The Protector

“Maybe another time. I’ve got to get to this meeting.” On cue, his phone starts ringing and he smiles, holding it up to me. I see “Dad” flashing on the screen. “I’m thirty seconds late.” Dropping a kiss on my forehead, TJ backs away toward his car, being sure to give my hulking guard a wide berth. “Look after our girl,” he says to Sharp, being all brotherly. It makes me warm on the inside…until I see Sharp noticeably rigid again. The man needs to lighten up, for the love of God!

TJ jumps in his Maserati and screams off down the street, and I start toward Sharp’s car, knowing he won’t be far behind. It’s like if he gets a certain distance from me, an invisible rope starts winding in to bring him closer.

* * *

At six o’clock, Heather virtually bangs the door down. I run to answer, but Jake beats me to it, looking through the peek hole with his hand resting on his lower back, where I know he keeps his gun. So fucking paranoid.

“It’s Heather,” I mutter, watching as he turns and wanders away from the door, not bothering to open it for my friend.

My lip curls as he passes and I reach to open the door, matching Heather’s grin when she holds up two bottles of wine.

“I’m here!” she sings, pushing her way past me. I know the second she finds Sharp because she stutters to a stop and shuts up. I close the door and push her on, into the kitchen. “He is divine,” she whisper-hisses, plunking the bottles on the side while I fetch glasses.

I scoff to myself. “If you like the moody type.”

“Oh, I do.” Heather pours while I rummage through the cupboards for anything to snack on. Once I’ve loaded up the tray, I head back to the lounge, Heather in tow. Sharp is on the couch, his laptop on his thick thighs. I come to a stop in front of him and wait for him to rip his eyes from the screen and look at me.

“Excuse me,” I say politely, smiling sweetly.

He looks across the room to the single chair, then to Heather. His face is perfectly straight, and just when I think he might refuse, be difficult, he rises from his seat. All of his muscles unfold painfully slowly, forcing me to cast my eyes away before I’m captured dribbling over it all. I catch Heather out the corner of my eye. She’s not holding back, getting her fill, her eyes delighted as Sharp strides to the chair across the room and settles again, his face in his laptop.

I fall on the couch and cough, getting my transfixed friend’s attention. She shakes her head in wonder and joins me. I can tell there are all kinds of things she wants to say to me, but Jake’s presence is preventing her. It’s probably a good thing. I place the bowl of crisps between us and clink her glass with mine.

“What are we toasting?” she asks.

Her question gives me pause, and since I don’t know, I don’t answer, instead asking a question of my own. “What color?” I grab my box of nail polishes and shove them under Heather’s nose. Let’s get the girlie shit on the road.

“Red!” She dives in and grabs a bottle. “You can do my toes for me.” Kicking her shoes off, she gets comfy and rests them on my lap

I get to work separating her toes with cotton wool pads. “I have that sketch for you. Of the dress,” I tell her.

“I already know what it looks like,” she replies, and I smile, getting to work on her toes as she goes on. “I arranged a meeting with the fabric supplier. And I’ve had an idea for a lingerie range. Oh my God, you’ll look fab in it!”

An abrupt cough makes me startle a little, and I look across to Sharp, finding him staring at me. He quickly diverts his eyes back to his laptop, though, avoiding my questioning look. Frowning on a shake of my head, I return my attention to Heather, finding her pursing her lips, assessing my bodyguard. So I knock her foot to get her attention.

She smiles at me. I ignore it.

After I’ve painted Heather’s final toe, we settle down and spend the next few hours chatting, laughing, brainstorming and getting a little tipsy. Once Dirty Dancing is finished, I jump up and drag Heather behind me, forcing her to play Patrick Swayze while I pivot and prance around her. She sings. Badly. And I laugh when she braces herself for me to dive at her. “Seriously?” I laugh.

“I’m stronger than I look.” She gives me flappy, impatient hands.

My amusement increases as I turn, catching Sharp watching us larking around. Or, at least, watching me. Is he grinning? I narrow my eyes a little, curious. Then he seems to jolt in his chair, darting his eyes away quickly.

