The Protector

hands still on my breasts.

I look away before I stalk over and yank them away. “Excuse me,” I mutter, backing up, waving my phone in the air. “Call.” I turn…and collide with the coffee table again, my shin cracking on the edge. I hiss and spit through the stab of pain, then make a swift exit, just avoiding breaking out into a sprint to the door.

His hands on her fucking tits! I slam the door behind me and find the nearest flat surface to whack my forehead on. That was totally uncalled for, and I don’t mean my peculiar behavior. What the fuck? I sag into the wall, battling away the flashbacks of another man with his hands on Cami, trying to reason with myself. So much for keeping it professional.

“Handled with class, Jake,” I mutter. My phone starts ringing, and I laugh under my breath. “A minute too late, Lucinda,” I say, taking her call. “What do you have?”

“Nothing,” she answers flatly, to the point as always. “Honestly, I’m at a loss. I’ve just spoken to Logan. He’s probably going to pull you.”

“What?” That three-day warning is all I see. Today is day three. He’s pulling me on day three? He can’t be serious! “He’s hiding something, Luce,” I grate.

“We don’t know that for sure. If he’s going to pull you there’s nothing we can do.” She sighs, and I look at my phone incredulously. “I have another job for you, anyway. Not as handsome on the fees, but not to be sniffed at.”

I look at the blank wall in front of me, feeling my stomach drop like a rock. Pulling me off the job? Nothing we can do? Another shadow job? “Who?”

“Greek diplomat. Got himself in a spot of bother involving money laundering.”

Greek. Greece. Like another fucking country? My heart follows my stomach to the floor. No Camille.

“What with the state of the Greek economy, death threats seem reasonable.” Lucinda goes on while I continue to stare blankly at the wall. “I reckon a year in the sun will do you good.”

A year? I balk, feeling numb, my head spinning, as I turn toward the door that I’ve just fallen out of. My lungs squeeze, making my breathing come short, fast, and panicked.

“Jake?” Lucinda says. “You there?”

The sweet sound of Camille’s laugh seeps into my ears, intensifying my panic. Leaving her is out of the question. I refuse. “It’s a pass,” I breathe down the line, aware that I’m about to endure a string of expletives.

But they don’t come. “Can I ask why?” Lucinda asks.

“Nope.” I cut her off and hang up, unprepared and unwilling to explain myself. But the news I’ve just received has made me think seriously about what comes next.

Protecting Camille is essential. Her ex-boyfriend is a very real threat, and I still don’t know what the fuck is going on with her father. I can’t leave her vulnerable. I can’t let her wicked ex-boyfriend get his nasty claws back into her. The thought makes me sweat. Leaving her makes me sweat. This job hasn’t been about my need to bury myself in work to stop myself from being buried by my self-loathing. This job isn’t about duty or maintaining my reputation as the best.

This job has been different from day one, and the reason is currently standing naked on the other side of that door with another man’s palms cupping her breasts. And as for my reputation? Well, that just burst into pathetic flames as I staggered out of the studio like a newborn fawn. But none of it matters. Only Camille matters. Her and how she makes me feel.

For the first time in four years, I have a personal purpose. I want to be here, if only to look at her every day.

I drop to a nearby chair and stare at the door. This isn’t just about her needing me. This is more me needing her. Young, strong-minded, determined, and brave.

I’m mad for her. I need to keep her. I need to protect her.

* * *



It’s the longest few hours of my fucking life, waiting for them to wrap up on the shoot. But strangely, my torture has nothing to do with what initially put me on this side of the door and everything to do with my mind whizzing with how best to approach my imminent situation.

Camille appears, her hair still wet, but now bundled in a messy knot atop her head, her makeup still in place, but, thank God, she’s back in her baggy trousers and oversized T-shirt. The fact that she insists on wearing clothes that are ten times too big for her just makes me admire her all the more. She has a body to die for, yet doesn’t flash it. I stand as she pulls the door shut behind her, looking pensive. It takes my mind a few moments to catch up. The last time she saw me I was tripping up all over my big feet.

“Go well?” I ask as I take her bag.

She narrows her bright eyes onto me accusingly. “What was that?”

“What?”

“Your funny little turn in there.” She waves over her shoulder.

“Like I said, a call.” I avoid her eyes, certain she’ll nail me and my white lie.

“Your phone wasn’t ringing,” she points out, scuppering my coolness.

“It was on silent.” I mentally cheer to myself for my smart thinking.

“And who was it?” she presses, obviously still suspicious.

This one is easy, because I did actually take a call. Just not when she thinks I took it. “A colleague.”

Now would be the perfect time to give Camille the heads-up on what might be on the horizon. No more shadow. But I don’t, and I have no idea why. Because I don’t want to accept it? Because I don’t want to upset her? Will she even be upset? “Just updating me on a few details.”

