The Protector

one suspicious. Everything clean as a whistle. How’s it going?



I laugh at my phone.

Don’t ask. You women are difficult. While you’re at it, get me everything on the system for Sebastian Peters.



Her reply is speedy.

The ex? May I ask why?



My answer is simple and sweet.

No.



Dropping my phone, I resume my position, forearms resting on raised knees, my head dropped back as I start to chew things over. None of it sits particularly well. Speaking of which…

I shift again, scowling, but my silent annihilation of the uncomfortable floor is interrupted when I hear the click of a lock. I freeze.

And then I’m suddenly falling back, my stomach muscles engaging too late to hold me up. I’m on my back, staring up at the most amazing legs I’ve ever seen. They go on forever, starting with pretty pink tipped toes and perfectly narrow ankles that drift into slender calves. They’re just about the most perfect calves. And her thighs. I can feel my hands twitching by my sides, begging for a little stroke. Her pink lacy knickers are peeking out the bottom of her oversized white T-shirt. The slogan on the front makes my lips twitch.

I AM NOT TO BE IGNORED.



Has she worn that on purpose? No, Miss Logan, you most certainly are not. Especially now. What the hell is she trying to do to me?

Shit, I need to pull myself together before I get us both killed. Distraction. It’s still the best tactic to nail a target, and whoever wants to potentially nail Camille Logan is at a massive advantage right now. Because I’m stupidly distracted. Her blond hair is tumbling over her shoulder, splaying over a perfect breast beneath her T-shirt, and when I reach her face, I find she’s removed her makeup. My cock jolts behind my trousers. Jesus Christ, she’s a masterpiece. I feel compelled to tell her not to bother with the rigmarole of applying makeup anymore. She doesn’t need it.

Her upside-down face moves in, hovering over mine. She folds her arms, pressing the material of the T-shirt into her curves. My jolting cock is instantly solid.

“Why do you have a gun?” She flicks her chin to my Heckler, reminding me where it is. Her question also reminds me of why I’m here.

I shoot up, collecting my gun on my way, and tuck it into the back of my trousers. “To shoot you when you piss me off again.”

She scowls, her button nose wrinkling in disgust. Good. Hate me. It’ll make this situation a whole lot easier. “You’re a real charmer, aren’t you?” she sniffs, turning on her bare heels and punishing me with a rear view of those bare legs. “You’d better come in.”

My eyebrows jump up in surprise. What’s changed? I don’t know, but I’m not about to argue. My arse is still tingling its way back to life. I pick up my bag and stroll slowly into…hell.

I gaze around, alarmed, though I keep it contained. For a woman so immaculately turned out, she’s a messy fucker. Shoes, handbags, clothes, makeup, every imaginable girlie thing scattered over chairs and on the sofa. And then there are the drawings, scraps of material, and piles of papers all over the place, too, including the floor. How does she live like this? Surely she has a cleaner? I’m unable to confirm exactly what look she’s gone for in her apartment, except a fucking mess, but judging by the clear walls, which are the only areas free from some kind of fashion crap, I’m guessing it’s minimal. Minimal? I inwardly snort. Camille Logan soon took care of that. I can feel myself twitch, my regimented military past racing to the surface. I kick my way through a sea of clothes and drop my bag on a table that’s cluttered with every color nail polish under the sun. I immediately spot the one she currently has on her toes. Soft pink. Subtle and girlie.

“You can sleep here.”

I look up and see her bending over the couch, brushing more clutter from the seats. I nearly go cross-eyed. Fucking hell, she’s killing me! “I’ll clear it,” I offer, anything to stop her bending over like that. “Let me.” I muscle past her, literally bumping her out of the way with my hip to avoid extended contact.

“Fine.” She sounds slighted as she wanders to her bedroom. “Such a fucking gentleman.”

I ignore her insolence and take my gun from my trousers, resting it on the arm of the sofa. Then I kick my shoes off as I unfasten my fly, noticing Camille hasn’t closed her bedroom door completely. Her innocent move, leaving a small gap, makes me feel a little better about being in another room.

I yank my tie loose and unbutton my shirt, then spend five minutes looking for a clear space to put them. I give up and place my neatly folded pile on top of some clothes strewn on a chair. Making my way back to the sofa, I fall to my arse and rub my palms over my face, sighing. It’s still going to be a long night.

“Woman has a death wish,” I mumble.

She catches my eye through the gap in the door as she moves around her room. I need to look away. I need to close my eyes and pretend she’s not there. God damn her, she trashes that plan when she stops right in front of the door, her back to me. Slowly, too slowly to be innocent, she draws her T-shirt up over her head and tosses it to the side.

My breath catches in my throat. The exposure of that vast expanse of her creamy skin is a vision that will never leave me. Good God, I’m shifting again, and my hand rests over my cock, which has developed its own heartbeat. I’m underestimating this woman. There was nothing innocent about her leaving that door open. Nothing innocent at all.

She’s playing me like a fucking fiddle. Maybe I’m the one who has the death wish.

