Once again, truth was truth, bitter or not.
She breathed out a semi-sigh. “Because if the world thinks I belong to him… I can never belong to you.”
“Mr. Lowe…” a guy called from somewhere behind him. “Chic is—”
“In a minute,” Struan said without breaking eye contact with her.
“I’ll need to go home and get my things.”
“Is that agreement? You’ll stay?” Their gazes answered. “Someone will fill your closet.” He came in even closer. “You don’t need to go anywhere. It’s not safe for you out there.”
“I have things I need to get.” Oh, the line of his throat, thick, masculine—she closed her eyes, shaking loose the memories threatening to take over. “What was I saying?”
“Things,” he said, touching her upper arm.
She bowed away. “We shouldn’t do that?”
“Do what?”
“Touch.” She scratched her lip. “I’m engaged to your brother.”
He bowed to murmur. “I saw you first.”
“This is not finders keepers.”
“How about he who fingers…”
Trailing off that smile showed his dimple, taking a needle to her defenses.
“Don’t,” she said on an exhaled laugh.
“I’m your ally. You need an ally.”
“Shouldn’t my ally be my fake fiancé?”
“Didn’t seem you were that interested in him.”
“No. First impression? He’s an arrogant letch.”
Their fingertips met. “You don’t have to be afraid here.”
“Why not? Are you going to guard me?”
“If I have to.” His fingers slipped between hers. “I’m sorry you got pulled into this.”
“Are you?”
In unison, their hands lifted, fingers tangled as palm pressed to palm. If they’d never met, this wouldn’t have happened. There would be no video. No career crisis. No hungry press desperate for every morsel. Was being free of the drama enough to make her wish away their night together…?
The front door burst open, startling them apart.
“Where is my muse?” the gorgeous, tan new entrant asked and fixated on her.
Damn, that muse might be her.
“Bambi, meet Chic,” Struan said. “First time your new canvas is already a work of art.”
Sighs and swoons, he probably shouldn’t be saying things like that in front of people.