Courting Trouble (Reality Romance Book 5) (4 page)

Chapter Four

“Does anyone have eyes on Elena Suarez?”

Adam came alert as the call went out over the comms. He’d seen her at the edge of the dance floor earlier, talking with that douche from the reality TV show, but when he scanned that area now they were both gone. She hadn’t looked happy.

“Nothing on the monitors,” Candy’s voice sounded in his ear, responding to Max’s initial query. “She must be in a bathroom.”

“She could have left already,” Tank suggested. The bride and groom hadn’t made their big exit yet, but one or two guests had already slipped out discretely.

“I’m watching all the exit points to make sure no one unauthorized slips in,” Candy argued. “She didn’t go out.”

Adam frowned, remembering the way the reality show asshole had leered at her. He scanned the patio until he found Mr. Perfect Daniel—about to get a face full of knuckles if he didn’t stop hitting on a very married bridesmaid—but Elena was nowhere in sight.

Unease whispered in the back of his mind, calling up a recent memory—the man on the dance floor with Elena getting a little too familiar with her ass as she repeatedly replaced his hands on neutral territory. That same man heading toward the side entrance, looking entirely too anticipatory for a man who was just wandering off to find a bathroom.

Shit.

He wouldn’t be able to relax until he checked. “I may have seen her head toward the side door a few minutes ago,” he lied into his mic.

After his last detail at a party had gone wrong because he’d been paying attention to the wrong female, he wasn’t eager to admit his primary evidence right now was the fact that he didn’t like the way some jerk on the dance floor had grabbed Elena’s ass.

“Dylan, can you check on her? Sidney’s worried.”

“On it.” He’d already been moving toward the side door before Max’s request.

He took the stairs two at a time. There were a dozen bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, and she could be in any of them. He started with the door he’d seen her come out of this afternoon.

The bedroom was empty and the bathroom door was partially open, but some rustle of sound made him move closer to investigate.

“Ms. Suarez?”

The couple stopped kissing as he appeared in the doorway.

“You’re interrupting, buddy,” the man complained, but something about the tableau struck him as off even before he heard the heated crack of Elena’s temper in her sharp, “No, you aren’t.”

He couldn’t see her face. The man was blocking her—intentionally? But he didn’t like the way she seemed to be pinned against the wall.

“Sounds like there’s a difference of opinion.” He stepped into the bathroom, trying to get to an angle where he could see Elena’s face, make sure she was all right. “Do you want this guy here?”

“Of course she does.”

She looked small, dwarfed by the man’s larger frame, but there was nothing timid or petite about the anger in her eyes when he finally managed to meet her eyes over the man’s shoulder.

“
No
,” she bit out, crisp and clear.

“That’s good enough for me.”

Half a second later he had an arm around the man’s throat, his other arm looping under his armpit to put him in a half-Nelson and physically lift him away from Elena.

“Hey!” The asshole flapped his arms uselessly, instantly releasing the hold Adam now realized he’d had on Elena. Adam wished the asshole would struggle more, give him an excuse to kick the ever-loving shit out of him, but he just flailed helplessly and Adam held the drunk bully easily immobilized.

“Are you all right?” He sought out Elena’s dark gaze. She hadn’t moved from the wall, watching him manhandle her attacker with wide-eyed silence, but at his words she visibly pulled herself together, spine straightening, chin going up as something hard and strong entered her eyes to match the angry fire there. Her clothes weren’t torn and he didn’t see any visible bruises, but he knew the external didn’t always tell the whole story.

“I’m fine.”

“See?” the asshole in his grip was stupid enough to squeal, “I didn’t do anything she didn’t want me to.”

Adam tightened his hold until the man gagged. “Right now the best thing you can do is to shut the fuck up.” He met Elena’s eyes over the man’s shoulder. “Do you want to press charges?”

“I didn’t do anything!”

Elena’s eyes widened as if she was surprised by the question before she slowly shook her head. “He’s drunk.”

That was no excuse and they both knew it, but Adam wasn’t going to argue with her over the pig’s squeals at the idea of being arrested.

