by Mia Madison
MY HOT BODYGUARD
A Steamy Older Man Younger Woman Romance
Mia Madison
Copyright © 2017 Mia Madison
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons (living or dead), places or events is purely coincidental. All characters involved in sexual activity are 18 years of age or older.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the author or publisher.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to the author.
NOTE: This story contains some scenes and language only suitable for mature readers.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
Paige
“I’m picturing Egyptian in here, you know, side tables in gold leaf, giant statues like Tutankhamun and obelisks, cats, and hieroglyph motifs, shimmering fabrics, very opulent, something no one’s ever seen before…” Tessa Frobisher, my new client, is in full flow.
There’s a good reason a no-holds-barred Egyptian theme has never been done in a Scottish baronial mansion, even one that calls itself a castle because of the turrets. The gold pharaoh look would be better confined to Disneyland, or left in Egypt. But how will I manage to convince Tessa her idea is way off the scale of bonkers without upsetting her?
I need to get better at handling clients like Tessa. I was voted most promising student in my interior design class. I love everything about making houses look good, and the customers in my fledgling business have given me rave reviews so far. But I’m not so sure of myself when dealing with over-demanding clients who think they know best.
Even so, I usually manage to get my point across. But it seems Tessa is in a league of her own when it comes to having firm ideas about what she wants.
It’s less than an hour since I arrived, and it’s already clear how difficult this job is going to be—four weeks in the Scottish highlands dealing with the customer from hell.
“I’m not sure that will work for this house.” I venture a mild objection for the fourth time since I turned up after the long drive from London. My bags are still in the car; we briefly skirted past the room Tessa allocated me, but she wanted to take me on a tour around the house before dinner to give me her ideas.
Apparently, she has always dreamed of a kitchen with a “Charlie and the Chocolate factory” look, and she wants me to make the hall a good match for a fairground carousel, as well as have the dining room painted like the inside of a coffin to make it “dark and cozy!”
Reasonable clients listen when I tell them things won’t work with the house, the light, or the way they want to use the room, especially when I give them better suggestions for colors, fabrics, or wallpaper. I’m beginning to realize Tessa is not one of those clients.
She says, “Well, I’m sure you can make it work. You come highly recommended. That’s why I just had to have you.”
After seeing one room—one stylish room—I designed for Lady Burbridge in London (who incidentally listened to and took on board all my suggestions), Tessa thinks I have a magic wand.
She hands me a small lampshade she bought recently that she says has the “right Egyptian feel.” It’s ornately encrusted with jewels in garish colors.
“How about we incorporate the gold you want in Klimt-like paintings on cream walls, and in tapestry style fabric in the soft furnishings?” I say. There are always compromises in designing a home, but I could make cream and gold work here with the right furniture. “A few accessories in burnished gold would be the perfect finishing touch.”
“Of course, if you’re not up to the job…” It’s as if she hasn’t heard a word I said.
This is all too much to take on top of my exhausting road trip from London. “Why don’t you leave it with me for now? I’ll spend some time thinking about the rooms you’ve shown me, and then I’ll draw up two or three different options I believe you’ll love. We can take it from there.” What I really want right now is Tessa out of my face, because otherwise I’ll say something I shouldn’t, and I can’t afford to lose this contract.
Ironic that the interior designer who makes homes beautiful for others is now officially homeless.
Thanks to my no good “I’ll just pay the mortgage so you don’t have to worry” ex Ian, I have no place to call my own. While I was working like a dervish building up my business, he was screwing around. Stupid me, assuming he was being supportive by not pressurizing me to spend a lot more time with him.
Up until an hour ago, four weeks in Scotland seemed like a lucky escape, a more comfortable alternative to my friend Alison’s couch, where I’ve been staying for a month while I found my feet. And along with that, I need to get together the deposit and rent for an apartment in London for when I return. However bad Tessa appears to be, she’s happy to pay. Or at least to wield her banker husband’s checkbook.
“Fine,” she says, putting on her best lady of the manor voice. “I feel a migraine coming on, so I’ll leave you to it. If you give me your car keys, I’ll have your bags sent to your room.”
“Thanks,” I say and smile as warmly as I can, because somehow we have to get along if I’m going to get this job done and get out after four weeks with my dignity and professional reputation intact.
When she leaves, closing the door firmly behind her as if she’s shutting in a rebellious teen, I poke my tongue out at the door and breathe a sigh of relief before flopping onto the old couch, which is comfortable and actually looks as if it belongs in the room.
Jeez, what a woman! Does she always behave like that? Designing for her is going to take everything I have and more. Am I up to the task?
