His brow lowered a fraction, and his mouth definitely twitched. “So . . . you’re not Emma Maron?”

Har.

My gaze narrowed. “There is a specific code name my drivers use when picking me up.”

Clearly, he didn’t like being called my driver. But how else was I supposed to explain? Technically, he was my ride. Or maybe not. “It’s a simple security procedure.”

The hardness around his eyes softened. “You’re right. Security is important.” His gaze turned inward as he scratched the back of his neck, obviously flustered. “Shit . . . I don’t remember any . . . ah! Right.” Wintergreen eyes pinned me with a triumphant look. “Maria.”

Relief flooded through me. I didn’t want this guy to be a potential stalker or killer or whatever. Truth was I didn’t want to have to worry about any of those things. Yes, I loved acting and loved that I had made it this far, but there were times—such as every moment I was out in the real world—that I wanted nothing more than to shed that skin and just be plain old me, who no one knew or noticed.

Now that he’d passed my test, he turned his attention to the baggage carousel, the stern scowl firmly back in place. “You have bags?”

“I’m going to assume that was a rhetorical question.”

He lifted a brow, that deadpan expression not cracking.

Tough crowd.

“Okay . . .” I exhaled. “Um, I’m sorry, but what is your name?”

Mr. Broody blinked, as though he’d shocked himself by forgetting to give it to me. “It’s . . . Lucian.”

“Are you sure about that?” Okay, I couldn’t help myself. He was so serious; seeing him crack around the edges sent an odd little thrill through me.

Lucian’s dark brows snapped together. “You think I don’t know what my own name is?”

“You hesitated.”

Lucian grunted, setting his big hands on his narrow hips.

“And I don’t know . . . you don’t look like a Lucian.”

“Really.”

It was kind of fun needling him. He fell for it so easily.

“Lucian wears white linen and loafers. Offers you a mint julep before selling you an antique chifforobe.”

“He sounds like a hoot. Tell me—what should my name be, then?”

“You’re more of a Brick. Surly ex–star athlete with a big chip on his shoulder who hides from the world and drinks away his pain.”

He blinked again, his head jerking just the slightest bit, as though I’d landed a direct hit.

Then again, maybe I’d imagined that, because he merely gave me another bland look, and that lovely hot-cream voice rolled out in the same insolent drawl. “As much as I’d love to hear more of this Cat on a Hot Tin Roof revival you’ve got planned, Maggie, the bags are coming out.”

Flames licked over my cheeks. God, he had my number. When nervous, I tended to fall back on imagining the world as a play or movie. It had been a while since I’d watched the movie version of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, but truly, Lucian had that sullen yet oh-so-hot Paul Newman thing going on. How could a girl be blamed for getting sidetracked?

“Right.” Suppressing a sigh, I headed for the carousel, and he fell into step beside me, his steady gait easily matching my more rapid one. Clearly, I wasn’t going to outdistance him, so I slowed, my heels clicking on the shiny linoleum.

“Which ones are yours?”

“Oh, I can grab . . .” His steady stare had my words trailing off with a sigh. “The aluminum Fendi ones with the red straps.”

Without a word, Lucian—and really, he was far too big and gruff to be a Lucian—turned and began hauling my bags off the conveyor belt. When he set the last of them down, he shot me another look.

“These all of your bags?” he said, as though I’d brought a trousseau. There were only four.

“Unless I’m suffering from sudden amnesia, yes, those are all of them.”

“Hmm.”

Two grunts and a hmm. Lovely.

“I like to be prepared,” I felt compelled to say.

He gave me a sly, sidelong glance. “Didn’t have a pen handy, though.”

“A pen?”

“For that autograph I wanted.”

Argh.

“If you’re going to ask for an autograph, Brick, you should approach with pen in hand.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Well, this was going to be a fun drive.

CHAPTER TWO

Lucian

It figured Emma Maron would be more beautiful in person, more potent. Though her hair was now a honey gold instead of white and blue, I’d recognized her immediately and felt a tug of hot attraction. A year ago, I’d have been laying on the charm from word one, already plotting to woo her into my bed. I would have been pleased as punch that Mamie put her in my path. Well, I would have done all that if I hadn’t been engaged back then. The fact that I’d plain forgotten I had been engaged at all was unsettling.

This woman was a walking distraction. I didn’t do well with distractions lately. Especially ones with smiles of spun sugar and the confidence of a first-class sniper—God knew her verbal hits had perfect aim. That combination shouldn’t have been sexy. But it was.

I felt a twitch along my whole body as I opened the passenger door of my pickup truck and waited for her to get in. For a brief second, she’d paused and glanced at me with those wide indigo-blue eyes, as if she was waiting for me to take her hand and physically help her up into the truck. And the twinges within me became a full-fledged body clench.

I didn’t want to touch her. It felt dangerous. Like some awkward boy, I feared physical contact with this woman, as though it might mess with me so badly that I’d spew even more dumbass replies in the face of her bubbly effusiveness.

But then she merely flashed me a quick breathtaking smile and hopped in with surprising ease. I shut the door with a sigh of relief. But it was short lived. The drive was over an hour. An hour stuck in close quarters with the world’s favorite barbarian princess.

Not that she looked like she had the strength to hurt a ladybug. Of course, on Dark Castle she possessed magic and could melt the faces off poor unfortunate souls. Fiction or not, it made a man tread lightly.

Rolling a crick out of my neck, I got into the truck. And was hit by her scent. Five seconds in the damn vehicle, and the entire thing was imbued with the fragrance of her, rich and sweet, poached pears in crème anglaise. No, do not think of pastry cream. Or licking it.