MY FAKE LOVE AFFAIR

"Here you are, Miss Lore," the flight attendant said as she handed me my cup of green tea.

"Thank you, Cara," I said with a smile. "Do you need anything else? We' l be landing in about fifteen minutes."

"No, thanks." She walked away and took her seat at the front of my private jet.

I stared out the window as the jet glided across pi lowy clouds.

It was nice to be going home after a busy few months. I missed New York. I missed the sme l and the crowds.

I even missed the abrasiveness of my fe low New Yorkers. Penelope, my always nervous, very high-strung assistant, got up from her chair and moved to sit across from me.

"I've been working on your schedule," she said. "It's hectic, but I've made it work." "I hope you've given me some downtime," I told her.

"I'm fried. The last few weeks have left me exhausted." "You've got a few more meetings," she said without pausing.

"You've got the meeting with the board of the cosmetic company.

I spoke with Stephanie, and she's sti l working on getting those end-of-year reports together. Apparently, there were some problems with accounting.

She promises she's got it a l worked out." I was barely listening. I was seriously hitting max overload.

I knew the phrase about money not being able to buy happiness. It bought me some happiness and a whole lot of stress.

I felt like I was on a hamster wheel and couldn't get off. The more money I had, the more I needed to make.

"Needed" was the wrong word. I didn't need the money, but it was like being on a conveyor belt, and I couldn't get off.

It just kept going. "Fine," I said without being entirely sure what she said. She'd te l me at least twenty more times.

I would listen then. "Um, there's something else," she said nervously, which was her default. "Don't te l me-Brock's fans have arranged a protest." She worried her lower lip. "Um, we l, it's a concern."

"I don't care," I said. "They can be pissed. They didn't have to date the asshole. Did PR put out that statement?"

"They did, but Brock isn't exactly helping the situation," she said. I ro led my eyes. "Do me a favor," I said.

"Absolutely. Anything. What do you need?" "The next time you see me chasing after a man that is hot, wealthy, and famous, steer me in the opposite direction," I told her.

"No more celebrity men. I refuse to have my name blended with another man. I refuse to be a photo op. I'm done with a l of that. Never wi l I a low myself to be in a high-profile relationship again."

"Um, there's more," she murmured. I sighed and put my cup of tea down.

I knew it was going to be like this when I returned home.

Brock was from New York, a famous singer with an ego the size of Texas. I had been blinded by the lights at first.

He'd been a force. It was exciting to wait in the wings of his concerts and have him sing directly to me, and the fans ate it up.

I was too naïve to realize that was why he was singing to me. He wanted the boost to his celebrity. I was a prop.

"What else?" I asked. She looked down at her tablet. "Security has been filtering through the hundreds of death threats." I winced.

"I can't believe his fans want me dead. What the he l is that about? Aren't people a lowed to break up?"

"Brock did an interview and actua ly cried," she said dryly. "He's using this breakup to boost his popularity."

"My god," I groaned and shook my head. "I should sue him. I should demand half of whatever he makes from the popularity boost he got from dating me." "I agree."

"What did security find?" I asked. "Are any of the threats credible?"

"No, but they are going to be meeting us at the airport," she said.

"Only because they think between paparazzi and the haters, it can get chaotic." "I'm used to chaos," I said. "I can handle it." "They think it would be better if you were safe, just in case," she insisted.

"Am I sti l being canceled?" I asked with disgust.

"There are some so-ca led demands, but I don't think it's going to go anywhere," she assured me.

"My financial advisors say I might take a hit first quarter, but it' l be minimal," I said with a disgusted sigh.

"I can't believe people are actua ly boycotting my businesses because I broke up with a man that wasn't even rea ly my boyfriend."

"He wasn't your boyfriend?" Penelope asked with confusion.

"You were together for six months." "No, we were together for about a month before he went on tour and I had to go on my business tour," I said.

