by Em Petrova
His eyes burned. Had he been studying her? Probably her imagination.
“I apologize for shutting the door in your face.”
She smiled. “You were kind enough to get me breakfast. How did you know I love yogurt and berries?”
He returned his gaze to the road unfurling before them. Long seconds passed before he said, “It’s my job to know your life.”
“Hm. But you were meant to guard Pierre.”
“Yes.”
“What’s his favorite breakfast?”
“Two soft-boiled eggs.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Just how close are you to your racecar driver, anyway?”
Brow crinkling at his question as well as his irritated tone, she snapped, “He’s not my racecar driver.”
“You’re not his lover?”
She gave him a double-take. “Why would you think that?”
“I saw how upset you were when you ran at me thinking I was Moreau.”
“We aren’t lovers,” she said after a long beat of silence.
He drove on as if he couldn’t care less. Then why did he ask?
“What else did you learn about me while I slept last night?”
He dipped his stare over her, from face to breasts and legs, and then quickly back up. So fast, in fact, that she questioned if she imagined the once-over.
“Enough to provide me an edge to making sure you’re happy as well as safe.”
She shook her head. “This agency you work for, then…you make sure you provide preferred foods and entertainment? Is that why you’re driving through the country? Because you know I like it?”
“I only know you like the countryside because you told me. And no, that has no bearing on my reason for driving this direction.”
“Where are we going?”
Again, he presented that frozen mask expression to her, like two boulders rolled together and closed him off completely. Well, he wouldn’t tell her more on the subject, would he?
They passed a quaint old farmhouse constructed of stone and sporting a slate roof in the old style. “Magnifique,” she whispered.
“The house?” Lars asked.
She continued to gawk at the structure. “I think I must have lived a past life in a French farmhouse, because just seeing them makes me feel like I’m coming home.”
“You live in Paris for your work.”
“Yes. But not forever. I’m saving to buy some property of my own someday.”
“How much do you have saved?”
Despite the personal question, she didn’t take offense. “Not enough yet. Someday.” She lost herself for long minutes in the daydream of waking in the mornings on her own schedule, without a single phone call waiting for her attention, and then sitting in a cheery, bright kitchen nook and taking coffee and breakfast.
“What are you thinking about?”
She looked at him in surprise. Lars’s voice didn’t bear that rough, growly tone she was becoming used to.
“I was thinking about a clothesline. About pulling down my cotton dresses and towels and sheets into a wicker basket.”
“Strange thing to think about.”
She twisted to look at him, a soft smile on her face. “I crave a simpler life. Is that so odd to you?”
For a beat, he remained silent. Then he said, “No.”
She examined him more closely, but he gave nothing away, and she couldn’t discern the reason for the tightness of his tone.
* * * * *
Lars ground his teeth with annoyance. Everything she asked—or spoke of, for that matter—had a way of throwing him off-kilter. Why? He’d asked himself the same question for several miles now and couldn’t find an answer.
She relaxed into the passenger seat and finally fell into silence. Good—he could gain some peace.
Miles passed, with more puffy sheep dotting fields. He even spotted one of her blasted clotheslines, the pale blue sheets flapping in the breeze.
He found himself looking at her again. He told himself for the fifteenth time that she was just another ward. Albeit one who confused a man like him who preferred to organize and label people in his mind. Filing humans into one group or another helped him understand how to deal with them. But he didn’t understand Lillian.
First, he couldn’t figure out why he wanted to look at her so often. She didn’t possess the bombshell beauty the redhead back at the Anderson-Tates’ party did. He tried to compare them in his mind’s eye, setting them side by side. Julianna’s curves against Lillian’s straight hips and flatter chest. Hands down, the curves won out. Right?
While she slept back at the inn, he’d studied Lillian’s face at length. French features, for all her American half. Straight nose, almost almond-shaped eyes. And her lips, though not as enticingly plump as Julianna’s, were full.
He also learned that he didn’t like the straight line they formed when she got stressed.
She crossed a leg casually over the other and rested her hands in her lap. From her nonchalant pose, no one would ever know she was being hunted. Yet early this morning, his reports said much differently.
“Are we heading to the coast?” She sat up straighter in her seat.
“Yes. I’m getting you out of France.”
Panic twisted her lips, and she began to fidget, smoothing palms over her trousers and bouncing her knees. Lars’s first instinct to touch her to still her nervous reactions were all wrong. He gripped the wheel to keep from reaching out to her and strumming his knuckles over hers.
“Is it really that bad?” Her voice projected as a harsh whisper.
His chest tightened from her fear. “It’s only for a short time while my people track down the root of the cell.”
“Cell?” Her voice hitched higher.
“Lil, you have to trust me in all this. I will keep you safe. Okay?”
“And we’re leaving by ship?”
“Private vessel.”
“From Saint-Malo.”
“Yes. Do you have a map of France engraved on your brain?”
“My father’s very proud of his country and made me study it as a child. We also traveled quite a bit,” she said offhandedly. But he could see she didn’t twist her hands as much when she talked, so he asked another question.