“And is there anything?” she asks, walking on when I motion for her to lead the way. She sounds casual, yet I can hear her uncertainty. Has she thought about what comes next, too?

“Nothing,” I say, passing up on another opportunity to share the news.

“That’s funny, because Dad just called and mentioned that he’s getting to the bottom of the threats. Said they’ll probably have it all sorted by the end of the day.” She says this all very quietly, peeking up at me discreetly.

I force my eyes not to widen. He did, did he? “Nothing’s certain,” I say robotically before going for subject change swiftly. “Are you hungry?” She must be. I didn’t see her eat any breakfast this morning, and it’s way past lunchtime. I’m not all too fond of her eating habits at the best of times, but her tradition to starve herself for twenty-four hours before a shoot is a massive bugbear. It’s not healthy.

“No, I’m good,” she answers thoughtfully, pushing her way through the doors into the reception area. “Dad also reminded me that it’s Chloe’s birthday garden party this evening.” She sounds less than enthused. “I need to be at his place in the country by seven.”

“A garden party?” I muse. Sounds fucking awful. “Sounds exciting.”

She throws a tired look up at me. “Don’t be sarcastic. You’ve got to be there, too, remember?”

I hum to myself. I’d like to see anyone try to stop me.

Like her father. Kind of convenient that Logan’s probably going to pull my protection after I casually pointed out that there was no courier on the day he claims the threat was received.

“Let’s go get some iced tea,” Camille suggests, carrying on her way.

I close my eyes briefly and follow. I’m trying not to let my edginess show. I want to take her home and lock her up, not go for fucking iced tea.

* * *



“Sit,” I say, pulling a chair out for her and instinctively scanning the surrounding area. For the first time since I started shadowing her, I take a seat at the same table as Camille, my move not costing me a thought. Then I pick up the menu and wave the waiter over. “One of those iced lemon teas, a black coffee, and a tuna salad.” The waiter nods and goes on his way, and I settle in my chair, looking up to find Camille with raised eyebrows. “What?”

“I thought you were my bodyguard, not my personal caregiver.”

My elbows meet the table and I lean in. “That changed the moment you let me inside you.” I take the best of pleasure from her creamy cheeks heating under my fiery stare. “Anything more to say?”

She shakes her head and dives on the glass of water the waiter just poured. “Why aren’t you eating?”

I avoid telling her that my appetite was sucked up as a result of the call I took from Lucinda. Not that I had much of an appetite in the first place. “Not hungry.” I accept my coffee and load it with sugar.

“I’ve been thinking.” She takes the straw in her drink and fiddles with the tip.

The stirring of my coffee slows as I look up at her. “About?” I prompt, uncomfortable with her hesitance.

“About how little I know about you.” She glances up at me, gauging my reaction. I don’t disappoint her. I’ve gone rigid in my chair, the reminder that there’s so much more for her to know biting me on the arse.

“Nothing much to tell,” I say quietly and instinctively. It’s not pretty and I’m less than comfortable with sharing it.

Hurt invades her face, and I hate myself for it, but before I can attempt to make it right, however that might be, she goes on. “Your bullet wound.”

I feel my teeth grind. “What about it?” I’m being a dick, but my own mood isn’t great on day three and after Lucinda’s call. Dragging up a past I try to rein in isn’t going to lighten it. My attacks have been minimal these past few days and I’m mad that Camille’s toying with my stability.

“I wondered—”

“No, Camille.” I cut her off harshly, and she snaps her mouth shut.

Silence falls and I stir my coffee until it could disappear, my hand working on autopilot, giving me something to do. It’s awkward, but not as awkward as I’ll be if I have to talk. Voices in my head yell at me, tell me not to be such a spineless coward, but until I can be sure that she won’t be as disgusted as I am with myself, then my mouth shall remain firmly closed on all things concerning me and my history. I have to stop hating myself and my past before I can move forward.

I laugh to myself. That day may never come. I loathe myself today as much as I loathed myself back then, and I’ve had years to try and wrap my mind around what happened. Camille could never be expected to understand. I’m a bastard. Plain and simple. She’ll hate me, and that’s about as painful a thought as any.

“Tuna salad?”

I look up and find the waiter hovering, a plate in his hand. Camille is lost in thought, gazing into the distance. I indicate for him to place it down in front of her and reach over, placing my hand on hers. She snaps from her daydream and smiles a forced smile, trying to convince me that my abruptness hasn’t upset her. That she understands. I should be so lucky. I retract my touch so she can eat, trying to return her strained gesture.

She starts poking at the leaves, still semi-lost in thought. “Do you have any family?” she asks quietly, throwing me a curveball. I thought we were done with questions.

I fight not to shrink in my chair. “No.” I don’t mean to sound so clipped and final. Not that she pays much attention to my obvious need to avert this conversation.

“What about your parents?” Her teeth sink into her lip, nervous.

