Unconditional (12 page)

My lips twitched. “Kenny?”

He grinned again. “Nothing wrong with the name Kenny. Well, apart from the fact Kenny was a girl.”

I threw back my head and laughed.

Our waiter returned a little after that and whisked our plates away, leaving us to focus on our sketches. An hour later, after Mr. Check Out The Size Of That Thing left, only to be replaced with Miss Holy Crap Could Those Boobs Be Any Bigger, Raph suggested we finish up.

Disappointment sheared through me. I was having fun. Lots of fun. But then that disappointment morphed into nervous excitement when he said, “Want to go climb the Harbour Bridge? They run sessions every fifteen minutes. Reckon I could pull the celebrity card and get us in for an afternoon session.”

I frowned, my belly fluttering. “Would you do that?”

He grinned. “Probably not. But if we’re lucky there might be a cancellation or no-show. Want to risk it?”

Every muscle in my body tight with nervous excitement, I nodded.

“Excellent. I’ll just go pay the bill and we can get on our way.”

He rose to his feet and strode to the counter, and I’m not ashamed to say I watched him the entire trip, my pulse fast, my heart faster.

“Is that Raphael Jones?”

The question uttered from a soft female voice on my left, drew my attention so fast I think I got whiplash.

Our new model, the one with the huge boobs and untrimmed pubic hair, was staring at me, a predatory gleam in her eyes.

“Err…” I said, startled momentarily into inarticulate stupidity.

“I knew it,” she whispered. “That explains all the photographers outside.”

The blood drained from my face. An unpleasant tension crawled up the back of my neck and over my scalp. Photographers? How long had there been photographers outside? Had they followed us? Oh boy, this wasn’t good.

“He’s so hot,” Miss Needs A Razor exclaimed, leaning towards me. “Can you introduce me?”

Behind her, someone muttered a less-than-quiet complaint about models who didn’t know how to sit still.

“I…” I began. “He’s not…”

Before I could finish denying Raph was who he really was, he returned. Freaking perfect timing, right?

“Oh my God,” our model squeed, gaping at him. “You really are Raphael Jones. Oh my God, I think you are so gorgeous. Will you sign my boobs?”

The relaxed smile pulling at Raph’s lips froze. His jaw bunched. His nostrils flared. He stared hard at the woman before turning his dark sunglasses on me. “Did you tell her?”

I shook my head, my heart an insane trip hammer in my chest.

“Raphael Jones?” I heard someone nearby say. “Is it really Raphael Jones?”

The muscle in his jaw knotted again. His lips compressed into a thin line.

“Raph,” I said, rising to my feet. “She recognized you. She said there are photographers out—”

He spun away from me, digging for something in his pocket. Pulling out his cell phone, he slid his thumb over the screen before ramming it to his ear. “We’re coming out,” he said to whoever was on the other end of the connection, the words damn near a growl.

Around us, our fellow diners and Triptych’s staff stirred, realization they had a celebrity in their midst finally sinking in.

“Raph?” I repeated his name. It was such a lame thing to do, but I was so dumbstruck by what was happening, I couldn’t grasp at anything like logical, rational thought. “I didn’t tell her. I promise. She recognized you. She said there are photographers outside.”

He turned back to me, expression bleak. Guarded. Black sunglasses even darker due to the shadow cast by the peak of his cap. “Okay, we have to go, all right?”

I nodded, feeling a cold sense of relief that he wasn’t abandoning me. I wasn’t sure if he was angry at me or the situation, but at least he was including me in his planned escape. That was something, right? “O-okay.”

He snared my hand with a strong grip, threading fingers through mine.

His name floated on the air, accompanied by more than one flash from more than one smartphone. Movement outside caught my eye just as we were approached by a man who was, I assumed, the café’s manager.

“Mr. Jones,” the man said, hand extended.

I tore my stare from the beaming man, trying to work out what was going on outside on the sidewalk.

Movement. Lots of movement. And people.

My stomach dropped.

Damn it, Miss Needs A Razor hadn’t lied. There were paparazzi waiting. A lot.

“Raph?” I croaked, watching the at least five guys with cameras shove and jostle for position beyond the protection of the café’s front window.

