Hitman's Hookup: A Bad Boy Romance (31 page)

I laughed. "What?" I asked him, shocked. "Why would you ask me that?"

Harrison looked sheepish. "It's just, your last four assistants...I called each one of them to ask why they'd been canned. This was so I could have a better idea of how best to serve you. And each one of them said that you got weird at the end of their relationship with you. And you're...if you don't mind me saying so, sir, but you're being weird."

I knew for a fact that I'd never heard Harrison say that many words in a row. A bead of sweat was popping up on his alabaster forehead. I thought his bowtie might fly off of his neck as well. As far as I knew, he wasn't a day over twenty-five, but he always dressed like somebody's dapper grandfather.

"
Am I
being weird? I don't fucking
feel
weird." I leaned back in my chair and flexed my arm muscles as I crossed them over my chest. I looked out the window, my eyes catching on an attractive group of young, Italian women. "But no, you're not being fired. I promise you that. I'm just trying something new. Breakfast in public, at a normal hour, followed by showing up to work on time." I ticked each one off on my fingers as if I had a list written down somewhere.

Harrison laughed. It was a small laugh and wholly unexpected. It wasn't often I saw him loosening up enough to laugh. It was completely welcome, though.

"Great. Then I can eat my breakfast without feeling like vomiting," he said.

"That's always a good goal," I replied. Our server, a tall Italian man with dark hair, appeared at our table.

"
Buongiorno
," he said quickly. "What can I get for you to eat today?"

I hadn't even looked at the menu. "Whatever your favorite thing is, I'll eat that. As long as it's not granola and fruit, anyway."

The server laughed heartily. "I assure you, it is not." He turned to Harrison. "And for you, sir?"

Harrison's cheeks were pink. "Granola and fruit, please."

I started to laugh at him but a glimpse outside stopped me in my tracks. A hoard of men dressed in all black and carrying cameras was coming this way. I didn't mind fans, but the paparazzi was a completely different fucking story.

I opened my mouth to say something when they suddenly stopped moving. They weren't coming over to the window. They were huddled outside of the front door of the hotel. That meant that they were just waiting for me to leave.
Fuck,
I thought.

Harrison followed my eye line and then looked back at me, panicked. "I'll get the manager," he said, throwing down his cloth napkin and scuttling out of his chair.

Right as he stood up, a black car pulled up in front of the hotel with dark-tinted windows. The paparazzi began snapping photos even though the doors of the vehicle were still snapped shut.

"Harrison, don't bother," I said. He looked at me curiously. "It's just another celebrity. The kind that tips off the press but then acts like they're surprised that anyone knew where they were staying."

Harrison sat back down, hastily whipping out his iPhone and scrolling through his notes. "No one else is supposed to be staying here other than the cast and crew, Mr. Wilder. If I had known that another celebrity was staying here I would have booked you a suite somewhere else."

The best-kept secret in Hollywood is that it really isn't hard to avoid the paparazzi scumbags if you just shut your fucking mouth. But that strategy was jeopardized the second another celebrity was near you and they tipped them off. My stomach sank.
So much for my safe place in Milano.

"It's fine, Harrison. Don't worry about it."

He closed the leather iPhone case with a snap. "Well, I can still get you out of the back door of the hotel after breakfast, if you want."

I nodded. "I wonder who the fuck it is," I wondered out loud. My curiosity was getting the better of me.

"Want me to go see who it is, sir?" Harrison asked. He was always happiest when he had a task in front of him. I saw a fiery gleam in his eyes that told me he wanted to do this.

"Nah, wait here," I replied. "I'll go look. I never get to do shit like this." But before I could pry myself out of the chair, I heard a noise from the reception area that sent shivers down my spine. It was a cold, even voice that was just a few decibels louder than everyone around her. I knew that voice.

I knew that voice all too fucking well.

"Oh fuck," I said loudly. A few patrons turned around and stared at me. I didn't care. I was out of my seat and halfway across the restaurant, Harrison following me. He had clearly heard her as well.

