by Payge Galvin
Once he’d determined that, he did let himself enjoy the scenery a little. And maybe fantasize about some doctor-patient role-play. How does it feel when I do this? And this? And, oh, that bra looks a little tight. That’s not healthy. Let me undo that for you and while I’m at it, I should really check those out and—
And maybe you should quit now, because if she looks, these shorts really aren’t doing much for camouflage.
Declan glanced down to see his cock pressing very urgently—and very obviously—against the thin fabric of his shorts. He shifted, and she did, too, as if thinking he was uncomfortable, and when she moved, her knees parting to let him closer and—
“Seems to be a couple of bruised ribs,” he said as he backed up. “Or, to be more accurate, you’ve bruised the tissue surrounding the ribs. They don’t seem too bad, but we’ll check again in morning. Best thing for now is ice and rest. “
“Had a few of these yourself, have you?”
“Many. Hazards of the sport. Seven cracked ribs. Six broken ones. Five busted fingers. Four concussions. Three fractured arm bones. Two dislocated shoulders. One broken jaw. And a partridge in a pear tree.”
He smiled, but her eyes were round with horror.
“I didn’t think boxing was that dangerous.”
Shit! “No, no. It’s not. The main thing is to watch your head, which I do. I’ve only had two concussions and one dislocated shoulder from boxing. The rest was, uh, from a car accident. When I was a kid.”
Now the horror in her eyes doubled. “You were in the accident that killed your dad?”
Double-shit! “No, no. When I was a teen. Dumb-ass friends. Completely unrelated incident. And I’m fine now.” He shifted his weight. “Does it hurt anywhere else?”
She shook her head as she buttoned her shirt. He stole one last, long glance for his memory banks before looking away.
“I know this seems like a bad time to talk,” he said. “But what I wanted to discuss is actually relevant, Jess. I know you don’t want to take more shooting lessons, and I won’t push because no one who’s uncomfortable with a gun should ever use one. You seemed comfortable enough but—”
He stopped as a queasy look passed over her face. “But that is totally your choice. However, after today, I’m going to argue you still need those self-defense skills—just not shooting. You know I’m a boxer. That’s not very useful, but I’ve, uh, picked up other fighting skills over the years.” Yeah, that’s one way to put it. “I know bits and pieces of a whole lot of styles and I can pick out the best parts to teach you so you can defend yourself. If you’d like that.”
“I would.”
The answer came without hesitation, and he’d love to jump on that as a sign that she wanted to spend time with him, but the look in her eyes said something very different. It was a haunted look, one that suggested more had happened in that mini-mart than she let on. More than just spooking her and grabbing her arm.
“What did Walker do?” Declan said, his voice low.
She shuddered, and that told him he’d guessed right.
“Did he hit you?”
She shook her head. “He just grabbed… me.”
“Grabbed you how?”
Her cheeks flared bright red, and Declan’s temper spiked. Walker hadn’t just grabbed her arm or shoulder then. It’d been sexual. No, that wasn’t the right word. Sexual suggested something meant to be enjoyed. This had been meant to hurt—physically and emotionally. Humiliating her.
Declan didn’t use his fists to solve problems. He’d gotten enough of that from his step-dad. Other guys talked about seeing red and lashing out. Declan didn’t understand that. He fought with cold, hard precision. Yes, right now he wanted to beat the shit out of Walker and teach him never to go near Jess—or hurt another girl—again, but that wasn’t how violence worked. If Declan beat Walker, the coward would take it out on Jess.
That brought up another issue, though, as he looked around the townhouse.
“You’re here by yourself, right?” he said. “Since Sami went to Rhode Island.”
Jess nodded.
“No pets either, as I recall. Do you have a security system?”
“I’ve never needed one. I really don’t think Chandler…” She visibly swallowed and lowered her gaze. “I have to stop doing that, don’t I? Defending him.”
“A security system might seem like overkill, but better safe than sorry. Short term, though, you shouldn’t be alone.” He should tell her to go crash at a friend’s place. Instead he heard himself say, “You might remember me saying I’ve done bodyguard work.”
