by Lara Adrian
Table of Contents
Title Page
RUN TO YOU
1
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EPILOGUE
Other books by Lara Adrian
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About the Author
COPYRIGHT
RUN TO YOU
A 100 Series Standalone Novel
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
LARA ADRIAN
© 2018 Lara Adrian, LLC
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. (v1)
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RUN TO YOU
New York Times bestselling author Lara Adrian's sizzling, suspenseful 100 Series continues with RUN TO YOU, a scorching new standalone contemporary bodyguard romance featuring friends of billionaire Dominic Baine and his artist fiancée Avery Ross.
Once a celebrated model, Evelyn Beckham dominated the fashion runways of New York, Paris, and Milan. But life under the lights nearly destroyed her, and at the height of her career she walked away from it all. Now, five years later, Eve's built a new life at the helm of Manhattan's premier high-end lingerie boutique, L'opale. Chosen to design the bridal ensemble for billionaire Dominic Baine's fiancée, Avery Ross, it seems Eve's stars have finally realigned—until her return to the spotlight thrusts her into the crosshairs of a danger that's been watching from the shadows, waiting for the chance to strike.
Gabriel Noble didn't go to war to become a hero, but when he returned from the battlefield in Afghanistan it was with a chest full of medals and a broken body filled with shrapnel. Losing his leg derailed more than Gabe's career, and when no one else was willing to take a chance on him, Baine International put him on their security team. Now, Gabe would do anything for Dominic Baine—including keeping a covert, protective eye on beautiful Evelyn Beckham as a personal favor to his boss and friend. But keeping Eve safe means keeping her close, and soon the lines between duty and desire begin to blur into a consuming passion too powerful to be denied. With Eve's life in escalating peril and her faith in him certain to shatter, Gabe will have to risk everything to protect her while facing the most intense fight of his life . . . the battle for Eve's heart.
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1
~ Evelyn ~
I’m late.
Dammit, I’m never late. It’s one of my unbreakable personal rules. Right up there with never lose control of any situation. At least, not on the outside. Yet today of all days, I’m currently eight minutes late and going nowhere fast.
As I speed through the rivers of afternoon Manhattan traffic, anxiety creeps up the back of my neck in a damp rush, making me regret that I decided to wear my dark hair up in a chignon instead of down around my shoulders in loose waves to hide the clammy sheen. I crank the A/C to full-blast, but it’s not going to cool my nerves. I haven’t experienced flop-sweat like this since the first time I stepped onto a fashion runway. A long time ago. Another lifetime ago, in fact. Still, my stomach clenches at the reminder, nausea twisting inside me.
And I’m getting later by the second.
I’d already been running behind when I left my shop on Madison Avenue to make the fifteen-minute drive from L’Opale to this private client meeting across town. Rescheduling was out of the question. I’ve been looking forward to this appointment for several weeks. In truth, I’ve been busting my ass to prepare for it as if my life depends on landing this client. Maybe it does. Either way, I’m not about to let a career-making opportunity slip through my fingers.
I switch lanes to avoid a slow-moving minivan with out-of-state plates and a bumper full of tourist decals. My turn onto West 57th Street is only a couple of miles ahead. I rush to make a light, only to slam my foot on the brake an instant later, wincing as the hood of my Volvo nearly taps the yellow taxi that’s veered out from the curb in front of me.
Shit. Nine minutes late now.
I can still hear Katrina, my design partner at the boutique, chiding me for insisting on driving instead of opting for the subway. And yes, as much as I hate to admit it, she was right. Never mind that I haven’t set foot near those subterranean tracks even once in the past five years. To be honest, I’m not sure I can ever again. But this appointment would have been worth it to try.
Who the hell am I trying to kid? This appointment is worth everything to me.
God, I hope Kat was able to reach Avery Ross to let her know I’m on the way. Absently, I reach over to the passenger seat for the phone in my purse and grasp nothing but air. It’s not there, of course. The vintage Chanel couture clutch--one of the few remnants of my former life--went missing sometime between my arrival at L’Opale this morning and the moment I was packing up my lingerie designs for today’s private consultation.
After several minutes of panic and fruitless searching, I finally grabbed my keys from atop my desk where I tossed them and left. I’ll have plenty of time to resume freaking out about losing my favorite little handbag and everything inside it when I return. At the moment, the only thing I’m focused on is getting my portfolio into the hands of my newest client who’s waiting for me in the executive suite of the Baine International building.
Assuming this meeting happens at all. The only thing worse than crashing and burning in front of a celebrated artist who also happens to be the fiancée of one of the most powerful men in the city--if not the world--would be losing the chance to try.
