Rock Star Romance: Dan (Contemporary New Adult Rockstar Bad Boy Romance) (Hard Rock Star Series Book 4) (91 page)

Rachel chuckled lowly. “I can’t just spend the next…who
knows, maybe the rest of my life, screwing my brains out.”

Dylan pulled her close, reaching down and tugging the
covers over them. “Sure would be fun to try, don’t you think?”

Rachel shook her head, laughing in spite of herself. “Isn’t
there something in your code of conduct about not sleeping with clients? I
thought I remembered that about mercenaries.”

“First, I’m not a mercenary--I’m on retainer. Second,
you’re not my client. I can sleep with you as much as you’d like,” Dylan
brought her face up to his, kissing her hungrily. Rachel felt his cock
beginning to harden, pressed against her hip. “I don’t think either of us is
going to be sleeping much in the near future, do you?”

Rachel giggled. Considering that she’d lost everything in
the span of less than a week, she felt oddly optimistic. “Five minutes.
Then
you can try and make me scream again,” she told Dylan. “We can plan out the
rest of my life tomorrow.”

****

Rachel glanced around
nervously as she and Dylan strode through the international terminal of the
airport, headed towards gate 43. She would have never imagined that anyone
could realistically make travel plans in the span of just a few hours;
apparently, she thought wryly, when one was wealthy enough to afford a private
jet, nothing was unrealistic.

As they made their way
to the gate, she couldn’t help but feel a mixture of apprehension and
excitement. Based on the events of the last few days, she was more secure in
Dylan’s ability to protect her, but she couldn’t ignore the fact that she’d
been completely invisible to the world just a week ago; now, she seemed to be
walking around with a target on her back at all times. She could only hope that
they would be safer in another country.

Within minutes of
getting settled into her seat, Rachel, completely spent, tumbled into a deep
slumber. Soon, her head began to jerk frantically from side to side as the
feeling of being chased by a mob of shadowy figures wielding guns played across
her mind’s eye in a stubborn loop. Just as she thought she heard the sharp
crack of a gunshot, she was ripped out of her nightmare by the sound of Dylan’s
blaring phone. Barely awake, she listened to the quiet murmur of his slightly
lilting voice as he confirmed details with whomever he was speaking to.

“Where are we going?”
she asked, listlessly.

“You’ll find out soon
enough, Love,” he said, looking around to see if anyone was listening. He began
to shove a few things into his carry-on bag and then paused, turning his head
to meet her glance, placing a hand tenderly on her thigh.
“Cheer up, Rachel—the world is your oyster now. Things are
about to get a hell of a lot more fun.” He smiled with a wink. “For the two of
us.”

PART TWO

It had been a month
since Rachel had arrived in Rouen. As she walked by Dylan’s side past the
Jardin des Plantes, she looked around—not as furtively as she had when they
first arrived, but with curious eyes taking in details that even repeat walks
through this part of the city hadn’t yet revealed. She shuddered slightly as
she remembered the tortuous trek they had taken to arrive here.

The plane that she and
Dylan boarded had taken them to Amsterdam. She had been irritated to discover
that after the long flight, they were immediately moving on to a train. In
spite of having first class seats, Rachel hadn’t been able to sleep, plagued by
nightmare images of her apartment, the fire that had gutted it, shadowy figures
and disguised voices. Dylan’s presence through the flight had kept her from
descending into full-on panic, but still she hadn’t slept for the entire ten
hour trip—she had barely slept the night before they had left, her nightmares
of being chased through the terminal interrupted only by sessions of lovemaking
with Dylan.

They traveled from
Amsterdam to Belgium, Belgium to Geneva, and then finally, from a small town in
the French Alps into Rouen. They had been in transit for almost a full week,
stopping only long enough to sleep in a hotel. Along the way, Dylan had
chivvied her into eating the regional cuisine and enjoying the delicious wines,
liquors and ciders these different places were known for. By the time she
finally walked into the apartment in Rouen where they were going to stay—at
least for the time being—Rachel could barely remember a life spent in one
place.

“Leave the worrying to
me, Love,” Dylan had suggested after Rachel had rebuffed his offer to take her
clothes shopping a few days into their stay in Rouen. “God knows I’d realize it
if we were being tailed well before you did.” Part of Rachel had resented the
comment; she scowled up at him from her sprawl on the couch, frowning.

“Excuse me if suddenly
being the target of some extremely wealthy people who are out to kill me and
steal my fortune makes me a little paranoid,” she retorted.

“Ah, you’re starting
to think of it as really yours, are you?” Dylan had smiled a little at that.
“Good. Means you’ll fight to keep it.”

Glancing at her
bodyguard and lover, Rachel had yet to figure out what his real intentions
were. He was more than willing to take her to bed. In fact, after the brief
hesitation he had shown the first time they were together—trying to push her
away with the thought that she was too drunk to know what she was doing—he was
eager to satisfy her any time she gave him even the slightest indication that
she wanted it. But whether or not he actually cared about her as a person was
something that Rachel couldn’t quite decide on.

