It occurred to Bennett how stupid Ricks was. Not only in keeping a woman like Elle, a woman any father would be incredibly proud of, out of his life, but also by not inviting her into his business. A genius-level daughter steeped in math would be a hedge fund owner’s dream.
But Clifford Ricks was one of those men who were money smart and life stupid.
“Your father is being protected by his men. And like you, he’s in hiding. He’s waving his magic money wand in some cave somewhere —” though knowing Ricks, he’d have insisted on every possible luxury, “waiting this thing out.”
Bennett’s money was on Paris.
“So — you mentioned arrangements?” She put her hands — slim and elegant — on the arms of her chair but stopped and looked at him. “May I stand up?”
“God yes.” Bennett stood up, gave her his hand. She’d probably be stiff and sore. “Except for leaving this apartment, there’s not much you can’t do. I’m sorry if you feel like a prisoner. I’m just trying to keep you safe.”
She took his hand and there was some crazy shit. Like an electrical crackle, like a transfer of energy. They both withdrew their hands and she looked at him, startled.
Well, hell.
That was sexual energy, off the scale. From a woman he was forbidden from touching as long as he was under contract to protect her.
Fuck.
It was going to be a long job.
Elle snatched her hand away from his. The touch of his hand to hers had burned. Well, not burned actually, it was more like an electric shock. He must have felt it too because his hand dropped. They stared at each other. She was sure her face showed consternation. His showed nothing at all, but then if he was in security, he’d probably honed that expressionless face to perfection. She didn’t need a poker face in her job, and she could feel the shocked expression she had.
They stood there like dummies. Someone had to break the ice. “So,” she said, turning away, trying to coax her face into bland lines, “what kind of arrangements?”
He was fast on the uptake, but then someone who was expected to leap in front of a bullet couldn’t be slow. Or was that only for Secret Service agents protecting the president?
No, this guy looked like he’d leap in front of a bullet. Maybe catch it in his teeth, spit it back out.
Instead of answering, he turned his computer toward them and brought up a page. Amazon, she saw to her surprise. He was going to order a book?
“You’re going to need … things.” He waved his hand at her and looked — was that possible? — a little embarrassed. There was a tiny little smear of red along his cheekbones, looking odd on that hard face.
Well, this was amusing. Did Mr. Super Tough Guy get all embarrassed at the idea that she would eventually need tampons, or was he talking toothbrush and toothpaste? “Things?” she repeated, arching a brow.
“Things.” He entered some data. “Clothes first of all. That jacket of yours, for instance. Is it a designer thing?”
His mind seemed to leap from subject to subject. She looked down at herself. She loved this jacket, with its off-center cut. “Well, yes. It’s a Vivienne Westwood. Why?”
“It looks nice on you, really nice. I’ve never heard of Vivienne Westwood but I take it she’s well known?”
Elle nodded. Where was he going with this?
“So you’re on a credit card with unlimited credit. It’s a genuine card but a fake person and the delivery address is to a courier service who will get the stuff to us fast. Order from any online shop you want. Use the card to buy as many clothes and … things as you like but they should be bland. Or at least not your usual style and not the usual designers you choose.”
She nodded again. “No personal patterns that could be followed, correct?”
His mouth quirked, as much emotion as he’d allow himself. “Correct. Buy whatever you want in whatever quantity. Clothes, shoes, underwear, lingerie, ah … creams and makeup. Everything that would be in your suitcase for at least a month’s stay in a hotel. From the skin out. Mainly indoor wear, we won’t be going out, certainly not outside this complex. Buy some exercise kind of stuff, one of the rooms has been set up as a gym.”
Elle didn’t do gyms, not even the fancy ones, “This complex? Does it have a pool? I’ll buy several swimsuits.” She did do pools. She swam every day.
“There’s a pool.” Bennett shifted in his seat as if he were uncomfortable. “There are security cameras everywhere in this complex. We’ll have to see —”
“I’ve got an idea about that. A little program I’ve written. It should mask my presence.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Well that would be useful. So yeah, buy yourself as many swim suits as you need. Nothing too showy.”