“Fuck.” His mutter was low. Barely audible. “Sorry,” he said louder, no doubt to the man trying to shake his hand. “We didn’t mean—”

A man in a suit barged through the front door, the same man in the same blue suit I’d encountered at Sydney International Airport.

I blinked. Where had he come from? Had he followed us as well as the paparazzi?

“Sir?” he said, fixing Raph with a level gaze, one arm extended toward us both. “Time.”

Raph’s fingers squeezed mine. He turned to face me, tension a stiff mask hiding whatever he was thinking. “Damn it, this isn’t what I wanted. I’m sorry but we’ve got to move quick, American girl. Can you do that?”

I nodded, guilt smashing through me. I hadn’t blown his cover, I hadn’t, but I felt like I’d fucked up when our model first asked if Raph was indeed Raph. “I can.”

An ambiguous smile pulled at one side of his mouth. “I’ll catch you if you stumble. Promise.”

And with those words, he strode toward his bodyguard, tugging me along behind him.

Say Cheese

I never made it to the car. Shooting me a look I’m sure was indifferent, Raph’s bodyguard—who goes by the name Mr. Horn—wedged his way between us and, like a hulking, glaring blanket of muscle, shielded Raph from the frenzied paparazzi and curious public amassing on the sidewalk.

My fingers slipped from Raph’s and before I knew it, I was somehow stumbling to a halt in their wake, being jostled and shoved by photographers and pedestrians alike. I think I heard Raph call my name above all the commotion. I heard him demand Mr. Horn get me. I
think
I heard Horn tell him he would. Given that the bodyguard
didn’t
come back and help me, I could be wrong. There was a lot of shouting from the paparazzi. Shouting and catcalling and general weirdness as they all tried to get Raph’s attention. I even heard one or two ask who the girl was. I assumed
the girl
they were referring to was me.

Raph didn’t respond to any of them. Probably because by this point, Mr. Horn had shoved him into the backseat of a shiny black SUV.

The madness grew. The paparazzi turned nasty, no doubt pissed at being denied their prey. They hurled insults at Raph’s bodyguard, who ignored them all as he hurried to the front seat door and pulled it open.

I pushed at them, trying to get to the car. Trying to get Horn’s attention. He didn’t look back at me.

The paparazzi rushed the car. They slapped their hands—the ones not holding cameras—against the back passenger window, a window tinted so dark I couldn’t see through it. If Raph was looking for me in the crowd, I had no hope of knowing it.

Shocked beyond belief, I called out to Raph. Stupid, I know, but in my defense, I’d never the need to prepare for a full-on paparazzi horde until now.

I called out to Raph, to Horn, struggling to get to the SUV. Struggling to through the melee.

Struggling in vain, it turns out.

With the roar of an engine that sounded way more powerful than a normal SUV’s should, the black car took off. Pulling away from the curb, leaving a furious, cursing, running jumble of photographers in its wake.

I was bumped into so many times I’m surprised I didn’t fall over. I probably would have if there weren’t so many people squishing around me. I bounced off more than one, muttering apologies every time even as a part of my flustered brain told me I had no damn reason to apologize. They were smashing into me, damn it. At this point, my flustered brain hadn’t figured out that I’d essentially been abandoned in an area of Sydney I knew nothing about without any real means of getting back to Mackellar House save hailing a cab.

And then the paparazzi turned to me, and my brain—flustered as it was—finally registered I was alone. Alone and utterly unprepared.

Holy. Crap.

One second they were watching the shiny black SUV speed away, the next they were spinning to face me, cameras raised, flashes exploding, questions flying.

“What’s your name?”

“Are you Raphael Jones’s girlfriend?”

“Are you part of the royal family?”

“Who are you?”

“Are you sleeping together?”

“Tell us your name!”

“Give us a smile.”

I swear to God, it was like they were a pack of ravenous hyenas and I was a…a…shit, a gazelle or some other delicate creature they’d devour.

I blanched and flinched at every blinding flash. I raised my arm in an attempt to shield my face from their greedy, predatory stares, noticing all too late my hand shaking like mad.

Fuck. Here we go. Stress-induced tremors. Joy.

The horde of paparazzi didn’t let up. Not even when I shoved my way free of them. Apparently, I must have said something because suddenly they were demanding to know where in America I was from, still taking photos as they hurried beside me.