In some moments while
soothing her frayed nerves, holding her body against his and whispering that it
would be alright and that her life was not—contrary to what she had believed—a
complete and utter ruin, Rachel could almost believe that something other than
the hefty paycheck he was earning motivated him. At other moments, she wasn’t
certain she could discern even a shred of interest from him; sometimes while
assuming his role as her bodyguard, she wasn’t sure if he even liked her, much
less loved her.

She was constantly
looking over her shoulder, her mind suggesting that each passerby was someone
intent on attacking her, abducting her—or worse. After two weeks of relentless
anxiety, being plagued by nightmares and panic attacks, Rachel had awakened one
morning with the incredible, bizarre feeling that she just couldn’t take it
anymore. She had sat up in bed and stared at the shapes of her legs under the
blanket and thought,
Good god, if I keep going this way I’m not even going
to be able to enjoy being wealthy. I’m going to give myself a damned heart
attack and save them the trouble of killing me.
Her mind had hardened out
of the sense of wonder.
To hell with them. I’m not going to give them the
satisfaction.

She still had bad
moments, but that morning, Rachel woke Dylan and told him she was going to get
a look at the city they had settled in for the time being—whether or not he was
coming with her. While the few clothes she had brought with her across the
Atlantic and through multiple checkpoints in border control had been a comfort,
they suddenly seemed like the equivalent of a security blanket: a little childish
to cling to, particularly for a woman in her twenties. When she and Dylan had
first stepped into the Rouen city center, Rachel squealed with delight as the
signs advertised that it was sale season.

Rachel had moved from
shop to shop, plucking any item that caught her fancy off of the rack and
handing it off to Dylan to hold onto until she had enough for a changing room.
She had not yet come to the point of being confident enough to walk into the
major boutiques—few of whom had locations in Rouen, with Paris so close—but in
the span of an afternoon, she had managed to furnish herself with a complete
wardrobe, from foundation garments to shoes and bags, moving through stores
with the passion of a woman who had seen many things she loved but could never
before afford.

Dylan had complained
good-naturedly, rolling his eyes with a slight smile tugging at the corners of
his lips as they both navigated the variety of stores. Rachel discovered that
his French was far more fluent than hers; she let him ask the questions of the
various shop clerks.

Before their departure
from the US, Dylan had retrieved a collection of credentials, cash, and
paperwork from a bank lockbox—some of which he had shown her, most of which he
had not. Rachel discovered that she was already half a million dollars richer
by the time they landed in Amsterdam, with a notation on the transfer that said
Running money.
In Rouen, she had a different last name, a couple of
credit cards and a passport with her new identity. Their apartment was leased
under a completely different identity—a dummy name one of her benefactor’s many
alter-egos, according to Dylan—but one that had been under the radar for over a
decade, making it safe.

“No need to try and
keep it all in mind,” Dylan told her when she asked how they would ever keep up
with the various identities and backstories involved in their evasion. “I don’t
even keep the half of it stored up here unless it’s relevant at the moment.”

The day after her
shopping spree, Rachel had put Dylan through another afternoon of boredom when
she booked a long appointment at one of the city’s top-rated salons. She hadn’t
altered her hair completely, but she got a drastic haircut; Dylan had suggested
with surprising helpfulness that highlights would transform her dark hair still
more, just enough to make her a little more difficult to identify

By the end of her
splurge, Rachel’s first burst of agitation had eased; she was now an entirely
new woman. She occasionally had moments of fear where she wasn’t quite sure how
much she could trust to Dylan’s diligence to keep her safe, but she had
explored her new city with gusto, taking in the museums and wandering
respectfully through cathedrals. She was bowled over by the constant,
breathtaking beauty of Rouen; the contrast between genteel, slowly decaying
remnants of the old splendor of France and super-modern structures and stores.
The Rouen Castle, the Jardin des Plantes de Rouen and the Pont Gustave-Flaubert
all danced across her hungry eyes.

Rachel tugged at
Dylan’s arm, pointing towards a street vendor who was quickly pouring batter
onto a large, round griddle. She had never understood the allure of crêpes
until the first time Dylan had persuaded her to buy one for herself as they
waited for the train in Samoëns. That first crêpe, stuffed with deeply colored
preserves from a berry called
myrtille
, had satisfied a craving that
Rachel never suspected she had. Ever since, whenever she saw a crêpe stand, it
was nearly impossible for her to not stop and try another filling wrapped up in
the delicate, thin, soft pancake.

