a sweet smile and dropped a kiss on her hair, careful not to mess up her makeup.
In a couple of hours, The Cooking Channel would be recording a show in her kitchen as part of their Celebrity Cooks at Home series. They were setting up already, making a royal mess. People she’d never seen before traipsed all over everything.
She wasn’t thrilled about opening her home to the public once again, but the show was doing a special for a charity that stood close to her heart, one that funded Asperger’s research. Greg had that mild form of autism, among a host of other issues.
He was looking at all the people, his arms crossed. He hated crowds. Not that he would act out as he used to. Now that he was a grown man, he’d learned to control his impulses. For the most part. He’d definitely gotten worse since they’d lost their parents and their older brother. Maybe tonight, after everyone was gone, she’d try to talk to him about that again.
But for now, all she did was slip the white envelope off her dressing table and hand it to him. He stuffed it into his back pocket. She wanted to ask what he wanted the money for this time, but didn’t want to humiliate him the way their father had done so often in the past. Money was a touchy issue for Greg.
Someone dropped a cookie sheet in the kitchen. The metal clanging on tiles drew her attention for a moment.
“Wish they’d let me cook what I wanted. Frilly finger food is not really my thing.” She stifled her discontent. “I suppose that’s what everyone expects from me. Easy and fancy.”
“You do what you want to do.” Greg was as supportive and protective of her as she was of him.
“I have to trust them to know what’s best for the show. We want to raise serious money.”
“Don’t trust anyone but yourself.”
He sounded so much like their father as he said that. Don’t trust anyone but yourself had been one of Will Landon’s favorite sayings.
Kayla was beginning to make it hers these days. She wondered what brought it to Greg’s mind. She’d been careful to keep all her worries and doubts from him. Still, Greg must have picked up on the increasing tension in the air.
She forced a smile. “Don’t worry about any of this. They’ll be done in a couple of hours and then they’ll be out of here.”
Greg gave a solemn nod. “I’ll be back later.”
She closed her eyes for a second as the sable brush dusted her face. Her brother was gone by the time she opened them.
“God has never made a prettier face.” Elvis smiled from ear to ear. “She must be so proud of you, querida.” He stepped behind her, a hand on his slim hip, glowing with pride as he looked her over in the mirror.
She looked for the pimple that had blossomed in the middle of her chin overnight. Vanished. She blew a kiss to Elvis. “You’re the best. Thanks.”
He whisked away the white cloth that had been protecting her clothes. “You’re welcome. Who’s the hottie over there? Yo quiero some of that.” His gaze darted that way in the mirror.
“He’ll be watching out for Tsini for the next couple of days.”
“Ay dios mio. Makes me want to write myself death threats.” Elvis fanned himself with his hand and gave her a sly look.
They grinned at each other in the mirror before he turned her swivel chair. “Go knock ‘em dead.”
“It’s a culinary show. I think they expect me to cook for them.”
She glanced at her agent and manager chatting at the other end of the den, probably discussing the dog show. A couple of vendors who’d found out that she would be there had already made contact about the possibility of celebrity product endorsement. Her agent was for it, her manager against. She was undecided. She had plenty on her schedule already, but there were a couple of free animal clinics she knew to which she could donate the income from the ads.
She pushed all that from her mind for now and slid off the chair, full of nervous energy despite the fabulous yoga session she’d had that morning. She headed for the living room, waving her security back when they moved to follow. Mike and Dave were great guys, but they were a little miffed over the new security guard, and she wanted to have her first meeting with him without their interference.
“Mr. Wilder? I’m Kayla.” She offered him her hand, even as she thought, Wilder than what? And knew from the looks of him that the answer had to be, Wilder than just about any other thing she’d ever met up with.
He held her fingers gently in his large hand. Didn’t feel the need to impress her with his strength. So far so good. There was hope yet.
“Please, call me Nash,” he said.
She hadn’t been prepared for his voice. Sexy as sin. His tone was deep-timbered, and tickled something behind her breast bone as it vibrated through her.
She put up her invisible professional force field, which protected her from an attraction toward hot men. Attraction could lead to letting her guard down. And letting her guard down always led to disaster. She was done with that. She’d learned her lesson a couple of times over.
“We can talk in here.” She motioned toward her sprawling living room overlooking Memorial Park, which was outfitted with a state-of-the-art sound system. Soft music floated in the background, the latest album of one of her friends.
“We’ll need everyone on set in fifteen minutes,” the producer called out in warning from the kitchen.
Plenty of time for a brief tête-à-tête. She settled into a space-age style red-leather pod and crossed her legs.
Nash eyed the pod across from hers then picked the ultra-modern couch instead, sat as if expecting it to break under him. He didn’t even try to disguise the derision in his eyes as he looked around. Probably didn’t expect her to notice.
People who equated her with the airhead-heiress media image used to drive her to frustration. These days, since she only stayed alive because her enemies continued to underestimate her, she didn’t mind any longer, had come to count on it, in fact.
But still, Nash Wilder sitting there and judging her before they’d ever exchanged two words got under her skin.
“So you’re the great pet detective?” She couldn’t help herself.
He focused back on her, fixed her with a glare that was probably supposed to put her in her place.
His short hair was near-black, his eyes dark gold whiskey. The two-inch scar along his jawline gave him a fierce look. The sleeves of his black T-shirt stretched across impressive biceps. He had Semper Fi tattooed on one and some sort of a shield on the other.
“I’m a bodyguard, Miss Landon,” he was saying. “I’m not a pet detective.”
And I’m not an airhead blonde, she wanted to tell him, but didn’t. Nobody ever believed her anyway.
“There are a few things I’m going to need from you.” He moved on. “A copy of your employee files, with pictures.