"I don't believe for a second he was faithful to me. We were only together because we didn't have time to officia ly break up. I hate that everyone thinks they know who we are because they've seen our pictures on the news."

"It's part of being a celebrity," she said while tapping out a text message on one of the three phones she carried. "I'm not a celebrity."

"You are now," she said and put the phone down.

"You're rich, beautiful, and you were dating one of the hottest artists in the world right now. You are now a celebrity."

"Wi l it be over soon?" I asked with a sigh. "I don't want to be a celebrity. I just want to run my businesses, go into a bar and have a drink, and go shopping without everyone screaming at me."

"Most people who have achieved celebrity status don't want to lose it." "I'm not most people," I said.

"Definitely not," she said with a laugh. "You win the lottery at twenty-one, which doesn't happen.

Then instead of blowing through your money, you invest it and quadruple your net worth." I smiled at the recap of my life. I was proud of myself.

But I was sti l Rachel from the block. Not Jenny's block, but my own block in a Long Island suburb.

Although, we'd moved off the block. My dad and I had moved to Manhattan, and even though he claimed he hated it, I knew he secretly liked the town house I bought him.

"I can't wait to get home," I said with a sigh.

"You miss your dad."

"I do. A l the money, fame, and success means nothing without him," I said. I knew I sounded cheesy, but it was true.

There was nothing more satisfying than sitting in my pj's with a hot pizza, a twelve-pack of beer, and watching America's Got Talent with my dad.

I was twenty-seven, but people always teased I lived like I was seventy. There was an alert from one of the many social media accounts Penelope monitored.

She reached for the other phone that she used specifica ly for those accounts, and I watched her face twist into worry and frustration.

"These people," she muttered before putting the phone back in the bag she carried everywhere.

"Let me guess. Another trending hashtag demanding my demise?"

"Just don't get on any social media," she muttered.

"I never do."

"It' l blow over," she assured me.

"I don't care," I said with a sigh. "I just want to go home. I made a l this money because I worked my ass off.

I never bothered anyone. People loved my businesses before I met Brock. It's not like my products or services changed.

I don't understand how people can think otherwise. Talk about a leap."

"It's just their way of hitting you back," she said. "They're mad at you for dumping Brock Keys." I ro led my eyes.

"Ridiculous." I watched the city come into view and had a sense of excitement and dread. I wanted to see my dad, and I wanted to sleep in my own bed, but I knew it was going to be ugly. I wasn't going to be able to move around the city without being hounded. I was going to have to be in disguise.

The jet began its descent while Penelope prattled on about this and that. I missed the days when my dad could pick me up at the airport.

He'd be waiting for me with a smile on his face and greet me with a warm hug.

It had been eight weeks since I got one of his big bear hugs.

I never realized how much I missed those hugs until my life imploded with a single headline.

From that one headline, it turned into a free-for-a l. The jet hit the tarmac, a slight bounce before it raced toward the building of the private airstrip.

The jet slowed to a taxi before coming to a stop. I was sti l in a safe zone, but I could only imagine what waited for me.

"Security wi l meet us on the tarmac," Penelope said again.

"You just go. I' l make sure your bags and stuff get to your penthouse. I' l get your purse, everything."

"What?" I asked with shock. "I can carry my purse and laptop." She shook her head.

"Security said no. Someone could grab the purse or bag."

"Holy shit!" I gasped. "Am I in actual danger?"

"No," she said with zero conviction.

"How many more death threats did I get?"

"I don't know," she lied. We both stood and waited for the door to be opened. Now, I was nervous.

I assumed it would be the usual hubbub with a few people holding signs and paparazzi snapping pictures and screaming at me.

I stepped out the door and onto the steps, and I heard them.

My eyes went to the chain-link fence that was holding back a throng of people holding signs and screaming my name.

I didn't miss the insulting messages. "Go," Penelope said from behind me.

"I' l get your stuff to your place."