“I need to escort him downstairs. Are you okay to—”

“I’ll come with you,” she said, before he could suggest she wait here. He nodded. Right now, the lady could have whatever the hell she wanted as far as he was concerned. Especially if what she wanted involved kicking her attacker in the balls hard enough to seriously threaten his ability to procreate.

Shifting his grip, Adam twisted the man’s arms around behind him and pulled out a zip tie to bind his hands. It was the first time he’d actually had to use them in the line of duty, so he gave them an extra tug until they dug into the asshole’s skin, just to make sure they were on securely.

He marched the jerk in front of him, through the bedroom and down the stairs, more tempted than he cared to admit to give him a little shove and watch him tumble headfirst to the marble tiles below. Elena followed like a shadow, watching him, unnervingly silent.

At the foot of the stairs, he nodded her toward an armchair. “I’ll be right back. Why don’t you wait here?”

“Elena,” the bastard whined. “This is ridiculous. You know I didn’t do anything.”

Adam shoved him toward the command center. “Don’t talk to her.”

As soon as he was out of earshot, he called in the situation, keeping it simple, knowing the rest of the team would fill in the blanks when he said he’d located Elena and there was a drunken guest who needed to be helped off the property.

Tank met him at the door to the command room, his massive arms folded across his chest in a pose that was designed to make lesser men piss themselves. “Who’s this?” his deep basso voice rumbled.

“Don’t know and don’t care.” In fact it was probably best he never learn the man’s name. That ignorance was the only thing that would stop him from hunting him down and making him bleed. “All I know is he was bothering one of our guests and needs a lesson in how to treat women who say no. I’d love to be the one to teach him, but I need to get back.” Elena had seemed surprisingly okay—more pissed off than traumatized—but he didn’t want to leave her alone right now.

“I didn’t
do
anything,” the man whined.

Tank reached out and dropped one heavy hand on the weasel’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of this.”

Adam nodded his thanks, leaving punishment in Tank’s large, capable hands. He treated his wife like a princess and didn’t appreciate men who did anything less.

Adam left the whimpering behind, heading back to the woman who was his top priority.

* * * * *

He’d just kissed her.

She told herself that, over and over again, but her nerves refused to settle, buzzing like angry bees.

It could have been so much worse. Maybe nothing would have happened if Stud Muffin hadn’t appeared like a knight in shining armor. Maybe Purple Tie would have realized she wasn’t feeling it and done the gentlemanly thing.

And maybe pigs were sprouting wings all across America.

Her hands were shaking, so she fisted them, trying to squeeze away the tell-tale weakness.

There had been a moment—just a fraction of a second—when she’d first seen that it was Stud Muffin who’d come to her rescue that she’d wondered if he would just walk away. It was a he-said-she-said, after all. And hadn’t she flirted with him that afternoon? Invited him skinny-dipping? What reason did he have to think that she didn’t do that with every guy she met? Wasn’t she asking for it? Wasn’t that what they all thought of her now?

Then he’d lifted Purple Tie away from her, the feat of strength shocking her and sending a jolt of something like awe straight into her chest. He was one of the good guys. The ones who didn’t care that she was Slut Elena. Who believed even she had the right to say no.

Her relief had been so acute she’d been embarrassed by it.

She didn’t want to think she needed a man to save her. She wanted to believe that she could have clawed and scratched and bit and fought her way free—and maybe she would have. She should have bitten him. Made him bleed. But he was bigger than she was. Stronger. Drunker. If he didn’t want to stop, could she make him?

Stud Muffin appeared then, crouching down in front of her with a sealed water bottle in his hands. “We can get you something stronger, but I figured this is a start,” he said, holding out the bottle.

She took it automatically, twisting off the top and taking a sip. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. As if she might fall apart.
Just a kiss
.

“That was very caveman of you,” she said, nodding up the stairs to indicate his display of muscle upstairs. “Pretty hot stuff, Stud Muffin.”

He ignored her attempt at flirtation. “Is there someone I can get for you?”

“No, I’m good.” She took another sip. The water seemed to actually be helping.

