by Jett Munroe
With a groan, he wrapped his arm around Delaney’s waist and dragged her close. The hand at her jaw slid back, cupping her skull, tilting her head. He opened his mouth over hers and drove his tongue between her lips, giving her the kiss he’d been wanting to give for twelve fucking months.
It was hard.
It was wet.
It was deep.
And it was the best fucking kiss he’d ever had.
Beck drew back and looked down at Delaney. She stared at him, her cheeks pink, her pupils huge, nearly blotting out the green of her irises. Her lips, soft and swollen, were parted.
Fuck him. If this was the way she looked after just one kiss, he was anxious to see what kind of look he’d get when he was buried balls deep inside her, making her come around his dick. He aimed to find out and planned on having her send that look his way on a regular basis.
But not tonight.
“Go on and get inside, baby,” he murmured and bit back a grin as her dazed look only seemed to increase. He’d noticed her reaction when he used endearments. She especially seemed to like it when he called her baby. “I have to leave town tomorrow for that job I told you about, but I should be back in a few days.”
“O…kay,” she said, almost as if she’d breathed it on an exhale. She blinked a couple of times. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
He could give her that. “Always am. Ty and Gabe will be with me. They’ll have my six.”
“Six?”
“My back. They’ll have my back.” And that said it all, as far as he was concerned. With skilled men at his back, he was golden.
“That’s good.” She stared up at him, not moving.
Beck couldn’t stop the smile that tilted one side of his mouth. He leaned down and kissed the tip of her nose. “Inside, baby. I’ll call you if I can. If not, I’ll see you when I get back.”
“Okay.” She stared at him a moment longer then seemed to get ahold of herself. “I’ll see you later. Have a good night.”
“You too, darlin’.” He waited until the door closed behind her and the locks clicked, before he strode back to his car. As he slid behind the wheel, his lingering smile grew into a grin. She was something else, that Delaney Murphy. She was more complex than he’d initially thought, and that was okay. He didn’t think he’d ever completely figure her out. And that was okay too, because he was sure he would enjoy unwrapping her layer by layer. “Christmas at the Townsends’, every fucking day of the year,” he muttered around his grin.
Chapter Three
On Sunday night, taking his client Marisol Everhard toward the stage door of the venue, Beck saw the sun glint off metal right before a gun swung up and around in the shooter’s hand. Everything seemed to slow down as he shoved himself between the threat and the superstar singer. “Gun!” he shouted at the same instant he heard the report of the weapon. The bullet slammed between his shoulder blades almost at the same time. It felt as if it jammed his spine into his sternum. He grunted at the pain. The force of the impact shoved him forward but he managed to stay upright, though his momentum carried him and his client several feet ahead of the rest of his team.
Even if it was hotter than hell wearing a vest in the late August heat in Vegas, he thanked God for Kevlar.
Time sped back up again. Screams came from the crowd and shouts from the police, and just before he turned his attention back to the singer, he saw uniformed officers swarm the shooter and take him to the ground. Beck bent over his client so he could keep his body between her and any additional threat. Ty moved in on the other side and four casino security officers circled them, leaving the bad guy for the cops. He moved the woman toward the stage entrance of the casino entertainment center where two security officers stood guard. Once inside, he directed the group down a maze of hallways. At the door to the dressing room they’d cleared and prepped ahead of time, three of the casino security officers stopped while Beck, Ty, and the ranking security officer went inside.
The scent of roses from the dozens of colorful bouquets scattered around the small room mixed with an aroma of bleach from the products used to clean to the client’s exacting requirements. The space was brightly lit from overhead lights and several floor lamps in the corners of the room.
Gabriel Falco, the third member of Beck’s security firm, waited inside the secured room with the singer’s manager. Gabe tapped his ear, turning off the communications earbud nestled there, and folded his arms. “You guys all right?” he asked quietly.
Beck lifted his chin in acknowledgment. Ty merely gave a grunt.
The manager rushed up to the singer and, with a hard glance at Beck, demanded, “What happened? I heard a gunshot.”
