Cannes After Dark

“Can’t sleep, Ms. Lefevre?” he’d asked, his voice softer than usual.

“No,” she’d admitted, wrapping her robe tighter. “That journalist… he was vile.”

“Aye, he was,” Greg had agreed, a rare note of something akin to empathy in his tone. “But he won’t be bothering you again.” He hadn’t elaborated, but the grim satisfaction in his eyes had been unmistakable. For a fleeting moment, it hadn’t felt like a jailer and his prisoner, but something… else. Someone ensuring her peace of mind. The feeling was unsettling.

The turning point, or at least the first crack in her wall of resentment, came unexpectedly. A rare evening with no premieres, no mandatory parties. She was too wired to stay in, but the thought of another crowded, noisy restaurant filled with industry types made her head ache. “I want moules-frites,” she’d announced, almost defiantly, standing in the suite’s opulent living room. “Proper ones. From that little place down by the port, the one the locals use.”

Greg had looked up from the tablet he was studying, his expression unreadable. “The one with the red awning? Chez Marcel?”

She blinked. “You know it?”

“I know all the exits and entry points of every restaurant within a five-mile radius that you’ve ever mentioned liking, Ms. Lefevre,” he’d said, deadpan. Then, a beat later, “The moules are excellent.”

It was the closest he’d come to a personal opinion. She’d stared at him, then laughed, a genuine sound that surprised even her. “Well then, Mr. MacAllister. Let’s go.”

He’d arranged it, of course. A quiet table at the back, facing the entrance and the exit, his preferred positioning. He sat opposite her, not eating – he rarely ate on duty, she’d noticed – but nursing a single glass of water, his eyes constantly, subtly, scanning the room. But as she devoured the garlicky mussels and crispy fries, washed down with a chilled rosé, she found herself talking. Not about the film, or the festival, but about Paris, about her childhood in Lyon, about her disastrous first audition. And he listened. He asked quiet, thoughtful questions, his gaze occasionally meeting hers, and for a few precious minutes, the bodyguard seemed to recede, revealing the man beneath. A man with a dry wit that surfaced in unexpected, understated flashes, and an intelligence that was more than just tactical.

Later, back in the car, the scent of garlic and sea salt lingering, a comfortable silence descended. Sabine watched the lights of the Croisette streak past. For the first time since the threats began, she didn’t feel entirely alone, or entirely resentful of the shadow beside her. She felt… protected. And it was a strangely warming sensation. She glanced at Greg, his profile sharp against the window. He turned his head, his eyes meeting hers for a fleeting second. Something passed between them, unspoken, a flicker of awareness that had nothing to do with security protocols and everything to do with the man and the woman sharing the confined space. Sabine looked away quickly, her heart giving an unexpected little jolt. Merde, she thought, a new kind of unease settling in her stomach. This was… complicated.

The premiere of *Les Ombres du Passé* was a crush of bodies, a blinding assault of flashbulbs, and a cacophony of shouted questions and adulation. Sabine, resplendent in a shimmering silver gown that caught the light like liquid metal, felt the familiar thrill of the red carpet, the energy electric. Yet, beneath it, a thread of tension hummed, a constant awareness of Greg’s presence a mere breath away, his hand occasionally at the small of her back, guiding her through the throng, his eyes, hidden behind dark glasses now, constantly moving.

He’d been meticulous in the lead-up. The arrival time, the exact path she’d walk, the pre-approved list of interviewers – everything choreographed. But the sheer density of people, the jostling, the outstretched hands, created an inherent chaos. She paused for a photograph, a practiced smile on her face, the lights searing her eyes.

Then, a flicker of movement, too fast, too direct, from the edge of the press pen. Not a photographer, not a fan reaching for an autograph. A man, nondescript in a dark jacket, lunged. Not towards her for a selfie, but with a focused, malevolent intent, a small, metallic object glinting in his hand. A needle? A knife? It happened too fast to tell.

