Falco: The Dark Guardian. Sandra Marton

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      She didn’t scream.

      Instead, the tip of her tongue came out and slid lightly over her bottom lip. Falco watched its progress. His gaze fell lower, to the rise of her breasts in the vee of her bulky terrycloth robe. He knew what she had under it; he’d watched the scene Farinelli had been filming at a safe distance before he’d slipped into the trailer. What she had on was a slip. Plain. Unadorned. Not like what she’d worn in that ad.

      This slip was plain. Sexless.

      Not that she was.

      She was gorgeous. That hair. Those eyes. That mouth. Still, even with theatrical makeup on, there was another quality to her that he had not seen in the ad. A kind of innocence.

      Which was, of course, ridiculous.

      She was an actress. She played to the camera. To men. She could be whatever a particular part called for. Maybe she’d decided this part called for wide-eyed and innocent. Not that he gave a damn. He was only interested in her problem, and every problem had a solution.

      “Antonio shouldn’t have hired you,” she said.

      “He didn’t.”

      “But you said—”

      “I’m doing someone a favor.”

      “Whatever you’re doing, I don’t want you here.”

      Her voice was husky. Shaken.

      “Listen,” Falco said, “if you want to sit down—”

      “I can handle this myself.”

      “The hell you can,” he said bluntly.

      Her chin rose. “You don’t know what I can and can’t do.”

      “I saw that picture. You can’t handle that. No woman can. And there’ll be more.”

      Her gaze sharpened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      Her answer, her body language, gave her away. Falco took off his sunglasses.

      “There’s been more already,” he said grimly. “Hasn’t there?”

      “No,” she said, but far too quickly.

      She turned her head away; he reached out, cupped her chin, gave her no choice but to meet his eyes.

      “What was it? Another picture? A letter? A phone call?”

      No answer, which was answer enough. Her mouth trembled; Falco fought back the illogical desire to take her in his arms and comfort her. It was an uncharacteristic reaction for him in this kind of situation and he didn’t like it.

      “Have you ever seen a cat play with a mouse?” he said. “He’ll keep things going until he tires of the game.”

      Elle shuddered. “You mean, until he does the things he drew on the picture.”

      “Yes,” he said bluntly.

      She nodded. And said, in a low voice, “And you think you can stop him?”

      Falco’s lips curved in what nobody would ever call a smile. “I know I can.”

      She stared up at him. “You can keep him from—from doing anything to me?”

      “Yes.”

      “A man of few words,” she said, with a little laugh. “How can you be so sure?”

      “It’s what I do. What I used to do,” he said evenly. “I can find him and keep him from hurting you.”

      Elle stared at this stranger with eyes so dark they resembled obsidian. Why should she believe him? The answer was agonizingly simple.

      Because, otherwise, she might not have a life.

      Perhaps this man, this Falco Orsini, really could help her.

      “If I agreed to let you get involved,” she said slowly, “you won’t—you won’t contact the police?”

      “No.”

      “Because, uh, because the publicity,” she said, scrambling for a reason he’d accept, “because the publicity—”

      “I told you. I’ll handle this alone. No cops.”

      “What would you do, if I hired you?”

      “You can’t hire me. Remember what I said? I’m here as a favor. As for what I’ll do…Leave that to me.”

      “The thing is…I wouldn’t want anyone to know I had a-a bodyguard. There’d be talk. And questions. And questions are the last thing I want.”

      “I already figured that.”

      “So, how would we do this, then? I mean, how could you watch over me, go after whoever this is, do whatever you need to do without people knowing?”

      Falco had considered that dilemma during the six-hour flight from New York. There were lots of ways to move into someone’s life to provide protection and search out information without raising questions. The idea was to assume a role other people would accept. He could pass himself off as her driver. Her assistant. Her personal trainer.

      Personal trainer was pretty much what he’d decided on. Hollywood was filled with actors and actresses who worked on their bodies 24/7. He was fit; he’d look the part. And it would give him access to her no matter where she went.

      Okay. Personal trainer it would be…

      “Mr. Orsini?”

      “Falco,” he said, looking down into her eyes. He saw the rise and fall of her breasts, remembered the soft, lush feel of her against him, and he knew he wasn’t going to pretend to be her trainer after all.

      “Simple,” he said calmly. “We’ll make people think I’m your lover.”

      She stared at him. Then she gave a little laugh.

      “That’s crazy,” she said. “No one will believe—”

      “Yeah,” he said, his voice low and rough, “yeah, they will.

      Falco reached out, gathered Elle in his arms and kissed her.

      Chapter Three

      THE FEEL of her mouth under his was incredible.

      Warm. Silken. And soft. Wonderfully soft.

      Not that he cared about that.

      He was kissing her only to wipe that smug little smile from her face. To show her, in no uncertain terms, that they sure as hell could play the part of lovers, fool anybody who saw them.

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