"I need my purse," I insisted. "I'm going straight to my dad's house." She looked nervous.

"Okay, but please be careful." "I'm fine," I said with irritation. "I can carry my own damn purse."

She handed it over, and I walked downstairs with my head held high. I ignored the vile words being hurled at me from about fifty feet away.

I had on my big dark sunglasses to shield my eyes. I wasn't going to give the paps a money shot.

Security guards were on either side of me as they rushed me across the tarmac and into the waiting limo with blacked-out windows.

"Thanks," I said to the man that hopped in the front passenger seat.

"Go," he barked at the man behind the wheel. "There's a crowd outside the gate," the guard said. "Slide down in the seat."

"They can't see me," I argued.

"Slide down," he said in a stern voice. That's when I realized he was afraid they might do something more than shout.

I scooted down in the seat as the car moved slow and then stopped. I could hear the shouts. People pounded on the car as the driver navigated his way through the crowd.

"What the hell is wrong with them?" I asked aloud. I didn't expect an answer. There wasn't any rational answer to give.

"Your assistant gave us an address in Manhattan," the driver said. "Is that true?" "Yes."

"We made plans to take you to your home in Rye," he said. "I'm going to my father's," I said and sat up in the seat.

"Do you have the address?" The security guard looked over his shoulder at me.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes. No one knows where he lives. At least they didn't before."

"I' l send someone ahead to scout the area," he said.

"Thank you." I relaxed in the seat and watched as another private jet started to descend into the airport.

The driver took a sharp turn, which slammed my head into the window.

"Sorry, miss," the driver said. "We' l need to lose these guys before we get into the city."

"I trust you guys to get me there safe," I said and was so glad Penelope had the foresight to get security set up. I would have never been able to drive with this craziness.

I glanced out the window, surprised to see a man on a motorcycle taking pictures of me in the back seat. Or attempting to. I hoped like he l the black tint hid my face.

I noticed everyone focused on the TV in the lounge area of the gym as I filled out some paperwork at the front desk. I craned my neck to see what had gotten the attention of my staff and customers. It was some woman getting off a private jet and rushing to a waiting car.

The throng of people greeting her obviously didn't like her. I couldn't even read most of the signs being held up due to the words being blurred out by the network. It didn't take a genius to figure out what the words were. The ticker along the bottom read something about the Billionaire Diva returning home to hide.

"Tuck tail and run, bitch," my front desk clerk, Lisa, muttered under her breath.

"What?" I asked.

She jabbed her finger at the TV. "Her. That woman who is too good for everyone, including the hottest man on the planet."

"Who would that be?"

"Brock Keys," she said as if she wondered what rock I'd been living under.

"The singer?" I questioned.

"Yes. Rabro. The it couple for the last several months. Turns out being beautiful and rich doesn't make you a good person."

"Rabro?"

"Ra-bro," she said slowly. "It was their name. Now, the world knows Rachel Lore was nothing more than-well, she isn't a gold-digger, but she was a fame seeker. She's a rich bitch."

I snorted and went back to my paperwork. "As if that's anything new."

"She portrayed herself as this good girl, like the girl-next-door type," Lisa said with a sneer. "She was just looking for fame. She broke Brock's heart. He had to cancel one of his concerts because he's so brokenhearted."

"Is the guy fourteen?" I snorted.

"He loved her!" Lisa gasped. "She dumped him. Rumor has it he caught her sleeping with one of the roadies."

"I wouldn't put a lot of stock in rumors," I said. "Can you hand me that inventory sheet I

printed?"

She reached for the printer without taking her eyes off the TV. "Look at her! She is so smug! She won't even look at them!"

I glanced up at the TV and saw the woman getting into a car without giving the cameras any attention. "I'm guessing being called a whore and a bitch makes her uninterested in talking to the angry people screaming at her."

"Disgusting," she muttered.

I took the sheet from her. "When my brother shows up, send him into the storeroom."