I sigh, closing my eyes for a brief second. But I bite the bullet and relieve her of her wondering. Give her something. Not everything, just something to pacify her. “They died when I was seven. I was raised by my grandmother. She died when I was sixteen. As soon as I was old enough to sign up for the forces, I did.” I put it out there in a verbal vomit of words and pray she won’t press me further.

My prayers go unanswered. “How did your parents die?” Her quiet question is drenched in sympathy that I can’t bear.

“Lockerbie disaster.” I swallow and look away, hearing her quiet hitch of soft breath. She wasn’t even born in 1988, but she’s obviously aware of the horrific terrorist attack. Who isn’t?

“I’m so sorry.”

“Me too.” I return my eyes to her and read her thoughts, knowing she’s reached the right conclusion. I joined the forces because of my loss. To do my bit. It was my own personal peace mission. Then I fucked it all up with the help of a woman.

“And what about that woman?” she asks tentatively, like she’s heard my thoughts. My discomfort spirals.

“She’s irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant enough for you to carry her picture around?”

I feel my lips straighten, the dormant resentment inside of me showing dangerous signs of surfacing and tipping me. I’d never be able to explain my reasons for keeping that photograph. It’s fucking backward, a sick reminder, a personal torture.

“Eat your salad,” I say, pointing to her fork, telling her without saying so that that’s one thing I’m really not ready to talk about.

But I will have to. One day I’ll have to face that piece of my history head-on. The lame excuses that Abbie won’t want to hear from me, the ones I tell myself constantly, are weakening by the day. Every time I use my phone, I find myself pulling up her name and staring down at it, wondering if today will be the day that I finally find the strength to do what I should have done years ago. I’m a coward. A bastard. But I need to be in the best frame of mind to venture down the road to redemption, and I haven’t been in that frame of mind since I left.

I breathe in deeply. “We need to get you home so you can get ready for this party.”

“Can’t wait.” She sighs, taking a mouthful of tuna and chewing, looking past me thoughtfully. I sigh myself, feeling hopeless, watching as she chews slowly.

But then her eyes suddenly widen.

“Hey, what’s…?” My words fade when she visibly starts to shake, her frightened stare rooted past me. I swing around to find out what has her panicked attention, my heart leaping, my hand ready to find my gun.

I jump up from my chair.

“Jake!” Camille’s scream is distant, foggy behind my instant cloud of fury.

The motherfucker!

Seb’s hovering a few meters away, his face black and blue, a small army of beefy dudes flanking him. Oh, here we go. How much has he paid them? There are five of the steroid-hyped twats, all trying to look menacing. Fucking insult. The rage that creeps up my spine might make me feel unhinged…if I wasn’t perfectly lucid. I’m lucid. Perfectly sane.

“Still walking, then?” I ask, pushing my chair out of the way. “Let me remedy that for you.” I stride forward, planning my moves as I go, my brain telling me which chimp to take out first and how.

“Jake, stop!”

I can hear Camille through my controlled rage, screaming for me to stop, but there’s only one instruction hammering at my brain.

Eliminate the enemy. Kill the fucker who dared lay a hand on her.

The first guy goes down like a sack of shit with one blow to the face, the second just as easy. I duck, my mind noting the positions of Sebastian’s three remaining minions as I swing around and throw my elbow out, cracking one clean on the jaw. He’s on his arse a second later, rolling around groaning.

“Shit!” The random curse is a signal that one has jumped ship and legged it, and a bellow from behind tells me the last is coming at my back. Fucking amateurs.

I look up to the shop window in front of me, seeing the prick charging like a fucking rhino. I have plenty of time to figure out what to do with this one. Roughly three seconds. It’s even enough time to catch my breath.

I see his arm come wide, and I duck at the last second, sending him staggering past me, straight into the window of the shop. It surprises me when it doesn’t shatter. He recovers quickly, shaking away the proverbial birds fluttering around his meaty head, then he comes at me again.

I remain where I am and wait for the move that I know is coming. He doesn’t disappoint. After a lack of accuracy from his failing punch, he goes for a good old-fashioned tackle instead, charging at my waist and taking me from my feet. I let him, my back hitting the concrete with force. I grunt and circle my legs around his waist, then flip him onto his back, straddling him. His dazed eyes take a few moments to clear before he realizes where he is. I smirk wickedly, then put him out of his misery, launching my fist into his face, the blood from his broken nose splattering a meter in every direction.

Job. Done.

“You’re a fucking psycho, man!”

I pause, flexing my fist. Not so done.

I look up and find Camille’s ex backing away, his eyes darting across the carnage I’ve caused with my bare hands. I feel my lip curling as I rise to my feet. This little prick thought he could outnumber me with a few oversized thick idiots? I want to kill him even more. Painfully. Slowly. Until he begs me to finish it. I take long strides toward him as he retreats, holding his hands up. “I’m going.”

“Only where I’m planning on sending you.”

His back slams into a car before he turns and jumps in, firing