On Easter Sunday, he’s in London for work, so I take the train and surprise him when he’s off the clock, wearing a lace, pastel lingerie confection that Etta helped me pick out. It ends up shredded on the floor of his hotel room before the night is through.
Being in a relationship with a bodyguarding man is thrilling and beautiful—but never boring.
Nothing exemplifies this more than the night I’m called down to the emergency room for a consult and find Tommy bleeding from a bullet wound to the thigh and being dragged in by Logan and James under each arm.
“What happened?” I gasp, guiding them to a gurney.
“It’s a long story,” James explains.
Tommy’s eyes are glazed and his smile is loopy.
“I got shot,” he tells me.
“All right.” James shrugs. “Maybe not so long after all.”
The wound isn’t fatal, but he needs surgery.
Hospital policy and common sense force me to pass him into the care of Riley Bowen—the talented but still snide doctor who never quite got over the insult of my turning him down for dinner last year.
He reviews Tommy’s chart and checks the wound, clicking his tongue. “These things can be unpredictable. Let’s hope he makes it.”
I realize he’s joking, that he thinks he’s being funny.
But Tommy’s rubbed off on me more times than I can count, and in a variety of ways.
“If he doesn’t make it, Riley, I’ll cut your heart out and feed it to your mother.”
Tommy grins up at me from the gurney.
“You’re so romantic, Abby. I think you might like me . . . just a bit.”
I cup his jaw tenderly, smiling soft. “Just a bit.”
Tommy breezes through the surgery fine and dandy. His recovery is another matter entirely. Whoever said doctors make the worst patients clearly never encountered a bedridden bodyguard. They’re the worst—and it’s not even close.
In the early days of his recuperation, he’s sullen and cranky and itching to argue.
And then I master the art of the striptease and the careful lap dance to keep him compliant. And “blow jobs”—those always cheer him right up—so it’s a win for us both.
* * *
If I pick up the ins and outs of being in a relationship with a bodyguard, Tommy catches on quick to what it’s like being in one with the daughter of an aristocrat. Which means mandatory attendance at various charity functions several times a year. We haven’t encountered Alistair Lipton at any of the previous events—it’s possible he’s dropped off the face of the earth or left the country, but I don’t care enough to find out.
Tonight, it’s a black-tie gala in support of an organization that specializes in congenital heart condition research that’s particularly dear to the Queen, and to my family. I emerge from my bedroom in a slinky dark green gown with a cleavage-revealing neckline and beading throughout the snug bodice. My heels are high, my hair is down, shiny and curled at the ends, and I feel good—even pretty.
But when Tommy’s gaze slowly coasts down, caressing me, and he lets out a long, highly appreciative whistle—I feel absolutely stunning. Like a mythical magical fairy-tale mermaid who’s emerged from the ocean and enchanted the handsomest man in all the land.
“Outstanding. You clean up nice, Apple Blossom,” he says roughly.
I wink—a gesture he’s passed on to me that never ceases to delight him.
“I get dirty even better.”
A deep chuckle rumbles through his fine, tuxedo-clad chest—making me go deliciously warm and tingly between my legs. Tommy’s laugh and smile and that hungry tender look in his eyes are the very best aphrodisiacs.
The first time we attended an affair together, I was surprised that Tommy is such a skilled dancer, though I shouldn’t have been. He’s already proven beyond doubt that he has an infinite talent in all things physical—the ebb and flow and rhythm of his body’s movements.
He’s equally capable in making polite conversation, chatting with an earl or a duke as easily as he does with the boys at his shop.
At the moment, we’re standing in the grand banquet hall, swathed in the glow of the glittering chandelier above our heads and radiance of the golden candelabras on every table, speaking affably with Prince Nicholas and Duchess Olivia.
Just behind us, my father converses with Queen Lenora, their voices carrying over to us as he tells her of my brother’s traveling ways and how he wishes Luke would come home more often.
“But the boy simply refuses,” Father says.
“Children,” the Queen laments, “always so certain they know everything.”
“True,” Father agrees. “But were we really so different at their age, Your Majesty?”
“Well . . .” Queen Lenora considers his question.
And then she answers.
“When I was young I was sure I knew everything . . . but it turns out I was right, so that’s not the same thing at’all.”
We all hear it, our eyes meeting and laughing in unison.