Taja Wilson doesn't belong on a yacht in the South of France. She's not supposed to be a nanny. And she's definitely not supposed to fall for her hot, brooding, single-dad boss. But even if she can resist Micheal's growling accent, his sweet daughte...
"I need to get you alone, Taja." "I agree. Let's get out of here." I followed Micheal down and out of the VIP section of the crowded club. But the moment I step off the stairs, I'm blinded by what feels like hundreds of camera flashes. "Micheal Jadin! And his mystery girl." (Oh, no! It's our paparazzi stalker... and it looks like he brought a dozen of his closest buddies!) "Fuck. Let's get out of here now!" "And go where?" "Out the front door, where else?" Micheal grabs my hand and clears a path for me through the crowd, making sure no one gets in our way. Elijah catches us both at the door. He holds out a bag. "I was afraid this might happen. Quick- take one of these disguises. Let's see them try to sell a picture of two unrecognizable civilians."
Micheal chuckles. "Good idea Elijah. Taja grab a wig and a pair of sunglasses."
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(Micheal's)
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(Taja's)
"Mon Dieu. I should have known you would choose that one." "Listen. It will do the job." Micheal nods. "This way, Taja, quickly!" The club door swings open. I run out amid more camera flashes. Micheal puts a steady hand on my lower back, placing his body in between me and the media. The two of us jog around the corner into the winding street of St. Tropez, the paparazzi in hot pursuit.
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"Maybe we can lose them back here. Unless you have a better idea. "We should find a hiding spot. We can wait them out." "Good idea. Keep a lookout." I scan the area, but it's mostly closed stores and apartment buildings. "There!"
