Reckless (Benson Security 1)

Dimitri Raast grinned when Megan scowled at him. The blonde beauty was easy to wind up. It had become his main hobby since he’d met her in Scotland two weeks earlier. She sat opposite him at the conference room table in the Regency townhouse that was now the new London office of Benson Security. Her long white-blonde hair was in a high ponytail and the striped T-shirt she wore slid off one creamy shoulder. She could have been a model, instead she’d set her sights on becoming a security specialist. Or as she liked to call it, a gun-for-hire. Yeah, her background in baking and doing hair wouldn’t get her far in her new profession. In fact, Dimitri knew for sure that the boss wouldn’t have let her anywhere near his business if they didn’t need her for this operation.

If Dimitri didn’t need her.

Her blue eyes narrowed at him. “You do know that calling me Buffy isn’t an insult, right? Buffy was a superhero. She saved the world countless times. She had a fantastic wardrobe and got to bonk sexy vampires.”

“And she was an airhead.” He bit back a laugh. Megan Donaldson was too much. Really.

“Have you even watched the show? Do yourself a favour and look it up on Netflix. Get back to me once you know what you’re talking about.”

“Would you prefer I call you Blondie?” He folded his arms and watched as her gaze lingered on his biceps. Oh yeah, she felt the burn between them too.

“Blondie was another cutting edge woman. A music pioneer. That isn’t an insult either.”

“Barbie?”

“Now you’re pissing me off.”

Dimitri laughed. Which probably wasn’t smart, as he’d learned the hard way that Megan was unpredictable when she was pissed off. Unpredictable, wicked and violent, with a penchant for hitting men where it hurt most—and grinning while she did it. He shifted in his seat at the thought, trying to free up more space in his jeans. He wasn’t sure if the sudden tightness was due to fear that his crown jewels weren’t safe around the woman, or because her being crazy and violent seemed to press all the right buttons for him.

Most of the women Dimitri had gotten hot and heavy with over the years were on the Suzy Homemaker end of the spectrum—naive, pretty, predictable and safe. In other words, reliable wife material. Not that he’d been looking for a wife, but if a man was going to fall into that pit, he’d rather it was with someone he knew would make a good family and home life. Yet, none of those women got him worked up the way crazy Megan Donaldson did. Turns out, at the ripe old age of thirty, he’d discovered his type actually lay more towards the wicked and twisted end of the spectrum. Who knew?

The door to the conference room opened and Joe Barone and Ryan Granger swaggered in. Like Megan, the guys had come down from Benson Security’s main office in the Highlands. Unlike Megan, they were bo

th ex-military and knew what they were doing.

“Coffee?” Joe said by way of hello.

Dimitri pointed to the table in the corner of the room where Julia, the office manager, had set up a coffee pot and a plate of Danish pastries. He assumed Joe’s grunt of reply was a thank you. The big Italian-American filled his mug, glugged it down and refilled it before taking his place at the table.

“Rough night, old man?” Ryan filled his own mug and snagged a plate of pastries. “Can’t keep the pace, eh?”

Joe stared at the younger Englishman. “Unlike you, I was up most of the night working the case.”

Ryan shrugged. “Is that supposed to make me feel bad? Yeah, you were working hard, but I’ll take a night of hitting London’s clubs with a lingerie model over being conscientious any day of the week.”

A growl rumbled from Joe’s chest. Ryan just laughed. The door slammed open and all heads turned to watch Rachel Ford-Talbot make her entrance. She scanned the room with a look of disgust. Her iPhone was in one perfectly manicured hand, her designer handbag was hanging from the crook of her arm and her equally expensive suit was teamed with her usual red-soled pumps. Dimitri was pretty sure someone who gave a shit about fashion would be able to name each of the designers Rachel wore—he wasn’t one of them.

“This,” she gestured with a red tipped talon, “is the A-team?”

Ryan pointed a croissant at her. “The A-team is still in Scotland, love. You got saddled with the B-team.”

“Kill me now,” Rachel muttered as she headed towards the coffee.

“That can be arranged.” Megan’s tone was pure cat.

Rachel arched an eyebrow at her. “Tell me again why you’re on the team?” She stirred her coffee. “Without your twin to do your thinking for you, and that awful Goth friend of yours to fight your battles, just what use will you be?”

Megan made her own little growl. It was more kitten than monster, which didn’t help the menace vibe she was aiming for. “My Goth friend should have kicked your scrawny backside harder when you were in Invertary.”

Rachel smiled—it made Dimitri shudder. Now there was a woman who knew how to do mean. “Thanks for noticing my backside. It’s my new Pilates regime. I can recommend a divine personal trainer. She’ll help you lose that extra chub you carry in no time at all.”

Dimitri thought Megan’s head might actually explode. He tensed, ready to jump out of his seat and do some damage control. Or duck. Whatever came first.

Megan faced off against Rachel. “Just because I don’t think anorexia is a lifestyle choice doesn’t make me fat. You should try eating sometime, it might improve your disposition.”

Rachel faked a pout. “Well done. I’m so proud. You used words with more than one syllable.”

Megan sprang to her feet as their new boss entered the room. His hand clamped on her shoulder.