“No. Have they breached security? Are they threatening her life?”
“No one gets past her security.” He pulls a long draw from the beer, watching my face turn rigid with tension. “Don’t get all worked up about this, Decker. There will always be stalkers. We find one, and a new one pops up. It’s just the way it is.”
“Unacceptable.” I thrust a finger toward the master suite. “If she’s scared enough to travel with a gun, her guards aren’t doing their jobs.”
His gaze drops to the floor.
“There’s something else.” My nostrils flare. “What is it?”
His silence incenses me. There’s so much I don’t know about this woman, and I’m about to be deeply entangled in her life. Is there a connection between her intimacy issues and her need to sleep with a gun?
“Did someone hurt her?” I flex my hands.
A muscle jumps in his cheek, and he tries to hide the reflex behind a swallow of beer.
“Who?” I crowd him, putting my face in his. “The ex-husband?”
He presses his back against the fridge, glaring at me. “You need to talk to her about this.”
“I intend to.” When she’s not aiming a gun at my chest. “Take me to her head of security.”
CHAPTER 10
LAYNEE
Decker’s been quiet since we left New York. But where he’s distant with words, he’s invasive in the sheer intensity of his eyes. He watches me from the back of my plane, while talking to my security detail on the flight to Savannah. He stares at me in the Range Rover as we ride to my home.
Now I feel his gaze caressing the ass of my jeans as I lead him up the stairs to the bedrooms.
Keeping my eyes forward, I cross the second-floor landing with a steady click-click-click of my heels. “Make arrangements with Reese to have your things brought here from New York.”
“That’s not necessary.” His deep voice rumbles closer than I expected.
Whirling around, I find him inches away and stumble back. “What about all your clothes and personal things?”
“Everything I need is here.” He backs me against the wall without touching me. How the fuck does he do that?
I crane my neck, searching for Reese. He was behind us a second ago. Dammit, where did he go?
The prickly chill of fear rises up the back of my neck. I told Reese on the flight home not to leave me alone with this man.
I angle my chin in the direction of the guest rooms. “Your room is—”
“Your room.” Decker drops his duffel bag on the floor and braces his arms on the wall above my head.
As he leans in, no part of him comes in contact with me, but I feel him…everywhere. The warmth of his breath, the potency of his effusive gaze, and the lazy confidence radiating from his posture—all of it is predatory, sexual, and dangerous.
“Step back.” I lock down the urge to scream for Reese, but I can’t control my runaway breaths or the thunder of my heart.
He takes in my heaving chest, lingers on my throat, and returns to my eyes. “Focus on my voice, Laynee. Breathe when I breathe. In. Out…”
With each silken word, he sets a hypnotic pace. I concentrate on his timbre and the movement of his lips, breathing when he breathes. The heat emitting from his muscled body permeates my blouse and seeps into my skin, soothing me as much as it confuses me. For a fuzzy moment, I almost forget why I panicked.
“Do you have this reaction to every man you meet?” he asks quietly.
My eyes lock on the burnish of his. He’s so close I can see the gold flecks pulsing in the striations of his brown irises. I blink and look down, incidentally zooming in on his lickable mouth.
“Laynee?”
Shit, he asked me a question, and I don’t know how to answer it. Submissive men don’t scare me. But men like Decker? I fucking freeze up.
His scowl tells me my reaction annoys him. Well, fuck him, because it annoys me, too. I’ve spent a fortune on therapy, and while I’ve made huge progress over the years, I still hyperventilate in the presence of dominant personalities.
“I’ll give you a pass on that question for now.” He lowers an arm, allowing me a sliver of space to breathe. “Tell me about your home.”
Grateful for the reprieve, I stand taller and compose myself. “Reese can give you a tour—”
“I don’t want a tour. I want you to tell me what this place means to you.”
He’s probably wondering why an award-winning movie star lives in a quaint three-bedroom cottage in Savannah. I imagine he expected some lavish palace bustling with a full staff of servants. Most people do.
“This is the first home my parents bought together.” I slip around him and step onto the catwalk that separates the master suite from the two guest rooms.