Is that what I am now? A controversial author?
“I really think this is an over-reaction, Melani. And how does it look? I’m all about self-reliance but I need some beefcake for protection?” I shot Moretti a quick glance. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
I looked back to Melani. “That kind of undermines my platform.”
“Better alive and a hypocrite than a dead author . . . at least according to legal.”
I winced.
Melani gestured to the over-sized monitor on her desk. “It’s not just the incident in D.C. either. I can show you the emails. We need to take this seriously.”
“A few angry emails—”
“A few?” Melani moved to her desk and bent over to tap at the keyboard. “I can read you one hundred and seven emails. And these are just the people who felt motivated to email us. This week. Anna has received her share. There have been bloggers, podcasts, jokes on chat shows, angry men on the news. And who knows how many wankers out there posting God knows what on social media . . .” She sighed as though her diatribe fatigued her. “I’m sorry, Vee, but it’s already decided.” The apology wasn’t real. She wasn’t sorry at all. They were simply words to soften the blow. “Your tour here will be done this way. Anything else is . . . a liability.”
A liability?
With a disgusted huff, I rose and crossed her office, staring out the seventh-story window overlooking the city streets, admiring the descending dusk.
“We’re so pleased that you were available on short notice," Melani said to Mr. Moretti behind me. "You come highly recommended. Your employer tells me you are one of the best, and that’s what we need for our Vee.”
I continued to stare out the window. Melani had a perfect view of the iconic BT Tower from her window. All steel and glass, it was like a great spindle reaching for the sky.
As a little girl growing up in an ant-size town, I dreamt of seeing the world. I’d never left the country. I only left Arkansas once when we visited my mom’s aunt in Missouri, and I was excited to finally put a stamp in a passport. I was eager to do a little exploring—to walk the streets of a city that I had crossed an ocean to reach and had only ever seen in the movies. The sooner I left, the sooner I could start doing that. So far, I’d only seen Heathrow and the inside of my hotel.
I wanted to visit Buckingham Palace and Hyde Park and walk Baker Street. As a kid, I was a big fan of all things Sherlock Holmes. Reading helped get me through my childhood with Mom and her various boyfriends. Maybe I didn’t have time to visit all those sights in the short time I was here, but I wanted to squeeze in as many as I could. Except a bodyguard did not exactly fit into these plans I had envisioned for myself.
Melani continued to chat at my back with Moretti. “You have the itinerary I sent over?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve studied it and will deliver her to all scheduled events.”
Deliver me? Like I was some package? God. This was the worst. Here I was, the author of Self Love, a book touting female self-reliance, and I needed a bodyguard. I felt like a fraud. After all I’d been through, all I’d learned, it made me sick to be dependent on any man for any reason.
I turned back around.
“Excellent.” Melani smiled brightly. “Then you should have everything you need.” Melani smiled brightly. “I feel so relieved our Vee is safely in your hands.” My editor turned her attention on me. “Now I’ll see you at the Common Harvest Gala when you return from Edinburgh. There are several people I want you to meet there. Oh! And Lilah Rose is going to be there. Remember her?”
I nodded. “Of course. She was the photographer for the piece in Bonfire.” The first magazine feature that took Self Love seriously, with the portraits to prove it. Not a dildo in sight.
Melani clapped her hands together. “Yes! Gorgeous photos.”
I had to agree. I never looked as good in any of my wedding photos as I did in the four portraits that ran alongside the article.
Melani continued, “Well, apparently her hiatus is over. She’s back and revealing her new collection at the gala—something about global sustainable farming?” She waved a hand. “Trying something new, I gather! Anyway, It’s going to be a wonderful affair.”
I picked up my handbag, moving stiffly. Melani gave me a quick hug. “Text or call me if you need anything.” She cut Mr. Moretti a look. “And you have my contact information, as well.”
He nodded once, curt and perfunctory. “Of course, ma’am.”
