Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
I’ve also silently concluded that there’s a heavy amount of resentment weighing her down. Her life is watched, not only by paparazzi, but now by me, too, though she’s accepted that compliance will make this situation go away a lot faster if she plays ball. There’s no denying she’s attracted to me, and for once I’m not smug about it. I’m also not being an arsehole about it.
I watch, rapt, as she laughs, so carefree, her cheeks pink, her eyes sparkling. Damn. I quickly avert my gaze, and I’m about to wave the waiter for some ice water when a sharp movement across the road snatches my attention. My mind clears and my muscles engage. I’m immediately on high alert. Narrowing my eyes, I watch, searching the empty space at the alley entrance. There’s nothing now, but there was definitely something.
I hear the faint chatter of Camille and her friend a few feet away as I shift in my chair, feeling my gun press against my back. My mind’s eye captures snapshots of the surroundings and stores them. My leg muscles flex, ready to engage if they have to. I wait patiently, keeping my attention divided between the girls and the alley.
Then I see movement again: the head of a man popping out quickly and taking in the scene outside the café before retreating. It’s a brief second, but I file a wealth of information in that brief second. His face, his slight frame, his beady eyes. He’s spying. I’m up and across the road like lightning, my legs feeling good under the strain that’s been absent for too long. I reach the wall adjacent to the café and wait. It’s only a few seconds before his head appears again.
I grab the collar of his shirt, yanking him from the concealed darkness of the alleyway and slamming him into the wall front forward. Holding him in place with my body, his arms pushed up his back, I ignore the whimpers and yelps.
“What the fuck do you want?” I hiss in his ear, releasing him a little, then slamming him into the wall again. He stutters and stammers all over the place, trembling under my hold. “Tell me!” I roar, hearing the clicking of a few pairs of heels getting louder and louder behind me.
Camille.
My heart speeds up and I turn to find her running across the road toward me. “Stay back!” I bellow, making her skid to a frightened stop. “Stay where you are!”
The man in my clutches keeps whimpering and whining. The fucking pussy. “I’m sorry,” he chokes.
“You fucking will be.” I quickly check Camille is doing what she’s told, then whirl him around, keeping his arms restrained behind his back, now pressed into the bricks of the wall. His wide eyes look like they could burst from his head at any moment. Good. “Tell me who the fuck you’re working for, and I’ll let them know why you won’t be reporting back to them.”
“Jake!” Camille yells, her voice urgent and worried.
“Just stay where you are!” I shout, not taking my eyes off the scum in my hold.
“He’s paparazzi!” she yells, coming closer. I take a moment to allow that information to sink in. Paparazzi? I keep my hold, not convinced, and look down, seeing a camera smashed to smithereens on the ground. “He just wants a picture,” Camille says soothingly, her hand coming up and resting on my bicep. I glimpse down, seeing her slender, manicured fingers resting on my bare arm.
“Paparazzi?” I mumble to her hand, feeling a delicious heat sinking into my flesh.
“Yes,” she assures me, and I look up to find her smiling a little, trying to pacify me. “He won’t hurt me.” She looks to the terrified man, who I still have pinned to the wall. “Hi, Stan.”
“Hey, Camille.” His voice is trembling as much as his puny body. “Mind asking this nice gentleman if he’ll let me go?”
I hear her chuckle under her breath. It’s the sweetest fucking sound. “Sure.” She looks at me. “Would you mind freeing him?”
“Yes, I would mind,” I snap, thinking of the pictures that were delivered to Camille yesterday. When she moves in a little, looking up at me, I realize she’s cottoned onto my train of thought.
“I’ve known Stan for years,” she says. “He’s one of the good guys.”
I assess him again, running suspicious eyes all over his alarmed face. He looks truly terrified. “Who do you work for?” I ask.
“Freelance. My I.D. is…is…it’s…in my breast pocket.” He stutters and stammers all over the place.
I help myself to his pocket and pull out his wallet, flipping it open and checking while holding him in place. “Stan Walters?”
He forces a nervous smile. “That’s me.”
I pull away, satisfied that he’s no threat, and he flops against the wall, taking his wallet back when I hand it over. I turn toward Camille. “You’re on first-name terms with the fucking paparazzi?” I ask incredulously.