Bodyguards In Bed

by Monroe, Lucy; Denton, Jamie; Naughton, Elisabeth

  Instead of returning to her, he crept to the front door. Dammit. What the hell did he think he was doing? They were supposed to be making their escape out the spare bedroom window, not playing peek-a-boo with the bad guys through the keyhole of her front door.

  The doorbell pealed, the dull sound coming from the side kitchen door. Great. They had the place surrounded. She made a strangled sound when Chas looked in her direction. She frantically waved for him to join her, but he held up a finger, telling her to wait a minute. She gave serious consideration to showing him one of her fingers, too, but when he backed away from the door and crept over to her, she decided not to be rude.

  “Same guys,” he whispered when he rejoined her.

  Okay, so he’d been right about their tracking down her home address. Score one for the bean counter.

  She heard the back screen door squeak and knew it was being opened. Good thing she hadn’t oiled the hinges, like she’d been meaning to do for weeks now.

  “Did you lock the back door?” she asked him.

  “No.”

  Oh. My. God. They were coming into her house? Uninvited ? She nudged his shoulder, hard, and pointed toward the back bedroom again.

  She was filled with such a deep sense of urgency, it was next to impossible for her not to run like the Devil himself were on her tail, but she stuck close to Chas as if she were glued to his back. Just as they cleared the threshold of the spare bedroom, a floorboard creaked, telling her the guy had to be in the small dining area just off the kitchen.

  “Move,” she whispered as quietly as she could. She motioned toward the window. “He’s in the living room.”

  She was so not cut out for this bodyguard business. She’d bet in all the years Craig ad Perry had been in business, they hadn’t had to sneak out of their own houses to avoid a pair of hired thugs with nefarious intentions.

  Chas had the window open and the screen removed in record time. “Go. I’ll hand you the bags,” he whispered against her ear.

  She shook her head and motioned for him to go first. Just who was the bodyguard, here?

  His look was stern when he shook his head in opposition. To emphasize his point, he swept her into his arms and started her feet first through the window. With no choice but to comply, she perched her butt on the sill, then jumped to the ground. She landed with a loud slap on the concrete below, courtesy of her flip-flops.

  He handed the bags through, then promptly followed—about a second too late. A muffled shot cracked the air, sounding more like the snap of a very large twig than a gun, until she realized the guy had a silencer.

  Fear pounded through her. “Hurry,” she shouted.

  Chas jumped to the ground and shoved her ahead of him, shielding her with his linebacker-wide body. She barely registered the scene, her mind focused on the fact that they’d just been shot at—by a very bad man.

  Oh, God.

  “Run,” Chas ordered roughly.

  She didn’t argue. She flew up her neighbor’s driveway and skirted around a garage, then cleared a three-foot gate like a track star, only to come to a screeching halt in front of her neighbor’s elderly Newfoundland, Phoebe. Phoebe was a big, furry sweetheart of a dog, once she got a whiff of you. But with her eyesight not quite what it used to be, the old dog barked if a leaf fluttered in a tree two doors down, like she was doing now.

  “Shhh,” she hushed when Phoebe wouldn’t stop barking.

  “This way,” Chas called to her from the other side of the fence.

  “No,” she called back. “I know this neighborhood. You don’t. And neither do they.”

  She hoped.

  He must’ve agreed with her, because he was over the fence in seconds flat. He eyed the dog suspiciously. “We have to hurry,” he said.

  She led him to a shed in the far corner of her neighbor’s yard. Behind the shed were stacked wooden crates, which she climbed in order to scale the cinderblock fence. She went first, caught the bags as he tossed them over, then he followed her.

  For the next twenty minutes, she led him through a maze of backyards; they scaled fences and alleyways. She was hot and sweaty, and her feet were killing her by the time they finally emerged on a busy street, half a block from a bus stop.

  “I think we lost them,” she said as she plopped down on the bench to wait for the bus that would take them to Hawthorne. From there they could catch another bus through Lawndale to Manhattan Beach.