“Come on, Baby!” Heather shouts, pulling me back to face her. My smile is back, and I run at her, watching as she shifts her feet, trying to anchor herself to the floor. We collide messily on high-pitched yelps and collapse to the couch, both laughing like idiots.

“Not that strong,” I giggle, so relaxed in the privacy of my apartment goofing around with my bestie. There’s no need to be on my guard, waiting for the flash of a camera to catch me on an off day. No controlling father to keep at bay. It’s just me and my best friend.

“I bet he could lift you up like a feather.” Heather nods at Sharp, grinning, and I’m reminded that it’s not just us. Yet the stress Jake’s caused me this past day doesn’t re-surface with the reminder that he’s here.

My palm rests on my heaving tummy as I glance over to him, seeing him shifting on the seat. I spend way longer than is acceptable admiring his gorgeous form slumped in the chair. I study his stubbled face and dark brown eyes for a moment, while they study me. His eyes are smiling.

I cock my head, just as he cocks his. He doesn’t look at all exasperated having been forced to endure me and Heather being total girls. Why? I purse my lips, thinking.

And then Sharp quickly looks away, as if he’s just realized he’s staring. I bite my lip and look at the box of nail polish sitting next to me. I grin, collecting the most garish pink I can find in the box, and rise, wandering slowly over, trying not to stagger after too much wine. I’m standing at his feet for a good few seconds before he decides to look at me. I hold the polish up. “Want me to paint your toes?”

His eyes definitely widen a touch. “No,” he answers flatly, looking back at his laptop, dismissing me.

My grin stretches as I drop to my knees at his feet. His bare feet. He has nice feet. I reach for his foot and try to pull it onto my lap. “I think this color will suit you.”

He fights my hold, pulling away. “Camille,” he warns, but I ignore him, wrestling with his foot. “Camille, what the hell are you doing?”

“Let me!” I insist, laughing, my amusement increasing when Heather joins me on the floor, helping me get Jake’s foot where I want it. Even with both of us, we’re no match for him. He shakes us both off and stands, leaving us falling to our arses.

I look up at him looming above me, my body shaking with amusement. I can see him gathering patience, breathing in deeply. Now he’s exasperated and I can’t help delighting in it. I expect him to stomp off at any moment to escape me and my annoying friend. But then he surprises me, rolling his eyes on a tiny huff of air and dipping, taking the tops of my arms and hauling me up. My laughter dries up in a second as he lifts me like I’m nothing. And he doesn’t release me once I’m on my feet. Probably a good thing, since I can’t feel my feet. Or my muscles. I can feel my heart, though. It’s going bonkers in my chest, and it only gets worse when he leans in, putting his lips to my ear. I freeze in his hold.

“I’ve told you, Camille,” he breathes, holding his mouth close. “I endure what I have to.” He drops his grip, leaving me trembling on the spot, and strides away. “I’ll be in the shower.”

“Oh…goodness.” Heather is next to me in a heartbeat, her hand on my arm. “Notice he didn’t help me up. And he’ll be in the shower? Was that an invite?”

I pull myself together and straighten my thoughts into line. “Don’t be stupid,” I mutter, making tracks to the kitchen to get more wine.

“Maybe, but can you imagine him naked? And wet?”

I silently beg for my best friend to shut the hell up and not fuel my already inappropriate thoughts. My plans to piss off Sharp have backfired. It’s me who’s pissed off. With myself.

* * *

After Heather has left, I stand with my back to the front door, my teeth sunken into my bottom lip. He didn’t return after showering. He left us to it, probably deciding he’d stomached enough of the girlie stuff. The thought should make me smile, but it doesn’t. All I can think about are the endless times I captured him watching me. He didn’t look pained. He looked content. The complete opposite of what I wanted or expected.