"Which brother, hot or hotter?" she said with a grin.

"I'm not sure who's hot or hotter, but one is very engaged," I reminded her.

She wrinkled her nose. "I suppose he hooked up with a rich bitch too?"

I raised my brows. "Um, no, and I would suggest you never say that to Thomas's face. I

cannot be responsible for his response."

She was new. She'd learn my older brother did not hold back. If someone pissed him off or offended him, he let them know. When it came to protecting his soon-to-be wife, Kristi, and her son, Wesley, he was not to be messed with. Ever.

Like never, ever.

I checked the time and shook my head. Jenson was supposed to be meeting me here. I

was trying to help the guy out and gave him a job. He was acting as my manager of sorts for

some of the rental properties I owned. It wasn't exactly a difficult job, but I didn't trust him

to handle a lot. Not yet. The guy was still trying to get his shit together. He was the youngest

of the three of us and by far struggling the hardest at the adult thing.

It wasn't a big surprise he was late. No one could do a complete one-eighty overnight.

Not even in three months. But he was getting there. He got his own place. He hadn't been to

jail in three months. That was a huge bonus. I hoped like hell we were finally turning a

corner with him.

"Hey," Jenson said as he walked into the stockroom.

"Thanks for only being twenty minutes late," I answered.

"Traffic." He grinned.

"Do you have the reports with you?" He was my employee, and I was going to hold him

responsible. It was the only way to teach him responsibility.

"Uh, no."

"Did you email them?" I asked.

"I need another day or two."

I stopped counting the jugs of protein powder and turned to look at him. "Jenson, you have one job. That's it. I pay you very well. Far more than the job actually would normally pay. What have you been doing?"

My little brother flashed a grin. "I'm working on a deal that's going to get me out on my

own. I won't need any more handouts from you or Thomas anymore. I won't be the loser in

the family."

That gave me pause. Jenson was always looking for the next big thing. He liked easy

money, and that almost always landed him in trouble. The last moneymaking scheme put

him in a very dangerous position. It almost killed him.

"That's great and all, but is it going to get you killed?" I asked. "Are there going to be

guys breaking your kneecaps?"

"No," he laughed. "That's all in the past."

"Jenson, we saved your ass last time, but it can't be a habit," I warned him. "Make money

the old-fashioned way. Go to work every day. Work hard. You climb the ladder, and you get

ahead. It isn't instant. You have to work for it."

"I'm thirty-six," he complained. "I'm not an eighteen-year-old kid just starting out. I don't

have time to work hard and climb the ladder. You're a year older than I am and you're

already there."

"Because I busted my ass, Jenson," I reminded him. "I scrimped and saved and spent long

hours making this happen. I had setbacks that I had to push through. It didn't get handed to

me."

"You have your way, and I have mine," he said with a shrug. "Neither way is wrong."

"Whatever, but you're supposed to be working for me," I reminded him. "I'm counting on

you. I can't have you flaking out. If you're not going to do the job, tell me now."

"Relax, it'll get done," he said. As usual, he was laughing it off. "I'll call you tomorrow. I've

got to run."

Just like that, he was gone. I shook my head with frustration, but I couldn't really be all that mad. It was the way he was. We kept trying, but we couldn't seem to make Jenson step into the world of adulting. We were destined to keep carrying him around. I guess it was lucky for him, Thomas, and I had crawled out of the gutter and made ourselves wealthy.

Enough to support him and our mother.

I quickly finished inventory before dropping it on my desk and grabbing my things. I was looking forward to driving my new car. I was taking a page out of my brother's book and splurging a little. I was finally confident with my financial status to spend some of my money on frivolous things, like my new Porsche. Thomas tried to convince me to get one of the GT3s, but I wasn't interested in killing myself by driving too fast. I pushed the button to disarm the alarm and found myself smiling at my gorgeous black Cabriolet. I remembered being a boy and dreaming about driving in a convertible. Now, I had one. I had yet to go

anywhere with the top down.