  Barely winded, he sat next to her and tucked the bags near their feet. His hair was mussed and his tie askew, but other than a smudge on the knee of his pants, he still looked fabulous. She, on the other hand, was positive she resembled something dear old Phoebe might dig up in the yard.

  “You were right,” he said, a hint of admiration lacing his tone. “I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be.” She grabbed hold of his wrist and held his watch up so she could read the time. “Bus should be here any minute.”

  His luscious green eyes narrowed slightly. “And you know this because . . . ?”wid>

  She managed a tired smile. “Because I’ve lived here all my life.”

  She’d surprised him. She could tell by the lifting of his right eyebrow.

  He leaned forward to unzip a side pocket on the garment bag, then reached in and retrieved a small bottle of water. “Ladies first,” he said, twisting off the cap for her.

  She took the bottle. “Thanks,” she said, then took a nice long drink. The water was lukewarm, but she didn’t care. Wet was wet, no matter the temperature.

  After she swiped her mouth with the back of her hand, she handed him the bottle and asked, “Now, would you mind telling me exactly who the hell you are?”

  CHAPTER 4

  Noah didn’t know which surprised him more—the overwhelming urge to tell Alyssa the truth, or how easily he could’ve disregarded a direct order. He didn’t break rules. Ever. He followed them, to the letter. His job was to enforce the rules and bring those who broke them to justice. A job that suited his personality to perfection.

  As for telling Alyssa the truth, he suspected that impulse came from the fact that he was inherently honest. One reason why he’d never make it as an undercover operative. His conscience would kill him.

  Stalling for time, he took a long pull on the lukewarm bottle of water, then offered it to her again. “More?”

  She kept looking at him, waiting, her big blue eyes filled with questions she hadn’t yet asked. “Thanks, I’m good,” she said. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  He tucked the water bottle back into the zippered compartment in his garment bag. “Yeah, about that—”

  “Oh, good.” she interrupted and stood. “Here’s our ride.”

  Saved by the exhaust fumes, he thought, as the large Rapid Transit District bus rolled to a stop in front of them. Lugging both of their bags, he followed her on board and paid the fare. He was so thoroughly distracted by the sway of her hips as she walked in front of him down the center aisle, he lost his footing and tripped. He mumbled an apology to the owner of excessively large gym shoes, a lanky teenager with a buzz cut, wearing a California State University at Long Beach T-shirt.

  Alyssa took a seat halfway down the bus and scooted close to the window to give him room to sit beside her. He slid in next to her and settled their bags at their feet, but not before he gave the floor a quick inspection for gum or the sticky remnants of some kid’s lost piece of candy.

  “We should’ve gotten a rental car,” he said quietly.

  He hadn’t used public transportation in years, not since he’d gotten his driver’s license at the age of sixteen. He’d hated it then and now, fourteen years later, his opinion hadn’t changed.

  “The closest rental car office is about ten miles away,” she told him. “We’re good. I promise, we’ll be on the beach before sunset.”

  Sunset? That was over five hours away. If they rented a vehicle, he suspected they could be there in a lot less time. “Picking us up is pa
rt of the service, you know.”

  She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. He was beginning to think she might be on to something. In fact, he knew the exact moment he had lost his mind—the instant he’d grabbed Alyssa’s hand and pically dragged her from the airport. From that moment on, his testosterone levels were rising at a rate that made him ache—for her.

  Nothing was making sense to him. For a guy who liked order in all things, the chaos must be making him edgy. Or maybe that was his libido at work. All he knew was that Alyssa made him want to say screw the rules and jump in with both feet. Lifelong experience told him that just wasn’t a good idea.

  “And where would you have them do that?” She lifted her eyebrows, still giving him that “God, you’re so obtuse,” expression that made him want to kiss her, of all things.

  “I know. The next bus stop,” she said, humor lacing her voice. “Or better yet, how about in the middle of Shirley Higgins’s vegetable garden, right there in her prized sugar beets that you trampled?”

  “I thought they were weeds,” he said in his own defense. His lips twitched. He couldn’t help smiling at her. “But I get your point.”