A yawn creeps up on me. I need to sleep, and, more importantly, turn off my whirling mind. I collect some of my designs from the table and make my way to my room, set on making a few notes on my sketches in bed. But just when I’m about to shut the door behind me, I hear him. I’m unable to stop myself from peeking out of the door in search of him, jumping when I find him right in front of me, freshly showered but fully dressed. My eyes cement themselves to his chest, imagining the flesh beneath his grey T-shirt as I toy with the sketches in my grasp.

“Camille?”

My eyes fly up to meet his. “Yes?”

He’s quiet for a few moments, thinking before he speaks. Then he reaches forward and takes one of my sketches. I remain quiet, silently amused as he scans the drawing. I bet he doesn’t even know what he’s looking at. “It’s good,” he muses, tilting his head a little. “What is it?”

“It’s a belt. Part of the accessory line I’ve designed.” I take the drawing back, laughing to myself. Why’s he being all friendly all of a sudden? “Want to model it for me?”

Unamused eyes get narrowed onto me. “I don’t wear belts.” He reaches to the hem of his T-shirt and pulls it up. I expect he’s showing me what will be empty belt hoops in his jeans, but all I can see is the taut stomach on display. My mouth dries up on me, and I reach for the door frame for support. Fucking hell. I could slice a finger on any one of the defined lines. “The only accessory I wear is a gun.” He turns on his bare feet and strolls away. “I can’t shoot you with a fucking belt.”

Just like that, my lust vanishes and my face contorts with rage. And with no words coming to me, I resort to slamming the door in a temper.

Chapter 9

JAKE

She’s doing this on purpose. I swear, all this girlie shit is turning my brain pink. All in all, I’m feeling pretty fucking pussy-ish right now.

I stand behind Camille Logan at the beauty department in Harvey Nichols, watching the lady behind the counter produce product after product for Camille to try, giving gushing, positive opinions on every shade of lipstick she applies to Camille’s lips. Personally, I think her lips look the loveliest in their natural state, but I’m guessing my opinion isn’t needed or wanted. I resort to closing my eyes when Camille bends over in front of me, leaning into a mirror to check the latest shade staining her lips. She’s doing that on purpose, too. In my blackness, I force my thoughts straight, wiping the mental image of her tight arse within grabbing distance, and only open my eyes again once I’m sure I’ve got ahold of my composure.

I should have kept them closed. She’s looking at me in the reflection of the mirror, rolling her lips together slowly for a few teasing seconds before she smacks them and pouts. My cock twitches, and I cough, quickly looking away and taking the opportunity to scope the joint. She definitely did that on purpose.

I’m not playing her silly games. I don’t know what the fuck she was thinking yesterday morning, creeping up on me like that. One ill-judged move on my part and she could have been dead in my arms. When I had her pinned to the floor, I saw none of the fright that should have been there. There was something else, and I didn’t like the look of it. It was tempting. Annoyingly tempting. I only just stopped myself from attacking her mouth with mine.

And then last night, making me endure her and that silly friend of hers. God, I’ve never struggled so much, and it had nothing to do with the girlie shit she was inflicting on me. My damn eyes refused to stay trained on my laptop. They kept taking on a mind of their own and searching her out. Her face, so beautiful anyway, is beyond stunning when she’s smiling. She doesn’t smile much in the pictures that are taken of her. It’s all moody and mostly expressionless. It’s a fucking waste.

I look at Camille and my heart slows. Her presence, though challenging, is settling. I can’t for the life of me figure it out.

This a fucking problem, because I shouldn’t be looking at her like I do, and I definitely shouldn’t be having these damn stupid thoughts. But it hasn’t escaped my attention that I didn’t have one black thought yesterday, and last night while I was trying to get comfy on that damn couch, I was thinking of Camille, and Camille alone. It’s a relief and a worry in equal measure.

I cast my eyes around the hall, avoiding Camille and that mirror. My phone chiming is perfect timing. After meeting Camille’s half-brother, TJ, I immediately texted Lucinda and had her dig deeper on him. I didn’t like him. He’s shifty and has a smarmy face that begs to be punched…a bit like their father’s. I can’t tell you how hard it was to resist doing exactly that. Camille’s brother, the cheeky fucker, had the nerve to tell me to look after her. Idiot! Having something interesting pulled up on him would have given me the excuse I was looking for to rip him apart.

