The Protector

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  my phone in my hand vibrates and for a fleeting moment, I worry that my father has found out about me and Jake. Then I laugh, because how could he know?

  I see Heather’s name and take the call. “Hey.”

  “Oh my God, Camille!”

  I back up into the kitchen and rest my arse on the worktop. “What?” I ask nonchalantly. Call me a terrible friend, but I can’t tell her what’s happened. I don’t want anyone to know. I trust her, of course, but it’s…complicated.

  “Are you serious? I saw your face last night when he carried you out. And I saw his!”

  “He was doing his job, Heather.”

  “Fuck off, Camille!” She sounds truly annoyed. I can’t blame her, but my guilt doesn’t prompt me to confirm what she thinks she knows. “Where’s Jake?”

  “On his laptop,” I lie, avoiding the fact that he’s still in bed. My bed. Where I plan on being the moment Heather stops interrogating me and gets off the phone.

  “Right.” She sighs. “I can tell I’m going to get nowhere here.”

  “There’s nowhere to go.”

  “Sebas—”

  “Please don’t,” I blurt, cutting her off. “I don’t ever want to talk about him again.”

  She’s silent for a few seconds before she breathes out tiredly. She can’t possibly argue with that. “For the record, Cami, I’m glad Jake was there.”

  “Me too,” I answer quietly.

  “What are you up to?”

  “Going over my portfolio.”

  “Want some help?”

  My guilt intensifies as I glance toward my bedroom door. “I’m good, thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Okay.” Heather relents after a loud sigh, before she hangs up. I waste no time tearing myself up for lying. I run back to my room and climb into bed, smiling when Jake seizes me and tugs me into his front, spooning me deliciously.

  “We’re staying here until tomorrow,” he says in my ear, rough and sleepily.

  My answer is a sigh as I push myself further into his warm chest.

  * * *

  Tomorrow comes too quickly. The director of the shoot is less than delighted when I turn up at the studio with a bruise on my cheek. Jake’s eyes each time he’s looked at me have flashed with danger, making my instinct to cover the reminder of the awful night instinctive. But each time I’ve laid my palm over my cheek, he’s pulled it away and dipped to kiss the blemish.

  Heather called me again last night to check up on me. Jake was still in my bed. She slipped into the conversation that Seb refused a trip to the hospital, and I know why. Any trace of Seb’s habit being detected by his parents or professionals and he’ll be carted back to rehab faster than Jake can draw his gun. Which is fucking fast. I’ve seen it only once and I never want to see it again. He looks formidable enough without a loaded weapon in his grasp.

  I smile, thinking about how Jake couldn’t keep his hands off me for the rest of yesterday. He meant what he’d said. We didn’t leave my bed all day. Then the moment we left my apartment this morning, he was emotionless and professional. Almost hard and cold. His edginess was palpable, his body close to mine the entire journey here. His eyes were watchful on the drive, his attention trained on every bit of our surroundings. I’ve no doubt that it’s because today is three days since that threat was delivered. He’s hyperalert.

  I drop my bag to the floor and keep still while Lawrence, the shoot director, fusses over my bruised cheek, wincing and mumbling under his breath. He doesn’t ask me how I came to have the corker of a mark, nor does he ask if I’m okay. His only concern is how to arrange the lighting and figure out how I can keep that side of my face angled away from the camera. I suspect makeup will take considerably longer this morning.

  “We’ll airbrush if worse comes to worst,” he declares, clicking his fingers. A young brunette scurries over with a pallet of foundations and a brush. “Honestly, Camille,” he says, scornfully, letting the makeup artist at me. “This shoot has been scheduled for weeks. Fancy getting yourself all scuffed up.”

  I roll my eyes to myself, clocking Jake by the doorway scowling at Lawrence. He doesn’t look happy, and when he strides over, I fear the worst. Lawrence gives Jake the once-over with wary eyes, while Jake accepts, coming to a stop beside us. I look at him while the makeup artist pats at my cheek with a brush loaded with concealer.

