Guardian For Hire

  “Good.” She sat back and nodded, glad he finally started taking her seriously. “All right, then. And we need to talk about this whole apprentice thing, too. I don’t think it’s going to work.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  He didn’t move the menu away, and she frowned. “Could you at least pretend to listen to what I’m saying?”

  “I’m all ears.” He set the menu down with a clap and crossed his beefy arms. “I’m listening with bated breath.”

  Under the weight of his undivided attention, she found herself wishing she’d just let him ignore her. She toyed with her water-spotted fork restlessly. “Right, well, I’m thinking I’m not really the security, stealth-mode type.”

  “You don’t say.”

  She shook her head and shrugged. “I know it seems like I would be, but I’m not. And I think I might compromise your integrity if you take me along on your jobs. So, I don’t think it will work. For you.”

  His gaze was so intense, she resisted the urge to squirm in her seat. Why did he always make her feel that way?

  Finally he inclined his head. “Well, Doc, that’s very thoughtful of you.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “It’s nothing, really.”

  “And it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re scared, I’m sure.”

  She opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by the waitress, who had crept up on them.

  “Coffee?” she offered, hoisting a black pot in the air.

  “Yes, please. For both of us.” Gavin nodded and the waitress poured for him before turning to Sarabeth and promptly spilling a good third of a cup down her shirt. Luckily—for her skin if not for her palate—it was the temperature of used bathwater. Still, it was a shock, and she gasped.

  “Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry.” Ashlee, if that was her real name, tossed a pile of napkins from her apron toward Sarabeth. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “Why don’t you head to the ladies’ room and I’ll bring you in a cloth with some seltzer?”

  Sarabeth took a moment to dart her best “I told you so” look at Gavin, but he either didn’t comprehend it or chose to ignore her. Maybe it was better he was teaching her how to defend herself. Apparently, she was the only person on the case.

  “No, really, I hate this shirt anyway. I’ll take care of it at home.”

  The waitress frowned but then shrugged and took their order before heading back to the “kitchens,” presumably to tell her boss that their target hadn’t taken the bait. It would be a good day if there wasn’t cyanide lacing her omelet at this rate.

  “I wouldn’t drink that coffee if I were you,” she whispered, just as Gavin held the overlarge mug to his lips.

  He took a sip. “No?”

  She eyed him incredulously. “Well, there it is. You’ve just signed my death warrant. They probably doped that, and now you’re going to slump over on the table and I’ll be a sitting duck. Seriously, all the signs are here. How much clearer could this be?”

  “You’re right.” He took another sip of his coffee. “And they didn’t even have the decency to properly heat up my poison. Best of luck when I’m gone. Remember to block your chin during hand-to-hand combat. Wax on, wax off.”

  Maybe it did seem outlandish, but at this point, anything was possible and she was scared of her own shadow. The least he could do was reassure her. “You really think you’re hilarious, don’t you?”

  “Most days.” He took another gulp before holding out his mug to her. “Coffee?”

  The waitress returned with the food before Sarabeth had the chance to slap the drink out of his big, smug hand. So what if he wasn’t incapacitated yet? That didn’t mean the food wasn’t poisoned. Some poisons took longer than others. Didn’t he know anything? Clearly, he needed to watch that CSI marathon more than she did.

  Sarabeth thanked her and began pushing the food around on her plate, careful to make it look like she was eating. Let her go back and report that to her boss. The woman didn’t seem to notice, though. She was setting down Gavin’s three plates of food with extra care, patting the side of one before saying “enjoy” and walking off again.

  Gavin chuckled and tugged a scrap of paper from beneath the plate the waitress had patted.

  Panic threatened to choke her, and she dropped her teaspoon with a clatter, staring at the white sheet. “What is it? A bribe? A threat?” She bit her bottom lip and bent close to whisper. “A blackmail letter?”

  “Not quite.”

  She swallowed hard, and her palms dampened. “What do they want, then?”

  “She wants…attention. This,” he flashed the paper in her direction, “is a phone number.”

  There it was, plain as day. A phone number with a scrawled note underneath that she didn’t have time to read before he set it back under his plate.

  “What else does it say? Are you sure it’s hers? Maybe it’s a trap. Maybe that’s her bosses’ number, and when you call it they’re going to offer you a million dollars to hand me over. My face was on the news all day yesterday and—”

  “It said, ‘Hey sexy, I get off at ten. Want to help me get off again at eleven?’ She also spelled ‘eleven’ incorrectly. Somehow, I don’t think she’s part of any criminal mastermind’s plan to murder you.” He chomped down on his bacon, and Sarabeth’s cheeks burned.

