by M. S. Parker
Then I saw the sign above the parking lot she entered, and laughed. I had it all wrong.
She wasn't running away. She was shopping. I'd been giving her too much credit, thinking she cared about anyone other than herself. I needed to make sure I recognized her for who she really was, not the girl I'd imagined I'd known from those few hours together.
She was still far enough ahead of me that I couldn't catch her before she headed inside. I followed her in, curious now as I realized she was walking past the racks...and carrying her suitcase. I watched until she disappeared at the back of the store and crossed a few steps to where a young woman was standing.
“Can I help you?” she asked with a polite smile.
“Yes, I'm sorry, is this a consignment store?” I asked. I gestured toward the racks of clothing. This place didn't quite have the same feel to it as the other places I'd gone to with Leighton.
“No.” She shook her head. “We're a charity clothing shop that specializes in designer brands.”
“Designer Goodwill?” I managed not to smirk as I said it, but it looked like she'd caught my tone anyway.
Her smile froze. It was clear she'd answered these questions before. “People can't just drop off their designer clothes at a regular thrift store where they'd end up being...unappreciated.”
I zipped up my hooded sweatshirt a little higher, feeling underdressed in sweatpants.
“So how does this work then?” I asked.
“We take the clothing and sell it to vintage shops and specialty boutiques who cater to people who have the need for designer clothing. People who have a need for something they can't find at their usual thrift stores. Usually for top of the line employment. The proceeds from our sales go directly to our charity,” she explained.
I was torn. Part of me was impressed that Leighton cared enough to donate her old clothes to a place like this instead of just pitching them or having some servant get rid of them. Then again, she wasn't exactly dumping things she'd worked hard to buy. All of the money she had either came from what her parents had left her or what her grandfather had given her.
The biggest question, I realized, was why she'd feel the need to sneak out of the house to donate to charity. It was an odd thing to hide. I frowned. I didn't like being suspicious, but I didn't know Leighton enough to trust her. Plus, she had just snuck out, so I was having a hard time thinking she was selfless. I needed to find out more, find out if there was some ulterior motive for Leighton coming here. With a suitcase.
“The redhead that came in here before me, have you seen her before?” I asked.
The woman gave me a clear up and down look, once again reminding me of how I was dressed. I supposed I should've been grateful that she wasn't offering information on Leighton without at least thinking about it first.
“She's a generous donator,” the woman finally said. She gave me a dismissive look and turned on her heel, clearly letting me know that was all I was getting.
“You followed me?” Leighton's voice was sharp and angry.
I turned to see her stalking toward me.
I let her stalk while I controlled everything I wanted to say or do.“That's my job,” I said mildly when she was closer. “And now I'm taking you home.”
Chapter 17
Leighton
“Your job,” I practically spat the words at him. “Is to wear a uniform, blend in. To stand behind me and look scary. Your job is not to make a fucking scene.”
Haze locked his dark eyes on mine and I could see a hint of anger in them. Anger was good, I supposed. Better than indifference.
His voice, however, was flat. “I studied the packet your grandfather gave me, and it didn't say anything about a uniform. Maybe we should review it when we get back home.”
“I know for certain it said you weren't to interfere with my day-to-day activities,” I countered.
I had no idea if that was true. My copy of the packet Grandfather had prepared was now a coaster for a decorative African Violet in my newly redecorated room. It sounded right, though. Somewhere, there had to be a standard of behavior for bodyguards, and I was sure it didn't include bursting into shops dressed like a wayward boxer and ordering the client around.
“Once your so-called day-to-day activities are established, and I can identify between them and you sneaking off, there won't be a need for me to interfere.” He raised his eyebrow as he looked down at me.
He glanced around and took a step toward me. The shop wasn't very big, which meant anyone else in it would be able to see or hear us. The plate glass wall made us visible to anyone in the parking lot. I wondered if he was moving closer to protect me, or to keep anyone from watching us argue.
Here, at least, I had the upper hand. I loved to be the center of attention, and I always knew how to turn it in my favor. I couldn't even count the number of times Paris and I had summoned fake tears or pretended to hear inappropriate comments in order to get free items or extra-nice attention. Paris claimed that all the award-winning actresses in the world couldn't beat a native LA girl trying to get what she wanted. I'd tired of the game for the most part, but I wasn't above using it in a situation like this.
He took another step and reached out like he was going to grab my arm. I couldn't believe it. He was acting like he was going to pick me up like some petulant child. And what sucked was, he was strong enough to pull it off.
I took a step back. “Don't you dare touch me!” I put as much venom in my voice as possible, hoping it would be enough to hide the fact that I actually did want him to touch me.
“Dare?” Haze inched forward, his eyes darkening to almost black. “I'm not daring, Ms. Machus. I'm doing my job. If you aren't behaving in a safe or rational manner then I've been instructed to take charge of the situation.”
“Situation?” I glared at him, unsure if I was more upset about what he was saying or the fact that he'd called me Ms. Machus, when what I really wanted was to hear him say my name. “We're in a charity shop. This isn't a war zone. What, do you have PTSD or something? Think there are weapons in the clothing racks, bombs in the shoes?”