Hope pulls me forward as I turn onto West 57th where the gleaming, dark glass tower belonging to billionaire Dominic Baine dominates the skyline and occupies easily half of the block. I’m familiar enough with the landmark building even though I’ve only been inside a handful of times over the years, on random occasions when I’ve been in the company of Baine International’s chief counsel, Andrew Beckham, my starched-collared, career-driven, perfect older brother.
Andrew owns the boutique I manage, just one of many investments he’s made in me since we were kids, financially and otherwise. We may only be half-siblings, sharing a handsome father who gave us our shared creamy brown skin tone and light green eyes, but Andrew has been my rock for as long as I can remember. Especially in recent years. Even when I didn’t deserve him.
Since I don’t have time to hunt f
or on-street parking or a nearby public garage--not that I can pay for either one without my purse--I take a chance and swing into the underground lot beneath the Baine Building. Punching in the access code I’ve seen Andrew use on the keypad outside, I wait for the metal arm to rise, then slip inside.
As luck would have it--finally a little bit of good luck today--I spot several vacant spaces, although all of them are marked Reserved. I take the empty one that’s nearest the elevator. Killing the Volvo’s engine, I unfasten my seatbelt and reach back to collect my design portfolio and laptop from behind me.
I’m still leaned into the backseat foraging around when a hard rap on the driver’s side window startles me.
“Can’t park here.” A deep baritone, speaking in a clipped, authoritative tone.
I don’t know who the voice belongs to since all I see standing outside the car when I swivel my head is an athletic-looking torso clad in a crisp white button-down shirt. A black suit jacket is open just enough for me to notice a hint of the leather shoulder holster and pistol riding beneath the pressed fabric.
The security officer’s knuckles hit the glass again, before I have a chance to respond. “This space is reserved. You need to move your vehicle now, please.”
Although the level tone and perfunctory “please” tacked on the end is polite enough, he talks like a man who’s used to giving people orders and being obeyed without question. I’m sure the undertaker’s suit and nasty-looking firearm helps in that arena, but it’s the self-assured, whiskey-dark growl that really gets my attention. Not that I have time for any of it right now.
“Just a minute,” I mutter from inside the car as I continue collecting my things.
With the handles of my laptop case and design portfolio gripped in one hand, I reach with my other for the handle of the door but pause when the man standing on the other side doesn’t budge. Impatient, I huff as I push my face toward the window and peer up the length of his tall, obviously fit body. A silver metal pin with the Baine International logo rides the lapel of his jacket.
I still can’t see his face, but I shoot a scowl up at him anyway. “Do you mind?”
He hesitates before taking a step back, allowing barely enough room to let me pop the door and swing my legs out. I plant my stiletto sandals on the concrete and stand up, smoothing the creases from my plum-colored sheath dress with my free hand before bumping my hip against the car door to close it behind me.
His gaze skims the length of me in a brief, unreadable glance that ends with a clash of our gazes. His hazel eyes are sharp and penetrating beneath the slashes of his chestnut brows. I feel the heat of those eyes like a physical touch, one that unsettles me more than I care to admit. I’m the first to break the contact, glancing away as I move the strap of my portfolio onto my shoulder.
“Excuse me. I have a meeting inside and I’m already late.”
He doesn’t budge. At five-foot-eleven, I usually tower over most men. Not this one.
Even though I’m in four-inch heels, my eyes hit about level with his chin. It’s a strong chin, square and solid like the rest of his jaw. The bridge of his nose might have been equally rigid at one time, but it jags a degree to the right, aftermath of an obvious break. And now that I’m looking, I notice an odd dent in the cheekbone below his left eye. It’s slight, but I fixate on it for a moment, wondering what happened to him, and how.
He clears his throat. “Ma’am, I said you can’t stay here. This vehicle needs to move. Now.”
“Ma’am. Really?” I scoff under my breath. In spite of his hard face and the assessing, serious gaze that seems to add years to his appearance, I place him somewhere near thirty, like me.
“Don’t worry about my car,” I tell him. “I’m only going to be here for an hour or two, and anyway, my brother won’t mind that I’m in his spot.” I gesture vaguely in the direction of Andrew’s first initial and last name stenciled in black letters on the wall in front of my parked Volvo.
He looks skeptical. And he still hasn’t moved to allow me past him. “Your brother?”
“Yes.” I release an impatient sigh. “I’m Evelyn Beckham.”
“I’m not aware that Mr. Beckham has a sister.”
“Well, now you are.”
I stare at him, awaiting the moment when this heavily-armed Boy Scout realizes his mistake. That not only am I, indeed, related to one of Baine International’s chief executives, but that for a short time some eight years ago--before my spectacular fall from grace--I couldn’t go anywhere without being instantly recognized as one of the most photographed, highest-paid fashion models in the world.