“Are you offering your services?”
He prepared to backpedal, but before he could get a word out, she said, “It might not be a bad idea, for a few days. I mean, if you’re not too busy—”
“I’m not. You wouldn’t need me when you’re in classes or at the library and stuff. Just when you’re out and, well, here.”
At night. That’s what he meant, but he couldn’t bring himself to point that out. Better to just act normal. Like there was nothing weird about having him sleep on her couch. He was a professional, not some love- and lust-sick guy who’d spend half the night fantasizing about her appearing in the doorway, in a nightshirt, breathlessly telling him she’d feel so much safer with him in her bed. Nope, not like that at all.
She nodded. “Okay. Is there a fee schedule or something? I mean, should we discuss that…?”
She intended to pay him.
Of course she does, Cavanagh. Otherwise, it is creepy. The only way she’s agreeing to this is as a business arrangement, and you can’t blame her for that.
Which was true, even if he was having flashbacks to that pair of hundred-dollar bills. It wasn’t the same, though. Not at all. He did do bodyguard work and got paid for it. Also, it wasn’t like he had to take her money. He just had to agree so it would seem professional and on-the-level.
“I usually do it for events and stuff,” he said. “About a hundred bucks a pop. But this is easier, so maybe fifty a day? If that’s too much—”
“Not at all.”
“I don’t want you to have to pay a lot—”
“My dad’s paying for it, remember? He can afford it.” She gave a wry smile. “And I’d better take advantage while I can, because he’s going to find out very soon that I’m not going to med school, and when he does? It’s time for grants and a part-time job.”
Declan resisted the urge to say he was sure Jess’s father wouldn’t cut her off. He’d like to think he wouldn’t be that big a dick, especially when his kid was going for her PhD, not skipping med school to join the circus. But when he’d been growing up, people would find out about Pete and make comments like that. “Oh, I’m sure he loves you” or “Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t mean it.” Maybe they meant well, but what Declan heard was, “Oh, I’m sure you’re overreacting.” So he’d never say that to someone else.
“Well, if fifty bucks is okay, let’s do that.”
She smiled. “Sounds good. Now, I was going to make nachos for dinner. You hungry?”
“Always. I’ll give you a hand.”
Chapter 6
Jess
Declan spent the night. Jess hadn’t considered that when she’d asked him to act as her bodyguard. After dinner he’d asked her to walk back to his place with him, so he could grab an overnight bag and she’d given herself a mental slap upside the head. Of course he’d stay. There’d hardly be any point in guarding her if she was alone in her townhouse all night. So they got his bag and she set him up in Sami’s old room. Then she went to bed and lay there thinking, “Declan’s in the next room.” and grinning like a schoolgirl with a boy—a real boy—having a sleepover.
Which was not what she should be thinking at all. It was a job for him and to suggest anything untoward would be insulting. Even when she’d practically taken her top off in front of him, he’d been a total pro about it.
She couldn’t believe she’d done that. Tug
ging it up to keep her bra hidden would have just been juvenile and insinuated he was looking for a peep show when he offered to check her ribs. It would also have been prudish, and that was really why she’d done it—because she was tired of being treated like she was. Sami said it was because she looked sweet and innocent. People didn’t tell dirty jokes in front of her, and they certainly didn’t talk about sex in front of her. In high school, she’d had remarkably little difficulty staying a virgin. Guys just seemed to figure sex wasn’t an option with Jess.
It drove her crazy. While she dressed conservatively, that didn’t mean she had a problem showing a little skin. But last summer, when she’d bought a bikini, Chandler had taken one look at it and decided he didn’t want her walking around like that, even if her idea of a bikini had been modest compared to those worn by his friends’ girlfriends.
So she’d taken her shirt off in front of Declan. While he’d noticed—and looked—he hadn’t been gaping. He just hadn’t blushed and looked away like a twelve-year-old getting his first look at boobs. He’d been mature and treated it like it was no big deal.