Elle refrained from rolling her eyes. “I promise not to buy those bikinis that are basically dental floss. I usually use racing suits anyway. Don’t worry.”
He slid a glossy menu in front of her. “While you’re ordering a wardrobe online, I’ll order up dinner.” His finger found something. “They have a —” He squinted, “quinoa, beetroot and avocado salad. Sounds good. Do you want that?”
Ack. It sounded awful. Elle read through the rest of the menu. “Certainly not. I want the 8 oz filet mignon burger, rare, chili fries and the chocolate cheesecake. It’s bad enough being kidnapped, my life taken away from me. The least you can do is feed me properly.”
“Yes, ma’am. We can definitely do that.” He grinned, teeth very white in his tanned face. And oh, God, he shouldn’t do that. Grin. He was attractive in a scary and off-putting kind of way when he was drugging her and kidnapping her. He looked tough and completely charmless. But if now he was going to turn on the charm …
“I need to take a shower,” she said, standing up abruptly. “Then I’ll order clothes and things. They’ll be delivered tomorrow morning?”
“Some things might arrive this evening. Go ahead and take your shower. You’ll find a tee shirt that will cover you. There’ll be a couple of clean pairs of yoga pants one of our female operatives left in one of the cupboards. They might fit, though she’s taller than you. By the time you finish your shower and finish ordering whatever you need, dinner should be here.”
Elle escaped into the bathroom because his deep voice was creating weird vibrations in her stomach. No doubt an effect of the drug.
The bathroom was sumptuous, even more sumptuous than that of the hotel in Moscow at her last conference. It didn’t have rose-scented water but it had everything else. Elle switched the setting of the shower to high, just below lobster-cooking-in-boiling-water, and stood beneath the huge shower head. Water always revived her. Maybe she’d been a mermaid in a previous life. She’d had two major insights while swimming. If nothing else, flowing water calmed her.
She needed calming.
She was stuck for the foreseeable future with an attractive man who had excellent manners if you could overlook drugging her and tying her up.
The thing was, he’d made it clear that within the confines of the apartment she could do as she pleased. But her autonomy ended at the door. Beyond that door, she was essentially a prisoner. In a deluxe prison, it was true, but a prisoner nonetheless.
Usually Elle could think her way out of any dilemma, but not this one. Even if she could outsmart Bennett, which was not a given, her father was in danger and she couldn’t do anything to worsen his situation.
Not to mention the fact that she didn’t want to be grabbed off the streets by Russian mobsters and tortured. Nope.
She switched the water off and grabbed a towel. Damn. She couldn’t even complain about the towels. This one was blindingly white and super fluffy. And, sure enough, there was a brand-new huge tee that was essentially a dress on her. She looked down. Yes, it hit the top of her knees. She’d had sun dresses that showed a lot more. Because with a guy like Bennett who exuded testosterone from every pore, it was going to be necessary to stay off his sexual radar. Not that she was worried he�
�d force himself on her. He’d made that clear.
No, the problem was her. He was … attractive. Hot, actually. It had been a long time since Elle had found any man attractive. Most of her dealings with men were with male mathematicians, most of them belonging to what she called, in the deepest recesses of her mind, The Dandruff Brigade. In her dealings with colleagues, not one hormone was involved, just her neurons. Being with Bennett she’d felt hormones wake up that had been napping for a long time.
This was going to be difficult and awkward if she couldn’t keep a tight hold on herself.
She held up the yoga pants. The woman they belonged to must have been a giant. The soft top had to be pulled up practically under her armpits and she had to roll the pant legs up a couple of times. She looked like a child dressed up in her parents’ clothes. No. She pulled the yoga pants down and off and checked herself in the mirror, wearing only the giant tee. Tomorrow more clothes would be arriving. For the moment, this would have to do. The tee was excellent quality cotton, came almost down to her knees and was completely modest. No one could tell she was naked underneath.