His expression called that into doubt. “Are you sure you don’t want to press charges?”

Visions of the press getting their hands on this story danced in her head. They’d have a field day with it. She could see the headlines now.
Slut Elena Cries Rape!
And did she really know that things would have gone in that direction? It was just a kiss, he would say. And was he wrong? Did she know what his intentions had been?

And Caitlyn’s wedding day would forever be the day Elena accused another of her guests of attacking her.

“No. Thanks. But no.” She stood, pleased with her composure. “I should get back to the reception. Don’t want to miss the bouquet toss.” She patted his arm, rock hard with clenched muscle. “Thanks for your help, Stud Muffin. I’ll make sure those muscles get a bonus.”

“Elena.” Her name on his lips startled her and she realized it was the first time he’d called her anything other than Ms. Suarez. He frowned. “Are you sure you’re okay to be alone?”

“Of course.” No other answer was acceptable. Elena was always okay. “I’m great.”

Chapter Five

She wasn’t okay. And she sure as hell wasn’t great.

Adam kept an eye on Elena as the night went on, watching as she put herself in the middle of everything, sticking close to her fellow Suitorettes and their dates and avoiding Daniel, who eventually staggered off to pass out in the bushes before being escorted off the property and poured into a cab. She surrounded herself with friends and none of them seemed to notice anything amiss, but Adam could see it—the way her smile flickered and died when she thought no one was looking, the invisible barrier she’d erected around herself keeping the world at bay.

She was rattled and he hated it. Hated that she had reason to be.

She didn’t want to press charges, so there was nothing more he could do. That was her call and he would respect it—even if he kept wishing he’d “accidentally” smashed his fist into the guy’s face once or twice for the satisfaction of it.

The wedding continued as if nothing had happened—just like Elena wanted it to—and his gaze kept finding her to make sure she was okay, through the bouquet toss and the final dance, again and again after the bride and groom drove away and the guests began to trickle out. Some members of the wedding party were staying at the mansion overnight and they started heading upstairs as the celebration wound down, the dance floor slowly emptying.

The band stopped playing and the caterers did a final sweep to collect stray cake plates. Elena was on the edge of the dance floor hugging her fellow Suitorettes goodbye when Adam headed to the command center to hand his comm over to Candy.

Off the clock, he headed back outside one last time to make sure she got to her car okay, but when her friends went toward the driveway where the valets waited with the last of the cars, Elena drifted toward the path that led down to the beach where the ceremony had been held that afternoon. He caught up to her when she paused at the edge of the sand to remove her heels.

“You shouldn’t be wandering around alone.”

She looked over at him, obviously unsurprised by the sound of his voice. “I know.” She took a few more steps in the squishy sand, moving into the darkness until he could barely see her, and her voice drifted over her shoulder. “Aren’t you coming?”

* * * * *

He followed. She’d known he would. For the last two hours she’d felt him watching over her, felt the weight of his protective gaze. Surrounded by people, feeling him watching her, it should have made her feel safe, but instead she was edgy, and his eyes on her gave her an awareness of him that felt almost sexual.

She didn’t know what she was doing, leading him down the path to the beach. She couldn’t trust her instincts anymore—they’d led her to be Slut Elena. She had been trying so hard to check her impulsiveness—and look where that had gotten her.

She didn’t know what this feeling was—only that everything seemed sharper and more acute in this moment. Part of her wanted to hang onto the crisp purity of sensation. To remember it. To use it in her acting.

What was it? Helplessness? It wasn’t rage. She wished it was rage. Rage would have been easier. Acceptable. This felt too much like weakness. Like blame. Like all the shadows that had crept into her life lately, blocking out the sunshine of pure, wild feeling. She wanted that sunshine back.

Adam didn’t speak as he followed her, respecting her silence. Respecting
her
.

She couldn’t think of him as Stud Muffin anymore. Earlier the nickname had kept him at a safe distance, kept her from feeling crushed under the weight of her gratitude, but now it felt wrong. Dismissive in a way that dishonored what he had done.

How did you thank someone for something like that?

She sank down on the sand, setting her shoes next to her hip. Adam waved to the patch of sand at her side. “May I?”