“Seems obvious to me.” Ty moved away from the client. Scowling, he rubbed a hand over his shaved head. “Either casino security or local law enforcement didn’t defend the perimeter like they were supposed to. But your girl is fine.” His gaze darted to Beck. “You hurt?”
Beck shook his head and gave a quick once-over to the client, seeing she was a little pale but otherwise unharmed.
“Mari, honey, is he right? You okay?” The portly, balding manager put his arm around the slender young woman and hugged her to his side.
She pushed neon-pink hair out of her face with a trembling hand. “Y-yeah,” she responded, her voice low and breathy. “I’m fine, Sid.” She moved away from him to face Beck, Ty, and the casino security officer. “Thank you. Thank you all.” She swiped her tongue over her lips, took a deep breath, and looked at Beck with wide eyes. “You took a bullet for me. You saved my life.”
Now that the adrenaline rush was fading, Beck’s back felt like he’d taken a hard punch. Or twelve. From someone wearing brass knuckles. Big ones. He knew he’d bruise where the bullet hit his vest. But it was all in a day’s work. “Just doin’ my job, Ms. Everhard.”
Her eyes darkened as fear receded and sexual interest grew. She touched one hand to his chest. “Call me Mari, please.” He wouldn’t have thought her voice could get any huskier, but somehow it did as she said, “I know you’re assigned to protect me, but I really didn’t think putting yourself in front of a bullet for me was in your job description.”
She was beautiful, even with the God-awful punk hair, but she didn’t do a thing for him. She was too young, too thin, too desperate, and her perfume, something spicy yet musky with a sharp undertone, about knocked him over. It was so pungent. And it clashed with the floral scent of the roses in the room. And everything clashed with the odor of bleach.
He couldn’t help but compare her to Delaney, who was at least ten years older, twenty pounds heavier, and exactly what he wanted.
He stepped back, dislodging her hand, and gave her a smile to try to take away the sting from his rejection. He didn’t want to cause any backlash to the firm—a good word from this client could send dozens more their way—but he also wouldn’t get romantically involved with a client even if he were a free man. Which he wasn’t.
The odor of her perfume began to make his nose itch, so he took another step back and said in even tones, “When you became a client of Red Eagle Group and were assigned a protection detail for your concert, putting myself in front of a bullet became part of my job description.”
“Otherwise you’re not getting what you paid for,” Gabe interjected. He raised a hand and scrubbed the back of his neck. “Though it shouldn’t have been necessary.”
“I see.” Marisol glanced at Gabe, her expression broadcasting her appreciation for his handsomeness. Her gaze drifted down and seemed to clock the wedding ring on his left hand. She looked back at Beck and interest flared in her eyes once more. She crowded in closer. “Well, even if I am paying for it, I’m grateful.” She went up on tiptoe and brushed a kiss against the corner of his mouth. As she drew away, her gaze holding his, she whispered, “I’d like to show you my gratitude for what you did. In private.�
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Before Beck could respond, the chief of casino security came into the room. “The threat has been neutralized,” he informed them. His gaze tracked to the entertainer. “Ms. Everhard, are you all right?”
She stepped back from Beck, thank God, and looked at the newcomer. “Yes,” she said and sent another sultry glance to Beck.
“No thanks to you, though,” Gabe told the security chief in a hard voice. His dark eyes flashed. “Where the hell were your men? How did someone with a gun get that close to her?”
A flush rose on the man’s thick neck. “One of my guys wasn’t where he was supposed to be, so we had a hole in the line. The shooter slipped through.” His gaze went back to Marisol. “I cannot apologize enough. We’re doing another sweep now, and will be wanding everyone who comes into the building, but I’d understand if you want to cancel the show. I’ll make the announcement myself if you’d like.”
“Cancel?” Sid interjected. Eyes wide, he shook his head. “We don’t need to cancel. It’s safe now, right?” he asked Beck.
