the bed. Groaning, Kaylie roused herself.
She was in an isolated cabin. With Zane.
God, what a mess!
Climbing out of bed, she stretched and looked out the window. The sun was rising behind a wall of sharply spired mountains. Golden light shone through the stands of pine, glittering in the dewdrops. What was she doing here?
“Oh, Zane,” she murmured, grabbing the quilt and wrapping it around her. What was she going to do? Zane had always been an enigma of sorts, and she’d never learned how to handle him—just, she supposed, as he thought he’d never learned to handle her.
Smiling at the thought, she sat on the window seat and drew her knees under her chin. She remembered the first time she’d seen Zane and the tiny knot of apprehension that had coiled in her stomach, the same warm knot she felt now as she thought about him in the next room. She should be angry with him and she was, but the morning took the edge off her anger.
Had it been ten years ago when she’d first laid eyes on Zane Flannery? She’d only been seventeen at the time, and yet, the first time she’d seen him seemed as though it had occurred only yesterday….
* * *
A bodyguard! She, Kaylie Melville, with a bodyguard! She almost laughed at the thought. Just because she’d made a couple of pictures and she’d been receiving fan mail—some of it not so nice—didn’t mean she needed a bodyguard!
“It’s a bodyguard or nothing,” her father warned her. “We can’t be following you off to God-only-knows where every time you make a movie. So, you tell that producer of yours that you get your own personal bodyguard or you won’t be making any more films for him!”
Her father, a short, wiry man with a temper that could skyrocket, wasn’t about to take no for an answer.
“That’s right,” her mother had agreed, as she did with any of Dad’s rules. “You listen to your father.” Her mother had winked broadly. “No reason to give up your career. Just have the studio hire a guard. I’ll talk to them myself.”
Kaylie didn’t argue. She loved making films. Her first picture had been mildly successful—a teen horror flick that made the studio more money than had been expected. Her second film was meatier, as she played a teenager who fell for the boy from the wrong side of the tracks and had to deal with unsupportive parents and pregnancy. Her third movie, Carefree, was a teen comedy that surprised the critics and earned the director, as well as Kaylie, glowing reviews. The film had grossed over a hundred million. Triumph Studios was ecstatic. Barely sixteen, Kaylie had become a household word, a budding star who received fan mail and was asked to do interview upon interview to promote her forthcoming projects. She was compared to other young actresses of the time. People sought her autograph. And the fan mail kept pouring in. Letters of undying love, proposals of marriage, and a few not-so-kind missives from a few tortured fans.
Soon the powers-that-be at Triumph Studios agreed with her father and insisted she retain a bodyguard.
But, at seventeen, she hadn’t expected anything like Zane Flannery to walk into the offices of Triumph Pictures and announce that he would be looking after her. Not by a long shot! She had thought she’d be protected by some husky ex-football player with a couple of teeth missing. Or by some man with a huge belly and unshaven jaw who had once been the bouncer at a bar. But, oh no, Flannery was nothing like either man she’d envisioned.
He was younger than she’d expected—in his early twenties, by the looks of him, and much cuter—well, more handsome than any of her costars. His hair was longer than stylish and sable brown, curling over his collar and falling over his forehead in shiny, windblown waves. His face, though rough-hewn, took on a boyish quality whenever he flashed a rakish, devil-may-care smile that turned her inside out.
“Miss Melville,” he said, extending a work-roughened palm. They were seated in the cluttered office of Martin York, the producer of her latest film, Someone to Love.
Flannery’s large palm dwarfed hers as he shook her hand, then released her fingers. Wearing only a leather jacket, jeans and a T-shirt, he looked as if he were one of the stagehands or construction workers on the set, but his eyes gave him away. Gray and penetrating, they seemed to take in all of the office at once as he turned back to the producer.
Martin tossed his Dodgers baseball cap onto a chair behind him. Grinning beneath his beard, he reached over a desk piled high with scripts, reels of film and overflowing ashtrays, and clasped Zane’s outstretched hand. “How the hell are you?”
“’Bout the same,” Zane drawled, dropping into the chair next to hers and slouching low, his jean-encased legs stretched out in front of him.
“That bad, eh?”
Both men laughed, and Kaylie repressed the urge to giggle. Their easy camaraderie caused her to feel like an outsider, and when she was nervous, she often giggled. But she didn’t want Zane to see her as the least bit girlish. He looked like the kind of person who wouldn’t easily suffer fools, and she didn’t want to get on his bad side.
“I’ve known Flannery here for more than a few years,” Martin said, looking at her as if suddenly remembering she was in the room. “We knew each other in the navy. So don’t let his appearance fool you. He’s the best in the business.”
Kaylie trained her gaze on the man who was to be her protector. The best in the business? So young?
“Zane’s worked on some top-secret stuff for the armed services, then he landed a job at Gemini Security. Now he’s starting his own company—right?”
“That’s the rumor,” Zane replied lazily. He glanced at Kaylie again, and his smile faded. “I’ll take care of you, Miss Melville. You can count on it.”
“Kaylie,” she replied with a shrug. “And I’ll call you Zane. Okay?”
“If that’s the way you want it.”
She looked from Zane to Martin, but Martin, too, lifted a shoulder. “Whatever works.”
Kaylie grinned and tried not to be lost in the power of Zane’s gaze. But she felt giddy and conspicuous and—What was wrong with her? He was just her bodyguard. No big deal. Or was it? This man—well, he looked as if one hot look from him could melt a glacier.
“Okay, okay,” Martin said, handing Zane an address book. “Now, here’s Kaylie’s address. She still lives with her folks and her sister, and she’ll be working here as well as on location in Mexico and Australia. Her folks won’t be going along, so Kaylie will be your responsibility. She’s been getting a few crank letters….” He tossed a stack of mail, bound by a rubber band, to Flannery just as he finished copying her address into his own book. “I want you to check them all out—”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Kaylie cut in, surprised. “That’s my mail, right?”
Martin nodded, his expression growing peevish.
Objecting, Kaylie reached for the small bundle. “Don’t I get to read it?”
Martin waved off her request. “Don’t worry about it. The secretary will respond.”
“No way. I always read—”
“You don’t have