I pushed past the hostess who asked if everything was okay. I didn't bother responding. When I set foot in the lobby, my suspicions were confirmed. There she was, enormous black hat and black sunglasses covering her perfect face. Red lipstick was expertly applied to her bow-like lips, and she wore a little white dress that accentuated every curve in her body - the few that she had on her narrow frame.

Surrounding her was her usual squad of people: a few famous supermodels, a DJ who confusingly had no vowels in his stage name, and other hangers-on, including her hair stylist and makeup expert. In addition to that group, there was the guy who wrangled her two cats; animals named after female television show characters whose names I could never remember or be bothered to figure out what show they starred in. They were cats, for fuck's sake. Usually she let them in her bedroom while we would fuck.

Believe me when I say this: there is nothing creepier than cats watching you fuck.

Fucking
nothing.

Hailey Holliday was standing twenty feet away from me. Hailey Holliday, my former girlfriend who had written more songs about me than had been written about WASP Christmas celebrations. Her voice echoed across the lobby.

"What do you
mean
the penthouse suite is booked? I always stay there when I come here. Always. The manager has assured me that
any
time I am in Milan; I can always stay here.
Always
,
" she insisted, and even though I couldn't see her pixie-like face, I knew that the girl-next-door smile she usually wore for the media had slid off in favor of a look of poisonous sludge.

I knew that look better than anyone.

It was the same look she usually reserved especially for me.

The desk clerk, who had been a consummate professional during my interactions with her, was struggling to keep a smile affixed to her face. It almost looked from here that she was a moment away from tears.

I stepped in. "Hey Halls, that could be the title of your next song.
Always
. Be sure to put a line in there about how you're the victim in every human interaction. That plays well with your teenaged fans."

Hailey whipped around to face me. The toxic look turned at once into a mask of evil joy. She smiled, staring at me as she slowly removed the straw hat from her head and pushed her sunglasses up onto the top of her skull.

Her dirty-blonde hair was in a long bob cut that kissed her shoulders. She stepped forward dramatically through her posse and approached me with a look of pure, malicious venom. She traced a red manicured fingernail over my chest.

"Wilde," she whispered. "You've put on a few pounds. It's good to be seeing more of you."

"Wish I could fucking say it was good to see you, Hailey. I'm sure it would make a great line for the press listening through the glass there." I looked over her shoulders at the photographers who practically had their ears up against the window. I knew that at least one of them would have an amplifier to attempt to figure out what we were saying. I wasn't going to give them the pleasure.

She smiled at me, and there was something calculating in her gaze. That look frightened me more than any other she wore. It meant she was about to do something that I would hate. Then she pouted, putting her hand on my bicep.

"Oh, Wilde. That's a
terrible
thing to say to the love of your life." Then she reached up and grabbed the back of my head, grabbing my hair and twisting my face down toward hers in a passionate kiss.

I started pushing her away but I heard the voice of my publicist in my head. If I did that, I could add "woman abuser" to the long list of roles that the press had cast me in during my rise to fame. All it took was one single frame of me shoving her away and I'd lose all credibility.

Instead, I leaned in. She wanted to give them a show? Fine. I could play along with that. She pulled away first, a smile playing across her mouth, still touching my body and talking through gritted teeth so no one could read her lips.

"I'm guessing that you're the one who took my room?" she hissed.

"Not your room to be taken," I replied, grinning at her as hard as I could. I could hear Harrison shuffle his feet behind me. He had no idea what to do, and I was leaving him hanging.

"Hm. Well," she said, standing up on her tip toes to reach my ear in her five-inch-tall heels, "You could clear out the bimbos you inevitably have staying there and let me room with you. It's a big suite. We wouldn't have to see each other."

I grinned back, hoping my eyes portrayed the cold steel I felt in my gut. "And where would your precious wallet-fuckers sleep?"

She laughed joylessly, kissing me on the cheek. "I already rented rooms for them on the floor below. And you know that I don't stay anywhere but in penthouses."

I grinned. "Unless it's in the beds of my friends. Then you're not as picky."