“Tell me about your father. What does he do?”
She eyed him, a pinch of worry between her long brows, which Lars had a sudden urge to smooth with his fingertip. “Why do you want to know?” she asked. “Does his work have any bearing on my situation? I thought all this is because I recognized the man who tried to kill Pierre.”
“That’s true. But humor me.” He attempted a crooked smile to ease her further, and to his relief, it worked. She dragged in a deep breath and stopped the constant bouncing motion of her knees.
“He works for a manufacturer.”
“What do they make?”
“Parts that go into cell phones. They’re all shipped out and assembled in China.”
“Interesting.”
“It’s not, but thank you for asking.”
A laugh escaped him.
“You’re laughing at me?”
“You’re quite polite at times and others not at all. Why is that?” He centered his gaze on her, picking apart her features all over again. Straight nose. Nothing remarkable there. Eyes that narrowed at the corners, creating an almond shape. He’d seen that before. So why couldn’t he stop staring at her?
“I suppose my less polite side comes from my American mother.”
“Are you saying Americans are rude?”
“No. I’ve known many rude people in France. Though is it not the case that…how do you say it? Americans give less fucks.”
Damn. He didn’t know whether to laugh at the dirty word falling from Lillian’s lips or feel turned on. He directed his thoughts to his task instead. Get her onto the boat and…
Try not to see if those full lips taste as good as they lo
ok.
Hell no. I put her onto the boat and contact North to get more answers about Moreau’s sponsor and who else he might have in his back pocket. Someone besides the hitmen and whoever made the bet might be involved. For hours now, he’d puzzled over why they turned their attention from Moreau to Lillian so fast.
“And your mother? What does she do?”
“She’s a nurse.”
“My mother is too,” he blurted. He never, ever shared his personal life with a ward, but it was too late to retract the words.
“A profession that doesn’t get enough praise.” She wrung her fingers.
To keep her talking, another tidbit of his life slipped out. “My adopted mother.”
“Oh.”
“It’s all right. No sad story behind my adoption. My parents went to Russia and adopted me from an orphanage.”
Her stare worked over his face now, as though picking apart his features the way he had hers earlier. When their eyes connected, he cocked a brow at her. She tore her gaze away, but a flush coated her cheekbones.
God, what he wouldn’t do to see her unwound. She’d be like a tight bud blossoming into a flower, the petals delicate… He sucked that thought back and locked it away in a vault.
Wards were off-limits. Besides, he preferred a great set of tits and some lush hips he could grab onto—and that description didn’t fit Lillian Delphine.
He could put in a request to swap wards. Dealing with that cocky racecar driver Moreau sounded a hell of a lot better right now. And at least he wouldn’t be gawking at him wondering what kind of secrets went on behind those hazel eyes.
* * * * *
The boat had enough space for her to hide below deck and stay out of Lars’s way. Seemed the man knew how to navigate the waters, and she could relax. Or sleep.
She didn’t feel comfortable being out of the man’s sight, which was plain silly. The dark sea didn’t show another boat in sight, so unless a submarine raised from the depths and the drivers boarded their boat, she was safe.
The hum of the engine started getting on her nerves hours ago. She tried to ignore it and focused on enjoying the salty tang of the air instead. The sun had dropped behind the horizon, though, and she wrapped her arms around herself to gather more warmth.
“There’s clothing for you. Did you check below deck?” Lars’s voice drew her head around.
“Clothing?”
“Yes.”
She stood and found her sea legs, making her way down the short run of steps leading under the bow of the vessel. It took her a moment to locate a light switch. After she scanned the space, she spotted a bag on the floor. It looked like her luggage left behind in her hotel back in Le Mans.
When she hoisted the bag onto the bed, her mind raced through the realities. Someone had gone into her room, packed her clothes and placed it here for her. How did such things take place, and did Lars order it done?
After unzipping the case, she saw her own clothing neatly folded inside. A cry threatened at her lips as the situation washed over her again. Her simple life of work and small pleasures didn’t mix with the things she’d faced over the past two days. The fast getaways by motorbike and then the van Lars stole. Driving through the countryside and arriving dockside, where Lars guided her onto a luxury boat. Now they were bound for somewhere out of the country.
She reached into the bag and pulled out her favorite sweater, a cozy navy knit just warm enough for cold nights at Le Mans, which had been her reason for packing it. Now she pulled off her blouse and drew the sweater over her head. It settled against her skin like an old friend, and she was grateful to have her own things.
Then she shucked off her trousers and dirty underwear, replacing them with clean panties and a faded pair of blue jeans. When she returned to the deck, she felt more herself than she had in hours.
Lars’s gaze traveled over her, leaving her with awareness skittering over her skin again. She looked back at him, not bothering to hide her curiosity. His broad shoulders bore a tension she never noticed before, but seeing it made her want to go to him and knead her knuckles into the knots until they released.
He watched her openly. “Are you happy to have fresh clothes?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He nodded. She noted the hard set of his jaw and the lines formed around his lips.
“You’re tired. Let me drive the boat,” she offered.