  Partly it was embarrassment. The other part? A weird sort of bubbling feeling in her stomach. When the waitress arrived with the check, Sarabeth had the urge to stab her with her butter knife. God, this ordeal had made her into a different person in less than twenty-four hours. She was an animal just like her would-be murderers were. Still, when Ashlee winked at Gavin, sheer, unadulterated jealousy coursed through her veins.

  Which was ridiculous.

  Gavin wasn’t hers. In fact, she didn’t even like him, and the feeling was definitely mutual. These weird, possessive feelings were obviously just due to the stress of the circumstances. Not to mention, the nerve of the thing. They could’ve been a married couple for all Ashlee knew and she was still handing out her goodies like it was Halloween.

  Renewed annoyance surged through her. Maybe death by butter knife was over the top, but she was certainly going to complain about the service. That’d show her.

  “What are you thinking now, Doc? You look very smug.” His brows knit together as he eyed her speculatively.

  She folded the napkin on her lap and met Gavin’s curious gaze. No way she was sharing any of her internal monologue with him.

  “Nothing at all. I was just thinking she looks like your type. You going to call her?” She faked a smile, trying to hide the very real curiosity that niggled at her, but when his stare grew more intense…searching, she felt it. The same jolt that had gone through her the day before when they’d touched and again this morning when she’d seen him in his towel. She took a deep breath, trying to distract herself from how very rich and dark his eyes suddenly seemed.

  His face was a mask as he considered her question, those eyes telling her that part of him knew exactly how she was feeling and why she’d asked.

  Well, crap.

  …

  Inappropriate but distinct male satisfaction pulsed through him as he stared at Sarabeth shifting restlessly in her seat.

  He let her sweat out her curiosity for a long moment, debating with himself internally. Call her on it, or let it lie?

  Everything in him responded with a resounding, “Let it lie.” Acknowledging any part of this attraction between them would just make things more difficult. Not smart.

  Then again, nobody had ever said he was smart. “You know, I don’t think jealousy suits you, Doc.”

  She let out the most ladylike of snorts, and it was a wonder her eyes didn’t pop out of her skull from rolling them so hard. “I’m not jealous.”

  “Aren’t you?” He tried to maintain the teasing tone while his heart was turning over and over like a busted car engine. Her hands were
trembling, and her cheeks had gone a soft pink, rendering her flashy, protest-overmuch denial moot.

  It might be the last thing the pretty young doctor wanted in this lifetime, but that didn’t change the fact that she was attracted to him. Now what the hell to do about it? He let his gaze drift down and examined her body without the slightest attempt at hiding his intentions. Maybe she was right. The clothes he’d bought were too tight. They hugged her curves in all the most dangerous ways, and all morning he’d had to remind himself of one thing.

  This one’s not for you.

  He might have money now, but at heart he was still a motel and Grand Slam breakfast kind of guy—the guy who’d misspent his youth pickpocketing and lifting his supper from the farmers’ markets. And she was still a hotel heiress doctor who’d ordered—and barely touched—a bran muffin and probably spent her childhood playing croquet at a summer home in the Hamptons.

  Their long moment of appraisal was broken at last when Sarabeth reached for the check.

  Nice of her to try, but there was no way that would go down. He’d been paying his own way since he was eight, and he wasn’t about to stop now. Nothing to do with the fact that the thought of her even possibly thinking he couldn’t afford the check grated on every last nerve. He pushed her fingers away, grasping the black leather bifold before she had the chance.

  “Let me pay, come on. It’s…the least I can do. For the safety and all.”

  “With what money?” He raised his eyebrows.

  Her already-pink cheeks went red. “Right. Well, at least keep track of your expenses. So I can pay you back when this whole thing is finally over.”

  “Yeah, I think I can handle the bran muffin, but thanks for the offer.”

  She opened her mouth as though she was going to continue arguing, but then snapped it shut and nodded.

  “Okay. Thanks.” A corner of her mouth edged upward, dimpling her cheek in a way he hadn’t noticed before. Had he seen her smile for real yet? He didn’t think so, although given their situation, that made sense. Still, he found himself wondering if there was another dimple to match on the other side, and made a mental note to try to find out.

  Their gazes met again, but he was quick to pull himself back, straightening up before he noticed how well he could see down the front of her low-cut shirt. He cleared his throat and looked away.

  Not for you.

  “Hey, let’s get out of here. I think you’ve had enough excitement for one morning. Did you want to check the potted plants before we go? Maybe see if you can track down a gunman on your way to the bathroom?”

  “Ha. Ha.” She glared at him. Apparently the dimple sighting was a one-time thing. “Let’s go, okay?”

  After settling the bill, she followed him silently to the car, and they were on their way.