Her eyes flashed, and she leaned up to kiss me on the mouth again. Before our lips met, she hissed, "You let me stay in that suite or in my next song I tell the world about your habit of crying when you ejaculate." Her lips met mine and then parted. “Among other things.”

I had no response to that. I knew she was as good as her word when it came to threats. She knew she'd won.

"See you upstairs, Wilde," she called back as she walked to the elevator. "Tell your assistant to give mine a room key."

I turned back to Harrison and nodded. He gave me a quick look of disapproval but rushed over to Hailey to give her the key card. I left the lobby and made my way back to the restaurant, fuming silently. She could think she would win this, but she couldn't.

I knew as much about her as she knew about me.

CHAPTER TEN

OLIVIA

The steely-grey skies of Milan belied the warm temperature on the streets. I fanned myself with the back of my plane ticket as I stood on the corner waiting for a taxi to pull up, my rolling suitcase on the ground next to me.

It was the only thing I owned that looked new, but that was only because I scarcely had reason to leave the Burbank area on any given day, much less pack up my clothing and hitch a plane ride somewhere.

My blood felt like it was buzzing from the excitement of being back on the streets of Italy. I'd already spoken Italian to the flight attendants, feeling the language in my mouth for the first time in years.

When I was alone at home, I would speak to myself in the language, even if it was just in my head. It was the only practice I managed to get, but it had been enough to keep me from getting too rusty.

A man's voice called out to me. "Ms. Martin?" I turned around, feeling shocked since I wasn't expecting anyone to know my name. A silver-haired man in a suit was standing there holding his phone.

"Sorry to bother," he said, "But you are the woman I'm driving to the hotel." He stared at the surprised reaction on my face. "I'm sorry, did they not tell you that you were to come with me?"

I shook my head. "No, they didn't."

He smiled and held out his hand and his identification. "My car is just over there. If you'd like to call the woman who called me...she's Mr. Fox's assistant. She can confirm that this is the plan."

I hesitated for just a moment before deciding that I trusted him. "Lead the way!" I said, pulling my suitcase. He rushed forward to take it from me. I thanked him, switching to Italian to do so. Then I asked him his name.

"Bruno," he replied, opening the door to a black Mercedes. A few minutes later, my suitcase was tucked safely in the trunk of the cab and we were trundling through the streets of Milan. "So you are here for the movie shoot?" he asked me in Italian.

"Yes," I replied back, hoping my accent was still on point. Not that I expected him to criticize me or anything.

"So you are here to shoot with Ms. Holliday and Mr. Wilder, then?"

I felt my stomach jump out of my body, roll down the window, exit the vehicle, and get crushed underneath the wheels of Bruno's black Mercedes. "I'm sorry...what?" My English returned in an instant.

"Mr. Roman Wilder is here with his girlfriend Hailey. They're filming a movie together. It's all over the Internet." He looked in the rearview mirror. "Aren't you on Twitter?"

I shook my head in shock. "No…well, yes, but I haven't been on it recently," I replied. I had a Twitter account but the multiple, long plane rides over with no smartphone and zero interest in using the Internet connection on the plane meant that I was completely out of the loop. "It might be another movie. To be honest, I didn't ask too many details. I just needed the job and there wasn't a lot of time, so I took it."

Bruno nodded. "Ah, I see. But I am pretty sure it's the only one being filmed here right now. Would be quite a coincidence if it were another."

"Coincidence indeed," I muttered under my breath.

"Are you a secondary role?" Bruno asked me.

I guffawed. "I'm behind the scenes, actually. Script supervisor."

"A
bella
woman like you behind the camera?" Bruno smiled. There was that Italian flirtatiousness that I'd missed so dearly. "I can't imagine that."

"Oh, Bruno, I bet you say that to all the girls," I replied, grinning at him. "Nah, I like being behind the scenes. It means I can show up to work in a messy ponytail and not be yelled at by anyone. Oh, and I actually get to enjoy craft services during meal breaks."

Bruno laughed. "So much obsession in America with being skinny. Those American actresses need to eat a bit more, in my opinion."