by Cherry Adair
“How did Michael handle that?”
“Michael’s heart wasn’t in it. All he wanted was to marry Casey and—as hokey as this sounds—do volunteer stuff. Michael liked volunteering.” Her heart twisted at the memory of her brother’s kindness. Why had he died? Why had she lived? “He preferred helping people to selling them things.”
“Like four-hundred-dollar blouses.”
She blew out an exasperated breath at his wry comment. He managed to amuse her and at the same time force her to defend the store. “Quality and originality cost, Jack. A lot of the merchandise we carry at Beckham’s is one of a kind and/or hand-sewn.”
“Don’t get yourself in a knot,” he said, raising his palm in her direction. “I’ll admit that my knowledge of couture is limited and take your word for it.”
“It’s more than the merchandise,” she insisted. “Beckham’s is a destination. People come to Beckham’s for the atmosphere as well. The grand piano plays standards that make people smile as they remember Christmases past, hum along while they’re served steaming Christmas treats from polished silver trays. Our staff is trained to do more than simply grab a garment off the rack. We’re about personal service and complete accommodation to the needs of the shopper. We want our customers to know—”
He chuckled, cutting her off. “I get it, Meghan, really. Have you always been so into the store?”
Her annoyance melted. “Always. It’s a magical place to me. I love every inch of it. I walk in the door and I can feel all the generations of Beckhams—my great-grandfather, my grandfather, and my father. I’ve seen it grow and change and yet never lose the uniqueness that makes it so special.”
“And here I thought all anyone really needed was a Super Wal-Mart.”
“A very nice place,” she readily agreed. “But a different shopping experience. For the record, Michael felt the same way. Made my father nuts.”
“I’ll bet it did. Tell me about Casey.”
“Sweet person. Completely shattered when Michael died in the accident.” Meghan had been shattered as well, but unable to show it. Everyone seemed to be waiting for her to crack, but she allowed tears only in the solitude and safety of her own bedroom. Her eyes began to sting with tears now, so she cleared the lump threatening to clog her throat and continued. “They’d been married four months. She’d been in love with my brother for years and vice versa. I think they started discussing marriage on their first date.”
“Judging by the quick look I got today, she’s a pretty woman. Where does she live?”
“She and Michael used to live here. After he died—” Meghan shrugged. “It was too painful to stay here with him gone.” In that moment, something about Jack made her feel as if he could handle her tears. Dangerous thought. She took a sip of wine and forged ahead. “She has a lovely condo about a mile from here. I know you met on the fly this afternoon. But you’ll see her again soon. Casey tends to flit in and out—I think grief keeps her in a state of perpetual motion,” Meghan said, thinking that grief kept her in perpetual motion, too, only she chose Beckham’s as her escape route. “And she’ll be at the annual Christmas party and you can meet her properly then—”
“Excuse me?”
“The annual holiday party,” Meghan explained. The prospect of the party filled her with mixed emotions. The celebration would feel so empty without Michael’s laughter. Yet she knew he would hate it if the party was cancelled. He always looked at it as a way for the Beckham family to do something for the Beckham’s employees. So she’d do a stellar job, pay tribute to the only thing he really loved about the store.
“It’s here at the house. A grand tradition begun by my grandfather. It’s in three days.”
“Not anymore.”
She blinked at his rock hard tone. “What do you mean?”
“Consider it canceled, Meghan.”
She looked at him in disbelief. “It’s a party, Jack.”
“No, it’s a security nightmare.”
A dozen emotional responses bubbled to the surface but she squashed them down. She stood, back rigid. “Well, you’re a security expert, so I suggest you come up with something because the party is going to happen. I’m not going to disappoint people.”
“Would you rather get killed?”
“No. But wringing your unyielding neck is sounding really good right now.”
Chapter Four
“WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD IS THAT?”
“Not a morning person, eh?” Jack asked as he balanced the tray in one hand long enough to shove the spreadsheets off to one side of her bed with the other. Pale streaks of dawn shone through the uncurtained window, painting her lush body in brilliant shades of rose.
Meghan rubbed her face and tousled her hair, her eyes heavy with sleep, giving Jack a voyeur’s-eye view of her considerable assets barely covered by a deep pink silk nightgown. He felt an instant heat in his groin that spread through his system in pulsing waves as he sat down on the bed, placing the tray between them.
He was playing with fire here, Jack thought. He wasn’t supposed to be in bed with her. Even if it was a giant bed. Even if he was fully clothed. And eating. The plan had been to bring her breakfast because he’d been up for hours and bored silly. He was on the road so often that any chance to cook anything was a thrill.
She frowned down at the loaded plate. “While I appreciate the gesture, I don’t normally eat all the eggs and all the bacon at the same time.”
He reached over and took the tray. “I thought you might say that.” Hoisting his legs up on the bed, he rested the tray in his lap—glad to be hiding his arousal from her—and began eating. It wasn’t easy, since he had to force each bite past the lump of desire in his throat.
She was full of surprises. She stretched and wriggled before settling back against the pillows, then took the communal coffee mug off the tray and took a sip. “It’s sweet.”