  The ride to his house was a power struggle. Apparently, classic rock, alternative, and punk music were all despised by the trust fund set. Instead, Doc seemed to prefer twanging pop songs and the Enya-type music that played in the background of soft-core porn. For the past hour, they’d been playing radio tennis, with her waiting until he seemed distracted to change the station, and him responding in kind.

  They were pulling onto his private drive when he finally called her on it. “If that was you being stealthy, I may have to reevaluate your apprenticeship after all.”

  He changed the station back to Radiohead, but for the first time in their entire journey, he faced no retaliation. He glanced over to her to see Sarabeth’s mouth hanging open like it was on hinges.

  “You okay there, Doc?”

  “Holy cow, what is this place?”

  He laughed, following her gaze. To a stranger, he guessed the house looked pretty foreboding with the long and winding private drive and the unrelenting gray stone front. When he’d planned construction, he’d been meticulous about every detail. Monitors were placed strategically to survey every square inch of the expansive grounds, and they were protected by the most cutting-edge, high-end security equipment money could buy. Not to mention, the building itself was essentially a large, gray cube. Each wall had a window, but in lockdown, they were barricaded in steel and the place was a stronghold. Nearly impenetrable, short of a National Guard attack. He was proud of it. Worse, he was proud for her to see it. Not because it was a testament to his success. But to his mind, it was the perfect haven. A place where he could keep her safe. And even in its starkness, it was still a warmer environment than the one he’d grown up in.

  Maybe for her too, from what he’d heard in the motel the night before.

  “This is my house, obviously…” He passed through the third security gate, this time scanning his fingerprint in order to open the wrought iron. He was nothing if not thorough.

  “Obviously? Because ‘house’ seems like too tame a word. I’m thinking more like fortress of solitude?” She smiled. It was suiting, really. Pretty, with white, perfectly straight teeth. And yes, there was the second dimple. He couldn’t help smiling back at her.

  “It’s home,” he said simply.

  “This monstrosity is many things, but at the risk of judging a book by its cover, it’s not a home. I’d call it a dwelling at best.”

  He parked and sidled around to the other side of the car, opening the door for her and gesturing toward the wide entrance. “Well, in that case, welcome to your new dwelling.”

  “For a few days,” she added, squaring her shoulders.

  He didn’t have the heart to tell her it would likely be a lot longer than that. Getting to the bottom of this mess and putting whoever was behind it out of commission was going to take time. He watched her move gracefully toward the oak double doors, gaze locked on her slim, swaying hips.

  Seemed like it was going to be hard time for the both of them.

  Chapter Six

  “So here it is—” Gavin gestured grandly toward the open door of the third room they’d passed on the second floor.

  “My bunker?” She stepped over the threshold of the square room, taking in the cool, slate-colored walls that were exactly the same shade as all the other walls in the house. A couple of art deco pieces in white frames hung over the dresser, but aside from that, the room was sterile as a eunuch. The furniture was asylum white with bedding to match on the full-size bed in front of her. Beside the door, a full-length mirror perched against the wall. The only thing with any color whatsoever was a small pile of clothing mounded at the foot of the bed.

  “Bedroom,” he corrected.

  “It looks a little more like a cell. Or a chamber, if you add a writing desk and a quill.”

  He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest and eyeing the room. “Looks great to me,” he said with a shrug. “What else could you possibly need?”

  A chamber pot would’ve rounded out the decor nicely, but she bit her tongue. She’d already said more than was polite, given the fact that he’d opened his home—as it were—to her.

  He shouldered his bulky frame away from the door and gestured to the clothes on the bed. “You’ve got some new stuff there.”

  “Pajama pants, I hope?” She lifted the top item from the pile and the garment unfurled, revealing tailored pants, a crisply ironed seam lining each fitted leg. Finally, something familiar.

  “Oh! These are good, too.” Now if she could get her hands on a shirt that didn’t look like it belonged with a teeny skirt and a pair of pom-poms, she’d be ready to go.

  “That’s part of your new uniform. The top is beside you, too.”

  She lifted the shirt. It was a matching black top, as form-fitting and tailored as the pants had been. Lovely. It only made sense that the second she had something familiar, she went right back to being totally out of her element. That was pretty much how life worked for her lately.

  “I’m supposed to wear this to work?” She turned to face him, and a lock of hair whipped her in the eyes, adding insult to injury. Tears threatened, and she blinked them back. She would not give in
to the urge to throw herself another pity party. At least she was alive, and she was damn straight going to stay that way. “Do we have anything a little larger on top, maybe?”

  “That’s what I’ve got handy in the way of uniforms. You’re not taking over corporate America. You’ll live. Anyway, you can check out the rest of the clothes. Maybe you’ll find them more tasteful. I’ll give you some time to poke around and get acquainted with the place. I’ve got some work to catch up on in my office, but I should be done in a half an hour or so.”