Remembering her enthusiasm for all things ancient Egyptian, I can’t help thinking about Tutankhamun’s bloody tomb and how it would be good if I could lock her in with King Tut for the duration. Then I summon up my inner Cleopatra and get up to do a Tessa-style Walking like an Egyptian strut about the room, pretending I’m a princess of the Nile.
So, fair enough, it’s all my fault when a sex god in blue jeans catches me in mid-stride. But come on, give me a break. Why do these things always have to happen to me?
CHAPTER 2
Grant
“Suits you,” I say to the girl parading about the drawing room with a jeweled lampshade on her head, before I burst out laughing. She’s a natural mimic, and she has Tessa down to a T.
The girl gives a horrified gasp and turns, grabbing the lampshade. “Sorry,” she says. “I was just…” and she loses the words to describe what she was doing. Does she think I’m going to report back to Tessa?
“Don’t stop on my account. I was enjoying the display.” My eyes take in her curves. Nice.
She reddens. Was it obvious it wasn’t the lampshade I was talking about? No matter.
“I
hope you didn’t hear all that,” she says. “Sorry if you did.”
“I got the gist, something like, ‘I’ll have you sent to the lions, and I’ll have your bags sent up.’ That sounds just like my client.” I guess Tessa must have been displeased in her mission to get exactly what she wanted. Which is how she is all the time.
“Your client?”
“Did Tessa not tell you she has security? I’m her bodyguard, Grant Maddox.” I hold out my hand, and the girl takes it in her much smaller one, still holding onto the lampshade in the other. She has a firm handshake. I like that. I don’t intimidate her despite her much smaller size and the way she blushes.
She’s not tiny though, average height I’d say, and a pretty face and blond hair to go with those curves that go in and out in all the right places. It’s my job to observe people, to notice things. But not in the way I’m noticing here. My eyes don’t quite bug out of my face like a cartoon character catching sight of the object of his affections, but damn near close.
She’s fucking hot. I’m a normal guy. So sue me.
“Paige Newman,” she says, blushing again at my obvious appreciation. Or maybe she’s just remembering the lampshade thing, and that she’s supposed to be doing a professional job as Tessa’s interior designer.
I should have been here to catch her arrival, but I was taking a walk around the perimeter of the grounds, a task I undertake with relish because it gets me out of the house for a good chunk of time in the fresh Scottish air.
I let go of her hand reluctantly. “I know who you are. Jack, my partner in the company, did a quick background check on you. You’re twenty-three. Your last known residence is 15 Palmerston Place, Dulwich, London, except now you’re here to work for Tessa for four weeks. You were born in America. You’re not married. You’ve never been married.” Why am I telling her all this and why did I add the married part?
“And I don’t plan on getting married. Thanks for the summary of my life.” She humphs. “Why do you need to know all that?”
“It’s routine. We always run a quick check on anyone who will be in regular contact with a client. No real digging. Nothing that isn’t public knowledge, I promise. We’d have a lot more information if we had.” And now I want to find out all about her, what makes her tick, what keeps her awake at night. I’d like to be the one keeping her from her sleep. Into the early hours.
“Why does Tessa have a bodyguard, anyway? Is she more important than she makes out? Don’t tell me she’s a royal.”
“Nothing like that. She has everything else—a chauffeur, a housekeeper, a cook. It’s like she wanted the full set.”
She ignores my flippancy. “There must be something more to it than that.”
“Not much. She didn’t like a couple of things that happened in London, so she had her husband hire our company.”
“What kind of things?”
“A couple of slashed tires on the Range Rover and spray paint on the back door at their house in Chelsea. Don’t worry. We’re almost sure it’s just someone in London with a petty grudge. It’s not pleasant being on the receiving end of that, but not life threatening.”
“True. It’s no joke, but I’m glad it’s nothing more. I thought it was going to be hard enough doing battle with color charts and fabric samples, but for a moment, I imagined I was going to have to contend with knives and guns, too.”
“They’d have to find us first up here in the wilds of Scotland. And there’s not much getting felled around here other than trees.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Disappointed is when shit gets real and the criminal wins. I’ve never been disappointed yet. On the other hand, boredom can be a real killer.”
“Maybe it was the last interior designer who did the tire slashing. I’d take a look in that direction if I were you.” She smiles then, and blushes again as if smiling at the bodyguard was a step too far.
“I’ll make a point of it. And if the violence gets worse, you’ll be the prime suspect. I’ll cite the lampshade as a witness. Very appropriate headgear for an interior designer.”
She pulls a face. “If you’re a bodyguard shouldn’t you be like wearing dark glasses and a walkie-talkie thing and… er… guarding?”
And I’m just about to set her straight about how low-key my role actually is here when Tessa calls out, “Grant.”