She disappears from view and all the stored air I was keeping locked in my burning lungs gushes out, my heart dancing in my chest. I grab my pills from my bag and swallow on a hard gulp, hoping they’ll not only keep the nightmares at bay, but also give me some resistance from my new client.





Chapter 8

CAMI



It’s still dark, but I can hear the birds tweeting the arrival of morning. I haven’t slept a wink. I couldn’t switch off and go to sleep knowing he was in the next room. With a gun. I’ve never seen a gun, not in real life. He looks good with a gun. It suits him too well. He looks good, full stop.

My eyes feel puffy and will undoubtedly be red. Not a good look when I have a meeting with my agent today. Most of my night was spent on my iPhone searching for information on Jake Sharp. I felt compelled to find out everything I could, since he has a detailed knowledge of me and my life. I found nothing, though a search on Google Images threw up a few photographs of various celebrities with him in the background, looking impassive and cool. Other than that, nothing. The dead end has frustrated me more than I care to admit.

What’s his story?

It would be easier to hate him if I wasn’t so insanely attracted to him. He must be, what? Mid-thirties? I don’t really have anything to go on where his age is concerned, except the dusting of grey at his temples and his obvious experience in the job.

Rolling onto my side, I stare at the gap in my door. I know he saw me last night when I shamelessly stripped before crawling into bed. I’m still at a loss as to why I did that. Self-satisfaction? I don’t know. Maybe the unreasonable urge to have it confirmed that he’s as attracted to me as I am to him got the better of me.

I crane my neck, looking into the lounge until something comes into view. His leg. His naked leg, still and stretched down the couch. I breathe in, my eyes nailed to it. I can see the dark hairs from his ankle to just above the knee, and compelled to get his thigh in my sights, I place my palms into the mattress at the side of my bed and start leaning out a bit. Disappointment fills me when he shifts, taking his long, lean limb out of view. I throw a filthy look at the door and lean some more, edging out slowly and carefully until his foot is back in my sights.

“Fuck!” My hands slip off the side of the mattress, and my body follows them down to the floor.

Thud!

“Ouch!” I whisper-hiss, my cheek squished into the fibers of the carpet, my legs still on the bed, my torso hanging off the edge. I cringe and hold my breath, waiting for him to come bursting into my room and locate the threat. The only threat here are my greedy eyes.

“Idiot,” I mutter to myself, starting to unfold my tangled body and push back up onto the bed. He’s supposed to be the best security an individual could wish for. What a load of shit. He hasn’t even come to check up on me. I could be pinned to my bed with a gun pointed at my head.

“Idiot,” I whisper again, this time my insult pointed at the sinfully delicious man currently sprawled on my couch, possibly naked.

Sprawled on my couch.

Possibly naked.

“Oh God.” I’m suddenly not on the bed anymore but moving toward the door as though drawn by some unseen force. The soft pile on my bedroom carpet is pushing between my tippy-toes as I pull on my T-shirt, and the door is getting closer and closer, until the full length of his body is in perfect view. Lord, have mercy. He is sprawled, on his back, arms extended above his head, his face resting inward on his right bicep. He’s asleep.

Hard.

It’s the first word that comes to mind, followed by dangerous. And then followed quickly by masterpiece. I’ve developed a tremble, and my blood is pulsing in my ears, making it impossible to register the voice in my head that’s telling me to shut the door, rather than open it wider so I can pass through quietly.

I’m in the living space of my apartment, taking light, tentative steps toward my shadow, hungry for a more detailed, close-up look of his perfection. I make it to his side without instigating a murmur or stir from him. He looks serene and even more handsome without the hardness in his eyes that’s present when he’s awake. His face alone could hold my attention for all of eternity, his dark mussed hair all askew, his stubble rough, his jaw sharp. Absolutely gorgeous. Manly. Primal. Rough.

Allowing my eyes to start drifting away from the tranquil beauty of his face, I let them linger on his torso. His muscles are relaxed but still prominent, every ridge defined under a sprinkling of dark hair. I’m only mildly grateful that he has boxers on when I reach his groin. The black material hugs his hips and wraps around his thick thighs too well. There isn’t an ounce of fat on him. He’s like a freak show, he’s so perfect. He has the art of less is more down to a tee where his body is concerned.

I’m close enough to appreciate it all, but I still dip a little, holding my breath, certain that if I breathe, it will touch his skin and wake him. I have to force my hands to remain at my sides and not feel him. Then I notice a small scar on the taut flesh of his shoulder. It’s faint, a silvery mar on his perfect skin. I lean in a little more, intrigued.

He moves.

It happens so quickly I don’t even have the chance to yelp in shock. It’s only when my back meets the floor and I’ve blinked my vision clear that I realize where I am.

Beneath him.

His naked skin pressed into my thin T-shirt.

Sensibility is telling me to protest, to wriggle and free myself, yet he feels so good touching me, firm and strong, warm and safe.

He’s looking down at me, expressionless, his dark eyes singeing my skin until I can feel a flush working its way up my neck to my cheeks. Despite my inability to move, my erratic breathing is making my body heave under him, causing our skin to press…everywhere. Oh God, his cock is solid and pushing into my thigh, and my nipples are buzzing, probably injecting his chest with electric shocks. He has my wrists pinned to the floor above my head. I’m a prisoner, locked in place, anticipating his next move. What will it be?