“I happen to like sugar in my coffee.”
“Sugar is a big no-no,” she sighed, taking another drink.
Jack could think of several bigger no-nos he’d like to do to her.
She raised her arms above her head and stretched unselfconsciously. Her pale skin was a stark contrast to the fuchsia silk that seemed to be painted on her skin. The straps were thin and delicate, and when she dropped her arms one strap slipped partway down one slender shoulder to reveal a tantalizing view of the ample fullness of her breast. Jack imagined himself pressing his lips against the pulse point at her throat, then slowly, purposefully, allowing his mouth to glide along her skin, tasting as he went. Until finally, his mouth closed over the almost visible outline of her pebbled nipple.
He didn’t choke on his breakfast. Nope. Worse. He groaned.
She gave him a pointed look, even as her lips curved into a lazy, sensual smile. “Stop frowning, Jack. You crawled into my bed, remember?”
“Not my best idea,” he admitted. What else could he do? That ship had sailed. “Maybe it would be a good idea for you to go get dressed.”
“I don’t think so.” Her voice was incredibly deep and sultry. She picked up a slice of bacon and brought it to her mouth. White teeth took a bite.
Jack felt that bite right down to his toes. “I do.”
She placed the coffee mug back on the tray, which still happened to be on his lap. She half-rolled so that she was looking up at him. “I’m not dressed for company.” Her eyes glittered. The lady was enjoying his discomfort.
“I agree.” His erection was proof of that.
“It’s even worse than you think,” she remarked, grinning.
“You wouldn’t say that if you could read my mind.”
“I’m sure I’ve got a pretty good handle on where your brain is right now. But we have a slight problem.”
Jack put the fork down with a clang and prepared for one of her lectures on proper decorum. “Okay, okay. I’ve overstepped my bounds by entering the sanctuary of your bedroom. In my own defense, I didn’t think you’d
be wearing a sexy nightgown.”
“That’s the problem,” she said on a rush of breath that washed over his forearm. “It’s not a nightgown, it’s a camisole.”
“If that was supposed to douse my fantasies, it didn’t do the trick. A camisole and sexy panties are—”
“Now we’ve reached the problem. I’m not wearing panties so much as a thong, which means we’re fast approaching that part we discussed about you seeing me naked. At least parts of me.”
“I take it you’d like me to leave.” He put the tray aside and started to stand.
“The jury is still out on that.”
Jack’s heart skipped. He knew of a million reasons why he should get up and out of there. Problem was, not a single one of them was reaching his brain. All he could think of was the camisole, the thong, and creative ways to peel them from her body.
He ached in places he’d forgotten he had. It took him three deep breaths and every ounce of willpower to shove off the mattress and stride toward the door. His fingers clenched the polished handle and he paused, not turning around. “I’m walking out of here because I should, not because I want to. Make me this offer a second time and ‘should’ can go to hell.”
“Scared, Jack?”
He gave her a hot look, then, without answering, slammed the door shut between them.
Meghan heard him storming down the hallway outside her room.
She grinned. “Check and mate.”
She was still smiling as she showered, dried her hair, applied makeup, and dressed. Her pseudosexual encounter with Jack had made her feel alive for the first time in months. “How sick is that?” she asked herself as she slipped the straps of her sandals on her heels. “It’s been way too long since I’ve had sex.”
Jack was an attractive man. Meghan liked the way his black hair always looked mussed, she liked the way his emerald eyes went hot and smoldering when he looked at her, she liked his firm mouth—she wanted to feel that firm mouth on hers. She wanted to know what he tasted like, what his skin felt like—the anticipation excited her. The very possibility of having him make love to her was energizing almost to the point of making her giddy.
The attraction was clearly mutual. But really, she had to use a little impulse control here. She did have him at a distinct disadvantage since he’d admitted he was hot for her. He was normally so stoic that seeing him struggling to keep from blatantly staring was just too hard to pass up. Maybe she’d just been getting even for the way he’d intruded into her life. Maybe his presence just reminded her that she needed to feel attractive and appealing once in a while.
“Or . . . I just want him,” she whispered as she closed the clasp on her sapphire pendant. She really did have impulse control, right? Right.
Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong! Jack castigated himself as he roamed through the house checking the locks on the windows and doors as he listened to the clicks of her heels on the tiled floor. The Agency’s operatives had a code. Standards. Rules. One of the biggies was not sleeping with a protectee—never let it get personal. Less than twenty-four hours into the assignment and he was ready to jump into bed with her. Ready? More like dying to. Shit!
“Want some?” she called from the kitchen.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw her lifting the coffee carafe and nodded. He had half-hoped she was still wearing the camisole and that sexy smile and was offering him something more than a second cup of coffee. “Sure. Thanks.”
“Cream? Sugar?” she asked when he walked over and perched on the barstool next to hers.