“Of course.”

He sat, somehow knowing the exact distance to make her feel comforted by his presence without being crowded by it.

They lapsed into silence, listening to the surf. She’d chosen a spot close enough to hear the water and just see the edge of the dark waves through the night, but all of her attention was consumed by the man at her side.

“Thank you,” she said finally, knowing it was inadequate to encapsulate everything he’d done.

He grunted, as if he had no better idea how to accept her gratitude than she did to offer it, and they were silent again, until the need to explain rose up and began to push against the inside of her throat.

“I’ve always been a flirt,” she admitted. He didn’t react, but she could feel him listening, the slight incline of his body toward hers inviting her to go on. “It was my super power. The ability to turn men into blithering idiots. Most guys were intimidated by me. Like I was too good for mere mortals. Look, but don’t touch unless the goddess Elena gives you permission. But now, because of the show, they feel like they know me, like they have permission to put their hands on me, like I gave up my right to say no to anyone when I said yes to him.”

“They’re assholes.”

She released a soft laugh. “No argument here.”

“You okay?”

“I’m always okay.”

He waited, letting his silence call her a liar when it would have been too rude to say the words out loud. Such a gentleman, her Galahad.

“I thought it would be different tonight,” she confessed. “These people, the show people, they’re the only ones who know there’s more to the story than what people saw on TV. Whether they like me or hate me, at least they know that.”

“I don’t think anyone hates you.”

“Oh, trust me, there are people who hate me.” And she had the Twitter hashtag to prove it.

“All you did was make some guy’s fantasies come true, but you did it on national television with a guy who used you and made you feel like trash when he should have respected you and protected you. You weren’t wrong. He was.”

“Yeah, but our society never blames the guy. I was the seductress. The slut. He was the stud.” She kicked the sand. “He was a shitty lay.”

Adam coughed to cover a startled laugh and Elena felt a little surge of victorious pleasure at having wrung that sound out of her stoic, contained hero.

“He wasn’t even a good kisser,” she went on extolling Daniel’s lack of virtues. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a really good kiss? Two
years
.”

She turned her head, eyeing the man beside her. He was probably a terrible kisser. The hot ones tended to be the worst—as if they thought the more attractive they were, the less they had to try. You’d think they’d be good because they would have gotten more practice, but no. The hot ones were useless.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” he said, obviously feeling her speculative gaze, though he didn’t turn toward her, gazing out over the water.

“Of course not. Because you’re a gentleman. And the nice guys never want to kiss me because they think I’m trashy. So I get kissed by guys who kiss me like I’m Super Slut.”

“Hey.” He did turn toward her then, frowning. “Knock it off.”

Her hero, who never let anyone say anything bad about her—not even her. “Sorry. Just having a little pity party. Don’t mind me.”

“You didn’t strike me as the self-pitying type on the show.”

“
You
watched the show.” The words were drenched in disbelief. “No. You will not convince me that you’re addicted to
Marrying Mister Perfect
.”

“Actually, I just saw the one episode. I was in the hospital for a day—emergency appendectomy—and as I was recovering from the surgery my roommate’s wife wanted to watch it. Half of the nurses on the floor came in to gossip about it. I had no idea what a big deal those shows were.”

“Yeah, the fans can be pretty opinionated.”
Understatement of the year
. “Which episode did you see?”

He gave her a look, like certain scenes had been burned into his memory.

Elena groaned. “Of course you saw that one. Awesome. My knight in shining armor knows I’m the Slutty Suitorette. There went that fantasy.”

“What fantasy?”

“That you had no idea who I was and we could run away together to Greenland where you would never find out.”

“It’s awfully cold in Greenland, but I think they still have televisions. And Google.”

“God, I hate Google. And YouTube.”

“No argument here.”

“Did you know I have a greatest hits montage set to porno music on YouTube? It’s classy stuff.”

“Look on the bright side, another season will start soon and then the internet will forget about you because they’ll have someone new to torment.”

“They cancelled the show.”

“You’re kidding. The nurses seemed obsessed with it.”