Melani moved to the door and held it open for us. There were more words of farewell as she accompanied us out into the corridor, words that were all a blur of sound as I tried to ignore the behemoth close behind us. Impossible.
“Enjoy yourself. Have fun,” Melani called after us as we stepped on the elevator.
Have fun? As though I was jetting off on a vacation—or heading out the door for a date with some dreamy boyfriend. Not even close.
Fine. Maybe he was dreamy. Some women liked the hard-body-square-jawline-smoldering-eyes type. The type of women who were into men. Which I was not. I wasn’t into men. I wasn’t into anyone. Not men. Not women. I was into me. Myself. That was enough. It was the theme of my book, for goodness sake. I didn’t need anyone else.
The elevator doors closed on Melani’s face and it was just the two of us in the elevator. He didn’t stand beside me. He stood just behind me to my right. I felt his presence, energy and heat vibrating so closely. I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder at him.
What was I supposed to do? How did one treat a bodyguard? Did you acknowledge them or behave as though they weren’t there at all?
Bodyguard. Ugh. After all the bumps and hurdles in my life I thought I didn’t have to deal with things like fear, but I was being told I should be afraid—that I needed to be cautious and that I needed this man to keep me safe.
It was like I was caught up in a movie. My mother would start screeching if she knew and demand I come home. Not that I did the things my mother told me to do—if that were the case I’d still be trapped in an unhappy marriage. In any event, this would definitely be something I left out during our texts and phone calls.
The elevator doors opened and we stepped out into the lobby.
I marched a hard line for the front double doors, feeling his presence close, like hot breath on my neck. He wasn’t that close, of course. Imagination was a powerful thing. I rubbed at the back of my neck anyway.
I stepped from the building and glanced left and right. We weren’t far from London’s West End where my hotel was located. I had walked here. It was just a few blocks. I’m sure my publisher had deliberately booked my lodgings close to their offices. I’d already done my research and planned on a nearby pub for dinner. The place had wonderful reviews.
Pasting on a smile, I faced Mr. Moretti. “We can part ways here. I’ll just get a car.”
His stone expression flickered with the barest reaction. “I beg your pardon?”
I shivered at the sound of his deep voice. Perhaps that was why he went into the bodyguard business. Because his voice alone could strike dread into hearts.
I fluttered a hand down the street as though he could take himself in that direction. “You don’t need to babysit me.”
“That is precisely what I’ve been hired to do, ma’am.”
“I’m fine. You don’t have to stay with me. I won’t tell.”
“And what happens when someone comes after you?”
“When?” I shook my head. “You speak as though it’s inevitable.”
“My job is to plan and prepare as though it is.”
I snorted. “That’s silly.”
There it was. Something definitely flickered across his face. I’d hit a nerve. “It’s called being ready.”
I settled my hands on my hips. “I’m not going to be attacked.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No one is going to attack me,” I insisted.
His lips f
lattened into an obstinate line. “I’ve entered into a contract with—”
“Not with me. I haven’t hired you.”
“This seems like something you should have sorted out in there.” He motioned to the building from which we had just emerged.
He was correct, of course. My courage had failed while I was in my editor’s office. I had somehow decided it would be easier to persuade him to walk away from me than to convince Melani that I didn’t need protection.
Staring at him now with his unflinching gaze, I was not certain why I thought that.
It was rather insulting, I supposed, to assume he lacked integrity, that he was little more than a cheat.
Feeling uncomfortable, I readjusted my handbag on my shoulder and gestured to the street. “I had planned on visiting Buckingham Palace—”
“They’re closed for admission by now.”
I frowned.
“You can check if you don’t—”
“I believe you.”
“At any rate, it’s too crowded.”
Staring at him, I realized it was going to be like this. Moretti calling the shots. Telling me what I could do . . . where I could go. It was a blow to my pride. What kind of expert on autonomy was I?
