God, the way he looked directly into my soul, I knew he was sincere. I rested my hand on his heart.

“You know I love you, Ryan. All sides of you. Sometimes I—”

“Sweetheart, we’ve been through so much together.” His voice cracked. His thumb brushed over my lower abdomen. “There are things that I just don’t want to openly talk about, especially on national television. You bring me peace. That’s mine to cherish, not theirs.”

“And I hope you know that I’m trying to understand how all this works. That’s why I didn’t even want to start this conversation. I was trying to sort it out on my own. I guess I just don’t understand Marla’s reasoning sometimes.”

“I don’t understand sometimes, either, but I’m trying to trust what she says I should do. She has her reasons for protecting me—I mean us. She didn’t want me to sensationalize it on national television, although the story is out there already.” He shrugged.

Ryan tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Besides, in less than an hour, millions will know. As much as I want to protect you from the total craziness that is my life, I know I can’t do that forever. So everything changes tonight, but it changes on my terms.” He gently smiled at me, rubbing his thumb over my lips.

I breathed a sigh of relief but it didn’t seem to last long. Twenty minutes later I watched as he roamed around our bedroom, obviously on a frantic hunt.

“You put your watch in the bag inside your suitcase.” I pointed, knowing what he was looking for.

“How did you . . . ? Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he mumbled.

I thought about saying something witty back to him but I refrained. He had been in his own private foul mood ever since lunch, when Marla called his attention to all the slams that he received from the press this morning. Ryan emphatically stated that he didn’t care about the negative comments, but it was obvious that he did.

Instead of sitting and relaxing, Ryan paced. The more he paced and the closer it came time for us to leave, the more agitated he seemed to become. He picked his suit jacket up and then immediately set it back down, only to pick it right back up again. Then he patted his pockets, checking that he had his cell phone for the umpteenth time.

I was putting my lipstick in my small evening bag when Ryan breathed out forcefully.

“Is it hot in here?” He started pulling the collar of his shirt away from his neck and I noticed he looked a little pale.

I shook my head. I actually thought the room was cold.

He wiped some moisture from his brow. “I’m freaking sweating.”

I was started to think that it was more than the temperature that was making him sweat. “Are you feeling sick?”

“A little. I sort of feel lightheaded, actually. Man it’s hot in here.” His breathing became labored and he was turning white.

Oh, no. Not now.

I did the first thing I could think of—I got him air.

Ryan was leaning on the wall absorbing the full blast of the air-conditioning vent when our family and friends convened in our suite.

Ellen peeked around one of our bedroom’s double doors. “What’s wrong with Ryan?”

I tried to prevent her from hovering by blocking her entry. “He’s feeling a little queasy,” I lied. “He’ll be all right. He just needs a minute.”

I had seen Ryan like this before and I knew exactly what was happening. Although he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, he was quietly freaking out. I was also wise enough to know what it was that brought it on.

“He’ll be down when he’s ready,” I said to David when he poked his nose around the door. I didn’t mean to get snippy with him, but Ryan didn’t need anyone snapping their fingers at him right now. It’s not like anxiety attacks have an exact timetable. I was glad when Mike took over and cleared everyone out of our suite.

I rubbed Ryan’s back and shoulders. The first time I’d seen him like this was when the street and sidewalks outside my pub were crowded with fans.

“You okay?”

Ryan’s head dipped, slowly swaying his assent; he was breathing heavily.

My heart ached for him, knowing his private suffering. “Mike will be by your side the entire time. You know he won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I know,” he whispered, trying to measure his breathing. “But things are different now.”

“You’ve done this countless times before. You’re going to be just fine. Your fans adore you.”

“It’s not me that I’m worried about.” He shook out his hands. “You have no idea. No idea. You don’t know how easy it is for someone in the crowd to just stick out a knife or a needle or a . . . or a gun . . .

God, if something ever happened to you—”

I knew he was deep in the panic stage now. “Hey, come on. Just breathe with me.” I wrapped my arms around his waist and paced each breath—slowly in, slowly out—hoping that this would calm him like it did the last time. “No one is going to hurt us.”

He cinched his hands around my arms, almost too hard, and glared down at me. “We share the world with lunatics, Taryn. You’ve seen how far some of my fans are willing to go, so don’t tell me there is no threat! Angelica was just one of hundreds.” I gasped a little. I think he realized how hard he was gripping me. His hands eased slightly. “I want you to stick tight to the event security tonight. If they tell you to move or go you listen, okay? No questions. You follow their orders. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not kidding, Tar. You’ve never experienced this. It’s going to be a shock. You’ve never seen crowds like this. If shit goes down, security is going to block me from getting to you.” Something new, something frighteningly alarming, coated his expression. This was beyond panic. His possessive grasp tightened again. “They will be in my way and I won’t be able to protect you myself and Mike will be—”

I pressed into him tighter as my own body trembled. “Ryan, please. You’re sort of scaring me. I get it.”

He sighed heavily into my hair. “I’m going to demand extra security from now on. Make sure you’re well protected.”

“Honey, you need to calm down. You’re shaking. Didn’t you take your medicine today?”

He sat down in one of the chairs. “No. Can you get me one? Hopefully that will . . . will do the trick.”

I dug through his bag for his anxiety medicine. No one knew that the famous Ryan Christensen suffered from agoraphobia. Large crowds totally freaked him out. “You know you have to take these every day. You’re not supposed to skip.”

He finished the glass of water while I hoped we had enough time to let the medicine kick in. Usually, he was good within a half hour. A gentle knock on our door startled us both.

Mike was waiting. He had changed out of his casual attire from this morning and was looking downright sexy dressed up in a black suit, white shirt, and sharp cobalt-blue tie. I had appreciated his good looks before, but dressed to the nines, he was freaking gorgeous.

He looked at Ryan with brotherly reverence and understanding, truly concerned and full of caring. “Are you okay, man? Your team is pushing to leave but just tell me if you need more time. I’ll call downstairs and tell them to wait.”

Ryan was mostly pulled together but still agitated. His masked anxiety lay just below the surface, ready to flare at a moment’s notice. “I’m ready. Let’s do this.” He glared at Mike. “I want extra security on Taryn tonight. No less than two near her anytime she’s not with me. No slipups. You got me?”

Mike nodded and said, “It’s already done, Ry. We have four on standby at the venue for your family.”

The moment we stepped off the elevators, David swooped in on us. “Ryan, I need to talk to you a sec,”

he said with urgency, abruptly leading Ryan away by the shoulder. I held on to him as long as I could until our fingers unwillingly unlaced. He didn’t even bother to ask Ryan how he was doing.