I open Lucinda’s message. It tells me her digging has brought up nothing. Clean as a fucking whistle. Of course he is. I sigh and bash out a reply.

The courier? Who delivered that threat?

There was no courier. Not that day, anyway.

I frown down at the screen, not knowing what it means to have my suspicions confirmed. I abandon texting and call her, wandering a few feet away from Camille, but keeping my eyes trained on her. “No courier?” I say when she picks up.

“Nope. Nothing.”

“He’s hiding something,” I muse, dropping my eyes to the floor, thinking.

“Then let’s ask him.”

“No, don’t give him any reason to believe we’re on his case.”

“Then what now?”

I look up to Camille. She’s still bent over that damn mirror. “He wouldn’t hire me for nothing,” I say, concluding Logan must genuinely fear for his daughter’s safety. I’m no precautionary measure. “Keep digging.” I hang up, slipping my phone back into my pocket. I’m frustrated. Every angle is a dead end, and that white van outside Camille’s agent’s office was definitely suspicious. I’ve been in the job long enough to know when something is suspect.

I glance around. It’s obscenely busy, women flooding the counters, credit cards being thrown about willy-nilly. It’s hell.

After Camille has forced me to suffer an hour of the god-awful beauty department, she wanders off, leaving me to follow. The mix of a million scents begins to irritate my nose, forcing me to rub the itch away before I break out in a sneezing fit.

As we round a corner, I see a security guard up ahead, his body bowling toward us fast. A swift assessment of the situation tells me why. I quickly search out Camille and find her heading straight for his path, engrossed on her phone.

“Whoa!” I make a grab for her, pulling her back. Her startled yelp doesn’t dent my focus, and I pull her off the walkway just as a young lad sprints past, followed quickly by the security guard. I watch them go, not fancying the guard’s chances. The little crook is speedy, despite clearly having some goodies stuffed up his hoodie.

I shake my head and turn to Camille, not realizing I still have my arm slipped around her waist. The moment I register it, I’m hit with heat. Lots of it. I drop her and move back, giving her shocked form some space. Her topaz eyes are huge round balls of… Oh fuck, it’s that look again, the same one she’s had every time I’ve touched her.

I clear my throat and my head, ripping my eyes from hers. She’s in a daze. “Your phone,” I say, noticing it on the floor at her feet. I dip and collect it, handing it to her. It takes a few uncomfortable seconds for her to snap out of her trance, her arm lifting timidly and taking her iPhone.

“Thanks,” she mumbles and turns, looking as unsteady as my heartbeat is feeling. Fucking hell, her no-touching boundary is probably the best idea she’s ever had, but not effective if I physically need to touch her. Every time I look into this woman’s eyes, I see want, desire, need, but more frighteningly, I fucking feel it.

I need a drink. And a good screw. Anything to rid my head of these stupid, pussy thoughts. There’s only one woman who has even remotely had this effect on me before, and she’s the fucking reason I’m a fucked-up, ex-SAS sniper. Ex being the operative word. Sort it out, Sharp!

Catching up to Camille, I fall into line behind her, wondering what shit she’s going to inflict on me next. Nothing can be worse than an hour at the makeup counter, I’m sure.

Wrong.

The lingerie department.

Is she fucking kidding me? I keep my focus forward as she leads me through a maze of sexy underwear, collecting various pieces as she passes on through. I refuse to look. I keep my eyes on something safe, and, right now, the only safe place for me to look is at the back of Camille’s head. Until she turns around. Her blue eyes sparkle, and I see mischief in them. A hand loaded with lacy bras and knickers comes up between us, and I face the dilemma of what’s best to look at now: Camille, or the pile of underwear in her grasp.

The little…

She smiles, just a hint, and nods across the way. “I need to try these on.”

I widen my stance and join my hands in front of me, nodding. “Take your time,” I say evenly, my eyes betraying me and dropping to the mass of luxury material in her hand. I swallow and mentally