  So much for constant vigilance, she guessed, nerves kicking up in her stomach again. But remembering the Arthurian quests it would require to get into good old Castle Grayskull gave her a little more confidence. It might not be the prettiest place, but she was grateful for it now. Half an hour. No big. She could be on her own for that long.

  “Yeah, okay.” She nodded, and he disappeared down the hall.

  She sank down to the bed, which was surprisingly soft, and reviewed the rest of the clothes in the pile. Mostly yoga pants and T-shirts, all nondescript and in varying sizes. Not what she was used to after a lifetime of being expected to wear a dress to dinner each night, but doable. A marked improvement over whatever stab at finding his feminine side Gavin had taken when he’d picked up the last round of outfits. She wondered idly who had put them there. Maybe an as-yet-unseen housekeeper?

  She breathed a sigh and swung herself off the bed. The space really did feel like she was awaiting her turn at the gallows. If she had thirty minutes to kill, it definitely wasn’t going to be trapped in this depressing room.

  She swept into the long hallway, intent on getting her bearings, but it was weird being alone in his huge, maximum-security mansion. She had half an urge to creep along the walls James Bond style, peering around corners before sprinting across corridors. With the vaulted ceilings and utilitarian decor, the place practically begged for some Mission: Impossible action.

  Halfway down the hall, she noticed a door ajar. A sliver of light cracked through, beckoning her to enter. She paused and glanced around before looking back at the open door. Gavin was a security guy. Anything he wanted hidden would be impossible to find, and if he specifically didn’t want her to go in there, he wouldn’t have left the door open. She swiped her damp palms on her jeans and braced herself as she toed the door open. Given all the rigmarole involved in getting into the house, she’d be shocked if there wasn’t a retinal exam and an anal probe just to cross the threshold. But nothing happened. The hardwood floor didn’t even squeak as she walked over it into the spacious room.

  It was warmer than the rest of the house, both in temperature and feel. The walls were a deep red, and the wall-length windows and king-size bed were both covered in red-and-chocolate fabric. Obviously, the master suite. Still, the furniture was as sparse as hers had been. The bed frame was simple, and across from it sat a wide oak dresser with an enormous mirror hanging above it. A lone photograph sat on the dresser. Aside from that, the room was devoid of decoration.

  She walked toward the photo and picked up the simple gold frame. It was a picture of Gavin, noticeably a few years younger—maybe twenty-five or so, and the white scar she’d noted on his collarbone was freshly bandaged. His hair was the same, but his smile looked easier, his shoulders obviously more relaxed. Genuinely happy.

  Beside him was a woman about the same age, wearing a military uniform that matched his own. If Sarabeth were to imagine a person who looked like her opposite in every way, it would have been the woman in the picture. A shock of red curls framed her heart-shaped face, and she stood a good foot and a half shorter than Gavin. Where his smile was easy and good-natured, hers was blinding, her eyes squinting in her mirth, her toned arm wrapped casually around Gavin’s midsection.

  Sarabeth’s stomach cramped, a twinge of envy coiling through her. Obviously, this woman was his girlfriend or fiancée. Not that she cared. In fact, it was better this way. Safer. All those funny feelings she’d managed to ignore up until now were nothing but trouble, and this was the perfect reason to continue ignoring them.

  She set down the picture with a sigh but paused when she spotted a piece of paper stuck to the dresser beneath it. She tugged it gently, and the tape came loose with ease. She hesitated for a split second before reading the feminine scrawl:

  Gav,

  Christ on a cracker, is your house atrocious. If it had even an ounce less character, it could run for political office. I left you this picture so that at least you can remember there’s one shining beacon of beauty in this world—me. Oh, and I put the other stuff I found in the spare room dresser in your sock drawer. Seriously, dude, do you have no concept of houseguest protocol? You don’t leave stuff like that lying around. I’m going to have nightmares for years to come.

  Maddy

  She glanced back at the photo and jealousy crawled over her skin again. So maybe not girlfriend or fiancée, but they were obviously close and she looked exactly like the kind of woman Gavin would go for. Tough, edgy. A 10 a.m., luscious-crepes-followed-by-bedroom-calisthenics kind of girl. The antithesis of 6 a.m.-run-followed-by-half-a-grapefruit Sarabeth.

  She let the thought go as another took control of her newly devious brain. It was wrong. That went without saying. But there was no way in hell she wasn’t checking out the sock drawer to see what Maddy had hidden there. With a quick glance at the clock next to the bed—still twenty-five minutes before he returned—she inched open the long, thin drawer at the top of the dresser, blood pounding in her ears. Maybe it was twisted, but even with all the terrible stuff going on and with her life in danger, some part of her had never felt so alive as she had since leaving with Gavin.