I haven’t located her phone yet. I’m not usually so… distractible, even when I know my client is safe. But I spot the thing on the side table and grab it. Tessa sent me to fetch it like some fucking lap dog. “Grant, be a pet and fetch my phone. I swear if I have to go downstairs and back once more today, my head will explode.” But her head will be just fine to use her phone, no doubt. She spends hours on the thing. And obviously shouting doesn’t affect her head.
“Time to do some guarding, then.” I grin at Paige, and our eyes hook onto each other a moment. “Catch you later. Without the lampshade, I hope, though I enjoyed the performance.”
She takes a bow. “My pleasure.”
In five minutes, the boredom factor of this assignment just plummeted by ninety-nine percent.
CHAPTER 3
Paige
Way to go, Paige. How obvious can you get? Flirting with the hot bodyguard like a cliché in a made-for-daytime-TV movie. With his looks, the guy probably has more ego than a rock star. And he’s the last thing I need after Mr. “I won’t make you move out today—the end of the week will do” Bradshaw.
I expect Ian needed to install his replacement girlfriend. Good luck to her. I hope she doesn’t see cozy Sunday mornings, vacations, and shopping trips as leading to anything more permanent than snow in Vegas.
I need to call Anna. It’s so long since I chatted with her, what with there being an ocean and five hours time difference between us. And she’s always busy. But she’s my BFF. I just have to pin her down, and we’ll talk.
It’s obvious what she’ll tell me, though. “Go, girl. Seize the day with the hot Brit bodyguard. Get over the guy with the strange sense of sharing. Have some fun. Live a little. You know you want to.”
Easier said than done. Or is it? Why can’t I be more like Anna? She doesn’t get bogged down with dead end guys. I run my own company, for goodness’ sake. I moved countries, albeit with a bit of help from my dad on the right side of the pond, even if he lives a tiny village in Wales where there’s no place for an interior designer with ambition. I could do with a guy to cheer me up, a hot guy like Grant. And no one would have to get hurt.
I gather up the lampshade and the fabric samples I retrieved from the car when I was trying to give Tessa some alternative options. It’s time to find my room again. The Frobisher’s house is like a labyrinth. I just have to turn left at the top of the stairs, first right and it’s along at the end of the hall as far as I remember, or was it left? And there were some back stairs somewhere. Where’s GPS when you need it?
“So about the lack of dark glasses…” Grant has slipped into the room as quiet as a cat burglar. Is that how he caught me off guard earlier, too?
“You gave me a fright. Do you always have to creep up on a person like that?”
“I’m mortally wounded. Are you saying I’m a creep now?”
I laugh. “It’s the way you move.”
“Sorry; it’s just a habit I got into. If someone is going to shoot, it’s best if you don’t let them know you’re there.”
“You get shot at? I thought you’d be more like Kevin Costner in The Bodyguard, making sure overzealous fans don’t get too close to the star.”
“I’ve never had a famous singer as a client so far.”
“What kind of people do you act as bodyguard for, then? The mafia? I didn’t think anyone had guns here.”
“You might be surprised about the gun thing, but no one took a shot at me in Britain. So far so good on the bodyguarding front. I learned to dodge bullets in Afghanistan.”
“You were in the army? Like a SEAL or something?” It
figures, with the kind of body he’s packing. I can even see the lines of his abs through his white cotton t-shirt. He has the kind of muscles you want to run your fingers over to see how hard they are, or maybe even lick.
“SEALs are Navy, and US only, but yes, similar, the SAS. What part of America are you from? How come you’re over here?”
“Are you taking notes for your records?”
“No, just call me interested.”
“Well, Mr. Interested. I’m from New Jersey, but my dad is a Brit. I came over here for a vacation after college and never went home. Not to live, anyway.”
“No one to go back to?”
“Friends. Lots of friends.” I don’t want him to think I’m a girl with no one to hang out with. “And Mom still lives there with husband number four.”
“Four!”
“Yes, four. But I stayed here because I met someone.”
Am I imagining it, or does he look disappointed? Whatever, I can’t help putting him straight. “I don’t live with him now.”
“The place grew on you, but not the man?”
“Something like that. Did your research on me not tell you all about him?”
“Like I said, we didn’t dig too hard. What would our research have told me if we had?”
“What an actual creep he is, not the moving stealthily version. The jerk kind.”
“No one is all bad.”
I think for a moment. “I’m trying hard, but I don’t remember any redeeming qualities.”
“Sounds like a bad breakup. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.”
“You know how it feels, then.”
“Long time ago.” The merest hint of something passes across his features. “You?”
“Last month.”
“Ouch. Let me guess, you’ve sworn off men forever, because they are all the lowest form of rat.”
“That was last month.”
“This month, they’re… what, snakes?”