“No.”
There it was again—the stony-faced man she knew as her bodyguard Lars.
“You don’t think a woman can be a good driver?”
“That’s not what I said. Just no.”
“No one is around. I can handle the controls and use the GPS as well as you. Besides, I’ve sailed before. I had a friend in college whose family spent summers on a sailboat.”
Against the deep blue night sky, Lars appeared to be more machine than man. A robot or maybe a cyborg.
Suddenly, he cut the engine. The noise dropped. For a moment, she thought he might offer her the helm, though he didn’t move. He only stared at her, unmoving, unblinking, his expression unreadable.
“Lars—”
He reached out to where she sat on the plush leather seat and cupped her face. Her heart stopped for a painful, pulsing second. His long fingers stretched up the side of her face. Warm, solid and perfectly rough.
Confusion hit her, and she tried to make out his reason for touching her. Was he about to throw her to the ground and save her life again? The quiet lap of water along the sides of the boat didn’t ring with danger.
With slow, precise movements, he wrapped his other hand around her wrist. He looked down at where he held her.
“Christ, you’re so small,” he rasped.
Her heart thundered in an erratic beat like horses that forgot how to gallop, and each hoof landed in a different, wrong rhythm.
His stare locked on hers, and she stopped breathing. All of a sudden, he withdrew his hands and latched on to the wheel again.
What just happened? She blinked at the expanse of water before them and the thin stream of moonlight kissing the waves. He touched her—why? He had no reason other than personal ones, and even if she asked, she knew the stubborn man would never share his thoughts.
With an unsteady sigh, she tried to find an answer—any answer—besides the one gripping her insides far too tight.
“Lars.”
He pivoted his head, and she knew—dammit, she knew by the burning intensity in his eyes and the way he dropped his attention to her mouth.
She wasn’t imagining it. Whatever attraction jumping out and surprising her for the past two days didn’t seem one-sided anymore.
She slipped from her seat, drawn to the man, and closed the slight gap between their chairs. When she eased into his lap, Lars tensed so much he felt like granite. But that didn’t stop her from tilting her face up and pressing her lips to his. She gasped.
They felt surprisingly… shockingly…yielding. She angled her head.
A rough growl escaped Lars, and he yanked her flush against him, pinning her to the steel of his chest. “You’re playing with fire, woman.”
“I don’t know why I’m doing this. Honestly, I must be crazy. You don’t like me, and I certainly don’t like you—”
He crushed his mouth to hers, cutting off all words. Her eyes slipped closed as the pressure of his kiss sank through her entire body and then gripped it with an iron fist. Need burned low in the pit of her stomach, and she parted her lips on a soft moan.
He released her mouth as quick as he’d claimed it, but he didn’t push her off his lap. Her bottom nestled snug against his muscled thighs…and she’d never felt so safe in her life.
“Why did you kiss me just now?” she whispered.
“You kissed me.”
“You kissed me back.”
“To make you stop talking,” he rumbled.
Her eyelids fluttered shut in a mixture of annoyance from his words and the lingering effects of
his kiss melting her into one big emotion she couldn’t name. And she wanted him to kiss her again.
“Maybe I have more to say,” she whispered, staring at his mouth.
He surged forward. A clamp of need snapped on her insides, and she slid her arms around his broad shoulders as he explored her mouth much more slowly this time. His rough five o’clock shadow scorched her cheeks, and then the tip of his tongue scalded against hers, rousing a cry from her.
He answered with a groan of his own and threaded his fingers into her hair to angle her head. When he plunged his tongue deep into her mouth, she couldn’t keep her own from questing for his. The taste and feel of Lars was nothing like she expected, and in seconds, her body was on fire.
As he explored her mouth with slow sweeps of his tongue, he bent her back over his arm. Cradling her head in one big palm, he splayed his fingers in her hair while he plundered her. She dug her own fingers into his shoulders while she swore she saw stars dancing around her.
When he finally lifted his head, she read the heavy desire on his face. A full heartbeat passed.
Suddenly, he yanked her upright and pushed her off his lap onto her feet. Cold air cut through her haze, chilling her. Did she have any right to feel hurt by his rejection? After all, she initiated the kiss. In the past few hours, she must have lost her mind. She didn’t even like the man.
“Go below,” he ordered.
“No, you stubborn ass of a man. I’m taking charge for a while. You’re going to let me drive so you can get some rest. It’s late and I haven’t seen you sleep at all.”
“I’m not going to sleep, Lil.”
She felt a bit sorry she’d given him the right to use her nickname. Now that his scent and flavor flooded her head, she didn’t welcome the intimacy of him using the name.
“When did you last sleep?” she demanded. She had little sense of time either. The autumn nights were coming sooner, but she wore no watch, and he’d confiscated her phone. It might be eight o’clock or midnight.
He glanced at her and then away. “I said you should go below deck.”
“And I said no.” She folded her arms. “Let me drive the craft for a while. You clearly could use a break.”
He glared at her. She glared back.
“You’re not going to budge on this, are you?” he bit off.