“Apparently it was bringing down the moral tone of the network. But whether there’s another season or not, I don’t want to be forgotten. I don’t want to be the Slutty Suitorette anymore, but I didn’t come to LA to be invisible.”

“Actress?”

“Can you think of a better reason to go on a reality dating show?” Admittedly, she’d thought it was love with Daniel, but she’d also thought the two of them would stay in LA and make careers in Showbiz. “Unfortunately, my agent is so busy fielding offers from Playboy and soft core pornography, he doesn’t have time to get me any real auditions. Not that I have anything against Playboy. Marilyn Monroe did Playboy. I just don’t want that to be all I am.”

She dug her feet into the sand. The heat of the day had faded, but it was still warm enough that the cool sand felt good against her toes. Adam was quiet beside her, but she could feel the subtle weight of his full attention on her. He tipped his head toward her, his silence inviting her to go on. There was no judgment emanating from him. Only a kind of waiting, accepting quiet that tempted her to fill the stillness with her innermost thoughts because he was the kind of man she could trust with them. And suddenly she
had
to speak.

“I was sort of hoping a turn on
Marrying Mister Perfect
would land me a spot on
Dancing with the Semi-Famous People
, but apparently I’m just not wholesome enough for them. They only want the good girls. Who they then dress up in skimpy sequins and hyper-sexualize every week for the viewing pleasure of the American public. If you’re overcoming your embarrassment over being seen as a sex object, everyone loves you. But if you actually embrace your sexual power and
enjoy
being hot, then everyone has to shame you for being the whore of Babylon. It’s that whole Madonna/whore thing. Because only men are allowed to enjoy sex. Women are the ones responsible for saying no. The guardians of morality. That’s our job and God forbid we forget it for a second and actually have an orgasm we don’t feel ashamed of.”

She fisted her hands in the sand, all the frustration of the last several months pouring out of her, the words pushing their way up the back of her throat. She couldn’t stop. Not now that it felt like someone was actually
listening
.

“Have you noticed that there are no roles for attractive women that don’t objectify them? Even our most badass role models wear skin tight lycra or skimpy little bikinis. But God forbid a woman dress that way in her real life. Then she’s
asking for it
and you don’t have to treat her like a human if she’s a sex object. Take Daniel.” Daniel, who didn’t see anything wrong with leading her on. “Daniel wanted to fuck me, but Caitlyn was pure.” She held up one hand. “Madonna.” Her other hand popped up like the scales of justice. “Whore. Who do you ask to marry you on national television? And what kind of idiot doesn’t see that coming?” She’d been angry with Daniel. So angry she couldn’t see straight, but she’d also been beating herself up because she hadn’t seen the writing on the wall. “Men look at me and they want to use me. They see a walking, talking sex toy. And if I want to be treated with respect, I need to dial back my sexuality. It’s my own fault, right? I’m asking for it.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Right?!” she exclaimed. “But those are the rules. If you don’t act like a nun, you’re fair game. Because if you don’t treat your pussy like Fort Knox you aren’t
respecting
yourself and you can’t expect men to treat you like a human being if you demean yourself by having
sex
. But maybe I don’t want to have to play hard to get or change who I am just to get a man to want me for more than my tits—spectacular though they may be.”

She shook her head, digging her hands back into the sand. “The Slutty Suitorette. I bet whoever came up with that one is proud of himself. But you want to know the kicker? The ironic little tidbit that makes this all that much more of a ridiculous farce?” She glanced at Adam to make sure he was still with her and found him watching her, intent and focused. “The infamous Jacuzzi scene? I didn’t even take off my own top.”

He frowned. “It looked like—”

She almost grimaced. Figured he would have seen
that
episode if he only caught one. Fate was that kind of bitch lately. “Of course it did. The editors know what they’re doing. They made it look like we hopped in and suddenly my clothes were flying, but the truth is I played with my bikini strings, teasing Daniel, but it was almost an hour of flirting and three glasses of champagne later before
he
untied my top and sent it floating away in that infamous shot. But that doesn’t fire up the viewing public. That’s not as good a story.”