She opened the bathroom door and walked out.
Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
She was naked underneath his tee shirt. She hadn’t put on the yoga pants, either. Well, Charlie was a strapping woman, over six feet tall and heavily muscled. Elle was about 5’ 4” and slender, almost delicate. But not putting on the pants … Jesus.
Did she have a clue?
The opening of his tee was so large on her he could see delicate collar bones and the collar tended to slip over one shoulder. Her slender legs were outlined. And she wasn’t wearing a bra. Was she wearing panties?
The fuck was wrong with him?
He shouldn’t care if his principals were buck naked. The only thing he ever cared about was handing them back when the danger was over in the same shape they’d been in when entrusted into his care. Without even a nick or a dent.
Unfortunately, Bennett knew exactly what she felt like. In Oxford, he’d basically held her up as they maneuvered to the car he had waiting and then he’d half carried her to the helo, then he’d had to jab her again once they landed in London so that she was pliant as they went from the helo to the BMW waiting on the tarmac, down to the underground garage in Sparrow Square then up the back elevator. That second jab had been a stronger dose.
Bennett had very carefully not felt her up. That would have been creepy. But he’d have had to have been dead not to notice the slender curves, that strong lithe body. And he’d have had to have been dead not to be a little aroused.
All right, watching her coming out of the bathroom with a puff of steam coming from the shower behind her, a lot aroused.
Shit.
He was behind the island, which hit him at waist level, and he had to stay that way. She was walking toward him, cobalt-blue eyes fixed on him, and it was as if she could read his mind. It was not a pleasant feeling.
He grabbed a stemmed glass, uncorked a good red and poured her a generous measure. He slid it across the marble counter of the island. “Here. Have a glass of wine while you order what you need.”
She nodded, picking up the glass. Thank God she sat in profile to him. She sipped and sat, clicking on a key. He could tell the monitor came to life by the reflection off her pale skin. “Do you have the parameters of what you can order?”
She was scrolling. “I think so. No Vivienne Westwood, no Stella McCartney, no quirky modern designers. Bland things that won’t make me stand out.”
He let out a little sigh of relief. “Exactly. Get everything you could possibly need, clothes or not. And remember, no limits on the budget.”
She was studying the screen and her mouth lifted in a half smile. “I imagine most women would kill to hear that.”
“Dream come true.”
Elle sighed. “Not really. I hate shopping. I order everything online anyway. So — here goes.” She bent forward a little and disappeared into the monitor.
Whew. That weird energy that sprang up between them flipped off like a light switch when she turned her attention to other things. It was a little scary when she focused on him. Scary and arousing.
Damn.
Bennett rummaged in the cabinets above the sink. He hadn’t been in this apartment for a couple of years, but … yup. Everything was still well organized. Plates where plates should be. Glasses where glasses should be. Cutlery in the drawer. Place mats below.
No food, though, just wine. Not even staples. They could eat take-out meals for a long time. Sparrow Square boasted a bistrot, a café, a brasserie and a full-service restaurant and they all delivered to the apartments in the complex.
But Bennett was a good cook and he had to do something while they were confined to the apartment. There were plenty of shops in the area. He could order staples and groceries from …
“Done,” she said crisply from behind him.
He turned in surprise. “Done?”
“Yes. I told you I hate shopping but I know what I like, so I got it done fast.”
Not ten minutes had passed. “I, um, don’t want to question the speed of your shopping skills, but we might have to be here for a while so …”
“Ten sets of pajamas. Ten yoga outfits, top and bottom. Ten sweat suits. Ten sets of underwear. Ten silk camisoles. Twenty pairs of socks. Ten sweaters, five cashmere, five cotton and silk. Ten shirts, five silk, five linen. Ten pairs of pants, wool and cotton. Two raincoats. Three wool jackets. Five swimsuits—I really hope to get some swimming in. Four ballerina slippers for inside the apartment. Two pairs of boots. Four cashmere shawls. A down coat. Toiletries. A small ” She rattled everything off as if reading from the monitor, though she’d closed her laptop. “And a partridge in a pear tree. I should be okay for a while. I spent five thousand pounds.”