  She leaned closer, blindsiding his senses when he caught a whiff of her sweet scent. A contradictory mixture of bold, exotic spice and soft floral perfume, mingled with something uniquely Alyssa—a little sunshiny and a lot womanly.

  Her half-smile faded and her expression turned serious. “Those guys found out where I live, right?” she asked in a hushed tone. “Do you think they could access my credit card records, too?”

  “They seem pretty resourceful,” he said by way of an admission. Too much so, he thought. They’d tracked down her home address in record time. The men paying them were indeed powerful. He couldn’t help wondering what other information might be accessible to them.

  “I think it’s safer if we keep it on the down low as much as possible,” she told him.

  He nodded solemnly, struggling not to crack a smile. She watched way too much television.

  A tired-looking woman across the aisle watched them curiously. They weren’t exactly off-the-grid types, he realized, and probably drew more attention than not. If questioned, the woman would be able to easily identify them, which could pose a problem, depending on who was doing the interrogating.

  Maintain the status quo. That had been his order from his immediate superior, Supervisory Special Agent Dane Abbott. Which he took to mean his job was to keep everyone around him believing he was Charles Rolston, while Rolston was elsewhere, wherever that might be. If Rolston wasn’t in FBI custody, the U.S. Marshal’s office could have him in theirs since the all-important Witness Protection Program fell under their purview. Which could mean Rolston had caught wind of the SEC investigation. Quite possibly, he could’ve made a deal. In exchange for his continued cooperation and testimony at trial, he might have demanded witness protective services. Dropping the insider trading violations would only sweeten the deal.

  Granted that was all a whole lot of conjecture on his part, but it was the only theory that made sense to him. If he was right, then why hadn’t he been told about it? He’d been in on the SEC’s investigation from the beginning. He’d done the legwork, followed up leads and spent hours poring over documents and spreadsheets until they were a blur. What was the point of keeping him in the dark at this stage of the game?

  If Rolston had made a deal, and Noah highly suspected that was the case, then his job was essentially over, wasn’t it? If so, then shouldn’t he be on the next flight back to FBI headquarters in Quantico, Virginia? But no. Instead, he was subjected to public transportation with a make-believebodyguard, whose life was now in danger because someone wanted Rolston silenced—for good.

  He didn’t like not having answers. He didn’t like not knowing what questions to ask. And right now, he had an overabundance of both.

  As Alyssa had promised, they had indeed reached the beach before sunset. A good four hours before sunset, too, an event she’d indicated they could enjoy from the balcony of the third story at The Beach Inn once they were settled in their room.

  The seaside inn was unlike any hotel Noah had ever seen. The narrow, three-story structure teetered on the edge of being called a crumbling relic. In his opinion, the place was more elaborate beach house than actual hotel. The inn was built in the art deco style, and its faded pink paint seemed more at home in Miami than Manhattan Beach, California.

  The front of the weatherbeaten inn faced the Pacific Ocean and, Noah had to admit, the view was a stunner. The interior, decorated in a combination of old Hollywood glamour and tropical beach house, actually worked. Surprisingly, each piece fit the overall style.

  Their room was no different. Sturdy, light-colored fifties retro furnishings filled the modest room, while a bold mixture of pastel and jewel-toned accessories offered up an unusual, but informal décor. How relaxed he’d be sharing a room with Alyssa, Noah was afraid to hazard a guess.

  He hung up his garment bag and set Alyssa’s bag on the suitcase stand inside the closet. She’d disappeared into the bathroom, giving him a few moments alone to figure out their next move. He had no idea how long they’d be staying. Until he received orders indicating otherwise. Or until someone else took a potshot at them. And then where would they go?

  For the moment his orders were clear. Which meant he had to continue the pretense of being a pharmaceutical company whistleblower until advised otherwise. Keep pretending to be a man he wasn’t.

  He was beginning to seriously dislike Rolston.

  Frustrated, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of one of the sapphire-blue velveteen chairs positioned in the corner. He walked over to the nightstand next to the king-sized bed and removed his shoulder holster before emptying his pockets.

