All That Glitters: Glitz, Glam, and Billionaires

by Michele Hauf

  “Gigolo? I’m not—”

  “No, you’re not. But I do pay you, so that makes you an employee that—I don’t have a good reason beyond the fact that you need to leave. Now.”

  Yes, please, before she pushed him back to sprawl on the bed!

  “You, Princess Sweet and Sour, go from hot to cold like that.” He snapped his fingers. Standing, he checked the holster at his side, grabbed his sunglasses, and then strode to the bedroom doorway.

  She couldn't even be bothered by his snarky title for her that he usually only whipped out when they were in the heat of an argument.

  “You were thinking the same thing, Hawk,” she said. “This won’t work.”

  “All right, I was.” He slid the sunglasses onto his face. Adjusted his straining erection with an obvious grab. “I don’t believe you and I could work either. You take your coffee black, I’m all about the pale. I just…” He scruffed a hand over his scalp.

  Becca wanted to lean in and kiss him on the forehead. Instead she grabbed the pink and-purple-striped Lush Cakes bag and passed him in the bedroom doorway, striding down the hallway as swiftly as possible. He walked behind her. As usual. But instead of feeling protected, right now she felt unsure.

  They couldn’t continue to steal kisses like this. Not without the ultimate satisfying ending. And if they did eventually have sex, what then? Would she still allow him to work for her? Didn’t feel ethical. Then again, what better relationship than to screw the man who also protected you?

  No, no, no. She had to stop thinking about this!

  A hand grabbed her by the arm and swung her around as they paralleled the front door. Hawk kissed her hard, urgently. His roughness ignited that part of her that wanted to be dominated and owned. She wanted him. Oh, how she wanted him. Screw the work ethics. Forget about the cupcake. His kisses were so much better than cream cheese and red velvet. How her body reacted when Hawk’s mouth touched hers should be a sin.

  She reached for his shoulders to pull him closer. But then he pushed her away, grabbed the doorknob, and walked out. Without a word—but no slammed door this time.

  Becca crossed her arms, hugging herself. With a haughty lift of chin, she muttered, “Right. We could never work.”

  3

  Whenever he heard a knock on his door after the sun had set, Hawk sighed and cast a glance at the clock. Ten o’clock. Another night of sitting in the corner of a bar while Miss Wylde partied with her girlfriends. Or he was left to muddle in a diner over coffee and a greasy sandwich while she got it on with some idiot day trader in the hi-rise across the street.

  It was his job. He protected the wild child. He shouldn’t complain. He wasn’t complaining. Not too much.

  Hawk opened the door and took in the silvery spectacle that he first mistook for a disco ball. Her hair was pulled up in one of those messy buns that spilled strands down her barely blushed cheeks and the narrow line of her neck. Black eyeliner emphasized her ice-blue eyes that looked like twin stars fallen out of the solar system. Soft pink lips curved into a smile as his eyes dropped to the dress made from tiny silver disks smaller than a bee's head each and formed a solid yet movable fabric that undulated and clung to every curve. And sparkled. The hem stopped breathtakingly high on her thighs. On her feet, sexy heels teased with black ribbons that clutched her ankles in crisscrosses.

  He exhaled. Why did she have to make things so…hard?

  And then he guessed their destination—because of the dress code—and all he could do was groan. “Not Silver?”

  “Oh yeah. Grab that silver raincoat of yours and come on, we’re late. I told the Jesster I’d meet her ten minutes ago. Call the limo!” she instructed as she turned and sashayed down the hallway, entirely expecting him to follow.

  Which he did. Because…that was his job. And he’d never get that boat without the paycheck that increased his savings faster than an NYPD job ever would. He’d figured out a few months in to this job, that the high pay was compensation for putting up with Miss Wylde’s moods. He could deal.

  And also? What man in his right mind wouldn’t follow that swinging silver hem? It almost swished up high enough to reveal the curve of what he wanted to touch so badly. Hadn't had a chance to clutch it earlier when she'd pushed him onto the bed and had climbed inside his mouth with a dangerously sexy kiss.

  “Not me,” he muttered with another surrendering sigh.