Had she wanted more of a reaction? That she’d open her shirt and he’d say, “Hot damn,” and jump her? Last week, yes. But now? After what happened Saturday night? No. Declan was offering protection and friendship, and right now, she needed that more than she needed a romp between the sheets. Or so she’d tell herself, because it was the only way she was going to get through the next few days without jumping him.
‡
The day started with a bang. Again, not like that, but still a nice way to start. Her alarm went off and she rolled from bed, forgetting she had a houseguest. She walked into the hall and plowed straight into Declan, who must have heard her alarm and hoped to make it into the bathroom first. He was wearing sweatpants. And nothing else. As first-thing-in-the-morning sights went, that was probably the best she’d had in… Oh, hell. It was the best she’d ever had.
He looked sleepy and damned sexy, hair tousled and falling into his face. She could see his tattoo now. A family coat of arms, it looked like. A crest with a red lion and what looked like two semi-circles beneath the beast. A knight’s helm on top and curling red and silver leaves surrounding the crest and helm. Jess was hardly an expert, but it looked like gorgeous work. Beautiful art on an even more beautiful canvas.
Her gaze slid down his bare chest, over the rigid muscles and smooth planes. The sweats rode low over his slim hips and while he shaved his chest—for boxing, she presumed—the pants were low enough for her to see a line of dark hair and her gaze traveled down from there—and stopped as she remembered he was standing right there, facing her, and could see where her gaze was traveling.
When she looked up, though, she realized she could have taken a better look, because he was preoccupied giving her one. That’s when she remembered what she was wearing: a baby-doll nightgown. She’d bought it for Chandler, and then realized he wouldn’t appreciate it, so she decided to wear it for herself, to enjoy looking and feeling sexy even if no one else was there to see it. It was pink and black and lacy, and while it wasn’t see-through and she was wearing panties, it was just long enough to cover her panties. It definitely didn’t cover the top half. She looked down to see her breasts on display, the lace barely hiding her aureoles, her nipples pressing hard against the silk. Another look at Declan’s sweatpants and she saw her nipples weren’t the only things pressing against their wrapper this morning. Her first impulse was not to pull her nightie up modestly, but to tug it down, just a little, and give him more of a show he was obviously enjoying.
“Whoops,” she said. “Guess I should be a little more careful when I have houseguests. Sorry for the peepshow.”
A chuckle, ragged around the edges. “Oh, I wasn’t complaining. Not at all.” He paused, then said, “Which isn’t very professional of me to admit. Sorry.”
She grinned. “Don’t apologize. I’d be more offended if you didn’t notice.”
He choked a bit on his laugh, as if shocked, but it smoothed out quickly. With obvious reluctance, he pulled his gaze up to her face. “Well, you should be comfortable in your own home. That’s one key to bodyguard duty. Don’t inconvenience the client. So if that’s what you normally wear to bed, don’t let me stop you. Please. I can’t promise I won’t enjoy the view, but I’ll keep my hands to myself.”
A shame, really. Still it was nice, being openly admired, flirted with a little, but chivalrously, no expectations. He was saying she could be sexy and, yes, half-dressed, and he didn’t see that as an open invitation. That felt good. Really good.
“You take the shower first,” she said. “I’ll make breakfast.”
“Uh-uh. You made dinner. This is mine. You like eggs? Or maybe I should ask first if you have eggs?”
“I do, and I like them. Thank you.”
‡
As fantasies went, it wasn’t the most scorching-hot one she’d had. In fact, on a scale of ten it probably rated a three. Yet it was a fantasy nonetheless. Of waking up and walking into her kitchen and finding a sexy, barefoot, half-naked guy making her breakfast. It must have been a scene she’d seen in a movie. Or, more likely, read in a book, her imagination embellishing it until she’d been sure no reality would ever match it. But seeing Declan in her kitchen, his back to her, sweats riding low on his hips, muscles rippling as he flipped bacon… it was everything she ever imagined. She admired the scene for a very long minute before he seemed to sense her, and when he started to turn, she stepped into the kitchen as if she’d just arrived.