I revved the engine and headed out of the parking garage. Thomas was dying to get his

hands on my car. It wasn't going to happen. The asshole had never met a speed limit he

didn't want to break. I had to drive out to Long Island and then around Manhattan. It was

drizzling, which meant the top was staying up.

"Hello, Mr. Grier," said the manager that worked on site of the building I recently

purchased.

"Please, call me Oliver," I said. "How are you?"

"I'm good," she answered with a nervous smile. "I thought your brother was coming by."

"He got distracted. How are things in the building?"

She cleared her throat. "We've had a few contractors come by. They said they would get you their estimates for the repairs."

"I'd like your opinion on who you liked best," I said and took the reports she had already

Prepared.

"My opinion?"

"You met them all, right?" I asked.

"Yes, but I'm just the building manager," she answered.

"Cleo, from what I understand, you've managed this building for ten years. I think you have a good idea about what really needs fixed and what's extra. You also know the neighborhood, and I'm sure you've got a good idea about who's reputable and who's fly-bynight."

She smiled and relaxed a little. "I really appreciate you letting me keep my job," she

gushed. "I was certain you were going to come in here and raze the whole building."

"That would displace the tenants," I replied with a friendly smile.

"We appreciate it. And the improvements you're planning to do."

The building wasn't fancy. It was a small office building with the tenants ranging from CPAs to a psychiatrist. It wasn't the kind of building that made anyone rich, but I'd bought the building on the brink of foreclosure and knew it was a good investment. This was what I wanted Jenson to learn. It was a small investment that would pad my bottom line with very little effort on my part.

"I'll look over the bids when they come in," I told her. "Then we'll discuss the best move

forward."

"Yes, Mr. Grier."

I smiled and walked out. The next few hours were spent doing much the same. I checked in with the small strip mall I owned and got the lowdown from the manager of that building.

He was not nearly as pleasant or appreciative as Cleo.

As I was heading back into the city, I happened to see a building with a "For Sale" sign posted out front. I didn't hesitate and whipped my little car into the limited parking lot. The building hosted a coffee shop and a bookstore. Not exactly moneymakers, but it was in a part of the city that was on the way up. I could buy it, sit on it, and sell it in a year and make a nice profit.

I got out of my car and walked around the building. Experience had taught me a lot. I had learned what warning signs to look for when it came to structure and foundation issues. The building looked like it was a money pit. I wasn't interested-it wasn't like I needed another building. I got back on the road and headed back to the city. Instead of going to one of my offices, I was going to review the reports at home in my home office.

That was next on the list of splurges. Thomas offered to sell me his fancy penthouse since he'd moved in with Kristi, but I wasn't interested in living in a high-rise for the rest of my days. My eyes were set on the house with a yard and the picket fence dream.

"Can't you take another route?" I asked the driver with frustration. "We've been in this same spot for fifteen minutes?"

"I'm checking to see what's going on," the security guard answered in a gruff voice.

I stared at the back of his head. The bald spot budding at the top told me he likely wore a lot of baseball caps. He had a very gruff exterior. I had used security a few times in the past, and every time, they were always burly and gruff. I supposed it was a job requirement.

No one was going to hire a happy-go-lucky skinny dude. It was time to call my dad and let him know I wasn't going to make it on time. I'd given myself an extra hour, and it was getting eaten up in this stupid traffic jam. Damn New York traffic. "Hi, Dad," I said.

"Hey, honey."

"I'm going to be late," I said with disgust. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," he assured me. "I scheduled the pizza to be delivered later. I suspected this might happen. Take your time."

I groaned. "I don't want to take my time."

His soft laughter warmed my soul. This was what I was waiting for. Although we talked every day, it wasn't the same when I was on a different continent. "I'll be there soon, I hope," I told him. "We're stuck in traffic. If it doesn't move soon, I'll walk."

