Naughty Brits: An Anthology

by Sarah MacLean

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Oh, a Yank!” I wasn’t sure what that signified to him, but he looked back at his boys as though he’d just made a great discovery. Facing me again, he asked, “What’s your name? I’m Joss.”

  “Vee,” I replied somewhat reluctantly. Uneasiness settled in the pit of my stomach.

  “And what brings you here, Vee?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to share the reason for my visit to his country with him. The last thing I needed was some stranger pulling out his phone to look me up. Plus, I didn’t feel like wasting my time with this. Or him.

  He looked at me with keen interest and settled a hand on my shoulder as if we were intimates and not perfect strangers. I eyed his hand and tensed.

  I breathed in deeply, telling myself I could get rid of some rando guy. And we were in a public place. “If you don’t mind. I’m just here to eat my dinner.”

  “Oh.” He donned a deliberately crushed expression that I didn’t buy for a moment. He was not disappointed. This guy was used to hitting on women in bars and getting his fair share of rejections. “No one likes to eat alone.”

  “I do.” I had been for the last four years and I loved it. Better than any dinner I sat through with my exes. Oh, there were some occasional good meals we’d had together. Date nights. Mostly before we married. Everything before marriage was better. It was a hard lesson, but one I had learned.

  “Oh, I don’t believe that for a moment.” Joss leaned down, propping one hand on the back of my chair and his other hand on the table in front of me. A lump clogged in my throat. I felt surrounded at every direction. Leaning back put me in contact with his arm. Leaning forward—he was there, too. “This place serves the best shepherd’s pie in London.”

  Before I could respond he started wagging a finger in my face. “Hey, don’t I know you?”

  My stomach tightened. “I don’t think so.”

  “Nah, I’ve seen you on telly.” He snapped his fingers in triumph. “You wrote that book! You’re that woman!”

  Great. Couldn’t I get a meal in peace?

  Joss turned and called over to his friends. “Hey, mates! You’re never going to believe—”

  “You can leave. The lady is not dining alone.” A chair scraped across the floor as it was pulled back from the table. Moretti sank down across from me, all smooth, liquid movements and stoic expression.

  Joss straightened, his jovial air slipping as he eyed Moretti. “Right then. I thought she was alone.”

  “As you can see, she is not.” Moretti’s dark eyes didn’t stray from Joss. Threat emanated from him in palpable waves. “Get lost.”

  With a departing nod for me, Joss turned and headed back to the bar and his rowdy friends.

  I lifted my glass, took a sip, and set it back down. “I could have handled that, you know.”

  “It’s my job though. Isn’t it?”

  His job. No. That should be my job. I took care of myself. “To run off harmless guys in pubs?” I scoffed.

  “Allow me to decide who is harmless.” He still didn’t look at me for a prolonged period of time, and I wondered if an inability to hold eye contact was typical for him. Or was it just me?

  The waitress arrived with my food. “There you are, dear. Can I get another refill for you?”

  “Yes, please. Thank you.” There was a slight tightening of his lips, the barest hint of disapproval. He was probably counting my drinks and worried he was going to have to carry me back to the hotel.

  The waitress looked at Moretti. “And what about you, love?”

  “Water is fine. Thank you.”

  “Water?” I asked as the waitress left us. “What? No drinking on the clock?”

  “Something like that.”

  I lifted my fork and dug into my dinner. “Aren’t you eating?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No eating on the clock either?”

  He didn’t respond to my question this time, but I didn’t let that stop me. I was hungry, and I hadn’t invited him here. He’d been foisted on me. I was going to go where I wanted. And drink. And eat. And do anything else I felt like doing.

  I ate, moaning at my first bite.

  A muscle feathered along his jaw as he stared suddenly at my face. His gaze fastened on my mouth, his eyes strangely . . . intent. I swallowed my bite and moistened my lips. His gaze tracked the glide of my tongue and my sex clenched. It wasn’t every day I had a man like him really look at me.

  And he was really looking at me now.

  I shifted in my seat, trying to ease the unwanted pulsing between my legs.

  “This is delicious,” I said, my voice excessively loud. I winced and lowered my tone. “You should try some.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’ve got to eat. How else can you keep up your strength and protect me from all the bad guys?” Yeah. I was being a little sarcastic, but he gave no reaction. Either he didn’t register or didn’t care about my pithiness.

  I stretched my fork across the table at him. “C’mon. Have a taste.”

  “That’s not—”

  I pushed the food-laden fork up against his mouth. “C’mon.”

  Maybe I was feeling the alcohol. I didn’t remember ever trying to feed anyone before.

  Accepting that he had little choice, he opened his lips and took the bite.

  “Good?” I asked.

  He gave a single terse nod of agreement.

  I nodded back, satisfied.

  The waitress breezed past, depositing a fresh drink before me and snatching up my empty glass. I took a deep drink and continued eating. “So. Have you been a bodyguard very long?”

  “I’ve been in protection for five years.”

  “Protection. Ah.” I nodded. So that was the professional word for it. “So you’re a badass.”

  He hesitated. I chewed, studying him.

  “It’s okay. You can say it,” I encouraged.

