by Molly Joseph
He made some murmured, calming sound and she melted against him, not in a weird, inappropriate way, but in the way of someone who had been shouldering a heavy burden for too long and needed a moment of respite. It broke his resistance. He wrapped her in his arms the way he’d wanted to ever since she’d talked to him about Marie Antoinette and Antarctic horses, and how that was part of the plan.
She was part of a plan too. He didn’t know how to protect her from that. “It’s a lot, isn’t it?” he asked. “I can’t imagine how it feels.”
She turned her face into his chest. He cradled her head, marveling at the soft slide of her hair between his fingers. He felt her give a shuddery sigh.
“You’re supposed to protect me,” she said. “Can’t you take me home? I don’t want to do this anymore.”
She looked up at him with so much hope, so much trust. He found himself considering her request. They could pack right now and go to the airport. He could have her home by morning. But then what? She couldn’t get away from chess any more than he could leave his job as her bodyguard. He moved his hands down to massage her shoulders. It wasn’t necessarily inappropriate. Apply reassurance contact when the client is tearful or distraught, to let them know you are there. The contact should be light, fleeting, and nonsexual in nature.
He was more or less pawing his client, and she wasn’t stopping him because she was having a needy moment. Wrong. This is wrong, Sam.
He brushed her hair back out of her eyes. “You should probably calm down before we make any rash decisions. You need to rest. We can talk about this in the morning.”
“I can’t sleep. I want to go. Right now.”
“We can’t go right now.”
“Why won’t you help me?”
She shivered under his blanket, and gazed up at him in entreaty, and somehow, some way, Why won’t you help me? turned in his mind to Why won’t you kiss me? His fingers slid along the delicate line of her cheekbone and over her ear to wrap around her nape. He heard her soft intake of breath before his lips met hers.
He didn’t kiss her hard and she didn’t recoil. In fact, it was so soft and dreamlike a kiss that it might not have happened. Except she was blinking up at him, and it had happened, and it shouldn’t have happened.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “That was so far out of line.”
She let go of the blanket and pressed against the front of him, standing on her tip toes. This time she kissed him and it wasn’t in his power to draw away. Light again, tentative. This wasn’t kissing...it was exploring a possibility.
No, his mind yelled. You have to stop this.
But his arm went around her waist, pulling her closer. They kissed again, light brushes replaced by something firmer, hungrier. His hand moved lower to cup the curve of her ass. All the longing of the past weeks crystallized in the scent and shape of her. Young and fragile. And so innocent. He shouldn’t want her with a craving like pain, but he did, damn it.
He left the blanket on the floor and picked her up, and carried her into her room and onto her bed. He would do this to calm her down. He had to distract her from her stresses and problems. He’d promised Zeke something like that, hadn’t he?
No, Zeke hadn’t meant this. And Sam knew this hot, impulsive interlude between them couldn’t proceed to its natural conclusion. But he’d kiss her, oh, just a little while more. She squirmed beneath him, moving over to make room for his bulk in her bed. Despite their different sizes, they fit together perfectly, their mouths, their lips engaged in a heedless, breathless dance. His hands roved over her, from the feminine shape and weight of her breasts to the enticing line of her hips. He wanted to be inside her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.
His fingertips teased her nipples through her tee shirt and she gasped, arching against him. There was no thought, just connection. Her sighs, her warmth, the softness of her body, all of it seemed new and yet familiar.
She was his, he thought. That was why he’d felt this nagging pull to her since the beginning. She’d always been his.
No.
She wasn’t his.
She was his client.
“No,” he groaned against her skin, hating himself for it. He pulled away and buried his face in the hollow of her neck. “Grace, we can’t do this. No.”
“I don’t care.” She wound her fingers in his hair. “It’s okay. I don’t care.”
“You don’t understand. It’s not allowed. Company policy,” he spit out, like that had any relation to what was going on between them.
“I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” She clung to him, so frantic and sweet. “Please.”
“No. I can’t protect you if I’m distracted. I won’t be able to do my job.”
Even now he could barely think from the intensity of blood beating in his brain. In his cock. Just once, he thought. He had condoms. He never went anywhere without condoms. Just this once I’ll fuck her, and then I’ll be over her. But he knew it wouldn’t work that way.
“I’m sorry,” he said, struggling to force the words out. “It’s not that I don’t want you. God, I want you, but I’m your bodyguard. There isn’t room for...for anything else. Especially this.”
She flinched at those words, but he hadn’t meant them to be harsh. “If I get involved with you, then someone else would need to fill my post. And I don’t want to trust your safety to anyone else. I care too much now. Grace...” How could he make her see the impossible position he was in? “I need to be your bodyguard until all of this is over. Can you understand that?”
The dark magic of their interlude was wearing off, draining little by little from her lust-hazy eyes. He could see consciousness return, and control. She touched her lips. “We can’t? Just once?”
“It wouldn’t be just once,” he said. “We both know that.”
“So we just forget this happened? Forget that we feel this attraction to each other?”
“I won’t forget.”
“Then what do we do?”