Interesting that he didn’t ask the man in charge of security of the building, Beck thought, but then perhaps Sid didn’t trust him as much as he trusted Red Eagle employees.
“We can protect Ms. Everhard onstage,” Beck assured the man, “but if another shooter gets through casino security—”
“They won’t.” The color of the security chief’s face now matched his ruddy neck. “They won’t,” he repeated with his gaze on the singer. “I guarantee it.”
Ms. Everhard moved closer to Beck and briefly ran her palm over his suit-jacketed biceps. “We could cancel the show. I don’t want anybody to get hurt.” She looked at the casino man. “Are you sure your men can handle things?”
“I’m sure, ma’am.”
She lifted her bony shoulders in a shrug. “Then let the show go on. My fans have paid money and have been waiting in line. I’m not going to disappoint them if I don’t have to.” Then she ruined her selfless gesture by saying in an offhanded manner, “Anyway, I recognized the man who shot at me. It’s that crazy stalker dude from LA. I’m sure he acted on his own.” She rested her hand on Beck’s shoulder. “Besides, with my handsome personal guard here, I know I’ll be safe.”
Beck fought the urge to move away from her again. Twice she might forgive, but a third time would be a direct insult and he wasn’t that cruel. Well, if an assload of money weren’t on the line, he might be, but right now Red Eagle Group needed all the clients and positive word of mouth it could get. That wouldn’t happen if he acted like a dick.
“Maybe you should check the line again?” Ty said to the casino guy. It was phrased as a question but was really a command, one that the security chief immediately followed.
Ms. Everhard’s manager started talking to her, but she ignored him and moved even closer to Beck. Less than two inches separated their bodies, a distance she breached by once again putting a small hand on his chest. Picking right back up where she’d left off, she whispered, “Please come backstage after the concert. You can let me show my appreciation properly.”
Beck hesitated. He wouldn’t be joining her backstage after the concert, but how to let her down easily? He tilted his head to one side, stretching his neck, and felt a vertebra or two crack. He immediately felt a lessening of his physical tension. Now to get this woman off him. He slanted his eyes toward her manager and gave a miniscule jerk of his chin.
Sid got the message. “Come on, Mari.” He took Ms. Everhard’s arm. “Mr. Townsend is fine. You’re fine. Everybody’s fine. Let’s get you ready for your big night.” He urged the singer away from the door and toward the other side of the room, where costumes hung on racks and an illuminated vanity waited.
The young woman left with a last wistful glance and an over-the-shoulder wave at Beck. But go she did.
“You’re such a stud.” Ty shot him a grin. “All the ladies fall in love with you, man.”
Beck scowled. Not all of their female clients came on to him, but enough did that it was irritating and uncomfortable. If he were a young guy in his twenties or even his thirties, he’d be in tomcat heaven. But he wasn’t. The older he got, the older shit like this got. “If it hadn’t been me, it would’ve been you,” he told his friend. “Or Gabe. I don’t think a wedding band would be much of a deterrent to someone like her.” He blew out a breath and scrubbed the back of his neck with his hand, wincing at the pull on his sore back.
“Take that off.” Gabe gestured toward Beck’s vest. “Let’s have a look.”
“I’m good.”
Gabe crossed his arms.
“You’re a pain in the ass,” Beck muttered even as he shrugged out of his suit coat. He stuck a finger through the bullet hole in the back and grimaced. Damn. This was his favorite suit. Oh well. It was a price of being in the kind of business he was in, he reckoned. His cut of the fee they charged for their services more than enabled him to buy a new suit.
He glanced at Gabe and saw the blank face that signified his friend had hunkered down and would wait as long as it took for Beck to acquiesce. Gabe had been a sniper in the Marine Corps and had the patience of the devil. Beck shook his head and began undoing the hook-and-loop closures on his vest. He handed the vest to Ty then unbuttoned his shirt and turned away from Gabe.
The other man pulled the shirt down his arms, baring the middle of his back. When he probed the spot where the bullet had struck, Beck flinched and sucked in a breath. Shit. That hurt.
