted driver and it doesn’t have anything to do with those e-mails I’ve been getting.” Her tone stayed light, but there was venom in her glare as she visually sliced and diced the uniforms. “They promised to look into it, though, so I’m sure little old me doesn’t have a thing to worry about.”
Linking her arm through his, she led him down the street like a stupid puppy, which was pretty much how he felt at the moment.
“Wha—”
“Just play along,” she whispered under his breath. “If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it my way. Meaning no one knows that I have a sicko stalker or that you’re a bodyguard. I’m not idiot enough to fool myself into thinking this guy hasn’t lost it, but that doesn’t mean I feel like living at the corner of gossip and schadenfreude for the foreseeable future. You’re working for me now. That means I’m calling the shots. As far as the world is concerned, until we catch that asshole, you’re my boyfriend.”
Chapter Four
“I’ve always thought of the T-shirt as the alpha and omega of the fashion alphabet.”
—Giorgio Armani
Her boyfriend.
What in God’s name had she been thinking? Sylvie had been too pissed to think about much. Now that the anger had worn off, anxiety was all she had left in her emotional tank.
Clad in her blogging uniform of leggings and a roomy dolman top made from the softest pink jersey, she finished her follow-up blog post to yesterday’s Pippa Worthington scoop. There was more to do on it, but she couldn’t stop pacing around her apartment and second-guessing her decision. Typing and marching around her bookshelf-lined living room did not go together.
Neither did she and Tony. If she told herself that often enough, maybe her boobs would take the hint and stop perking up every time she thought of him.
Girls, you’re just going to have to simmer down, because Tony is a means to an end. That is all.
The end being catching her stalker. She’d worked too hard and for too long to build the High-Heeled Wonder’s audience to let some twerp with a lead foot intimidate her into killing the site.
Killing.
Her hands shook at the turn of her thoughts. The driver this morning wasn’t a fluke accident, no matter what the police said. If they weren’t going to get to the bottom of it, she sure as hell would. To do that, she needed Tony’s detective skills. Her worrywart fathers were nothing if not cautious. If they’d decided his credentials were up to snuff, she had no reason doubt it.
After he’d walked her home, Tony had completed a sweep of her apartment while she tried to block him from seeing her collection of bras drying on the shower rod. He’d stared at her massive collection of sheer lace in every color from blush pink to pure ebony, blinked those dark brown eyes a few dozen times, then abruptly left the apartment, promising to be back in fifteen minutes.
That was twelve minutes ago.
Not that she was counting.