I walked as fast as I could one way, stopped and tried to get my bearings. It was impossible. I had no idea where I was other than somewhere in Paddington. I didn’t even know where Raph’s pickup was in relation to where I was now.

The paparazzi badgered me still, a collective unit of tenacious irritation. Like some hive mind, they shadowed my every move, shouting questions at me.

It really was ridiculous. And scary.

Yeah, I was scared.

I wasn’t cut out for this type of thing. My body and brain, what with its faulty design, wasn’t genetically equipped to deal with it.

Biting back a sob, I yanked my phone from my bag and tried to wake it up. Unfortunately, my hand and fingers were shaking so much it took me five fucking tries before I could get my thumb to connect with the correct place on the screen, let alone swipe it smoothly.

By then, I was walking with my head down, bumping off paparazzi and basically stressing the fuck out.

I dropped my phone, bit back a curse, bent over to pick it up before someone—most likely me the way I was going—stomped on it.

Thank freaking God, I straightened without falling over. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost balance and fallen to the ground. Cry, no doubt. Which would not only be embarrassing, but would be also be captured by the slathering photographers around me, ending up on the net where the world could witness my humiliation.

Still refusing to look anywhere else but at my phone, I powered down the sidewalk, surrounded by shouting, questioning paparazzi. They were relentless. They had the smell of blood in their noses, and no matter how much I ignored them, they weren’t going to leave me alone.

I had to get away somehow.

Pulling a harsh breath and willing my hand to steady, I woke my cell again and, vision blurred by the tears threatening to overwhelm me, I jabbed the phone icon on the screen.

A list of all the recent numbers I’d called and received appeared and, head roaring, body shaking and eyes filled with stinging tears, I jammed my stupid trembling thumb down on the top number.

Brendon Osmond’s number.

“C’mon, tell us your name,” a man jostling for position on my right cajoled, shoving a camera at my face.

“What’s your relationship with Jones?”

“Is he good in bed?”

“Have you met the king?”

I pushed my way through the throng of photographers, phone pressed to my ear, praying for Brendon to pick up. Oh God, I really needed him to pick—

“Plenty, Ohio.” His cheery, happy-go-lucky voice sounded in my ear. “What’s up?”

“Brendon,” I burst out, squeezing my eyes shut. Christ, I had the shakes worse than when Raph had found me at my door only a few hours ago. In fact, I don’t think I’d ever been this bad, and I was medicated. Holy fuck, was this really what I had to look forward to?

“Who’s Brendon?” a guy on my left asked, firing his camera. “Does Jones know about him?”

“Are you American?” another called, obviously new to the party.

A raw sob tore at my throat and I spun on my heel, frantic to escape them.

“Maci?” Sharp concern cut Brendon’s voice, and for a second, I had an image of him standing frozen in the gym, a powerful, threatening tower of muscle. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t…” I began, turning again, going nowhere, flinching every time a camera clicked or a man shouted a question at me. “The paparazzi…”

As one, the photographers around me let out a whooping cheer, as if ecstatic to be a part of my breakdown. And that’s what it was, a breakdown. I was dangerously close to system shutdown. My brain and my body couldn’t take any more.

“Maci.” It wasn’t just concern in Brendon’s voice this time, but alarm. “Where are you? What’s going—”

“Say cheese, love!” a man directly in front of me guffawed, camera lens pointed right at my head.

I let out a yelp, flung my hand up to protect my face, spun around once more and threw myself into a wobbly sprint. Head down.

Which is why I didn’t see the street sign pole before I slammed into it, forehead first.

There was a sickening crack, a burst of white, searing pain, braying laughter, Brendon’s voice calling my name.

And then nothing.

Nothing but blackness.

I really don’t know how long I was out. All I know is I came to in the hospital.

Yep, the hospital. One of the paparazzi had the decency to pick up my phone when I collapsed, tell Brendon where I was and then call an ambulance.

Apparently—and I’m only going on what I was told by a nurse after I regained consciousness in the ER—all but one of the paparazzi bolted after I hit the ground. The one who didn’t run stayed with me until the ambulance arrived. By that time Brendon had arrived as well. The nurse told me the paramedics told
her
Brendon had come damn near close to punching the photographer before the paramedics stopped him.