Sam pulled the covers over her, wrapping her up, hiding her. Now that he’d held her in his arms, it took all his willpower not to fall on her again. How did they move past this? “Do you want another bodyguard?” he asked, and this time it did sound harsh.
“No. I want you. I want you to be both.”
“I can’t be both. Not now. Maybe...later. When Dubai’s over.”
He felt her relax a little. “Oh. Dubai’s just a few weeks away.”
“Yes.” No mention of going home, not anymore. “After Dubai, when you don’t need a bodyguard, we’ll see how things go. But you might not want me then.” He pressed his forehead against hers, gathering his control. “You might want other things. You’ll be a big, famous chess champion then.”
She pushed away from him and stared at the ceiling for long moments. “You’re right. It’s not a good time for this. Everyone’s made so many sacrifices for me. Even you. I need to be concentrating on my game and the championship match. ” She turned back. “But you won’t be all weird in the meantime? You’ll still be my friend, right? Can bodyguards be friends with their clients?”
He touched her cheek. One last caress to sustain him. “I’ll be your friend forever, Gracie. No matter what.”
“Stay with me then. Hold me and help me sleep, like a friend would hold another friend.”
“Grace.” He grimaced. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Please.”
It was that last forlorn please that undid him. He relented and slid under the covers beside her, cursing himself for a fool. It’s not that he didn’t trust himself. He did. Making love to Grace would go against everything he stood for. It wouldn’t be professional, and worse, it would be taking advantage of her at a very vulnerable time. But sleeping beside her all night was going to cause him a wretched amount of pain.
“Just this once,” he said. “Only this one time, okay?”
“Okay.” She already sounded drowsy as she snuggled
against his side.
“Go to sleep, and don’t worry about anything.” He tucked the covers down between them. “I’ll protect you. That’s what I’m here for.”
Even if I have to protect you from myself.
Chapter Six: Own it
“Speculation—and scrutiny—is at a fever pitch. Can she defeat powerhouse Saad Al Raji? Everyone loves an underdog, and Grace Ann Frasier is an underdog.” — The New York Times
Sam heard the foot scuffs and Fredrik’s offended snort way too early in the morning.
“What the hell is going on here?” he asked in an outraged tone.
Grace shot up in bed. Sam got to his feet—fully dressed, thank God—and glowered at the man staring in at them from the door.
“This isn’t your room,” Sam snapped. “Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“Grace is my business,” Fredrik said. “I’m her second. I look out for her.”
Sam stalked toward him. “Get. Out.”
With a frown at Grace, Fredrik complied. Sam shut the door and leaned back against it. Okay. It was morning.
The morning after he’d monumentally fucked up.
“How are you feeling today?” he asked Grace. “Any better?” He tried to sound businesslike. He tried not to notice how appealing she looked in her faded tee, with her tousled bedhead hair.
“I’m feeling okay.” She wouldn’t look at him.
“About last night—”
She laid back and pulled the covers over her head. “Please don’t say anything. I’m sorry.”
He walked over and pulled the covers back down. “Sorry for what? It was my fault it happened. You were upset and I acted with a complete lack of integrity.”
She gazed up at him. “I wish you would kiss me again.”
He almost did. Shit, he wanted to. “Grace—”
“I know. I know, you’re right.” She turned on her side in a huff. “Everything you said last night was true, and you definitely shouldn’t kiss me. I’m sorry I made you sleep in here.”
“You didn’t make me.” Jesus, she wasn’t the one who should be apologizing. He sat on the bed and ruffled her long blonde curls. “I meant what I said, about after Dubai. It’s not that I don’t want you…”
She clapped a hand over her ear. “Please. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’m embarrassed.”
“Why?”
She didn’t say anything, just lay there with her eyes closed as if she was in pain. He was in pain too. He needed to masturbate five or six times in a row to take the edge off. He needed an icy shower.
He needed to be inside Grace, but he wouldn’t do it. He had principles. She was paying him a lot of money, for fuck’s sake.
“After Dubai,” he said quietly. “We can do anything you want.”
She looked up at him with a pout. She couldn’t have any idea what that pout did to him. It was better if she didn’t know.
“For now, I think you need to haul yourself out of bed and get dressed,” he said. “We’re going to go to breakfast and come up with a plan.”
“A plan for what?”
“For you to sleep better at night. Come on.”
The sun tried to peek from the haze of winter as they trudged through fresh snow past the University of Helsinki and the surrounding brightly lit shops. They had a favorite coffee shop, a noisy, neon, sterile place with plastic tables and chairs. Sam thought the city tried to compensate for the gloom outside by brilliantly illuminating every building, window, and surface. Sometimes his eyes hurt from it.
“You want the usual?” he asked.
Grace nodded and headed for their high top table in the back. He was trying to forget last night had ever happened, but as soon as he brought the coffee over and sat across from her, he felt that pull.
Grace was quiet, but wasn’t she usually quiet? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t think of anything but the feel of her lips, and the way she arched against him when he touched her. He rubbed his eyes, smothering a frustrated growl.