His dimple flashed in a grin. Then he took a steaming mug from the counter and held it out.
“Just cream, right?”
“Right,” she said. And can I keep you? Please?
No, she could not. Entertaining thoughts like that was even worse than entertaining the ones she’d had in the shower. There would be no sex with Declan. Certainly no relationship with Declan. That wouldn’t be fair to him. Not after what she’d done Saturday night.
“Jess?” He frowned, concern darkening his eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Just thinking about a quiz today,” she lied. “I’ll be better after the caffeine.”
“And bacon. Bacon makes everything better.”
She smiled. “It does. Thank you.”
“Sit down. I’ll serve and eat, then I’ll get ready. How are your ribs this morning?”
“Fine.”
“Any bruising?”
She resisted the urge to suggest he check for himself, and settled for shaking her head.
“Good. You have class at nine, right?”
She did. He walked her to it. They talked the whole way, as they had last night, sitting around eating nachos and talking. About places they wanted to live someday—not Arizona, they agreed. About places they wanted to visit. About sights they wanted to see. A bit about family, too. He’d had a call from his stepfather that morning, and it had obviously upset him. He didn’t say much, but she could tell he was worried about Ciaran, and got the impression he really didn’t like leaving his little brother with Pete. They’d moved to happier subjects, talking about their best friends—Sami for her and Troy for him—and then on to an endless web of subjects, one leading to the next and then circling back, never running out of topics, dozens of connections to be explored.
After class, he sat with her outside as she studied, though she’d protested that wasn’t necessary. Lunch afterward. Then she had a three-hour lab, and then they’d gone back to her place. Later, he had boxing, and while she hinted that she’d like to go, he hadn’t picked up the hint and she didn’t feel right inviting herself, so they agreed she’d hang out at the library until he was done.
Next up? A self-defense lesson. An unpaid one—he’d been adamant about that. It was a friend helping out, and there’d been no way for her to argue without insulting him.
She changed into gym shorts and a sports bra that doubled as a tank top. Normally she wore a T-shirt over it, though
not by choice. When she’d bought the tank, she’d planned to wear it as intended. Then she’d gone to the gym with Chandler and he’d taken one look and sent her back for a T-shirt.
“It’s a tank top,” she’d said. “Everything’s covered.”
“Not from this angle,” he said, giving a pointed look down.
“Oh for God’s sake, it’s cleavage.”
“Which isn’t appropriate for the gym.”
“But this is meant to be worn to the gym. It’s a sport tank. And look at that girl. She’s showing twice as much, and her shorts don’t even cover her ass.”
“She’s a slut; you’re not.”
What if I want to be? That’s what she’d wanted to say. By ‘slut’ he didn’t mean a girl who slept with a lot of guys indiscriminately—though Jess could argue that while that wasn’t her thing, what was wrong with it if they were consenting adults and proper protection was employed? What Chandler meant was a girl who embraced her sexuality, who was comfortable with it, who said, “If my boobs cause cleavage, deal with it.” She’d told herself he was just uncomfortable with sexuality and she could, slowly, change that. And like every other girl who said, “I can change him,” she’d been an idiot.
Today, she left the T-shirt off. And when she came out, Declan didn’t even seem to notice, just said, “Okay, let’s get to it.”
“Don’t you need to change into your shorts or sweats?” He was in jeans and a tee.
“Nope, I’m good.” He lowered himself to her living room carpet and lay flat on his back. “Climb on.”
“Umm…”
He laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s not as dirty as it sounds.”
Damn. Because looking at him lying there, hands behind his head, biceps bulging… Oh, there were so many things she could think of doing. Including—but not limited to—climbing on.
“We’re going to start with how to escape being pinned to the ground,” he said. “We begin with role reversal. You pin me, and I’ll escape. Now, come over here and straddle my hips.” He tilted his head as he studied her expression. “Unless that makes you uncomfortable.”