It irked me to realize that Melani had been right. I had been wrong.
Moretti was useful, even necessary. I actually needed this man’s presence in my life, and he knew that. I had determined to never need another a man in my life, but in this instance, I did. I could be in danger. That incident in D.C. was not an isolated event.
Moretti returned, standing at the back of the crowd. My gaze locked with his, and warmth suffused my chest, spreading outward beneath his steady and intense regard. I felt a connection to him in that moment. And maybe . . . trust. I didn’t hate that he was here. I was actually kind of glad. He would keep me safe.
Chapter Six
As soon as I finished autographing books, we thanked the library staff and left the building. I shouldn’t say we. Moretti merely stood at my side like the hulking bodyguard he was. He didn’t speak. I did all the talking and when we left the building, he took my elbow and guided me to his vehicle in silence.
We left the city limits of London behind as dusk settled. He drove us north, one hand in a relaxed grip on the steering wheel. For the first hour I avoided looking at him. I just stared at that hand and out the window at the passing scenery.
“Are you hungry?”
“Not yet.” My enormous breakfast was still holding me over.
“Maybe when I stop for petrol, we can get a bite to eat then.”
“That sounds fine.”
My phone started ringing from my handbag at my feet. I retrieved it, noting the caller. Mom. “Excuse me. I need to take this.”
He gave a brief nod of acknowledgement as I answered the call. “Hey, Mom. It’s like . . . midnight there. Everything okay?”
“Verna Mae,” Mom greeted me, ignoring my question and getting directly to her own. “Why haven’t you called me?”
I winced at the sound of the ridiculous name she had given me. It was a family name she had wanted to carry on, but there were some names that shouldn’t be recycled. Names that got your kid relentlessly bullied should be put to rest.
“I texted when I landed, Mom.”
“How do I know that was you? You could have been picked up by some sex trafficker at the airport like in that movie Taken. We should have a code word for when you text me so that I know it’s really you.”
“Mom, you’re being paranoid.”
She ignored my comment. “When are you coming home?”
“I emailed you my itinerary so you would have it.”
“I never check my email. Just tell me.”
“In two weeks. Please check your email.”
“Brent called me.”
I stilled at her blunt announcement. I hadn’t heard directly from my first ex-husband in ages, but I knew through the grapevine that he was not a fan of Self Love. “Well, I hope you didn’t speak with him.” Brent might be the worst that humanity had to offer. After I worked two jobs to put him through college, he dumped me for the physician assistant who treated him in the emergency room at the local hospital for alcohol poisoning the morning after the Super Bowl.
“Of course I did. I couldn’t be rude. He’s furious about the book, Verna Mae. His wife is threatening to leave him.”
Did Mom really expect me to care that the woman Brent left me for was upset with him? I imagined she spent a lot of her time being upset with him and it had nothing to do with my book or me. I should know.
Brent loved boozing it up with his buddies and playing softball with his buddies and watching sports with his buddies. Everything he did involved his buddies. The guy was stuck in high school and I actually felt sorry for the physician assistant because I knew the life she was living.
Mom continued, “He said his friends are laughing at him. I told you the book was a terrible idea.”
“A terrible idea that paid off your house.”
“He said he’s consulting a lawyer.”
I sighed. “He was never specifically named.” My publisher’s legal team and I discussed at length how to protect me from liability. I never said anything untrue. Nor did I ever cite anyone by name. Still, I would rather not be dragged into court to defend myself.
“You should still apologize to him and help smooth things over.”
“Are you serious? Apologize to him? After everything he put me through?” I shook my head. It amazed me how many times my mom sided with my exes. As far as she was concerned, I was to blame for the collapse of every one of my marriages.
“Verna Mae, this book is causing quite the stir and embarrassing our family and friends—”
“Brent is not my family or friend.” That ship pretty much sailed when I caught him in the backseat of his truck with the PA.
The car in front of us suddenly hit their brakes. Moretti’s arm shot across my body as though my seat belt wasn’t enough protection. “Hold on,” his deep voice rumbled.
We slowed down as the traffic reduced to a crawl.
“Who is that? Verna Mae? Is that a man? Do you have a man with you?” Outrage mingled with glee in my mother’s voice, and I know the outrage was at being kept in the dark over a potential man in my life. My mother wanted nothing more than for me to find another man. That was the glee I heard. It didn’t matter that I had three failed marriages. As far as Mom was concerned, I would never be a success unless I had a man front and center in my life.
I closed my eyes in a tight blink. “Yes. It’s a man.”
“Who?” At my silence, she demanded louder, “WHO?”
I shook my head. “No one, Mom.”
“Did you meet someone?”
“No, Mom.” I slid a mortified look at the man driving beside me. He stared straight ahead, his expression unflinching. “I have to go now.”
“Don’t you dare hang up without telling me who you’ve got with you.”
“He’s my . . . handler.”
“Handler?” Mom echoed. I could hear the bewilderment in her voice. “Is that some kind of sex thing?”