  “Okay?” I ask, feeling tension building.

  Jake grunts his reply, staring Lawrence down until the director backs off and twirls, barking some orders at his staff.

  “Prick,” Jake spits, turning toward me. His eyes soften and he watches for a few moments as I’m poked at with a brush.

  “It’s not so bad,” the makeup artist says, moving away from me and inspecting her handiwork. “Let’s get you into makeup so I can work my magic.”

  “Thanks.” I smile. “Be there in a tick.”

  She leaves us, and I find myself reaching for my cheek again when Jake’s eyes darken. He steps forward to do what he’s done every time I’ve tried to hide the bruise. He goes to take my hand, but doesn’t make it any farther than midway between our bodies. He looks around, remembering we’re in public, before withdrawing. “What’s the shoot for?” he asks.

  “Perfume ad,” I tell him, pointing to the corner where an expanse of white screens are set up. “Clean and minimal scent by a new designer that complements her fashion line. The theme is clean and minimal, too. Silver on white.” I see interest creep onto his face as he takes in what I’ve said.

  “Minimal theme?” he asks, homing in on that one little detail. “What does that mean?”

  I laugh and collect my bag. “It means I won’t be wearing a lot.”

  He stiffens from top to toe. “How much is not a lot?”

  “A pair of knickers.”

  His dark eyes go all round and worried as his hand comes up and gestures at my chest area. “And here?”

  “Nothing.” I’m taking far too much pleasure from his evident alarm. It doesn’t matter that the camera angles will be manipulated to give a hint of full nudity without actually showing any of my bits. Jake doesn’t know that, and I’m enjoying playing with him.

  “Nothing?” he asks, having a quick peek around to check no one is in close proximity. He’s safe. Everyone is too busy setting up. “Cami.” He steps forward, bringing his head down a little so he can whisper. “You’ve never posed nude and I’m not sure it’s a step your career will thank you for. The design stuff. That’s your thing. Don’t give up on it.”

  I keep my amusement contained. It’s tricky. He’s trying to be diplomatic, when what he actually means and won’t say is that he’s not happy about me flashing my breasts to the world. His possessiveness is deeply satisfying. “I will keep focused on the design thing,” I assure him. “But this is a huge campaign with a massive backing from investors. Trust me, my career will thank me for it.”

  He scowls. It’s the most endearing expression. Then he unbends his tall body, back to full height, clearly thinking hard about what he should say. “I can’t sit here and look at you virtually naked. It’ll drive me mad.” He walks past me and my smile breaks out, watching as he tries to discreetly adjust his groin area, muttering as he goes.

  “Camille!”

  The familiar, excited voice pulls my attention away from my brooding bodyguard and to the dressing room entrance across the studio.

  “Shaun!” I race over to give him a hug. He and I have been in the industry for the same number of years, both of us having been headhunted by the same agency around the same time. He’s a dish—tall, dark, and handsome, with a cheeky single dimple that’s his trademark. Women fall at his feet, but he’s happily engaged to Cynthia, a TV presenter on a morning show. He literally doesn’t see the attention he gets. He’s modest and humble. I love him.

  “How are you?” I throw my arms around him, unperturbed by the fact that he’s sporting only a skimpy pair of silver trunks.

  He l
aughs and squeezes me. “I’m great.” Releasing me, he holds me at arm’s length, his happy face transforming into a frown the second he claps eyes on my cheek. “What happened here?”

  “Oh, nothing.” I brush his inquiry aside, ignoring the question on his face. “Nice trunks!” I look down at the dull silver scrap of material covering his manhood.

  He laughs. “Don’t get too cocky. Yours are smaller.”

  I giggle and jab him in the shoulder, noticing him looking past me with interest. “I’ve heard you’ve got yourself a bodyguard,” he says quietly. “And don’t you just.”