Kiss me!

Oh my God, did I think that? The words are suddenly screaming in my head repeatedly. I want him to kiss me, ravish me, pound into me with his powerful body. I’ve never experienced instant attraction before. Not on this level. This is new, something wild and dangerous, and it’s got me all desperate and pent-up. He must be able to see it, and judging by the large, hard length of flesh wedged into my thigh, I’m guessing he feels it, too.

I search his eyes for any sign of his thoughts, becoming frustrated and irritated when I find nothing. Just dark pits of emptiness staring down at me. But then something shifts and a wave of frustration furrows his forehead, slowly forming a deep frown. I suddenly register a lack of heaving from him. He’s holding his breath.

Swallowing down all the air he was storing, he shifts and winces when he rubs into my thigh with his cock. He quickly pulls himself back around, though, obviously locating a force of will that has abandoned me. Releasing my wrists, he pushes himself off of me, leaving me feeling stupidly deserted.

“Get a good look, did you?” he says, moving away.

I feel like I’ve just been slapped in the face, all desire and want tumbling away at his curtness. I fly into defense mode. “Do you always sleep half-naked on a client’s couch?” I ask shortly as I stand and wrap my arms around my torso, backing away to my room, feeling so bloody stupid. What was I thinking?

“Do you always make a habit of falling out of bed?” he retorts over his shoulder.

I cringe and curse myself to hell and back at the realization that he was awake the whole time. Of course he was. If he was asleep and thought I was an intruder, that gun would have been pointing at my head, both in my room when I fell off the bed and just now when he tackled me to the floor. He didn’t even grab his gun. He just grabbed me instead. He was dazed…and then he was mad. With me. The notion pulls at my gut for reasons I may never know. Shutting my bedroom door, I let my back fall against it and look up to the ceiling in despair, feeling like a fool. “Stupid!” I force myself to sit on the end of my bed and spend a good half hour talking some sense into myself. Jake Sharp shadowing me is proving more of a problem than I ever imagined.

* * *



After showering and getting myself ready, I emerge from my bedroom tentatively, wearing some denim shorts and an oversized gypsy top, my Havaianas on my feet. I’m braiding my rough-dried hair as I wander through my living space to the kitchen, my eyes darting, looking for Sharp.

I find him leaning against the worktop, showered and looking obscenely fresh and handsome in some worn jeans and a round-neck black T-shirt. So he found the other bedroom and bathroom, then? He looks up at me as I enter, his mobile poised at his ear. I quickly look away and head for the fridge, pulling out a bottle of grapefruit juice and glugging down half the bottle in one go.

“Appreciated,” he says, not sounding appreciative at all. “Good-bye.”

I keep my back to him, still hugely embarrassed, dying on the inside that I practically offered myself on a plate and he didn’t take it. If he didn’t think I was a stupid little girl before, then he most definitely does now.

I hear a shift of movement behind me, followed by a light cough. I start to screw the cap of my bottle on, mentally locating the whereabouts of everything I need before I leave.

“You didn’t mention there was a spare room with a bathroom,” he says clearly, with no accusation, but I sense it’s there. “It’s actually tidy in there.”

He’s having a dig. The only reason my apartment is such a mess is because Heather and I have been busy perfecting our designs, scrutinizing fabrics and brainstorming marketing ideas. Not that I owe him an explanation. So I say nothing and go in search of my bag. I find it and head for the door, looping the strap over my shoulder as I go. Making a grab for the handle, I pull the door open, but his palm slams forward over my head, keeping the door from swinging open. I curse myself for jumping.

“Since I accepted your ground rules, you can do me the decency of following one of mine.” He speaks from behind me, holding the door shut over my shoulder. I scowl at the wood before me, keeping my mouth firmly shut and my back to him. “Don’t ever creep up on me again.” He pulls his hand away and I waste no time reaching for the handle again and letting myself out, shrugging off the tingles spiked by his closeness.

“Are you forgetting who is working for who?” I snipe as I bypass the elevator and push my way into the stairwell, not prepared to stand and wait for the lift. I need to keep moving. Away from him.

He doesn’t answer my question; neither does he acknowledge it, choosing to follow quietly. Good. He’s respecting my boundary. No talking.

I break into the underground car park and aim my keyfob at my Mercedes, striding over. “Can you move your car, please?” I call over my shoulder.

“We’re going in my car,” he says flatly.

“I can drive myself.” I pull my door open and throw my bag in before dropping into the driver’s seat. I start the engine and yank my belt on, looking in the rearview mirror. Sharp gets in his Range Rover, and I hum to myself, satisfied. Maybe he’s decided he can’t bear being so close either and has decided to retract his rule of traveling with him. Good.

I wait, my hands on the wheel, for him to move his huge car, but two minutes later, he’s still stationary and my patience is beginning to fray. I start to grind my teeth, and a few minutes later, I’m smashing my horn. It has no effect. Sharp sits in the driver’s seat of his car, busy on his phone, calm as can be.