Dylan rolled his eyes
with a slight grin, and the two walked towards the street cart, hand in hand.
Again, Rachel wondered if his public boyfriend behavior was just to serve for
good cover, or if it was instead guided by any kind of affection for her. They
stood off to the side as a line of people gathered, heeding the siren call of
the sweet, eggy batter sizzling on the griddle. Rachel’s gaze traveled over the
menu, her brain laboriously translating
crêpe au fromage
,
crêpe au
fraises
; flicking through the different fillings offered: bananas and
Nutella, thinly-sliced apples and cinnamon, ham and cheese and roasted chicken.
She pointed out what she wanted to Dylan and he nodded crisply, maneuvering
them into the line.

“Bonjour, Monsieur,”
he said, baring his most charming smile. “Une crêpe avec sucre et citron, et
une autre avec de confiture de framboise, s’il vous plait.”
The man
nodded, smiling at the two of them. He asked a question; Rachel interpreted it
as “Have you been together long?” Dylan shrugged, glancing at Rachel with
warmth in his eyes, and replied that it had been a little over a month.

Within moments, their
crêpes—lemon, sugar and butter for her, and raspberry jam for Dylan—were in
their hands, and Dylan was waving a thankful goodbye to the street vendor. As
they walked away, Rachel took the first bite of her snack and moaned softly as
the warm, slightly caramelized, lemony sugar coated her tongue. She closed her
eyes, putting her trust into Dylan to keep her from running into anyone or
anything, savoring the taste. It was hard to believe that something so simple
could be so incredibly delicious.

“Careful with those
noises,” Dylan said, giving her hand a squeeze. Rachel realized that she had
moaned again with her second bite, which somehow seemed to taste even better
than the first.

Dylan’s voice dropped
lower, and she felt his breath against her ear, along her neck. “I doubt you’d
want to attract attention by driving me to pull you into an alley to make you
scream.”

Rachel opened her eyes
and gave Dylan a playful shove, shaking her head. “For a guy who’s supposed to
be the brains of this outfit, you have a hard time multi-tasking,” she told him
airily.

“Oh, I’m great at
multitasking,” Dylan countered. “I could pin you up against a wall, get you
off, and keep a lookout for jack-booted assailants all at the same time.”

Rachel chuckled,
taking another bite of her crêpe. Every once in a while, she was startled by
her sudden spring into resilience—by the fact that she had been so deeply
afraid for what had seemed like an eternity, only to change into confidence and
nonchalance seemingly overnight. What startled her more was that the
transformation didn’t seem to be a surprise to Dylan at all.

They made their way
back to the apartment, talking sporadically about what they would do to amuse
themselves the next day. While Dylan mostly let Rachel organize and plan their
activities, he had a rule that by nightfall, they were back in the apartment.

“Too easy to get caught
unaware on the street at night,” he told her. “I’m decent in a fight, but if
they got the drop on us—if we were both tipsy, out alone, and they sent five or
six folks after us between street lights—it would be close. Too close for me to
want to risk. So after dark, we stay in.”

It wasn’t as though
she’d been much of a nightlife maven before coming into her fortune anyway; the
throbbing bass and sweaty masses inside nightclubs never really appealed to
her. But she found that the little reminders of her fugitive status made her
want things that she had never really considered before: the ability to go out
at night, the freedom to meet with whoever she wanted, to wander around alone
if she felt like it. Just as he promised, no matter where she went, Dylan was
there with her. If she wanted to go to the market, he strode alongside her,
usually holding her hand or with his arm around her waist.

There were times when
the only way that Rachel could have a few moments alone—or as alone as she
could be—was to go into a restroom. Every now and then, Dylan’s constant
surveillance felt stifling; not always, but often enough that whether she
needed to use the facilities or not, she told him she did. He gave her space in
the apartment they shared, but somehow, just knowing that he was only the
length of the hallway away from her made Rachel feel like he was still
watching, still listening, that nothing she did was unattended. For a woman who
had lived in what she jokingly referred to as “spinster splendor” up until the day
he had arrived in her life, it was a difficult transition to make, even though
Rachel appreciated the necessity.

Dylan’s phone—which
was the fourth phone she had seen him use in their time together so far—rang
almost as soon as they were through the door. Rachel kicked off her shoes,
turning away from him and sauntering over to the sofa in the living room; she
knew better than to even give much thought to what the other side of his
conversation might be.

“Yes. Absolutely.
Still stable. No signs. Understood.”

Rachel sprawled across
the sofa, staring up at the rough, plastered ceiling, contemplating the change
her life had undergone. It was nice to live in Rouen. It was nice to be able to
shop when she felt like it, to order her days the way she pleased. What wasn’t
nice was wondering how much longer they would be together; how much longer
Dylan would have to look around constantly, poised to defend her from any
attack. She wanted to take some kind of action. No matter how many activities
she packed into the day, or how many times they made love to the point where
Rachel was exhausted down to her bones, she went to sleep feeling restless.

“Unless someone
notices your presence in the city, we’re staying here another month,” Dylan
said as he set his phone down, sinking into the cozy, wingback chair next to
the couch.