“Mom,” I sputtered. “No. He’s in charge of escorting me places on my tour over here.”
“Oh.” Mom sounded clearly disappointed. Clearly she wished it had been some kind of sex thing.
“I really do need to go now.” I sent another quick glance to the silent man beside me. He was a block of stone, but there was no way he had not heard the exchange. This close to me, he probably heard everything my mother had said too. God. That was a mortifying thought.
“Fine,” Mom grumbled. “You should take a minute to apologize to Brent though.”
Uh. Yeah. Not happening.
I shook my head but didn’t bother to disagree. It would only lengthen the conversation. An apology was an acknowledgment of wrongdoing, and I had certainly never done anything wrong to Brent. I wasn’t saying I was perfect, but I had spent enough of my life apologizing for one thing or another. I wasn’t apologizing for telling the truth and trying to help other women avoid my mistakes.
Hanging up, I let my head fall back on the headrest and looked back out the window. The fading sunlight cast the rolling hills in soft gold.
After a few minutes of driving, he spoke up beside me, his deep voice filling the vacuum. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”
Of course he couldn’t help overhearing. The vehicle three cars up from us probably heard my mother.
Fighting a sigh, I rolled my head and turned to look at him. “Yes?”
“You have an angry ex, I take it?”
I considered that for a moment. “Apparently, yes.”
He continued to stare straight ahead. “He doesn’t care for your book?”
“Apparently he’s embarrassed over a few things I wrote.”
“What’s his name?”
I hesitated. I’d trained myself to be cautious. I had been careful ever since the beginning of my publication journey to never mention my exes directly by name—partly to protect myself from liability but also because my new life had nothing to do with them.
“Why do you want to know that?”
“To run a check on him, of course. See if he’s in the country or—”
“You think he would come here?” I interrupted.
“You’ve received threats—”
“Not from him.”
“Do you know that for a fact?”
I looked out the window again with a huff, not answering. I knew, but, of course, I did not know. I did not have any proof except my knowledge of Brent. I knew there was no way he would hop on a plane to confront me on my book tour in England. He didn’t care that much, and he would never leave the country. He thought every place outside the US was too dangerous.
When we’d been together, and I had talked about going to Europe or other dream locations like New Zealand or Iceland or Bora Bora, he shook his head at me as though I were suggesting a trip to the moon.
“It’s fairly standard,” he continued.
Standard? Nothing about any of this was standard for me.
“His name is Brent Segal and you can go ahead and run your check. You’ll see. There’s no way he would get on a plane and come here. Honestly, he’s too lazy.”
“I see.” Without another word, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out his phone.
I watched curiously as he punched a key and held the phone up to his ear. He didn’t greet the person who answered, merely dove directly into his crisp dialogue. “I need you to look up a Brent Segal, American. Yes. His location and recent travel. All the usual data.” He murmured something of assent. “Yes. Thanks, Tandy.”
He ended the call with Tandy (I had a vision of Moneypenny somewhere clicking at a keyboard making magic happen) and tucked his phone back away.
I stared at him for several moments, grappling with my bewilderment—and thinking he would turn to me with some explanation. After a few more moments of nothing happening, I asked, “What was that?”
He shot me a bland glance. “What was . . . what?”
“You can pick up the phone and get information on anyone you want?” I snapped my fingers for illustration. “Just like that?”
He lifted a single shoulder. “My agency has resources.”
“Corps Security,” I said, recalling the name of his agency from Melani.
“Yes.”
“What are you? Like MI6?”
He snorted. “You watch too many movies. Corps Security is not a government agency.”
“So you weren’t in the military? You act like a soldier.” Or ex-soldier.
“And how does a soldier act?”
I shrugged. “You seem . . . fit.” Did I just say that? It reflected an awareness of his person that I did not wish to project. “Like you’re used to running five miles before breakfast and eating MREs.”
“Definitely too many movies,” he repeated with a soft laugh.
“You weren’t military, then?”
After a lengthy pause, he admitted. “I was.”
“Aha!” I stabbed a finger in the air triumphantly.
“I served in the SAS.”
“And what is that?”
“It’s a special forces unit of the army.”
He was right. I didn’t know anything about this kind of thing. The extent of my knowledge was what I gleaned from movies. I’d have to look up the SAS on my phone when he wasn’t next to me. “So now you’re working private security. I guess that’s more . . . stable. Probably less dangerous. Good for a family.”
“Do I strike you as a family man?”
“I couldn’t say.” I shrugged like I wasn’t curious. I didn’t see a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a girlfriend. God, I hoped he was single. I’d feel guilty about last night otherwise. I’d made plenty of mistakes in my past, but I’d never been an adulterer.
“I don’t have a family. At least no wife and kids.”
Whew. “No? Well, take it from me. You’re not missing anything.” I winced then. That didn’t come out quite right.
“Ah. That’s right. The jaded divorcee.”
“I’m not jaded.” I shook my head. Of course I had heard that allegation before. Men who didn’t like what my book stood for. Critics who would never bother to actually read it. The world was full of them.