"Sweetie, I've seen the news," he said. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"You're right. I'm sorry you had to see that."

His snort and the curse under his breath told me he was not happy about what he'd seen.

"You just get yourself here safely. Don't you worry about what those people say. None of

them know you."

"Thanks, Dad. I hope you have beer in the fridge."

He laughed. "Rachel, you're supposed to be a fancy lady drinking cocktails and expensive

wine."

"But I like cold beer and pizza," I said with a fond smile. I so missed being able to be Rachel Lore, the girl who grew up with a single father in a small two bedroom in Staten Island.

"Of course I've got beer," he laughed.

We ended the call, and I found myself staring at the same ad on the same window for the storefront that sold beads. Who the hell could afford to run a store that only sold beads? As a businesswoman, I looked at every business and wondered about their financials. Beads didn't seem like a good choice.

The air felt and smelled stagnant. I hated being cooped up. First the long flight, and now

the car. I knew it was a risk, but I needed air. I didn't see any paparazzi and took the plunge.

My fingertip hovered on the button for the window. I lowered the window just a couple of

inches.

The cool fall air tainted with exhaust, and what smelled like pizza wafted in. I closed my

eyes. "So much better," I breathed.

"Ma'am, you need to roll up the window," the guard said.

The driver slammed his hand on the horn. "They're coming up fast," he said in a low

voice.

"Who's coming up fast?" I asked.

"The paparazzi," the guard snapped. "Your window needs to go up."

"I'll roll it up when they get close," I snapped back. I didn't want to live up to the Billionaire Diva nickname, but I was paying them, and dammit, I wanted fresh air.

I heard a motorcycle engine from behind. They were still a few car lengths back. I could

breathe a little longer.

"We're moving," the driver said, stating the obvious. The limo crept forward and then

stopped. "Now we're not."

My view had changed, which was at least a bonus to the situation. I turned to look to my

right and found myself looking at a very handsome man. He had on stylish Ray-Bans and was

tapping his hands on the steering wheel of his Porsche. He was wearing a white dress shirt

with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows.

I imagined his suit jacket was tossed in the passenger seat. It was a Saturday afternoon, which meant Wall Street was closed. He wasn't a salesman. No way an average salesman would afford a car like that. CEO of something, I decided.

He turned his head and caught me staring. I offered a small smile and looked away. I got

a glimpse of the square jaw and full lips. He was clean-shaven, which definitely lent to the

idea he was a CEO. His hair was cut perfectly. It was short, just above the collar. With my

newfound status as a wealthy woman, I knew an expensive haircut when I saw it.

"They're coming up fast," the driver said. "I can't get out of here."

"Get that window up!" the guard barked.

I reached for the button, but it was too late. Flashes went off in my face as questions

were shouted at me. I was blinded with my initial reaction to cover my face. That was stupid

because it left me exposed.

"Do you have anything to say about Brock's tweet?" someone shouted.

"Were you sleeping with his roadie?"

"Miss Lore, are you going to give him back the ring?" another shouted.

Ring ? I didn't get a ring. The window rolled up, and I got a brief reprieve, but the shouts

and questions were still coming my way. I bent forward and tried to hide.

"Hit the gas!" the guard barked.

"They've got us surrounded," the driver answered and blared the horn once again.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a high-powered engine revving. I immediately looked to

the Porsche. The sound of the engine was joined by the high-pitched squeal of screeching

Tires.

The hot driver had his foot on the brake and was creating a literal smoke screen. White

smoke drifted around his car and ours.

The photographers scattered, coughing and cursing. I saw an out. I didn't know if it was the right thing to do, but I was going for it.

"I'm making a run for it!" I said to my guard and driver.

"What the hell are you talking about?" the guard snapped.

I grabbed my purse and opened the door. "Get back in here!" my driver shouted.