“Pansy,” Gabe muttered. He poked around a few more times, each prod sending a jolt of pain radiating outward. One last poke and he said, “Doesn’t feel like anything’s broken. You’re good.”
“Already said that.” Beck settled his shirt around his shoulders and buttoned it then shrugged into his vest. Their work wasn’t yet done for the night. He tucked his shirt into his pants where it had pulled up. “Pain in the ass,” he rumbled with a glare at his tormentor. He knew that last poke had been completely unnecessary.
White teeth flashed in Gabe’s tanned face. “Yeah, that’s what my wife says. But it’s the good kind of pain.” He made a show of studying his nails, almost but not quite successful at hiding the flicker of worry in his eyes.
Gabe’s wife, Vivian, had been fighting cancer for the last several months and was winning, though Beck knew Gabe still worried, as any husband would.
“She gave me three beautiful kids, so she must not mind too much.” Gabe brushed his nails across the lapel of his suit coat then blew on them.
Beck shook his head at his friend’s antics, understanding he didn’t want to talk about his wife’s illness at this juncture. Beck appreciated that because he needed him, all of them, focused on the job at hand. “Come on. We still have work to do.”
The concert went without a hitch. The music, some sort of alternative/grunge/hip-hop mishmash not Beck’s style, was wildly popular if the screams from the audience were anything to go by. A few hours later, with cops talked to, Mari and the Ever Hard Boys escorted to the hotel and secured safely by their own bodyguards—thankfully without Beck having to see Mari for a private expression of gratitude—and Beck half-deaf from the raucous music, he and his teammates sat down at a greasy spoon off the Strip and compared notes over pie and coffee. The click and clank of silverware against plates filtered in from the diners around them.
“That could have been the biggest clusterfuck of all time if you hadn’t seen the gun like you did,” Ty said. He leaned back in the booth and stretched his long legs under the lacquered wood table, muttering an apology when he hit Beck’s feet.
“Yeah, well, thankfully the police are putting the fault squarely on casino security.” Beck poked at a strawberry on his plate. “That one guy had to get a closer look at Mari and left his post, which opened a hole the shooter took advantage of.”
Ty jotted down a few notes on his computer tablet then mutt
ered, “If he were one of ours, he’d by now no longer be one of ours.”
Beck didn’t disagree.
“Be nice when Rafe and Quincy get started with us,” Gabe said around a mouthful of pecan pie. “At least we won’t have to rely so much on dickheads like we had tonight.”
Beck didn’t disagree with that, either.
“I talked to Rafe a couple of days before he and Quince shipped out.” Ty took a sip of coffee. “He told me he doesn’t think their current job will last more than two, three weeks tops.”
“He say where they were headed?” Beck asked, scooping up another bite of pie.
“South America. Nothin’ more specific than that.”
“We really need Rafe on board,” Beck said. “We’ve got that client who wants us to do a threat assessment that includes cybersecurity. Rafe’s the true expert in that area. I’m afraid if we don’t get moving on this soon, we’ll lose the business.”
“Won’t happen,” Ty said with a shake of his head. “Client likes us ’cause we’re marines. He doesn’t have any pressing issues. He’ll wait.” As the waitress approached with a coffee carafe, he lifted his cup for a refill.
Once she’d walked away, Gabe sighed. “Well, Rafe and Quincy can’t get here soon enough for me. Five can do more than three.” With that spot of impeccable logic, he reached over and speared the strawberry Beck had been playing with. He popped it into his mouth, wiped his lips with his napkin, and placed his fork on his own empty plate, pushing it away from him.
Beck made as if he were going to stab Gabe with his fork. The other man just smirked and chewed.
“Fuck, man.” Ty raised an eyebrow as he looked across the table. “What’d you do? Lick it? That’s the cleanest damn plate I ever saw.”
Gabe lifted a shoulder in an unconcerned shrug. “So sue me. I like pecan pie.”
“And, apparently, strawberry,” Beck muttered.