His face hardened, and I knew I'd pushed too far. In an instant, I was very aware of how much taller and wider he was than me, of how close he was standing. My senses felt electrified. I could see his features perfectly, hear his breathing. Bergamot, cedar, and musky sweat fogged my brain, and the heat of his body made me melt. The hoodie sweatshirt gaped open at his neck, and I had a quick flash of memory of the Celtic sun tattoo around his nipple. My thoughts of stepping back and getting the upper hand frayed as I imagined tracing that tattoo with the tip of my tongue, feeling his iron muscles underneath. Hearing him gasp...
Haze took a slow breath, and somehow, the heat between our bodies doubled. His eyes dropped between us and dragged slowly up my body. I could almost see his pulse racing in his neck, and my heart jumped to match his pace. When he caught my gaze again, a shock of electricity arced between us. For one brief moment, I was sure he remembered everything as clearly as I did. The way our bodies had fit together, moved together.
I stumbled back a step as a shot of desire weakened my balance. He reached out to steady me, and both members of our small audience gasped. His hand froze in mid-air. His jaw was clenched, and I knew our moment had passed.
The donations clerk and her assistant were staring at us both, something like horror written on their faces.
“Ms. Machus, go to my car. Now.” His hand dropped to his side, fingers curled into a fist.
“No, thanks. I drove myself,” I snapped. We were back to professional again.
“I wasn't asking.” His voice was low.
“Ms. Machus?” A voice squeaked behind Haze.
The donations clerk was wide-eyed as she held out her cell phone to me. Her look clearly asked me if I wanted her to call the police, and for a moment I considered it. If Haze had been wearing some of the clothes I'd bought him, he'd have looked decent, even rich. The clerk probably wou
ldn't have even been concerned. Rich men were forgiven their rudeness all the time, but Haze didn't look rich right now. In his sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt, he didn't even look like an employee. As he jammed his hands in his pockets, the bare expanse of his muscular chest was exposed, revealing that he wasn't wearing a shirt under his hoodie...and a hint of his tattoo.
That didn't really help his case.
There were two ways this thing could go now, I knew. I could tell the pair that Haze was an abusive ex-boyfriend, a stalker, or even a junkie who was hassling me. I took a breath, and saw that Haze's mind had already gone there.
“I'm sorry to barge in like this,” he said. He gave them both a polite but charming smile. “My name is Cormac Welch, and I work personal security for Devlin Pope, Ms. Machus' grandfather.”
I wasn't sure which was more surprising, that Haze had used his actual first name or that he'd somehow produced a business card from his sweatpants pocket and handed it to the donations clerk. She still held the cell phone tightly, but took the card. I'd known I was going to lose the moment he said my grandfather's name. Most people in LA knew his name. Her doe-like eyes swept over the card and then she lowered the cell phone.
“Ms. Machus and I seem to be in a trial phase, you know. Working out the kinks,” Haze said, his expression not quite open, but definitely not closed-off either.
He had their attention and his clean-cut smile and sparkling eyes worked their magic. So did the business card he'd produced. I was pretty sure the fact that he was fucking hot wasn't hurting matters either. Trying to break the hold he had on them, I stepped over to the donations clerk.
“Did you finish my itemized list?” I asked, giving her my own charming smile. Unfortunately, I wasn't her type. “I'd like to review it before I leave. Alone.”
I glanced down at the card in her hand.
Cormac Welch, Retired Special Forces. Personal Security, Devlin Pope Industries.
The address of Grandfather's well-known tower office building was listed in the lower left hand corner. In the lower right hand corner was his personal telephone line. The small card, printed in black and white on quality stock, drove home how serious my grandfather was about this whole bodyguard idea. And the fact that he'd obviously known that Haze would need some sort of proof of who he was.
I considered continuing my act. I could tell the women Haze was lying, tell them to call the police before they called the number on the card. Eying my audience, I could see that I'd already lost them. The young assistant was blushing as she gawked at Haze. He smiled at her, and she puckered her lips, looking pleased at the attention, but too shy to smile back. The donations clerk was no better. She bumped back into the register counter, and forgot to hand me the itemized list. It waved uselessly in her hand until I snatched it away.
Grandfather had finally figured out how to get his wish. His control now permeated every aspect of my life. I wasn't going to be able to escape Haze. I took the itemized list the donations clerk gave me and headed for the door without another word. I tapped my foot on the pavement as I waited by the passenger side door of the car Haze had driven.
The car Grandfather had given him to shadow me, I thought.
Haze Welch might have heroically saved my brother, but it was unfair how he was automatically given everything. Everything I wanted. Expense accounts, business cards, a car...and the utmost respect from my grandfather. Yes, I technically had an endless supply of money, but I got very little of my grandfather's regard much less his respect.
Grandfather thought so little of me that he'd assigned someone to watch over my every move. And it was growing clear that person was actually held higher in my grandfather's esteem than I was. Hell, it was in writing, in Haze's fucking job description to save me from my own irrational and unsafe thinking. The words knocked against my heart, and I felt hollow.