Bennett shrugged. Didn’t make any difference what she spent, it was all going on the bill anyway. He wished she’d spent more so her father would think twice about investing for the Russian Mob. But what was done was done.
“That’s, uh, great. Just … great. We should be … great.” Damn it! Why was his tongue stuck in great mode?
The doorbell rang and he checked the monitor on the corner of the kitchen cabinet. There was another one in the living room and one in each of the two bedrooms. A waiter stood outside patiently, slightly distorted because of the fish-eye lens that showed that no one stood to one side. One waiter, alone, with a food cart. The waiter was wafer-thin and there was no possible weapon that wouldn’t show beneath his skin-tight uniform. He looked about twelve, weighed about 120 lbs and had pimples.
This wasn’t a mobster.
But Bennett made a note to ask for updated photos of every single server in the complex, even part-time staff. He’d upload all the photos into his facial recog system.
But in the meantime …
He stood in the doorway, blocking any view of the room, though Elle wasn’t visible from the door.
“Thank you,” he said in his best English accent. No sense the waiter knowing there was an American in the room. He held out a tenner between two fingers and it disappeared instantly.
Bennett was also gratified to see that the waiter didn’t look twelve years old in close up. He looked ten. There was another monitor beside the door and Bennett watched him walk away with a smile, holding the tenner.
Bennett wheeled the cart toward the dining table, surprised to see that Elle had put away her laptop and had set the table already with place mats and glasses.
Man, that woman was fast. He liked that.
“Smells delicious.” She had her straight, pretty nose right over the covered dishes and inhaled.
“It does.” Bennett waved a hand at her chair. “Please take a —”
But she was already seated, napkin on her lap, and was looking up expectantly.
Oh man. She was just so pretty. But beyond the good looks there was this vibrant air about her, like a humming bird, as if she opera
ted at a higher frequency than other people. It made him feel good, just sitting across from her.
She attacked her hamburger as if she were starving. She probably was. A lot had happened since she’d finished her speech in Oxford, none of it involving food. She’d been drugged, kidnapped, flown to London, woken up, absorbed the fact that her father was under attack and that she’d been put under a dome just like her hamburger.
“So.” She swallowed a bite of the hamburger. She ate very neatly but fast. Half of it was gone and he wondered if he should share part of his huge steak and mango salad with her. She waved a finger between them. “How does this work?”
“This?” Bennett realized that being with her meant that he’d have to operate at a higher frequency too.
Elle huffed out an impatient breath. “This bodyguarding thing. How does it work?”
He tasted his salad. It was excellent. He was sure he could reproduce it. “Well,” he answered, “it’s a lot less complex than game theory. Basically, I stick close to you and form a barrier around you. That’s more or less it. There are theories about bodyguarding, lines of fire, perimeters of protection, but that’s the essence. Sticking close by the client — called the principal in the trade — and forming a barrier of protection.”
“Huh.” He could practically see her head buzzing. “So — you’d take a bullet for me?”
He put his fork down and leaned forward. “Yes. Absolutely.” His voice was dead serious because he was. “That’s the job.”
Those bright deep blue eyes widened. “And have you? Taken a bullet.”
“Yes.” He didn’t particularly want to talk about it. “I have.” Several, in fact.
“Have you lost anyone?”
“No.” His voice was curt and he didn’t want to be curt with her. “To tell you the truth, I don’t do close protection work much any more and we’re moving into other areas of security anyway. I’m the head of my company and we’re growing fast. It’s a dangerous world. Running the company takes up most of my time. I only accepted this job because your father insisted.”
“Well.” He’d give a lot of money to be able to decipher the thoughts buzzing around in her head. She smiled. “I’m glad you did.”
Escapade: Her Billionaire - London (Her Billionare) Page 3