“Slut.”
Ebony
narrowed her eyes at Blake. “You’re just jealous because I wasn’t flirting with
you.”
He
shrugged, stretching the confines of his tight black shirt. His dark eyes
twinkled with mirth. In his roadie gear, he could just be one of the guys who
worked backstage but to Ebony he was so much more.
Firstly,
he was her bodyguard. Secondly, he had to be the hottest man she’d ever set
eyes on. Blake had worked for her for over a year now and knew her inside out. He’d
seen her at her best and her worst. He’d followed her all over the world on her
tours and watched her climb to the dizzying heights of fame. Throughout it all,
Blake had stood stoically at her side and protected her from crazed fans and
paparazzi.
Unfortunately
he couldn’t rescue her from her writer’s block. Already late on producing her
next album, Ebony risked being dropped by her record company.
“Come
on, let’s get out of here. Or do you have more magazine interviewers you need
to flirt with?”
She
flicked a lock of red hair over her shoulder and pouted, deliberately trying to
bait him. “Flirting is part of the job, as you well know. If I didn’t know
better, I’d think you were jealous.”
Blake
rolled his eyes and folded those thick arms. Thick arms that she had imagined
wrapped around her many, many times. His expression remained stoic. Impenetrable.
If only she could summon some kind of reaction from him. Even disgust. Then at
least she’d know he wasn’t immune to her. Christ, she was lusted after by thousands—millions
even. Men and women wanted her. Wanted to fuck her. She’d been voted onto so
many hottest women lists, she’d lost count. But she didn’t care. Not if Blake
didn’t.
“But
you know better.” He leaned in toward her and hooked an arm around her shoulder
in a naturally protective move.
Heat
threaded through her—her body instantly in overdrive at his proximity. In spite
of being backstage under the guise of a roadie instead of her bodyguard, he
still smelled amazing. Christ, how could he remain so cool? Ebony knew it was
his job to remain in control but didn’t the man ever let anything give?
“I
need to stop off at the dressing room. I left my bag there.”
“Sure.”
Blake kept his arm around her shoulders, fingers practically burning into her
bare arm as they pushed past the musicians and technicians crowding backstage.
She
peered up at the dark-haired bodyguard. True to his profession, he was bulky
and athletic. Muscles shaped his black T-shirt. Yes, admittedly, she’d studied
that form many times. But, in spite of spending so much time together, she’d
yet to see underneath those tight tops. If she was honest, she’d spent plenty
of time imagining what he’d look like topless.
Feeling
hot and flustered, Ebony blew out a breath and pushed open the door to the
dressing room. She paused. Her mouth dropped open. Her legs threatened to go
from beneath her.
“Shit,”
she whispered.
“Fuck.”
With lightening movements, Blake had whipped her around and led her out of the
backstage area.
Flashes
of cameras lit the dark evening and screams of fans surrounded her. With hardly
a moment to think, Ebony barely managed to hold onto her smile as she waved
distractedly at them. Images of the chaos of her dressing room flashed in her
mind. The words on the wall written in blood—surely not real blood?—rang in her
head as if someone had whispered them to her menacingly. Whore. Slut. You
belong in hell. I’ll put you there.
A
word that had been teasing only a moment ago now jabbed at her, as if whoever
had done it was putting a knife to her heart. How had they got in there?
Security was really tight at the venue. A name like hers meant it had to be,
otherwise they’d be swamped with wild fans.
Blake
forcibly pushed aside several photographers and threw open the door of the
black car awaiting them. Ebony found herself shoved in. He followed her,
slamming the door shut and
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