by Marie James
Remington
I take in gasps of air, flipping over and floating on my back.
My seduction techniques usually work better than they did earlier. Playing men to get what I want was a skill I honed watching my mother at a young age. Seduction and temptation is how she convinced Charles that marrying her was the best decision he’d ever make. The man, despite the picture-perfect image he had, was still a man at the end of the day. They always cave. Men always think with their cocks when push comes to shove.
Well, not Flynn Coleman. He doesn’t seem the least bit interested. I thought I had him when his eyes scanned my chest earlier, but when he looked back up at me, all I could read was disgust in his eyes. Maybe he doesn’t like to be seduced.
I purse my lips, running my hands over the top of the water. I’m in a full bathing suit. The sting of rejection from Flynn made me want to cover up. If it were practical, I would’ve put on a chin-to-ankle wet suit.
Maybe he’s the type of man that wants a quiet, shy virgin-like—if he only knew—type girl.
Whatever his tastes are, I don’t seem to fit the bill.
Leaning close to him was an attempt to drive him wild, yet I was the one rushing out of the room because it was getting difficult to control my own breathing. Turning men on has always been a game—one I controlled every aspect of. Tonight? Somehow the tables were turned and I was the one left panting. And what does that say about me, because he didn’t do a thing, didn’t say a word. His warm breath ghosted over my skin, but it was a life-sustaining act not an attempt to make goosebumps cover every inch of my body. Except, that’s exactly what happened.
Staying in my room and finishing what I started in the kitchen seemed like the best idea, but I wouldn’t cave, not even in the privacy of my own suite. The pool, I imagined, was a better idea, but even though I spend most of my time out here, I forgot that the water is heated, and rather than cooling me off like a cold shower would, each ripple against my skin feels like a fingertip tracing the curves of my body. The laps of water against the edges sounds like wet-mouth-on-skin kisses. It’s making things worse, making my body get warmer and warmer, making my thoughts race.
With a huff, I spin around, unintentionally taking in a mouthful of water that makes me sputter. It angers me further as I climb out of the pool and wrap an oversized towel around my shoulders.
The silence of the house is normally a comfort for me but the echo of my wet feet on the marble stairs drives me to a breaking point. I don’t bother to fix my hair more than struggling to put the damp tresses into a messy bun. My clothes consist of jeans, sneakers, and a long-sleeved shirt.
Before I can analyze what my plans are, I’m swinging my bedroom window open, pushing the screen to the ground below and climbing out on the roof.
A cool breeze skates over my face, but I ignore the chill. I haven’t snuck out of my room like this since I was a teenager, and it breathes a little bit more life into my lungs, the suffocating pressure from being in the same house with him drifting away on the breeze. The freedom of standing so far above the ground is exhilarating, the danger of falling a thrill I used to live for.
Climbing down is a little more tedious than I remember, and as I descend, I make a mental note to do more agility exercises. Once my feet are firmly on the ground, I bend at the waist and take a moment to get my breaths under control. What used to electrify me with adrenaline turns into real fear that I could’ve fallen and seriously hurt myself. If I dropped from the roof, I probably wouldn’t die, but I’d lie in pain on the damp grass with no one knowing I was there until Charles checked the yard via the camera system in the morning. Then I realize I’ve moved most of the cameras so I can sneak around outside without being seen. My bedroom window and below isn’t caught on a single camera angle, and that’s purposeful.
“It’s dangerous.” Flynn’s words hit me in the chest, making breathing even more difficult.
Is sneaking around at twenty even worth the trouble? Is the danger I put myself in worth the thrills it gives me? Or should I say gave me because now that I’m outside of the house, I begin to wish I was snuggled in my bed. Unable to get back the way I came, I walk the perimeter of the house toward the front door. Ringing the doorbell to get back inside since I didn’t have enough sense to grab my keys will be embarrassing, but I don’t see any other way. I don’t have friends that are considerate enough to come pick me up, so that’s not an option.
I squeal when my sneaker slips on the damp ground, nearly falling to my ass, but then my ears perk up at a noise.
A rustling sound makes all of my senses go on high alert, and I immediately regret complaining about light shining into my bedroom window in an effort to darken this side of the house.
Adrenaline fills my blood, ordering me to run, and I obey, my feet threatening to slip out from under me with every step.
A sinister laughter fills my ears, and even though I’ve never heard it before, I recognize it immediately.
He has an amazing laugh, and the sound brings a smile to my lips as my feet carry me further around the house. I wasn’t lying when I told him being chased was the best part of running, but I don’t manage to get far, squealing half in delight, half in terror of what happens next when strong arms encircle my waist and pick me up off the ground.
Now in the light of the front of the house, our shadows combine into one, and as much as I want to settle and lean my head back onto his strong shoulder, that doesn’t really fit the character I started playing years ago. I’m petulant, aggravating, and unruly. That’s how I’ve portrayed myself.
“Remington,” he coos in my ear, the tone calmer and more joyful than the grip he has on my body. God, if only I were still wearing the tank and shorts from earlier, I could feel more of the heat from his body.
Is he smiling? If so, I hate that I’m facing away from him and missing it.