“Sugar.” He had to admit that even though in her tailored teal dress she was polished and professional, an underlying sensuality radiated from her. Or maybe he just felt its pull. Didn’t matter really, bottom line was—Jack’s senses were completely homing in on her. He smelled her perfume as he noticed that her dress fit without being snug. He wondered how the dress skimmed her curves without clinging and yet still inspired any number of fantasies. He watched the way she held her coffee mug in both hands as she brought it to her mouth. Her lips were glossy and slick, tinted with a light pink that matched the splash of color on her cheeks. When she parted her lips and blew slowly on the hot beverage, it was everything he could do not to fall off the friggin’ stool.
Suddenly this simple assignment was incredibly complicated. The smart thing would be to find the killer—fast. Then beat a path home to D.C., where he could forget Meghan Beckham. Though something told him she wasn’t the kind of woman a man could forget. Ever.
“We’d better go,” she said after glancing at the digital clock above the stove. “I’ve got a seven o’clock meeting with Sam.” She hoisted her briefcase onto her shoulder. The sheer weight of it caused her to list slightly as she finished one last, healthy gulp of coffee before heading toward the door.
“Don’t you want to know why I don’t offer to carry your bag?” he asked as she pressed the series of buttons to give them ten seconds to get out the door before the alarm armed.
“Because you have to have your hands free,” she replied simply.
“How’d you know that?”
“Deduction,” she answered, allowing him to walk in front of her as they made their way to the SUV. “If I really was in danger, then it would make sense that you’d need your hands to fend off an attack.”
“Very good.”
“Please tell me you don’t stereotype all blondes?”
He smiled down at her as he held the door open. “Me? The muscle-bound, minimum IQ bodyguard?”
She winced. “Heard that, did you?”
He went around and slipped easily behind the wheel of the car. “Yes, and I can’t tell you how offended I was at being called muscle-bound. I prefer to think of myself as athletic.”
She laughed. “Okay, I was wrong. There, happy now?”
He started the engine and put the car in gear. “Ecstatic.”
“What exactly do you do?”
“The obvious,” he answered easily.
And evasively, she thought as they headed toward trendy Worth Avenue. He was good at evading questions. And more prepared than a flaming Boy Scout. How, she wondered silently, had he managed to change into khaki slacks and a chocolate polo shirt when she hadn’t seen so much as an overnight bag?
The irritating chime of her cell phone stole her attention. Probably a good thing, she decided as she reached into her bag and read the caller ID before flipping open the phone.
“Hey, where are you?”
“Hi Sam, sorry, I’m running a little late this morning.”
“Everything okay?” he asked, genuine concern in his tone. “You’re usually here well before the rest of us.”
“I just got a late start. I’m here at—” He snatched the phone from her so fast it startled her. “What was that?”
“Another rule,” he stated matter-of-factly. “You don’t tell anyone your exact location. Not even your priest.”
Grabbing her phone back, she pressed the redial button, glaring at his profile the whole time. “Sorry, Sam, my service dropped for a minute.”
“I’ve got coffee waiting. See you in a few.”
“Thanks.” She closed the phone and placed it back in her bag. “That was really rude,” she told him sternly.
“Necessary,” he said unapologetically as he drove past the entrance to the store’s garage.
“I’m late,” she told him, hearing the internal clock ticking louder and louder with each passing moment.
“Get used to it.”
“Technically, I’m your employer. Doesn’t that mean I’m the one who should be determining the rules?”
“Not so much, no.”
“Jack, be reasonable. I have responsibilities.”
“So do I.”
“You can be very annoying, do you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.”
Her mood didn’t improve as he made no fewer than five trips up and down the street before he finally pulled into the gara
ge. Meghan’s patience was hanging by a thread as she leaped from the car and hurried toward the elevator. She got maybe a dozen paces before Jack’s fingers encircled her arm.
She stopped abruptly, causing his large body to press into hers. The feel of his solid form sent shock waves pulsing through her system, short-circuiting her annoyance. It was hard to be angry with someone when every fiber of your being was electrified. Meghan lifted her hand, fully intending to simply give him a gentle nudge backward. That was, of course, until she felt the solid ripple of muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt.
Her brain took an immediate detour into curiosity land and she was almost overwhelmed with a desire to leisurely explore his body.
Focus! she commanded her addled mind. She was a professional with a meeting, not some hormonal teenager with no control over her libido.
“What now?” she snapped, more exasperated with herself than with him.
“No elevators. We walk up.”
“Easy for you to say,” she grumbled as she turned toward the stairs adjacent to the elevator shaft. “You don’t have to climb three flights of cement steps in heels.”
“I didn’t choose the shoes,” he returned easily as he placed a hand at her elbow. “We’re changing everything about your routine, Meghan. Told you that yesterday.”
Her heels clicked and echoed a staccato rhythm as she made her way up to the office. Her mood wasn’t helped as she listened to the sound of the elevator just inside the concrete housing. She secretly blessed strict building codes on Worth Avenue that banned high-rises. At least it was only a three-story climb.
Sam was waiting at Terri’s desk and greeted her with a pleasant if surprised smile as she emerged from the stairwell with Jack in tow. Quickly, he came toward her, lifting the briefcase from her shoulder as he gave Jack one of those hey-pal-you-could-have-carried-this-for-her looks.
“Jack Palmer, this is Sam Shelton. Sam, Jack.”
Sam fell into step next to her. “And he is?”