  He frowned. A bed he’d be sharing with Alyssa. He’d never get any sleep. Not when the words bed and Alyssa conjured up images of late nights, tangled sheets, and sweat-covered bodies.

  Loosening his tie so he could breathe, he then unfastened the top two buttons of his white dress shirt. Sharing a room had been her idea. At the time, he’d actually agreed with her so he could keep her safe. He understood the pragmatism of such a plan, but he seriously questioned the wisdom.

  Alyssa was hot, no doubt about it. She was sweet, sassy, and she made him smile. But a physical relationship would be the extent of any personal association he could have with her. They were opposites in every sense of the word. He lived on the East Coast; she on the West. He lived by the rules; she thought they were suggestions. He imagined he would be employed by the Bureau until he retired. She’d had more jobs than anyone he knew. On paper nothing worked. In reality, he wanted her, even if they might say good-bye at any moment.

  He dropped to the edge of the bed and toed off his black wingtips. God, he was tired. He checked his watch. Four o’clock. His body was still on Eastern Daylight Time. He wondered if he’d ever recover, not only from the crazy obstacle course Alyssa had led him through, but from the jet lag caused by the three-hour time difference.

  He scooped his BlackBerry from the nightstand. He needed a different kind of distraction, so he decided to check in with his SSA to update him on his whereabouts. He couldn’t exactly call with Alyssa around, so he had no other choice but to text or e-mail. Text would probably garner him the fastest reply. With any luck at all, he might even receive some concrete information in return. That whole “maintain the status quo” bullshit wasn’t working for him.

  The bathroom door opened a crack. “I’m going to take a shower,” Alyssa called out to him.

  He powered up his BlackBerry. “Okay,” he said, not sure what she expected him to say.

  “You’ll be all right?”

  “I’ll be fine,” he told her, struggling to keep the amusement out of his tone. He got it. She thought she was doing her job protecting him, but really, enough was enough. He could take care of himself, and her. That was his job.

  The tho
ught of Alyssa taking her clothes off little more than ten feet away from him invaded his mind. He tried not to think of her naked and wet. He needed to concentrate on work, on doing his job, on keeping them alive.

  Fat lot of good it did him. The minute he heard the tap turn on, all he could imagine was hot, steamy water sluicing over her slender curves. Scented suds sliding, gliding over her skin, over those lush breasts, down her back and over the curve of her sweet ass.

  His dick throbbed painfully in his pants. Damn. He wanted her. Badly.

  Before he did something really stupid, such as suggest he join her in the shower, he fired off a text to Abbott, bringing the SSA up to speed and asking about Rolston’s current status. When his BlackBerry dinged a couple of minutes later, Noah stifled a curse.

  ACKNOWLEDGED.

  Acknowledged?

  “What the fuck,” he muttered. Dammit. He was hoping for more. He was hoping for an explanation. Like how long was he supposed to keep up the Rolston ruse?

  He had more questions, too, but they were of a much more personal nature. Like what exactly was he supposed to do about Alyssa? There wasn’t any sense in denying he was physically attracted to her. Every time he looked at her, he thought about sex. A whole lot of sex.

  And he wasn’t alone on that score. Not that he was vain, but he’d seen the heat simmering in her eyes, the way she looked at him, as if she wanted to devour him in one sitting.

  Feeling even more frustrated, he stood and walked to the sliding glass door. Maybe some fresh air would help, he thought as he pushed the slider open, then stepped out onto the sun-drenched balcony. Using the ledge for support, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the concrete railing. Maybe he’d catch some of that sunset Alyssa kept promising him.

  Problem was, he wasn’t all that interested in the sunset. He needed food, sleep and sex, and not necessarily in that order, either.

  He was restless, he realized. Hell, he probably needed a vacation, too. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken time off work. His buds were planning a rafting trip on the White River sometime in the next couple of weeks. He probably should take them up on their offer and make arrangements to go with them. Enjoy the fresh air, do a little communing with nature and sleep under the stars. Nothing wrong with wanting to take it easy for a change. What was wrong with wanting to kick back with friends d catch a buzz while lazing around the campfire every night for a week?