It made no sense. Why should he care or worry so much about a woman he hardly knew? He couldn’t go around saving every female who got herself in trouble in this soul-sucking industry. There weren’t enough minutes in the day.
She rustled in the seat next to him. He frowned. Her soft sigh tickled the skin of his ear.
Had she actually accused him of being blasé about this?
What a freaking joke.
* * *
Gia couldn’t breathe. Someone was holding her down, crushing her, keeping her from running. No, it wasn’t someone, it was something. She clawed for air, grasping for release, but her own body seemed to be responsible for her suffocation. Her lungs refused to expand.
“Gia!” a deep voice said sharply. “Wake up.”
It was a command she followed without thinking. Her eyelids flew open. Bright sunlight flooded into her vision. She squinted dazedly, but her lungs were finally free. She gasped for air.
Seth Hightower stared down at her from behind the wheel of the vehicle, his face rigid, his eyes narrowed dangerously. She lay on her side, facing him. Her lungs froze again at the uncompromisingly stark image of him. It took her a few seconds to register where he was staring with blazing eyes. She looked down slowly. The T-shirt she wore was bunched up around her chest. Everything came back to her sleep-addled brain in a rush: the need for escape from Los Angeles, Seth’s disguise . . . the rigid shaper she wore like a corset.
Shit.
She held the concealed zipper of the rigid garment between her fingers. In her sleep, she’d ripped it down to her belly button in a desperate bid for a full breath of air. Her breasts crowded into the opening of the stiff garment, bursting to be free. A light coat of perspiration glazed the swells of flesh and the valley between them.
One pink nipple had popped into the opening.
It belatedly struck her what she’d seen on Seth Hightower’s face just then. It was something she hadn’t seen in over two years.
It had been unguarded, distilled lust.
Six
She shoved her T-shirt down over the lewd display of her plumped breasts, sitting up and gasping for air. The seat belt jerked her back.
She stared at an open field. A prickly-looking, colorful blanket of desert shrubs, flowers and cacti covered the ground all the way to the rust-colored mountains and a craggy butte in the far distance. They were stopped in a desolate rear parking lot. She glanced behind her and saw a 1950s-style roadside diner.
“Where are we?” she croaked, dazedly fumbling for the seat adjuster. She realized her sunglasses lay in her lap.
“Do you always take part in wrestling matches in your sleep?” Seth asked baldly.
She blinked, swallowing thickly. Was that unsettlement, concern or lingering lust in his tone? The thought struck her that he had good reason to ask about her sleeping habits. They’d certainly never slept on that wild night years ago. They’d had far more crucial things to attend to than rest. That volatile thought, in combination with the memory of Seth’s blatantly lustful stare just now, left her feeling raw.
“No, but I usually don’t sleep in torture devices like this thing you made me wear,” she said, glaring down at her rumpled T-shirt and then at Seth. She jerked the sides of the overshirt closed, feeling exposed . . . and not just because of unintentionally baring her breasts to him. She immediately regretted her sharp tone when she saw him flinch slightly and his scowl deepen. She leaned her forehead into her palm.
“I’m sorry for snapping,” she mumbled, her cheeks still burning. The silence pressed down on her. “I haven’t been sleeping all that well lately. I went down deeper than I expected just now, and this thing was making me feel like I couldn’t breathe . . .” she faded off, waving vaguely at the restrictive device she wore—not because Seth made her. Because her life was spinning out of control. That wasn’t his fault. He was helping her, sacrificing his time, talent and energy for something he was far from obligated to do. When he didn’t respond for several seconds, she glanced over at him uneasily. He peered at her from beneath a lowered brow.
“Have you not been sleeping because you’re worried about the people watching your house?”
She stared out the front window blindly, her mouth falling open. Is that why she’d gone under so deeply in sleep for the first time in what felt like months? Because she’d felt safe, with Seth next to her?
“Someone tried to break into a rear window at my house a few weeks ago. That’s why police protection was ordered,” she said in a cracking voice.
“Jackals.”
She turned sharply. His mouth was pressed into a hard line. Gratitude rushed through her at the edge of anger in his tone. His reaction surprised her. So did her gratefulness in the face of it. Madeline, Charles and the sheriff’s-department deputies who had been sent to protect her were all kind enough but forbearing about the whole thing. It was as if they thought dozens of reporters watching her every move, being run off the road and home break-ins were par for the course, given this situation. Sometimes she felt as if the deputies, especially, had a condescending attitude, like, Well, what did you expect, given the choices you’ve made? You sought out fame and fortune—well, now you’ve found it along with all the crap that goes with it. Deal with it, girly.
She hadn’t realized until now just how desperate that unspoken message was making her.
Yes, she was used to living in the public eye, and she accepted there were significant downsides to her chosen profession. But no one had openly acknowledged this different, constant, aggressive invasion of her private world since Sterling McClarin had been arrested and she’d been publicly identified as a primary witness against him. Certainly no one had labeled it as succinctly as Seth had just now with one furious, disdainful word.
“Yesterday Charles said you live alone, although your driver is on the grounds in a carriage house. Is there usually someone there with you though?” Seth asked.