“Well, then. I’m going to get something to eat—”
“Your hotel has a restaurant.”
I exhaled a hot breath. “I’ve already planned where I’m dining this evening.” Plans that I did not intend to change just because he had been thrown into the mix. I was done changing or altering aspects of my life for a man. Granted, there was no confusing him with any of my exes. None of them had ever worn a sidearm under their jacket, but he was clearly packing heat under his.
“I’ve already assessed your hotel. I’m familiar with all points of entry. I’d be more comfortable with you dining in the hotel restaurant—”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” I waved both hands in front of me as though chasing away a pesky mosquito. “I can’t go to dinner where I want?” I shook my head. This was unacceptable. I was independent and single and did not defer to anyone. Not anymore. Never again. I pointed down the street. “I’m going to dinner that way.”
Without waiting for his response, I spun around and started walking toward The Figgy Spoon, not caring if he followed me or not.
Chapter Two
Of course he followed me.
“Ms. Mathers,” he called, but I did not stop or look back. I kept a steady pace down the sidewalk. The restaurant was five blocks away and was reputed to serve the best shepherd’s pie in London. If he wanted to follow me, that was his right. Eating dinner where I wanted was my right.
I had to stop and wait for the pedestrian light at an intersection.
He arrived at my side. My hand flexed around my purse strap. I tried to pretend he was just a random person standing beside me, waiting for the light to change, too. Just someone leaving work and headed home or to the bar for drinks. It was futile, of course. He wasn’t going to let me pretend he wasn’t there.
“Where is this restaurant?” he asked, not looking at me. He seemed to avoid looking at me directly. He should work on that. Maybe no one ever told him eye contact was important when speaking to someone.
“One block on the left,” I replied.
The light changed and I stepped forward, crossing the street.
I assumed Moretti was behind me as I kept going, walking the length of the block. I didn’t bother to verify his presence as I entered the restaurant.
It was crowded. Most of the customers congregated at the bar. Lots of men, I noted. The place had plenty of flat screens playing different games throughout the room.
Crowded or not, I didn’t have to wait for a table. A hostess greeted me with a smile and menus in her hand, leading me to a small table for two away from the bar. A table for two. Would I have to eat with him? Great.
How was I going to make idle chitchat with a man that was hired to babysit me? It was worse than a first date. Not that I did those anymore, but at least on a first date the two individuals wanted to be together and were invested in the conversation. I doubted we would even have a conversation.
I didn’t look over my shoulder, but I felt him there just behind me. At the table, the hostess’s eyes drifted beyond my shoulder and widened ever so slightly. Yep. He was there. No mistaking that reaction. She probably didn’t get too many Henry Cavill dopplegangers in here.
Deciding to make the best of it, I exhaled heavily, fixing what I hoped was not a too strained smile to my face, and lifted my chin . . . to find him nowhere.
He was not seated across from me.
I jerked my head around, searching for him. Was it possible he had left? Given up just as I had requested? It seemed rather rude that he would leave without letting me know, but if he was gone that was all that really mattered.
A genuine smile started at my lips and then died swiftly when my gaze landed on him.
He was still here, seated at a high table between the bar and me, looking fine and at ease in his jacket and crisp white shirt. Again, he did not look at me. He looked around. Everywhere. Anywhere. Just not at me.
His tapered fingers lightly drummed the surface of his table and I couldn’t help staring at those broad, olive-skinned hands, the backs lightly sprinkled with hair. Even the glimpse of his wrists was intriguing. Thick and wiry. Strong. Masculine. Maybe it was because I knew that those hands of his were so capable. They existed to protect and go to battle if needed.
I swallowed thickly as my mind took a trip to the gutter, envisioning those hands on my skin, several shades darker, gliding up my thigh . . .
My stomach squeezed a little. Okay, he definitely needed to go.
“I need a drink,” I muttered under my breath. As though to mock my wishes, a waitress approached for his drink order. Of course. Still no sight of my waitress.