“Stop struggling,” he commands, but I just can’t.
If I quit moving, I’m going to feel things. I’m going to want to arch my back and press my ass against his groin. I’m going to want to turn in his arms and press my lips to his. I’m going to want to run my fingers through his serious haircut and tease my fingers along the shadow of his jawline.
And I’ll be rejected. Every interaction we’ve had over the last thirty-six hours has been a rejection, and I’m too raw from the last time to survive another one so soon.
Effortlessly, Flynn moves us, pushing me against the cold stone of the house, his body aligning with mine from shoulder to thigh. Did his fingers flex against my waist or am I projecting my own desires here?
I clear my throat to speak, but I’m unable to form words. Even fully dressed, the warmth of his body begins to seep into mine, and I didn’t realize how starved for touch I was until this moment.
“Why are you running?” His breath is warm on my face, his chin resting on my shoulder.
“I—” The words cut off. I’m no expert on situations like this, but I’m fairly certain it’s not just his heart pounding against my body.
Jesus. Really? Does my running from him turn him on? If so, holding me like this really isn’t a deterrent. I think he’s going to find it has the opposite effect on me.
“Hmm?” It sounds like a purr, and I wish I was brave enough to wiggle my lower half to verify my presumptions, but I’m not.
I don’t think a cold shower is going to be enough to calm the heat rushing through my blood right now.
“I want you to chase me,” I pant, squeezing my eyes closed with the words.
I’ve said them numerous times before but until this moment, I said them in an effort to drive the people my parents hired away. I don’t want Flynn to disappear. I don’t want him to get fired like all the others. I want to get to know him better. I want him to get to know the me that isn’t a spoiled brat hellbent on getting what she wants. The only problem is, I don’t know how to make that transition. Man, I really need a session with my therapist.
“Are you going to g
o inside and go to bed if I let you go?”
Please, don’t let me go.
I manage a shrug, and he pushes harder against me. What he probably deems a punishment makes me moan. There’s no denying his reaction to this situation. It’s pressed against me, hard and ready.
I’m seconds away from throwing myself at him, knowing it’ll be hard for him to deny me in the state I’m in, and that scares the hell out of me. I freeze instead, clearing my throat in an attempt to build the courage to ask him to step back, but it seems he’s a mind reader because he moves of his own volition, putting at least a foot of space between us. His arms also fall away, but I don’t make a move to pull myself from against the side of the house. Cool night air hits my back, making it very clear just how much heat we were generating between the two of us.
“I want you to go to bed.”
I want you to come with me.
Despite my need for space, I still can’t stop the train of thought.
“I’m not a child,” I manage, finally taking a step back. I focus on adjusting my clothes and avoiding his eyes.
“You’re acting like one. What would’ve happened if you fell and hurt yourself climbing down the side of the house?”
I would’ve cried, regretted my decision, and felt sorry for myself.
“I was fine,” I snap. “I do it all the time.”
It’s only half of a lie considering I haven’t done it in years, but he doesn’t know that.
“Go to bed, Remington.”
I bite my lower lip, the growl in his voice doing dirty things to me. Would he use the same tone when he commanded me to come?
I shake my head to rid it of the thoughts. Maybe him sticking around isn’t such a good thing. I can already feel my sanity slipping.
“Yes,” he demands, reading my reaction wrong.
With a huff, acting in character, I turn around and stomp toward the front door. Flynn uses his key to open it, and I don’t waste any time getting away from him.
Once in my room, I strip naked and jump into the coldest shower my body can manage, refusing to do what I really want to do. Touching myself to thoughts of him isn’t going to happen, not with the number of times he’s shot me down. I may be a little crazy, but I’m not that desperate.
Chapter 7
Flynn
“I want out.”
Silence fills the line, and I know it’s Deacon’s way of forcing me to think about my words and giving me a chance to change my demand. I don’t. I won’t. Staying here is a mistake. Chasing after a grown woman who insists on acting like a toddler is a waste of everyone’s time. Especially mine. Especially since holding her last night felt way too good. Especially since I woke up sweaty and breathing hard after she managed to invade my dreams once I was finally able to crash.
“No,” my boss finally says once he realizes I’m not going to backpedal.
“What the hell do you mean, no? This is the most ridiculous assignment. She’s grown.”
“She’s accepted what she has to deal with to stay at that house.”
“This has to be illegal,” I argue. “I’m like a damn prison guard with this girl, and honestly, she’s a damn escape artist. I run marathons and I’ve never been more tired before in my life. I’ve only been here two days and I have bags under my eyes.”
“And you’re starting to sound like Brooks. I can ask him what his skin care routine is if you like.”
Two different chuckles fill the line.
“Is he in there with you?”
“Exfoliate and moisturize!” Brooks yells from somewhere near Deacon.
“Very professional, boss.”
“You called me. We were discussing a case. I didn’t call him in here to give you a hard time.”
“Is he chasing a girl around the city and getting arrested and thrown in jail like a perverted criminal?”
He snorts another laugh, and I squeeze my cell phone so hard, I wouldn’t be surprised if I cracked the screen.
“He’s gaining intel on a corporate espionage case.”
