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closed her hand around the velvet bag, sending a silent message of apology to her mother. She didn’t dare take the ring out and risk dropping it in the dark, so she pulled the zipper of her jacket down enough to stuff the pouch into the bra shelf in her tank top.
    Next to her, he jockeyed for position in the tight space, shoving her wallet and keys in his jacket pocket. The heat of his body and the closeness of the trailer caused her clothes to stick to her skin and her neck to prickle.
    There was just enough light to make out a grease stain on his cheekbone, the treacherous set of his jaw. He cut his gaze from the lights to her, his blue eyes penetrating. She touched his face, thumbing the hollow of his cheek, rubbing the streak of dirt. “That was really—”
    He slapped his hand over her mouth and shook his head.
    Heroic.
    “Shhh.” He mouthed the order, his expression serious, and heated. For one second, she thought he might replace his fingers with his mouth, and kiss her.
    The lights grew brighter, the engine louder.
    In an instant, he slid his whole body over hers, sandwiching her between him and the ground. The impact pushed a shocked breath out of her, but she clamped her mouth closed to stop any sound.
    He swept his right arm forward to aim his gun, and the movement gave her a sliver of a view between his shoulder and chin, offering a glimpse of golf cart wheels as they came to a stop directly in front of them.
    It had to be security.
    Then she remembered the gunshot, the explosive pop as it hit her trailer, so close it had to have been meant to hit her.
    It might not be security.
    At the sight of her dropped backpack and the open trailer door, a studio guard would radio for backup. Any second, they would hear the static, then the voice of MetroNet security requesting assistance at Arianna Killian’s trailer.
    But this guard…this visitor …said nothing.
    She modulated her breaths, taking in her bodyguard’s distinctly masculine scent and the musty stink of the trailer.
    Still no radio static.
    She could feel the steady, solid beat of Chase’s heart, and his chest rise and fall with each breath. His body pressed as hard on her back as the asphalt that jammed into her hipbones.
    She saw the driver’s boots and dark pants as he climbed out of the cart. He reached down to lift her backpack, then her phone, but not low enough to give them a look at his face. He kicked something—her lipstick?—then started toward the trailer.
    Chase lifted the gun a millimeter.
    At the foot of the stairs the man paused for a second, then the familiar squeak of the trailer door broke the silence of the darkened studio lot. Above them, footsteps moved from one end of the trailer to the other. Slowly at first, then faster.
    Was he looking for her? From the sound, he was near her vanity and powder room, then he moved to the seating area in the middle, then all the way to the back, to the wardrobe racks and cot.
    Was it the security guard? Or someone else?
    The velvet pouch slipped a little between her breasts, and Arianna’s whole body clutched. She inched her left hand toward her chest, dipping her fingers into the sliver of space in her bodice. She could barely get in there, he had her so smashed on the ground, but she managed to find the opening of the pouch and worm one finger into it.
    The smooth, familiar band touched her skin. Then she closed her eyes, and waited.
    The footsteps pounded right overhead. What was he doing in there? She forced herself to be calm. If it was a security guard, then nothing would happen. If it wasn’t, then something would. At least, in her head.
    She rubbed the gold of her mother’s ring and focused on its power.
    Five, ten, fifteen seconds ticked by. Each footfall sounded a little more desperate as the intruder clomped back and forth over their heads. Something dropped with a thud and Arianna jerked, but Chase held her still.
    Glass shattered, and a chair leg scraped.
    She slipped her