  I give him a tired look before glimpsing over my shoulder, finding Jake hasn’t yet left the studio. He’s now watching me from across the room like a hawk, standing looking professional and hyperalert. “I certainly do.”

  “I’m as straight as they come, Camille, but even I would.”

  “Shaun!” I gasp, giving him another smack. “Stop it and tell me how Cynthia is.”

  “Gorgeous as ever,” he replies quickly, making me smile. “She was pissed she had to work and couldn’t come and say hi.”

  “We’ll have to catch up soon,” I say, seeing the makeup artist poke her head around the door, looking for me. “Hey, I’m wanted.” I reach up and kiss his cheek. “See you on set.”

  “Yeah, see you in a bit.”

  I leave Shaun and make my way over to my dressing room, but I don’t get much more than three paces before my path is blocked. Jake is looking down at me, worried. “Everything okay?” I ask, not liking his pent-up disposition. He looks nervous.

  “Who was that?”

  I frown. “Shaun?”

  “Is that his name? The ponce in the sparkly knickers?”

  “You mean the silver trunks?”

  He waves an indifferent hand in the air. “Whatever. Who is he?”

  “He’s a model. We’re shooting together.” I see my makeup artist appear again, tapping at her watch face. “I have to get ready.” I go to pass him but get blocked.

  “Camille.” Jake comes in close, trying to be inconspicuous again. He’s a six-foot, four-inch, brooding bodyguard. It’s not possible for him to be inconspicuous. “You’ve just told me that you’re going to be wearing next to nothing on this shoot, and now you’re telling me Mr. Sparkly Knickers is going to be rubbing up against you?”

  I clamp my lips together and think how best to ease his concern. Something tells me nothing will work, and if it does, Jake isn’t going to hold on to that comfort for long, especially when we start the shoot and Lawrence instructs me and Shaun into what I know are going to be some interesting poses. “It’s work,” I say quietly.

  “It’ll be fucking torture, that’s what it’ll be.” He sucks in air, already preparing himself.

  I study him for a few moments, very aware that Shaun being on set isn’t the only thing that’s making Jake tense. He’s been edgy all morning. “You’re twitchy today.”

  His eyes shoot to mine. “Is it any wonder?” he asks, flicking his head to Shaun’s dressing room. He’s trying to avoid the real issue, which needs far more attention than my semi-naked model friend.

  “It’s day three.” I bite my lip nervously, but when Jake doesn’t acknowledge my observation, I sigh. “You should wait for me outside.”

  “I’d rather wait in here,” he mutters, moving to the side to let me pass. “Have fun.” There is zero sincerity in his light order, his scowl pointing to Shaun’s dressing room again. I move past him with caution and a little worry.

  This is going to be horrendous.

  Chapter 17

  JAKE

  It’s official. I’ve gone off my fucking rocker. I must have. Why else would I put myself through this? I’ve dumped myself on a black leather couch across the studio and I’m not moving. Not for nothing or no one. Not even for the toilet. I’ll piss my pants if I have to. Talking of pants, I’ve never seen anything so fucking ridiculous in my life. Silver trunks? He might be giving me a run for my money in the definition department, but he lost all hopes of a win the second he slipped into those sparkly knickers. What a twat! I try to relax in my chair, struggling to shake off the tension. My edginess isn’t just because of Mr. Sparkly Knickers, though he’s certainly adding a new dimension to my bad mood. It’s day three. The proverbial ticking time bomb could explode at any moment, and the unknown danger is making me twitch. I’m tense, snappy, and suspicious of everyone and everything. I should have kept her in bed all day.

  Camille appears from her dressing room, a thin white robe tied loosely around her, a woman following behind spraying at her hair with a can of something. I sit up straight and my cock comes to life.

