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“Could I get an autograph?” Her eyes were bright with excitement. The bald man behind her wore a deep scowl.

“Anything for a fan.” Anthony looked around. Without a word, Rosemary reached in her bag and handed him a notepad and a very expensive-looking brown and gold pen.

“What’s your name?”

“Hannah,” the woman answered. She kept playing with the curls of her long blonde hair. “Oh my god, my mother is going to die. She loves you so much, she’s been an opera fanatic forever. She says you’re the next Pavarotti.”

“That’s very kind of her.” Anthony scrawled Keep music in your heart, cara Hannah on the paper and signed it, handing it over.

“Wait. I’m having breakfast with her in fifteen minutes. It’s only four blocks away. You have to come with.”

“She seems very sweet, but I’m already having—”

“She’d be so mad at me if I didn’t bring you. Come on.” Hannah tugged on Anthony’s arm. Her wild look ignited a shock of anxiety in him.

“Please don’t pull on me. I can’t—”

“I told you, you have to!” Hanna was pulling hard, and Anthony wrenched his arm away with a jerk.

“You can’t—”

“If my girlfriend says you’re coming, you’re coming.” The gruff voice startled Anthony. It was Goatee.

He stepped closer, looming over Anthony. His loose t-shirt revealed a hint of a muscular frame underneath. Anthony glanced back at Rosemary. She was texting furiously, her face blank. He hoped she was telling her assistant to call the police.

Anthony suddenly felt very small. He had never been a fighter. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Now.” The man lifted him off the chair in a rough grip. He squeezed hard, his fingers digging into Anthony’s skin. Anthony struggled to maintain his balance as he came to standing.

“Thanks baby, you always take care of me.” Hannah stroked the man’s arm, but he didn’t take his eyes off Anthony.

“Move, unless you want me to break something.” He pushed, and Anthony stumbled forward. Shit, this guy was strong. This was worse than any creepy fan he’d encountered so far. He was actually starting to get scared.

“Please, I just—”

With a crash, Goatee’s body hit the adjacent table, the wood splintering under his weight. The gentleman in the ascot managed to rescue his tea without missing a beat, holding it above his head with an annoyed expression on his face.

Anthony spun around and was confronted by the sight of a tall, muscular man in a black suit. He had short red hair and striking, angular cheekbones, with a hint of the feral in his eyes. He stood in a defensive stance, presumably in case the bald boyfriend got up off the floor.

Anthony couldn’t get his mouth to make words. That was new.

The redheaded man nodded at him, not breaking his position. The blonde fan launched herself at baldie, who was still conscious but was looking fairly dazed.

“Baby, are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

The boyfriend murmured something to her, his gaze darting to Anthony’s ginger savior. Without saying another word, he hobbled off, leaning on his girlfriend for support. Anthony barely noticed them leaving. He was staring at the besuited man’s broad shoulders and deep blue eyes.

“And who might you be?” Rosemary asked, casually spreading butter onto a scone.

Anthony still couldn’t speak.

“Bodyguard, ma’am.” His voice was low, rumbling around in his chest as he spoke, and he pronounced the word ‘ma’am’ as ‘mum.’ Dammit, he was British. That just wasn’t fair.

“Thank goodness. Fans can be aggressive, even for a so-called ‘dead’ art form. At a certain level, getting security is wise. Very smart, Anthony.”

Anthony looked back and forth between them. What the hell was happening?

“Anthony’s looking a bit pale, Mr….?”