A gasp rippled through the nearby crowd. Sabine’s smile froze, a cold dread seizing her.

Before the attacker could cover half the distance, Greg moved. It wasn’t a lunge; it was an explosion of controlled force. One moment he was a silent shadow beside her, the next he was between her and the threat, his body a solid, impenetrable wall. His arm hooked around her waist, yanking her back with a jolt that stole her breath, while his other hand shot out, deflecting the man’s arm with a sharp, precise blow to the wrist. The metallic object clattered to the red carpet.

Chaos erupted. Screams, shouts, security personnel converging. Greg didn’t hesitate. He half-carried, half-pushed Sabine back towards the relative safety of the theater entrance, his body curved around hers, shielding her from the pandemonium. She caught a glimpse of the attacker being wrestled to the ground by two of Greg’s men, his face contorted with a furious, familiar rage she recognized from the venom in those typed threats.

“Move, *now*!” Greg’s voice was a low, commanding growl in her ear, his grip on her firm, almost bruising, but she felt no fear of *him*, only a dizzying wave of relief and a strange, exhilarating sense of being utterly, completely protected. The noise, the flashes, the screaming faces – it all blurred into a distant roar.

They were bundled into a waiting SUV, the doors slamming, the vehicle screeching away from the curb before she could even process what had fully happened. Greg was beside her on the wide back seat, his presence filling the space, his breathing a little ragged, the only sign of exertion. He radiated a coiled, intense energy.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was clipped, professional, but his pale blue eyes, when they raked over her, held a fierce, searching intensity that stole her breath for a different reason.

“No,” she managed, her own voice shaky. “No, I’m… you… you were so fast.” The adrenaline was a live wire in her veins, making her tremble. The sudden silence in the car after the din of the red carpet was deafening.

He gave a curt nod, already speaking into his comm unit, his voice low and terse, coordinating with his team, locking down the scene, ensuring the attacker was secured. But his eyes kept flicking back to her, assessing, lingering. The air in the car crackled. It was the fear, the relief, the sheer primal intensity of what had just happened. It was him, the raw power he’d just displayed, the utter, unquestionable safety he represented.

They reached the secure floor of the hotel, Greg ushering her into the quiet, opulent silence of her suite. The door clicked shut, the locks engaging with a heavy finality. The world outside, the threat, the chaos, was barred.

Sabine stood in the middle of the room, the adrenaline still singing in her blood, making her feel both wired and strangely fragile. She turned to him. He was watching her, his usual stoic mask fractured, his eyes blazing with a mixture of residual fury from the attack and something else, something hot and raw and undeniably focused on *her*.

The careful distance, the professional detachment, the iron-clad control he always maintained – it all seemed to vaporize in that shared look. The air thickened, charged. The dam broke.

She wasn’t sure who moved first. One moment they were feet apart, the next she was against him, or he was against her, his strong arms hauling her flush against the hard plane of his body. Their mouths collided, not gentle, not tentative, but desperate, hungry, a release of all the pent-up fear, the frustration, the simmering, unacknowledged attraction that had been building for days. He tasted of urgency and heat.

Her hands fisted in his jacket, yanking him closer. His fingers plunged into her meticulously styled hair, dislodging pins, angling her head as he devoured her mouth with a thoroughness that left her dizzy. A small moan escaped her, swallowed by his kiss. This was madness, a complete shattering of every rule, every professional boundary. And she didn’t care. Not one bit.

They stumbled back, a tangle of limbs and frantic kisses, towards the bedroom, shedding clothes with urgent, clumsy haste. His jacket hit the floor, followed by his holster – carefully placed aside, even in the heat of it. Her silver gown pooled like liquid moonlight. His hands, calloused and sure, were everywhere, mapping her skin, igniting fires. His mouth followed, hot and demanding on her throat, her collarbone, lower. She gasped, arching into him, her fingers scrabbling at his shirt, needing to feel *him*, all of him.