  Holy…fuck…

  Her hair is wet and brushed off her face, showing every perfect piece of her skin. Wet blond locks are splayed over her shoulders, and her makeup appears barely there, though judging by how long she’s been in that room and the fact that there’s no trace of her bruised cheek, I suspect there’s plenty caked onto her skin. Her cheekbones look sharper, her eyes bluer and her lips fuller. She looks fucking divine.

  I cross my legs tactically, catching her flick a glance over to me. Her eyes are popping madly, the intensity of the topaz the only color on her face. This was a huge mistake, and my conclusion is only confirmed when someone pulls the robe from her back and she slips free, allowing them to attack her entire body with yet another can of something. I cough and look away, beginning to sweat. Good fucking Christ, it’s hot in here. Naked. She’s practically naked, and though I knew she would be and thought I was prepared, the reality is very different. I’m no more prepared now than I was the day I walked into Trevor Logan’s office.

  She never fails to knock me sideways.

  I got only a peek of her naked, willowy body before I forced myself to look away, but that glimpse has welded itself at the front of my mind, dancing teasingly. Her skin looked smooth and shimmery, and that tiny silver string bikini only just covers her special place, the place I could lose myself in forever. My special place. I groan under my breath as I frantically search for something to distract myself with. There aren’t any of those annoying girlie mags, not even a fucking newspaper. I should leave before I embarrass myself, but just when I’ve made that sensible decision and begin to get up from the couch, the ponce in his silver knickers appears on set. I freeze in my semi-raised position.

  Fuck!

  I’m going nowhere. I release my tense muscles, let my arse fall back to the sofa, and watch as they’re all gathered into a circle. The ignorant idiot who greeted Camille when we arrived looks like he’s performing ballet, his arms waving around dramatically as everyone nods their understanding. Then someone puts a robe around Camille’s shoulder as they’re talking, and I sag a little, relieved. She could get chilly.

  My girl listens carefully when she’s pulled to one side by the director, nodding and smiling, and once everyone appears to be clear on what’s happening, they all disperse, scattering around the room. I watch on, disturbed by the pandemonium. It’s like organized fucking chaos. Then Camille pads onto the blanket of white that covers the floor and two walls, and powerful lights point on her from every direction, lighting her up, making her glow. She’s standing deathly still while people poke and pull at her, listening as people continue to bark urgent orders around her. I start to prepare myself, knowing it won’t be long before I’m forced to endure the sight of her naked again. Forced? Not true at all. I could get up and walk out, if the caveman inside of me wasn’t waving his club and snarling at the idiot in the sparkly knickers.

  I swallow when her robe is removed again, resting my elbow on the arm of the couch and propping my chin on my hand. Enjoy it, I tell myself. Enjoy watching her do something she loves, with passion in her eyes as she does it. That look is something I have firsthand experience of. That glistening and shimmering of her blue eyes was there when I was buried inside of her. It’s fire and passion. It’s consuming.

  I’m lost in my daydreams
, frozen by my wonder and awe.

  Then he appears, shimmering like a fucking god, snatching me from my happy place. The urge to go over and physically remove him from the area nearly gets the better of me. I breathe in deeply and reason with myself. She’s working. It’s just a job. I’m stronger than this. More controlled and calm.

  I watch with narrowed eyes as the guy in the sparkly knickers rounds Camille and comes in behind her. Close. Too fucking close. He laughs, she laughs. The whole fucking studio is laughing.

  Except me. There’s nothing funny about this. I’m hot again.

  His hands; they appear from behind Camille, and I watch with bated breath for where they might be heading.

  Please, no. Don’t you dare fucking touch her!

  They fall neatly over her breasts.

  Oh, fuck!

  I fly up from the couch and catch my big foot on the leg of the coffee table, tripping and stumbling my way from the area. “Motherfucker!” I yell, catching my balance in the nick of time before I fall flat on my face. I swing around and find my performance hasn’t gone without notice. Everyone is looking at me—Camille with shocked eyes and Mr. Sparkly Knickers with his