His Heated Caress - Celia Kyle Page 0,13

means, keep doing what you’re doing. Hopefully we look convincing.”

“Of course, we do,” she said just as she turned her head to look out the window, a smile so faint playing at her lips that he wasn’t sure if it was real.

The waiter delivered their meals—rib eye for him, scallops for her—and quickly left them, apparently having collected enough dirt for a decent payday. Stark would leave him a memorable tip as well, just in case the guy was thinking about feeding the paps a negative spin.

“Cover story or no,” she eventually said after the first few bites, dabbing the corners of her mouth. “I’m certainly happy my personal style finally works with my job for once.”

“Thank god you brought it up,” he said, swallowing a hunk of tender meat. “I’ve been wanting to ask but didn’t dare piss you off, after what you did to poor ol’ Buster.”

“Shut your pie hole,” she snorted before glancing up at him from under her long eyelashes. “Ask what?”

“I’ve employed my fair share of personal security, but not a single one has come close to your sense of style. I’m curious why a woman as beautiful as you pursued that line of work instead of something more natural, like modeling.”

Wyntir rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“I know you are and that’s the problem. I get asked that question time and time again, but I don’t know how to answer it. Why should my fashion sense be a factor in how good I am at my job?”

Stark pulled a shocked face. “It absolutely shouldn’t! Honestly, I think you should start a trend and get every other bodyguard in the city to dress like that too. Come on, I’d pay big bucks for fashion-forward security detail.”

“Right? I’ve been trying to get Charlie on board for years,” she joked. “But seriously, I’ve always just liked things that people tend to consider feminine. Having a closet full of frilly pink dresses and oversized hair ribbons didn’t stop me from beating up my bully when I was a kid, and it didn’t stop me from following my dream of protecting others.”

“Of course, it didn’t,” he said, dropping his chin into his hand so he could stare at her.

Wyntir had to be the most interesting person—no, dragon—he’d met in years. He peppered her with questions about her life growing up and learned more about her during their short dinner than he knew about most of his friends. Too bad this was all something of a game, especially to her.

After sharing one of Craig’s amazing fruit crisps, Stark paid—leaving a fifty-percent tip for the nosy waiter—and headed outside, where the paps were waiting to document their every move. Stark was ready for them and offered Wyntir his arm. She pursed her lips as if she was trying not to laugh and then tucked her hand into his crooked elbow with a passable smile.

“If we give them a small show now, they’ll leave us alone sooner,” he murmured in her ear, pretending he was whispering sweet nothings.

She giggled as if he’d said something slightly risqué and then snuggled into his body and gazed up at him like he was the sun and the moon and the stars. That wouldn’t take much to get used to, except he knew it was all for the benefit of the photographers.

Dammit.

They paused under the glowing lights outside Craig’s and struck a pose for the cameras. Wyntir’s smile nearly knocked him sideways, and he could tell by the flurry of shutter clicks that the paps felt the same. Through brute force, he managed to compose himself enough to smile alongside her, as if they were truly a couple instead of him just lusting after the stunning dragon.

“Okay, fellas,” he said amiably as the clicking died off, “I hope you got what you needed because Summer and I wouldn’t mind a little privacy so we can have a romantic walk. Are we good?”

“Yeah, thanks, Stark,” said one paparazzo he’d known for years. “Have a good night!”

The others followed his lead and began reviewing the images on their cameras while Stark pulled his arm free from Wyntir’s grasp, slipped his hand in hers, and led her away from the restaurant.

The evening breeze carried the soft fragrance of honeysuckle and jasmine growing in the yards of the homes one street over from Melrose Avenue. The sun hung at a low, lazy point in the sky, pink and orange hues streaking across the sky as it began its descent