Still, she wished she could distract herself by fiddling with her purse, but she’d left it at the guesthouse. Clutch or nothing, Alex had said, them’s the rules, so she’d wordlessly handed him her ID, a credit card, her phone, and some tinted lip balm, all of which he’d secreted somewhere in his not-quite-navy, obscenely formfitting tux.
He looked like a star. Also the night sky surrounding that star, right as blue turned to velvety black. The color, she’d discovered, was much more evocative and dangerous than plain old black or navy could ever be.
“Correct,” he conceded with clear reluctance.
She drummed her fingers on the plush leather seat. “Look, if anyone asks about me, just give them my name and tell them I work for the show. Which I do, so you’re not lying, but you’re also not revealing my specific role in your life.”
“I’m not ashamed of you,” he said abruptly. “I’m not ashamed of what I did, and I’m not ashamed of you.”
“Okay.” The gruff, vehement emphasis in his words left her bewildered. “Listen … Alex, if you’re willing to tell me, what actually—”
Then she cut herself off, because they’d arrived at the mouth of the red carpet, located just outside the swanky Beverly Hills hotel where the charity auction was occurring. A woman wearing a skinny suit and a headset greeted their driver as soon as he braked and rolled down his window.
“That’ll be the publicist for the event organizer,” Alex told Lauren. “Just do what she says, and don’t get offended by all the photographers shouting at you.”
She frowned. “Shouting at—”
Before she could say more, the driver opened the door. Alex swung his legs out of the vehicle and onto the pavement, stood, buttoned his suit jacket, and reached a gentlemanly hand back for her.
He helped her out of the car while she straightened her dress and desperately tried not to flash anyone, and then there were flashes blinding her in little bursts all around as she followed the tug of his grip.
The publicist greeted them both, then gestured for them to move toward the hotel. “I’m here to help, Mr. Woodroe. Let me know if you need anything along the way.”
Beneath Lauren’s uncomfortable wedge heels, red carpet suddenly appeared. The publicist said something Lauren couldn’t hear and guided them over to a journalist with a pleasant but firm “Two minutes, Ted.”
The man introduced himself and asked about the final season of Gods of the Gates while a camerawoman filmed the interview, and Lauren belatedly let Alex go, inching away from his side. But there were flashes behind her too, and, yes, photographers yelling at her.
“Move! Move!” they screamed, and she would gladly go down the other side of the red carpet, where more-normal-looking people were hustling toward the hotel ballroom, but she couldn’t. It was her job to stay by Alex, no matter what—Ron had sent a peremptory email emphasizing that very fact earlier today—even though she couldn’t control what came out of that endlessly moving mouth, no one could.
“Move! Move, lady, come on!”
Up ahead of her, talking to another journalist, was Carah Brown. Behind Lauren and Alex, just entering the red carpet, Maria Ivarsson and Peter Reedton strolled arm in arm, as a woman in a skirt suit and yet another headset spoke and pointed them to a specific news outlet.
Oh, shit, this was absolute chaos, and she was sweating now. Even trembling a little.
Before Lauren quite knew it, the publicist was ushering them to the next reporter, who actually glanced at Alex’s companion before beginning the interview. Lauren was blinking against the bright spots in her vision when she heard Alex say her name.
“—Lauren Clegg, who works for the production. So, no, she didn’t win a fan contest, although she certainly loves my character.” Then he was winking at her, the asshole, and drawing her closer to his side with a warm hand on her arm. “Tell him, Ms. Clegg. Tell them how much you adore Cupid. Not to mention the actor who plays him with such glorious talent and commitment.”
She was about to answer, about to say heaven only knew what, when she saw it.
Movement, where there shouldn’t have been. Acceleration.
After the hurled tray that broke her nose, after all those patients high or angry or hurting and volatile in their pain, her instincts were sound, and they were fast. She was fast. And even amid all the flashes and shouts and sparkly cocktail dresses and various celebrity interviews occurring all around her—
When a pale man with dark hair and dark clothing rushed onto the red carpet, accompanied by the sound of dismayed, panicked shouts, and half leaped, half crawled toward Alex, she didn’t have to think. She simply used her body as a battering ram, shoving Alex out of the way, and took his place for whatever this intruder intended.