I was someone else back then. I’ve gained a few pounds and a whole lot of mileage since those runway days when it was all I could do to survive being the perpetually hungry, utterly exhausted and ruthlessly exploited twenty-two-year-old called simply, mononymously, Eve.
But the man studying me now doesn’t seem to know that.
If he does know, maybe he doesn’t care.
Either way, I can’t deny the wash of relief that pours over me in his silence. I’ve spent the last five years trying to forget my time in the harsh glare of the spotlight. I’ve spent even longer than that trying to defend myself against opportunists and sleazeballs of all stripes who tend to see me only as a sexual conquest, or worse, an inanimate object for them to acquire as a means of bolstering their own twisted definitions of manhood or success.
The fact that this man is treating me like a normal human being--albeit a potentially suspicious one--is a welcome reprieve.
Rather, it would be, if he wasn’t standing here keeping me from my meeting with Avery Ross.
“Are we done here? I think you’ve held me up long enough, don’t you?” I sound like an epic bitch, but it doesn’t seem to faze him. His coolness has the opposite effect on me. “In case I didn’t mention it, Nick Baine’s fiancée is waiting for me inside.”
I deliberately use the nickname reserved for the billionaire’s close friends and trusted colleagues. But all it earns me is a grunted acknowledgment from the Boy Scout. “I assume you have some identification?”
“Are you serious?” I gape at him, and I swear I see a trace of wry humor in the tilt of his sculpted lips.
“Just doing my job, ma’am.”
Again with the ma’am. This guy’s a real charmer. I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes as I prepare to show him my ID. And then I remember I don’t have my purse. “Shit.”
“Problem?”
“I lost my purse today.” I close my eyes, giving a faint shake of my head. “My driver’s license, wallet, phone . . . I don’t have any of it on me right now.”
“You’re driving around without your license? You do know that’s illegal, right?”
I glower up at him. “What are you going to do, officer, arrest me?”
“I’m not a cop,” he mutters. As if he’s insulted at the suggestion, his brows rankle in a scowl. He takes his phone out of his jacket pocket and touches the display. His hard gaze remains fixed on me as he brings the device to his ear. “Lily? Yeah, it’s Gabe. I’m doing just fine, darlin’. How’s everything on the top floor?” A grin tugs the edges of his all-too-fine mouth as a cheerful feminine voice sounds on the other end of the line. “Listen,” he says, “I’ve got somewhere I need to be right now, but there’s someone down here in the garage who says Ms. Ross is waiting to meet with her. You know anything about that?” He grunts in response, a low note that doesn’t seem to carry much surprise. “No shit. Andrew Beckham’s got a sister, eh?”
I tilt my head and narrow an annoyed look on him, but the arrogant Boy Scout has the audacity to wink at me while he thanks the other woman for the information, then ends the call.
“Satisfied now?” I ask as he slips the phone back into his jacket pocket.
He holds me in a stare that’s closer to amused than contrite. “Ms. Beckham, we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot here today.”
“I’ll say.”
/>
A smirk flashes across his sculpted lips, arrogant and sexier than I care to acknowledge. He extends his hand to me in an apparent attempt at a truce. “So, let’s start over, then. I’m Gabriel Noble, Corporate Security for Baine International. Most people call me Gabe.”
Especially the women he calls “darlin’” I mentally add with no small amount of scorn.
I stare at the broad palm and strong fingers of his outstretched hand, refusing to give in to his self-assured charm. “There’s no need for us to start over. And I’m still late.”
He inclines his head in a slight nod. Using his open hand, he gestures toward the elevator. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll personally take you upstairs to the executive floor.”
I readjust my portfolio and tighten my grip on my laptop bag. “That won’t be necessary. Besides, I thought you said you have somewhere you need to be?”
“My job always comes before anything else.”
Spoken like a true Boy Scout. I might have scoffed if he didn’t sound so sincere. “Well, consider your job here done. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go up to my meeting.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Like hell you can’t.” I glare at him, my anger spiking. “And if you don’t get out of my way and let me go--”
He slowly shakes his head. Then he leans in, closer than I expect. Close enough that my senses immediately fill with the clean, spicy scent of him and the unsettling heat of his muscled body. “The garage elevator requires an access card. To get to the executive floors as a visitor, you also need security clearance, either from the guard on post in the lobby or by another member of the team.”
“Oh.”
I stare into those sharp hazel eyes, which I realize are actually an arresting combination of gray and green and brown. And right now, they’re lit with a smugness that infuriates me as he continues to hold my gaze--and my body--captive in the small space between us.