  “I can send you my resume if you’d like to go over my qualifications yourself—”

  “Pfft.” I waved my fork dismissively. “You’ve already been hired . . . and not by me. You don’t need to prove yourself to me. My opinion doesn’t matter.” Yeah. That stung even as I said it. “So. Have you been a bodyguard for anyone interesting?”

  “Specialist.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We’re called specialists.”

  I stretched another bite toward him in offering. He shook his head.

  “Huh. Really?” I took another drink. “Have you been a specialist for anyone interesting? Elton John? Adele?”

  “I can’t disclose the names of any principals.”

  “Principals,” I tested the word. “I’m learning so much. Is that what I am then?” I squared my shoulders as I said it again in a slightly deeper voice. “I am the principal.”

  He wasn’t even looking at me. I watched him as he scanned the busy pub. “What are you looking for?” I asked mildly after another sip of my drink.

  “Anything or anyone that is out of place,” he answered as he continued to survey the busy restaurant, his profile stern but no less hot. No less exciting.

  I shoved that distracting observation aside and took a slow, savoring bite, considering his words. The place was swarming with people of all variety. How could he determine if one of them shouldn’t be here or was up to something nefarious? “And how can you tell that?”

  “Experience, Ms. Mathers.”

  I considered him for a moment, waiting, hoping he might elaborate. Guess I wasn’t going to get specifics then. Fine. I leaned back, dropping my napkin on the table. “I’m stuffed.”

  He scanned the room without looking at me and I felt a fresh stab of annoyance at finding myself in this situation—stuck with a man I didn’t even know. My first-ever trip abroad wasn’t supposed to be like this. I felt . . . constrained. Instead of seeing the world and having exciting new experiences, I was sitting across a table from a
man who was better at ignoring me than any of my exes had been.

  “I should warn you, you know.”

  The bar erupted into loud cheers again and his head turned in that direction, his eyes narrowing. “Warn me?” he asked vaguely as though he was not totally listening to me.

  I reached for my handbag and dug out my wallet. “Yes.” I dropped several bills on the table, more than enough to cover my meal, drinks and tip. “Don’t fall in love with me.”

  His head whipped around to face me, and I found myself the subject of those blistering dark eyes. Yeah. He was listening to me, and it was immensely satisfying to see him so discomposed—and to have his full attention on me. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Don’t fall in love with me,” I repeated. “I won’t love you back.”

  He blinked. “Are you . . . joking?”

  My expression threatened to slip. He didn’t need to act so very appalled at the idea, even if I was making a joke. “I’ve seen The Bodyguard. Isn’t that what always happens in the movies? The bodyguard falls in love with the woman he’s protecting, and blah, blah, blah.” I shook my head. “It’s all so very predictable and cliché.” Even if I did believe that kind of fairy tale existed, I was so not looking for it.

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”

  I stared at his unflinching expression. This guy had absolutely no sense of humor. “You’ve never seen The Bodyguard? Whitney Houston? Kevin Costner?” At his lack of recognition, I tsked and shook my head. “You should rectify that.”

  He looked bewildered . . . and a little horrified. Clearly I wasn’t being serious about the whole love thing, but he acted as though I was . . . he acted as though the prospect of loving me was so unpleasant.

  Had he been talking to my ex-husbands?

  I stood up from the table, my hands a little shaky as I reached for my bag. So far, he was epitomizing the stereotype of a stuffy Englishman. I strode from the pub, not caring if he followed but knowing he would. That was his job and he was unfortunately quite earnest about it. He was solemn like a soldier. And I was stuck with him.

  Unless I managed to run him off.

  I smiled slowly. Yeah. I could do that. I could make him miserable enough to quit. I knew all about that. I’d been married three times. I knew how to run men off. At least that’s what my mother said. My mother, who was husbandless herself, claimed that I ran men off (or forced them to leave me) with my unreasonable expectations.

  I left the pub and marched in the direction of my hotel. I felt his gaze burning hotly on the back of my neck as I passed my publisher’s office. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed he was still behind me, trailing me, dogging my heels like a bad cold I couldn’t shake.

  Chapter Three

  The doorman politely held the door open and I stepped into the blast of cool, gardenia-scented air from the lobby. My wedge heels thumped lightly over the tile floor.

  Moretti moved ahead of me to catch the elevator before it closed, his big hand grabbing onto the edge of one of the sliding doors. With a nod at him, I stepped inside the space. He joined me.

  I went to my corner and he occupied the opposite one—like two boxers in a ring, ready to engage at the sound of the bell. My lips twitched. Until I thought about how vastly outmatched I would be against him. I frowned then.

  Even beneath his well-cut clothing, his muscles were a clear threat, hard and honed. There was also the fact that he had a good seven inches on me, and his shoulders looked like they could be used to effectively ram through a barrier. Maybe bulldozing capabilities were a requirement in his work.

  It took everything in me not to look at him. From my peripheral view, I could tell he wasn’t looking at me either. He was looking straight ahead.

  The elevator opened to the fifth floor and I dove out, walking ahead of him, my footsteps biting into the carpet. This was a waste of my publisher’s money. That conviction burned through me. This man could be out there protecting someone who needed protection. Not me.