Haze unlocked the door as he walked to the car, pulling my empty suitcase behind him. Before I could touch the handle, he opened the car door and waited until I got in before shutting it behind me. The move could have felt controlling and proprietary, but Haze had done it so automatically that I really couldn't be annoyed by it. I blinked back tears as I realized his actions were motivated by a desire to keep me safe. Sure, he was being paid to do it, but he didn't make me feel like it was work. If anything, it felt like it was natural for him to do these things. More natural than anything my so-called boyfriend had ever done. With Ricky, I'd always felt like every gesture was either a burden or preparation for something he wanted to ask of me.
Why did the men who were supposed to love me think so little of me?
I turned away from Haze and looked out the window as we drove in silence. When we reached a stoplight a couple of miles later, I felt his eyes turn from the road to me. I tipped my chin higher, but still refused to look in his direction.
“Here.” Haze tossed something in my lap.
In my peripheral vision, I saw a lumpy green object. “What's that?”
“Your hat.”
I looked down and saw the gardener's hat that I'd worn to fool the security cameras. My heart twisted as the hat reminded me of a silly children's cartoon I'd watched with my father as a child. The main characters had always donned ridiculously transparent disguises in order to infiltrate the most secure of headquarters. My father had gone out and bought us fake mustaches, and we'd sneaked into the kitchen to steal cookies. Sneaking around used to be a game, one I'd always been very good at. Maybe it was one I could still play.
Redefining my afternoon as an escapade instead of an embarrassment helped me relax in my seat. “I got a good start, didn't I?”
“It was clever,” he admitted. “But it won't happen again.”
He didn't smile. As we neared the house, I could almost hear his brain reviewing how I'd left and making mental notes. The competitive part of me wanted to rise against the challenge I heard in his words.
He was still tapping the steering wheel and making his mental notes when I flung open the passenger side door and sprinted across the busy intersection. The crosswalk sign changed just as I leapt onto the curb, and I heard Haze's car squeal around the corner. I dodged out of sight behind a bus stop shelter, flattening my back against the plastic wall.
I expected to see Haze run by on the sidewalk, so when his hand clamped on my arm from the opposite side I let out a surprised yelp. Without a word, he lifted me up and over his shoulder. Before I could fully grasp the situation, he dropped me into the front seat, buckled me in, and drove off.
There were no more stops on our route home until we reached the familiar large wrought-iron gates. As they slowly swung inward, Haze turned in his seat and watched me.
“Taking all of this a bit too seriously, aren't we?” I asked, my tone light.
“I suppose you have a tough time identifying professionalism.”
“Especially in that outfit.” Finally, a response.
When the gates finished opening, Haze shifted the car back into drive. Before he let off the brakes, I turned to him and looked him straight in the eye for a second before I opened my door. His gaze narrowed, and I knew he was about to snake out a hand and snatch it closed again.
“Oops, looks like someone better read his job description again,” I said. I smirked at him. “When I'm on the grounds of my grandfather's list of approved residences, you're officially off-duty.”
I slammed the car door behind me, and walked up the center of the driveway, forcing Haze to wait for me before he could continue.
Chapter 18
Haze
I did spot checks on Leighton the rest of the day. I'd been foolish to think that she'd understand the importance of my job, the love and concern her grandfather had for her. But she thought it was all a game. That much had been clear when she bolted from the car and hid behind the bus shelter. Her reaction was childish, the act of someone used to getting her own way. Leighton saw her life as a joke. How was I supposed to protect someone who didn't car
e?
I didn't know why that bothered me. Leighton was nothing more than a job, a means to an end. Why did I care if she flitted through LA as if nothing mattered, as if she didn't matter? She needed a purpose, a goal, but it wasn't up to me to help her find those things. It was up to me to make sure she was safe. That was it.
She didn't answer when I knocked for the second time, so I tried the door. It was locked and I scowled. If I'd thought I could trust her not to have climbed out the window, I would've just waited another half hour or so and tried again. Instead, I pulled out the master key Devlin had given me specifically for situations like this.
“Ms. Machus? I'm coming in,” I said as I turned the key. I gave her another moment to answer, and then pushed the door open.
Her room was transformed at night. Delicate lamps covered with silk scarves softened the brightly colored walls. The bedspread was pulled back to reveal white silk sheets, and the decorative pillows pushed against the headboard formed a luxurious nest. The peaceful, feminine atmosphere filled me with longing. What would it be like to spend one night here? To spend the night in her arms, in her bed. To show her that our night together had meant something to me...
I shook my head and followed a brighter light through a side door.
“This is your closet?” I asked in surprise as I stepped into the separate room with floor-to-ceiling shelves.
“This is an invasion of my privacy, actually,” Leighton said, glaring at me from where she stood in the center of the closet.
“Not when you don't answer my knock,” I replied, turning around in the wide, shoe-filled arena before looking back at her. “Your grandfather agreed I need to check on you, even in your residence, and that means visual confirmation every thirty minutes.”
“You told on me,” she said, wielding a stiletto like a weapon.