She stood close to Moretti and reached for the cocktail menu at the center of the table, the front of her generously endowed chest brushing his arm. I wiggled my shoulders slightly, suddenly self-conscious of my not large breasts.
Women must do that all the time to him—look for the happy accident of brushing against him. His body begged for touch, exploration.
He was like a giant lollipop begging to be sucked.
God. I gave my head a swift shake. What was wrong with me? This man was not candy to eat. He was attractive, but I’d seen other attractive men since my divorce. None of them made me think such dirty thoughts . . . or feel quivery inside.
Obviously it was because he was assigned to me and would be around me a lot. It had me looking at him. Thinking about him.
Looking at and thinking about him—more than I should.
We were going to Edinburgh. We would be trapped together for hours. He would be with me every day while I was here. I was stuck with him until I left for Paris. I doubted my publisher in France would insist on a bodyguard. At least my French editor had made no mention of that in our emails . . . unless she wanted to drop that little surprise on me like Melani did.
I winced and took a ragged breath.
Clearly I needed to get my head straight.
An evening with my trusty vibrator would help. If I got off, I would probably be a little less tense around him—and less afflicted with these wayward thoughts.
I’d bought myself a vibrator the day after I left Charlie. It had satisfied me ever since, convincing me there was nothing I couldn’t handle myself . . . nothing I couldn’t do for myself.
A waitress arrived for my drink order.
“I’ll have a gin and tonic, and can I go ahead and order the shepherd’s pie? I’ve heard wonderful things about it.”
“Excellent choice. You won’t be disappointed.” She nodded with a friendly smile and accepted my proffered menu. “It will be out soon.”
Just then Moretti’s waitress sidled close to my waitress. “Did you see the bloke at table ten? He’s well fit,” she murmured in a low voice. Not
low enough for me not to hear her, but I don’t think she really cared. Her face was slightly flushed and she looked like she needed a vibrator of her own—or not. What she really wanted was the man at table ten. “I could spend all night climbing him.”
“Annie,” my waitress chided with a nervous laugh, sending me an apologetic look.
I waved a hand that it was all right. It didn’t have anything to do with me, after all, and I was all for females expressing their desires free of judgment.
“I’ll be back soon with your drink.” My waitress gave me another contrite smile and walked off with Annie—but not without looking back at Moretti herself, no doubt verifying just how well fit he was.
“God,” I murmured, relaxing back in my chair and starting in on my drink like it could bring salvation. Realizing I would quickly reach the bottom of the glass, I went ahead and signaled for another one, deliberately avoiding looking at my bodyguard where he sat.
Something happened on one of the games on TV because the bar erupted in shouts and cheers. Of course I looked in that direction. Beer was flying as men were hugging and high-fiving each other like they’d just won the World Cup. My gaze caught on one guy as he whooped loudly and embraced a friend. His eyes locked with mine over his friend’s shoulder. It was just one of those accidental things that happen when your eyes collide with someone else’s gaze.
It was an accident, but it happened.
I quickly looked away, hoping he didn’t get the wrong idea, hoping there were no adverse consequences to that brief eye contact. I was not looking to get picked up. Even without the awkwardness of a bodyguard nearby watching me, I wasn’t up for that.
My second drink arrived. The waitress took my first glass. “Your dinner will be out in a moment.”
“Thank you.” I lifted the glass to my lips and drank deeply. I was halfway through my gin and tonic when I felt a presence beside me.
There was exaggerated throat clearing and then, “Looks like you’re going to need another drink there.”
I glanced up to find the guy from the bar staring down at me. His face was flushed pink—either from revelry or alcohol. Maybe both. I glanced down at my drink, which was mostly ice now. I was going to need another drink, but I didn’t need him to buy it for me. Contrary to what my mother had always taught me. I didn’t need anything from a man ever again.
Naughty Brits: An Anthology Page 14