“Your talk this afternoon. It was interesting.”
I fought back a blush. I talked about orgasms in front of people all the time. I could have this discussion with one person. Even if that person happened to be a good-looking guy that had climbed in bed with me last night and brought me right up to the brink. “Apparently not everyone finds it interesting.”
“Yes. That gentleman I escorted out from the library took exception.”
“A vast number of women appreciate what I have to say.”
“‘A woman does not need a man for sexual fulfillment’,” he quoted.
To hear my words flung back at me in his deep British voice mortified. “Are you mocking me, Mr. Moretti?”
“Not at all.”
“It sounds like you are.”
“I work for you. It’s not my job to sit in judgment. I have no opinions.”
“Ha.” I crossed my arms. “Said no one ever. Don’t try to act like you’re some kind of brainless hired muscle. I see the way you scope out every situation for potential threats. Your mind is going a mile a minute, so I know you have opinions.”
“Even if I did—”
“You do.”
He cut me a glance and my smile widened.
“I’m paid to keep them to myself,” he finished.
And that was strangely disappointing. I wanted him to open up—to talk to me. It would be nice to know some of the thoughts behind the gorgeous façade.
I swallowed, tracking my gaze over his thick wrists up his forearms and biceps and shoulders. The jacket he was wearing disguised nothing. I knew what he looked like underneath. At least from the waist up. I could still see him in my mind standing in the gloom at the edge of my bed last night.
I shifted in my leather seat, suddenly uncomfortable. I felt a heavy pulse between my thighs. I crossed and uncrossed and crossed my legs, tugging at the hem of my dress as it rode above my knees with my movements. I should have changed into yoga pants for the drive.
Keep it together, Mathers.
He might not have a wife, but he probably had a girlfriend. When he was done playing protector for the day, he was probably getting in bed with her.
I could easily visualize him tossing his jacket aside and stripping off his shirt. I didn’t know if he had a sexy back, but I was guessing he did. Broad at the top with valleys and rises of sinew and muscle tapering to a narrow waist. I envisioned that back and his bare ass, tight and firm, wedging between some anonymous woman’s thighs.
I squeezed my thighs against the sudden clenching in my core and tried to will the sensation away. I could draw on this fantasy later, when I was alone. That would be better anyway. I knew that for a fact. Sure, he was hot, but that didn’t mean he could deliver. He’d come close, but it was doubtful it would have happened. It never did. I knew all about the failure to fulfill.
Men simply didn’t know how to get women off. I should know. I’d had three men and none could manage it. Just another reason I had sworn off men. I didn’t need them emotionally and I definitely didn’t need them for physical gratification. I’d become very proficient at achieving my own releases.
“Do you disagree with me?” I asked, pushing to get to his opinion. “You think women need men?”
“That seems like a loaded question. Nothing I say here is going to be right.”
“So you’re just going to avoid—”
“People need people,” he declared. “We’re not meant to be solitary creatures.”
Frowning, I sank deeper in my seat. “Well. I’ve been alone for four years, and I’ve quite enjoyed it.”
Defensiveness lifted off me and swelled in the air around us. We drove along in silence until he said, “My apologies if I’ve offended. You did ask.”
I blinked at the suddenness of h
is voice beside me and cleared my throat. “Not at all. You can think as you like. I speak my truth the way I see it. You should speak yours.”
We drove for several more miles without conversation. Then, he asked, “How did you come to marry three times?”
I inhaled deeply. It was a question put to me several times from different people.
“It boggles the mind, does it not?” I nodded, allowing that. “I often ask myself the same question. How could I be so stupid?”
“You’re not stupid. That’s obvious to anyone who talks to you for more than thirty seconds.”
I absorbed that, letting it make me feel better about myself. Admittedly, it felt good to hear him say such a thing. It felt good knowing he’d thought about me enough to form this assessment.
“I was searching for something,” I admitted. “Something outside of myself.”
When I left my third ex, I had reached this point of clarity. Unfortunately it took three failed relationships for me to realize I had been going about my life all wrong—that I had been looking outside of myself—in others—for happiness, for a sense of completion. Now I knew what I had done wrong. I wouldn’t be that needy person again.
I hadn’t sworn off men forever. Just for the rest of my life.
“And what was it you were searching for?”
I shook my head, not really wanting to get into it too deeply with him. And yet I heard myself saying, “I don’t think it exists.”
“What?” he pressed.
“Happiness. Contentment. A perfect love. Of course, it’s a mistake looking outside of one’s self for those things.”
He shrugged. “Well, you’re right about perfect not existing, but I don’t know. I think happiness and contentment can be had with someone else.”
“With someone, yes. I don’t dispute that. But another person can’t solve your dissatisfaction or unhappiness, and that was my mistake.”
“Doesn’t mean you stop looking though, does it?”
I looked at him closely. “Are you looking?”
In my experience, men weren’t generally open to admitting they were looking for love. And how hard could it be for this guy to find a woman to love? With that delicious voice and body and face?
Naughty Brits: An Anthology Page 18