  I knew I probably looked ridiculous, my hips rolling as I race-walked. Believe it or not, I took a race-walking class at a local rec center years ago. I thought it might be a light and easy way to shed some weight. That was when Greg was on my case to lose weight—back in the days when I thought I needed to be a certain weight for a man to love me. Now I knew better. Now I didn’t care about a number on a scale. I only cared about myself and what felt good to me.

  I couldn’t wait to get in my room and have some blessed privacy. A hot shower and some mindless television. Maybe I would order a bottle of wine from room service. Or champagne. I should be celebrating my first time out of the country. I should be doing something to mark the occasion other than feeling this . . . annoyance.

  I had my key card ready in my hand. Fortunately it worked on the first try and I wasn’t left fruitlessly swatting my card against the door. The light beeped green and I pushed the door open. Fixing a brave smile to my lips, I turned to face him. “Well. Goodnight.”

  He gave a brief nod, his gaze drifting somewhere over my shoulder. Then the unbelievable happened. He pushed past me into my room.

  I gawked, struggling to find my voice, the will to do something, anything. Certainly this broke some kind of protocol. Certainly I did not have to tolerate this man in my hotel room.

  I watched as he moved deeper into the room, inspecting the space with a sweep of his gaze. It was an elegantly appointed room. Nothing like the motel rooms where I had stayed at as a kid. The few times we ever went anywhere we stayed at motels with rooms that were accessed from the outside, à la the Bates Motel.

  I could still only watch, my body rooted in place, keeping the door from closing. A closed door would be bad. It would seal us in together in a way that felt much too intimate for two people who had only just met. God. I didn’t even know his first name. He was merely Moretti to me. Mr. Moretti.

  He crossed the small living area, bypassing the sofa and leather armchair, striding to the window. He peered outside before pulling the drapes shut, making certain the edges met—as though even a sliver of space was an unacceptable amount of exposure.

  Seemingly satisfied, he again passed through the living area and rounded the small couch, venturing into the single bedroom. My room where I’d tossed all my clothes from earlier—including the silk nightie.

  After my last divorce, I started treating myself to nice things. Things that made me feel good. If that meant a vacation to the beach (Greg hated the sand), Pad Thai (Brent didn’t like Thai food) or buying clothes for myself that weren’t from a discount store (each one of my exes believed clothes should never cost more than their lunch), so be it.

  Silk, I had discovered, felt like heaven against my skin. Better than any man had ever felt against me and that was the unfortunate truth. Or not so unfortunate because that realization had led me to this life of self-imposed singlehood and sudden notoriety combined with a level of financial security I had never known.

  I didn’t need the notoriety. I didn’t desire celebrity status, but as it carried the benefit of fiscal independence, I would not turn my back on it.

  As someone who grew up wearing hand-me-downs, I would never take financial security for granted.

  I now had a life in which I was entirely at peace with myself. No. Not merely at peace. I was happy. Happy. God’s-honest-truth-happy and I wasn’t going to let some bogus threat diminish that.

  I finally found my voice. A soft, strangled thing in my throat and mouth. “What are you doing?”

  He didn’t answer me. Just disappeared inside the bedroom.

  I stepped forward, letting the door close behind me with a very final sounding snick.

  I followed him, stopping on the threshold of the bedroom and observing him as he went to the window, moving with a predator-like gait. He looked out as he had before, and then pulled the drapes closed.

  He flicked me a glance. “Keep the drapes closed.”

  I shook my head, marveling. What?
Did he think there was a sniper out there waiting for me? Absurd.

  He moved on into the bathroom. The obscured glass shower door clicked open and he investigated the shower’s interior.

  “What are you looking for?”

  He stopped before me, reluctantly, it seemed, giving me his attention. “Standard protocol, ma’am.”

  “To inspect my room?”

  He nodded once.

  “You actually think someone could be hiding in here waiting for me?” I motioned behind me. “The door was locked.”

  “It would not take much to infiltrate a hotel room, or any residence, for that matter. If someone wants in badly enough, they can find a way.”

  I shook my head. “I appreciate that you’re doing your job, but this level of . . . ” I paused, searching for the right word. “Caution is not necessary.”

  He didn’t argue, but I knew he disagreed. His actions conveyed that. He went back out into the main room and bolted the door I had failed to bolt behind us. He stopped for a moment and surveyed the room again—looking at what, I had no clue.

  I inhaled through my nose, grasping for patience. “Isn’t it time you go now?” I waved in the direction of the door. I didn’t know where he was staying and I didn’t care. I was ready for my privacy. Apparently I would only have that at night when I could get rid of him . . . at least until I managed to run him off. There was still that hope, that goal, nibbling at the fringes.

  “Yes. Your room appears secure. Good night.” He then strolled across the living area—not in the direction of the door. No, he kept walking a straight line until he arrived at the adjoining door. He unlocked it and swung it open to reveal that the door on the other side was already open.

  I stared. Speechless.

  I pointed accusingly at the neighboring room and marched closer, peering inside. It was a single room with no living area. A lone bag sat on the king bed. “Who . . . what . . . how?” I shook my head. “You’ve got to be kidding!”