by M. S. Parker
After another outing with Paris, Leighton had decided to spend the last couple days at the house, redecorating her room and then watching television. I'd peeked in a couple times yesterday and had seen her settled on the floor with a mountain of fabric swatches around her and a checkerboard of paint samples drying on the wall. The sunlight had been pouring through the French windows and had lit her red hair like a candle. Against the turquoise paint, she'd burned so bright I hadn't wanted to look away.
I never wanted to look away from her.
Earlier, I'd felt her watching me while I'd been working out. Even if I hadn't heard her – my hearing wasn't that far gone – I would've known she was there. I always knew where she was, and it wasn't only because I was good at my job. I was more aware of her than I'd ever been of anyone before. It went beyond the sort of sense that I had of the men I'd served with, beyond my family. It was nothing I'd ever felt before.
I wanted to tell her I was sorry. I needed to tell her. Tell her why I'd left her alone in the hotel that morning. She thought the worst, and I couldn't blame her. She thought that night hadn't meant a thing. How could I tell her I'd left because I'd felt too much? My leave had been over, and I had to go back overseas. There'd been no way I could've faced that, faced the uncertainty, dealt with the harsh conditions and the details of our missions with her in my head.
Then, today, instead of turning around and talking to her, I'd done what I'd done since the moment I'd seen her again.
I'd ignored her.
It had been harder this time though.
For one brief moment during Leighton's conversation with Paris my first day on the job, I'd thought she'd come clean, tell me that she did remember me. That we would talk about it.
But she'd dismissed me.
Not that it was surprising.
Leighton Machus was a spoiled rich girl. I'd known it the first moment I'd seen her at that party. I'd known it when she'd gotten exactly what she'd wanted –not to go home or to the hospital.
Me.
No matter what Paris had said, I had no doubt that I was just one more thing she'd wanted and taken.
I gave myself a mental shake. I needed to stop thinking about her, about the past. That's what I'd been hoping to accomplish by working off some steam.
Boxing had always been my favorite sport, but the inner ear damage had stopped me from practicing. One wrong swing and I was knocked out by the wave of nausea and dizziness. Not to mention the new damage that could happen if someone hit me too hard.
I'd started slow and found that my recovery held. It felt great to work up a sweat again, not to mention taking out my frustrations on the punching bag.
The only problem was, every time I thought my head was clear, thoughts of Leighton had crept in. Thoughts that came with questions. Did she really have vivid dreams about me that made her climax? Was it possible she'd felt what I did?
The warmer my body had gotten from the workout, the more I thought about the Leighton I'd met that night. She'd been dismissive and shallow even though I'd saved her life, but she'd also been hurt and all alone. Her boyfriend had been gone before I'd dived into the pool after her. Paris had left her with a stranger. But she'd fought to keep any of that from showing.
And I had a feeling that she was still hiding behind that wall.
It had been that thought, more than actually feeling like I'd finished my work out that had driven me upstairs.
Now, I walked into the kitchen to find the chef chopping celery and carrots for a stew. When I asked if she'd seen Leighton, she gestured with her knife toward the back door.
“She left?” I asked.
“Not my job,” Shandra snapped. In her mid-forties, she was a genuinely unpleasant woman, and I wondered if Devlin would've kept her around if her food hadn't been delicious.
I sprinted to the media room. The television was still on, but Leighton was gone.
Shit.
Even though the house was huge, the feeling in the pit of my stomach told me that I'd seriously fucked up. I took the stairs two at a time. Her newly perfected room was a pile of chaos. The closet had been torn open, and large swathes of expensive clothes were missing. So was the largest suitcase from a matching set.
Fuck!
The first thing I had to do was figure out when she'd left, figure out how wide my search radius had to be.
I went for the stairs again and was halfway down when I saw Ian coming up.
“Ian, when was the last time you saw Leighton?”
“Maybe an hour ago. Why?” he asked. He looked more curious than concerned.
“Did she mention going anywhere?” I asked.
He frowned and I could see the concern now. “I told her she was acting depressed and that she should go work out. Why?”
Shit. Shit. Double shit. This never should have happened. If it'd been a Special Forces mission, I would've had every angle and detail nailed down. She never would've made it past me.
I knew she'd come downstairs and had seen me working out. Now I knew why. The problem was, that had been at least thirty minutes ago. And now I had no clue if I'd just missed her or if she'd taken off as soon as she'd seen that I was occupied.
“Just trying to keep an eye on her.”
I let him go and leaned against the hallway wall to think. What did I know? If she'd been on the couch all day, she must've been in her pajamas. I forced myself not to follow that thought any further than the fact that she would've needed to change her clothes either before or after she'd come downstairs. And she'd taken clothes with her, needed to pack a suitcase.
The suitcase.
Leighton wasn't a weakling, but there was no way she would've wanted to haul a suitcase wherever it was she was going. She was too much of a princess for that. Which meant...she had to have taken a car.
I wasn't about to start a panic by asking around about Leighton's car leaving the property, so I went straight to the security room and punched in the code Devlin had given me. The guard in the little room slid out of the way without a word, and I pulled up the garage feed. Leighton's car was still in its spot. I reached for my phone to call her driver, but stopped dialing when I saw him walk by on the computer monitor.
That meant she drove herself. She hadn't taken her car, which meant I needed to look for other vehicles. Taxis or other rented cars pulling up to the gates, or other cars leaving. I pulled up the recordings and backed up a half-hour. Even if she'd left right away, that'd be the earliest she could have driven off. Nothing happened until the gardener's truck pulled up to the gates about ten minutes into the tape. I paused it and leaned forward, my eyes narrowing in on the driver. His hat was pulled down low, but something flashed in his ear.
A diamond solitaire earring the size of a bean. Not exactly the gardener's style.
Within minutes, I was out the door, and into the car Devlin had given me for work. I tapped my fingers, and swore as the large wrought-iron gates swung open.
Dammit! I didn't know which way to turn. I'd left before getting the outside cameras to tell me which way I should go. I couldn't back up, so I pulled out of the driveway and turned to the left, intending to turn around and go back in to check the tape again. That's when I saw it. A green dot on the side of the road: the gardener's hat.
I tore along the curving road out of the hills. She had a fifteen-minute head start, but she wasn't used to driving herself on a regular basis, so I figured I had a good shot at catching up to her. As long as she'd stuck to the main thoroughfare. I hoped she had, or this was going to be a lot harder. I didn't want to have to make the call to trace the GPS tracker on the truck. All of Devlin's vehicles had them. But if I did that, I'd have to tell Devlin that I'd lost Leighton, and that didn't seem like the best way for me to get what I wanted.
My hunch paid off when I finally saw the pick-up truck four cars ahead at a stoplight. My heart thumped harder in my chest now that relief allowed the blood to flow again. She was safe. Anger quickly followed th
e relief. Had this been Leighton's idea of a joke?
No. I remembered. She'd taken a suitcase full of clothes with her. Had she decided to go see her idiot boyfriend but hadn't wanted me to go with her? But then why the clothes? I was sure she had some at his place. Was she running away completely? The light turned green, and I followed the truck, my heart sinking even as my car closed in. Was it my fault? Had she wanted to run because she thought I didn't remember? That I didn't care?
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.”
18
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 wouldn'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.