The guy in the Porsche looked at me and grinned. "If you're coming, you better hurry. I'm

ten feet away from my escape from this mess."

"Thanks, guys," I said to the two men in the front seat, who were making all kinds of

noises of frustration and irritation.

"It isn't safe!" I heard just before I slammed the door.

I rushed around the back of the Porsche. I heard the paparazzi yelling my name and knew they were taking pictures. This was not going to play out well in the tabloids. I didn't care. I was not living my life for the tabloids. I didn't care what anyone else thought.

I opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat. This was nuts. I could have just

put myself in serious danger.

My father would kill me if he knew I got into a car with a total stranger. It was Safety 101. Not to mention, I was persona non grata in the city. He could be a Brock sympathizer. He could be a serial killer. This was probably a really, really dumb move.

"Buckle up," he said with that same sexy grin.

"You're not going to kill me, right?"

"Why would I want to kill a beautiful woman?" he teased.

I put on my seat belt. "Because you might want to wear my skin or something."

"You have nice skin, beautiful skin, but I kind of like my own, thank you," he said with a laugh.

"Your skin is very nice as well," I said in a perfectly haughty tone that seemed a little out of place given the conversation.

"Ready to do this?" he asked as the car nudged forward.

I looked over at my security guy in the front seat. He was on the phone and gesturing wildly. "I am."

"I think that dude is pissed."

"He's a very high-paid security guard." I waved at the man glaring at me.

"And you don't trust him to protect your body?"

"I can protect my body just fine," I shot back. "I want to go home. The tank they brought to take me home doesn't exactly navigate traffic very well."

"Ah, so you hopped in because of my car," he said and started to move his car around the truck in front of us.

"Yes. Got a problem with that?"

"Nope," he answered. "Hold on."

I wasn't sure what I was supposed to hold on to, but I did my best to brace myself. He inched so close to the truck I thought for sure he was going to scratch his pretty car that probably cost a small fortune. I found myself holding my breath.

"You're going to hit the-"

He whipped the wheel, hit the gas, and sped around the truck. A moment later, we were speeding down a narrow alley. This move would have been impossible in the limo. If I stuck my hand out the window, I would hit one of the brick buildings that lined both sides of the alley. If someone opened one of the doors to the buildings, it was going to get very ugly.

The car paused and then pulled into a street that was less clogged. "There," he said with satisfaction.

"Uh, are you a race car driver?" I asked.

"No, but my brother thinks he is," he replied with a laugh. "If he had just seen that move, he would have been very impressed."

"I'm certainly impressed," I said with a laugh. "My poor security team is going to fire me."

"They'll be sitting in that traffic for a while. They'll have to fire you later."

I turned to look behind us. "I think you lost them."

"Damn straight I did," he said. "Paparazzies are a menace to society. Someone could have been hurt. They could have been hurt."

"They're so obnoxious," I said. "Thank you for saving me. I rolled down my window because I wanted fresh air. My security warned me not to do it. They snuck up on me. I was not expecting them to cut through traffic like that."

"Most of them were on foot," he said.

"Stupid. All to get a picture of me sitting in a car. It's not exactly newsworthy."

"Ah, but aren't you a celebrity?" he teased.

I looked over at the man and studied his profile from the other side. He really was attractive. There was a quiet confidence about him, but he was definitely not cocky. He just seemed comfortable with himself. I would say he wasn't trying to impress anyone, but he was driving around in a flashy Porsche.

"I'm not a celebrity," I said. "I'm just a girl that owns a few businesses." He smirked but said nothing.

"I take it you know who I am?" I said with a sigh.

"I've seen your face around," he said.

"I'm surprised you let me in your car."

He glanced over at me. "I'm not afraid of a girl."

He said it with such seriousness. It was obvious he was joking. He was trying to put me at ease, which I appreciated. "You might want to be careful with me," I teased. "According to the latest headlines, I'm right up there with man-eaters."

"I guess I'll have to take my chances."