Recognition slammed into me like a blindside hit. Princess Anya. Emma Maron was one of the stars on Dark Castle. The delicately beautiful but brutally fierce Princess Anya, who led armies alongside her lover, Arasmus, the Warrior King. Okay, I was a fan. Of the show. In which there were at least four main story lines. Even so, I couldn’t believe it took me so long to place her name. Then again, my brain was crap these days.

“You’ve invited an actress here?”

“I’ve been told famous people prefer to lick their wounds in a private setting,” Mamie deadpanned.

Point to Mamie.

“Why does she need to lick her wounds?” I felt compelled to ask. “She’s a star of the most popular cable show running.”

“Not anymore, the poor dear. Apparently, she’s been cut. Some evil wizard removes her head with an ax at the end of the season.”

“No shit?” Frankly, I was shocked. Anya was insanely popular. The season finale had yet to air, but I was guessing there’d be an uproar about it.

“Language, Titou.”

“Apologies, Mamie.” The woman had a fouler mouth than me when she got pissed off, but she was still my grandmother.

“Hmm.” She eyed me for a second. “I said too much. That bit of information is strictly confidential. She could get into trouble if word got out.”

“Who would I tell?” I made a gesture toward the estate grounds, devoid of people, that currently encompassed my social life.

“Yes, true. And you see now why this is the perfect place for her. We have total privacy here.”

“If she’s in need of privacy, then it’s even more reason for me to stay out of her way.”

The last thing I could handle was interacting with pretty blonde actresses.

“Pish.” She waved a hand.

“Mamie,” I began, tired now. All the time, so fucking tired. “The answer is no. I’m not socializing. I’ll stay out of your hair and lay off the hammering while you’re eating, all right?”

We stared each other down. A bee buzzed past, vibrated in my ear. I didn’t flinch. Whatever Mamie saw in my expression had her relenting with a soft shake of her head. “Very well. I shall host alone. Although what I could possibly say to entertain a young woman, I’m certain I don’t know.”

My grandmother was the most colorful and lively person I’d ever met. And that was saying something, given my profession. Pain lanced my heart. My former profession.

I leaned down and gave Mamie a kiss on the cheek. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

She hummed—a long, drawn-out sound that said I’d stated the obvious—then gave me one of her imploring looks. “We’ll need treats to accompany the coffee . . .”

Mamie could manipulate with the best of them, but she was also transparent as hell about it. My lips twitched. “I’ll take care of it.”

I put my foot back on the ladder tread, when she made her final attack.

“Oh, and you must pick Emma up at the airport.”

And there it was. I knew without a doubt that my meddling grandmother was matchmaking. We both knew. The difference being Mamie actually thought she had a good chance of succeeding. How wrong she was. She could plunk down the most perfect woman in the world, and it wouldn’t matter. Not anymore.

“Mamie . . .”

“Her flight gets in at ten—”

“No.”

“So you’ll need to get going fairly soon.”

“Mamie—”

Green fire flashed in her eyes. “Do not try my patience, Lucian. I have already promised Emma that someone would pick her up. You will go.”

When my grandmother spoke in that manner, you listened. No exceptions.

“All right, Mamie. I’ll go.”

I sure as hell didn’t miss the glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “Good. She’s in Oxnard.”

“Oxnard,” I all but shouted. “Why the hell didn’t she fly into Santa Barbara?”

She gave another one of her Gallic shrugs. “There is some sort of union strike, and the airline diverted flights.”

“Great.” Oxnard was an hour away, and that was if traffic behaved. Which it never did.

“You are a hero, mon ange.”

Yeah. Right. A hero.

I didn’t say a word but simply packed up my tools. Let her think she won. I’d pick Princess Emma up at the airport. I’d be as polite as I was capable of, and then I’d stay the hell away. And my grandmother would just have to live with the disappointment.

Emma

I noticed the guy in baggage claim immediately. Mainly because he was gorgeous. With swagger. There were different types of gorgeous. The flawless pretty-boy, take-a-picture-and-hang-it-on-your-wall-to-admire gorgeous.

And then there was the rough-and-tumble, oozing-sexual-energy, make-your-knees-weak-and-your-insides-flutter gorgeous—with swagger. This guy had swagger to spare.

Swagger in the loose-hipped, confident stride as he headed my way. I watched him approach, unable to pretend I didn’t notice him. How could I not? He was at least six feet four, with wide shoulders, narrow hips, flat abs, and thick thighs. Inky hair that contrasted with olive-toned skin fell in a messy tumble over his forehead.

He was still too far away for me to discern the color of his eyes other than that they were pale and staring back at me from under stern dark brows.

Oh my.

Another wave of attraction swept through me, so strong that I nearly pressed my hand against my belly to brace myself. But I caught it just in time and shook it off. Because no matter how hot the guy was, no matter how very sexy the swagger, any occasion in which someone approached me these days was cause for caution. From the moment I’d decided to major in theater, I’d been chasing fame, needing its protection and power so I could land the roles I’d wanted. Now that I had achieved it, I found myself struggling with its constraints; no longer could I go out on my own without risking uncomfortable encounters with press or a fan who didn’t understand personal boundaries. The first times it had happened, I’d been terrified. Now, I was simply guarded.

For a flickering moment, I regretted the lack of a protection detail, which I had been traveling with since Dark Castle became a hit, but it was too late to do anything about that now. I was on my own, and he was definitely headed my way.