“Yeah,” I grumble. “Seducing beautiful women into spilling secrets is backbreaking work.”
“We all have our crosses to bear.”
“I want out,” I repeat, even though I know I’m not going to change his mind. “Her parents are crazy for even asking this of people to begin with. Did Wren tell you about the cameras?”
Deacon sighs. “Yes. He told me that there is nothing untoward going on with them or Mr. Blair’s check-ins. No one is sneaking peeks of your half-naked girl.”
“She’s not my girl,” I hiss.
Silence once again fills the line, and I have no idea what look Deacon has on his face, but it’s serious enough that even Brooks isn’t making jokes in the background any longer.
“Flynn.” I know that tone. This is the tone he has to use all too often with Wren when the IT specialist crosses virtual lines that could get Blackbridge Security shut down. “What’s going on?”
“She’s driving me crazy. Can’t you just tell the Blairs that this job isn’t the right fit for us?”
“Has anything inappropriate happened?”
“Other than her acting like a child?”
“You know we do extensive background checks on all clients. As strange as it may seem, the Blairs check out. Remington has an agreement with her parents that she’ll have a personal security detail at all times. In exchange, she gets to live happily in her perfect life in her cushy mansion and want for nothing.”
“She’s not happy,” I mutter.
“What?”
“How long? The last guy was here for two years. I love my job, but I didn’t sign on with Blackbridge to do this type of work for extended periods of time.”
“Then make her see reason. If the girl calms down and stops acting out, then another company, one that doesn’t require BBS’ skill set, will be able to take over.”
“You want me to tame her?”
A snort of laughter comes from the phone, and even though I can tell it’s Brooks and not Deacon, it still makes me see red.
“Did Wren forget to add that part into the dossier he prepared?”
Pulling the phone away from my ear, I stare down at the screen. Did he really just say that?
“Deacon,” I growl.
“You’re doing great work. It’s been two days and she hasn’t gotten seriously hurt or injured. Although the photos that leaked of her at lunch yesterday are less than desirable, at least it’s not scandal worthy.”
“Photos?” I ask but Deacon cuts me off.
“We have work to do. Keep up the good work.” The phone goes dead.
Admitting I want out of this house, out of this city, and out of this entire situation sits heavy in my gut, forcing me up the stairs to check on Remington once again. I’m torn, figuratively, right down the middle. If I stay, it’s only going to make things worse. I’m going to do or say something I won’t be able to take back, something that’s going to put another black mark on my record. If I leave, I know I’ll think about her constantly which is utterly absurd. I’ve known this girl two-and-a-half days, not even seventy-two hours, and she’s invaded every fucking thought like an incurable virus.
When I crack open her bedroom door—a violation of her privacy I refuse to acknowledge—I find her still snuggled under her blankets, completely cocooned in her bed. She’s normally up by now, and it makes me wonder if she got sick last night out on the damn grass.
My mother would say yes, but scientifically I think she’d have to be introduced to germs or some shit like that. Hell, what do I know? A sound from downstairs pulls me away from her door before I can go to press the back of my hand against her forehead. Like an asshole I can sometimes be, I make sure to close the door louder than necessary.
Coming down the stairs is like walking into the filming of a television series. Mr. and Mrs. Blair sweep into the house, trailed by an entourage of people carrying bags and fussing over them. It takes
so many people for them to simply walk into the house, you’d think they were escorting the Queen herself.
Carla Blair lowers her sunglasses down her nose as she notices me, not bothering to hide the way her eyes sweep from the business-like loafers on my feet, up my dark slacks, landing on the open button at the base of my throat. No uniform was required for the position, but I wouldn’t put it past this woman to ask me where my tie and suit jacket are.
“Flynn Coleman,” I say, crossing the landing and holding out my hand.
She takes it, reluctantly, and regardless of my background and training, to her, I’m just the help. She doesn’t seem like she can tie her own damn shoes without an assistant, yet she’s disgusted with touching my hand. She releases it quickly, and I think I’m just as relieved as she is.
I school my face to impassivity, hands clamped together in front of me.
“Any problems while we were gone,” Mr. Blair asks as he walks up, not as shy to shake my hand.
I still don’t like the man, but that has more to do with my proven-wrong suspicions than anything he’s actually done. His smile is so fake and bright I’m surprised the light in the room doesn’t reflect a starburst off of them. Celebrities and politicians are so much alike, and even with my limited involvement with both, I’m not really a fan of either.
“No problems at all,” I lie. I complete the reports that are to be submitted each week to the Blairs and unless Remington does something off the damn wall, it won’t go in the report. This isn’t daycare and regardless of her behavior, she isn’t a child to be tattled on.
Mrs. Blair huffs. “And I guess the pictures in the tabloids are photoshopped.”
“I haven’t been made aware of any pictures, ma’am.”
Technically, I haven’t seen any pictures, but it was added to my to-do list the minute Deacon mentioned them.
What could they possibly be? Me getting dragged away by the cops? A crotch shot of her while she was flailing in that damn sexy-as-hell sundress?
It must not be too bad because no one pulls out a phone or print copy of the photos to shove in my face.