Grace juggled her cup, somehow managing to dribble a line of coffee down the front of her sweater. Her brows drew together as she dabbed at it. No one would ever suspect this small, flustered, coffee-dribbled woman was the World Chess Challenger, that she’d met the President and been on the covers of magazines. That she’d flown here on a U.S. State Department plane. That people sent her death threats.
“You missed some right there,” Sam said, reaching over with his own napkin. It was a dark-colored sweater, fortunately.
“Thank you.” She sighed and raked a hand through her hair. “So, a plan. I need a plan. Well, there’s already a vague plan.”
“I think you need a sense of who’s in charge. Who’s really in charge here?”
She thought a moment. “FIDE, I guess. And the World Chess Federation.”
“No, you’re in charge.” He’d probably said that a little too sharply. He lowered his voice as she shrank back. “Look, I’m not yelling at you. I’m just saying, you’re the chess player. You’re the one who worked your way up through the rankings. None of this happens if not for you. You need to own it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that if people hate you, you think in your head, go ahead and hate me, fucker. I don’t give a fuck. You’re one of the top two chess players in the world, Gracie. You’ve earned the right to tell a few assholes to fuck off.”
A couple at the next table, who apparently understood English, glanced at him with a censorious look.
“I... I don’t normally use that kind of language,” Grace said.
He put his head in his hands. “It’s not about the language, okay? It’s about the attitude. There’s only one thing you should care about.”
“Winning?”
“Well, yeah, but I meant another thing.”
“Beating Al Raji?”
“Beating Al Raji and winning are the same thing. There’s still this other thing you should care about.”
“Umm.” She looked up, like the answer might be in the neon-reflecting porcelain tiles above their heads.
“Grace Ann Frasier,” he said with a sigh.
“Yes?”
“No, I mean, that’s the one thing you should care about. Grace Ann Frasier. You. Yourself.”
She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at him. “Okay, but I don’t think that was a fair question. I’m not a thing. So that threw me off. If you’d said, there’s one person you should care about...”
She aggravated him so much. He wanted to kiss her so badly when she got this way. He wanted to pull her into his arms and lay her back on the table, and spread her legs, and fuck her until she screamed for mercy. What would the uptight Finns at the next table think of that?
“Okay,” he said, opening his hands and taking a deep breath. “My point is, you need to stop running scared and start running the show. The Grace Ann Frasier Victory Show.”
“What if I lose?”
“And you need to stop thinking you’re going to lose.”
“I don’t think I’m going to lose, but I could lose,” she clarified as he stared at her lips. “That’s just a mathematical fact. There’ll be one winner and one loser.”
She dabbed at the coffee some more. I’m not the person who should be doing this, she’d said. But she absolutely was.
The Finnish couple left and another group took the table. In the sea of blond hair and blue eyes, the Arabs would have stood out even without their kufiya. Grace’s eyes went wide.
Sam watched them for a moment, then looked back at Grace. “Do you think they’d be that obvious? If they have a spy here, I guarantee you he looks like Fredrik.”
Sam still eavesdropped on their conversation, just in case. It turned out they were medical students debating scientific theses. If they were chess spies, they were very, very good chess spies, which he told Grace just to make her laugh.
“Even if they were spies,” he said, “what could they learn
about you here? That you like coffee?”
“They might assume you’re one of my seconds and try to find out stuff about you.”
“Like how I don’t play chess? Even if they knew that—” He stopped and lowered his voice. “Even if they knew that ‘K’ and ‘R’ and ‘F’ were your seconds, what do they really gain? Zeke said you already had a well-known style of play.”
“I do.”
“So who cares?”
“It’s the mental advantage of knowing. Some people don’t reveal their seconds until years after a match takes place.” She shrugged. “It’s just a thing. You haven’t been in the chess world so you don’t know.”
“Do you think it’ll psych them out when they learn you have a bodyguard?”
She stared down into her coffee cup. “They’ll assume it’s because I’m weak.” A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Which is an assumption I want them to make.”
“You like this strategy,” he said. “You pretend to be all stressed out, but you’re enjoying every minute of the intrigue.”
“Sometimes I’m stressed out,” she insisted. “Last night...” She paused, then barged ahead. “Last night I was stressed out. So I’m sorry for, you know, everything that happened that shouldn’t have happened.” She waved her arms and blushed right up to her dark-rimmed glasses.
He wanted to say he wasn’t sorry, that he loved kissing her and running his hands all over her body, but that wasn’t his line. His line was: “That’s okay. It was a crazy night.”
“But I think...” She avoided his gaze. “But I think you’re a really good kisser. Better than—” Her voice cut off abruptly. “Better than this one other guy I kissed.”
“Tell me it wasn’t Fredrik,” he said, totally as a joke.
She bit her lip. He leaned closer, gripping her wrist. “No, really, tell me it wasn’t Fredrik. Oh God, no. Not Fredrik.” He made a retching noise. It was immature, but he was traumatized.
“It was only one time. It was nothing.”
“Just a kiss, yes? Please? If you tell me you slept with him, I’m going to go find a cliff and jump off it right now.”
She laughed, blushing redder. “There are no cliffs around here and you don’t have to jump. There was definitely no sex. I’ve never...well. It was just a kiss, and I didn’t even like it.”