  Flicking off the light switch, he grabbed a coat that hung by the door and pulled it on, checking his holster as he did so. He wasn’t going to wear a raincoat. That thing was hot, and it was a joke one of his Army buddies had given him after he’d forgotten his mylar blanket on a survival training mission in the Sahara Desert and had shivered through the night.

  Becca called as she stepped into the elevator.

  “Coming,” he said, but not loudly enough that she could hear.

  She knew her puppy dog would come pouncing close on her heels. Or was that her sweet little ass?

  Hawk never drank while on duty, which left little time to tilt back a beer or whiskey when he was in the mood for libations. Probably an excellent means to not becoming a drunk, he thought with a smirk as he took another sip of tea. The bar didn’t serve coffee, but oddly, they did offer a killer peppermint tea.

  The Silver nightclub lived up to its name. The bar, walls, and ceiling were highly polished stainless steel. The dance floor undulated like liquid mercury thanks to computer-programmed lighting effects. All the drinkware was rimmed in silver. The waitresses wore slinky silver dresses similar to Miss Wylde’s—though he suspected Becca had paid a fortune for hers. And the menu touted a silver drink that Hawk didn’t even want to guess the ingredients of. It was silver. Couldn’t be good for the digestive system.

  Loud techno music crushed his eardrums. Each song featured about six words chanted endlessly over and over while the bodies on the dance floor—donned in more silver—bumped, humped and grinded to the obnoxious beat. Miss Wylde reigned at the center of it all, dancing with a couple of girlfriends and some flirty men who were probably gay judging by their excellent dance moves. Right now, she held her phone high and took a selfie of her and the Jesster.

  Jessica Fletcher was her bestie. Hawk knew that because he’d spent more than a few evenings carrying out Miss Fletcher behind Miss Wylde and depositing her in the back of the limo. Jessica drank. A lot. While Miss Wylde sipped her one cosmopolitan and then cut herself off. The tabloids might like to speculate that she was a drunken party girl when they captured her open-mouthed and dancing like a maniac, but Hawk knew better. Girls just wanted to have fun.

  All night. And, generally, nights such as these ended in a hook up. Though the man yelling in Miss Wylde’s ear right now wasn’t her type. Er, on second thought, he was. Wearing a fitted suit coat and tie, the diamond studs of his cuff links screamed trust fund or an inheritance from dear old moneybags Grandpa. The watch on his wrist probably set him back Hawk’s entire yearly salary. And he owned a ski chalet in Switzerland, if Hawk guessed right.

  “He’s not for you,” he muttered over a sip of cooling mint tea. “Try the bohemian with the dreadlocks up in the balcony for something different.”

  He laughed to himself. What else was he to do while keeping an eye on his client without going bonkers from the mind-numbingly stupid music? At least she hadn’t kissed the guy yet. A kiss usually indicated approval, an indication to the guy that he could take her home with him.

  So what had that kiss in her bedroom been all about? It had initially felt retaliatory. As if she had been getting him back for the kiss he’d taken from her. Who would argue a kiss from a sexy woman—angry, retaliatory, or otherwise? Not him.

  Hawk narrowed his gaze on the guy feeling up Miss Wylde. They danced close, hips rocking and arms in the air. Man, that skirt was short. And her legs were toned and sleek. Those ribbons on her shoes demanded that a man kneel before her and use his teeth to pull them free.

  And then…it happened. The k
iss.

  The grip on his tea cup grew so tight, Hawk suddenly released his fingers for fear of breaking the thick ceramic.

  It had been a quickie kiss. Didn’t mean anything. And she was deftly avoiding the man’s gropes to pull her closer to do some illicit grinding. She had mastered the dodge. But the woman wouldn’t have to employ such a move if she were a little more discerning on the dance floor.

  Why did she always have to kiss them? Was it some sort of test? Determination of whether or not the guy was worth a romp?

  Hey, buddy, don’t touch her hair. She is not yours to touch unless she—ah, damn, the welcoming smile. She’d gone and done it. She’d just invited him to stroke his hand through that silken blonde hair. Further approval.

  Hawk pressed a palm to his face and blew out a breath. It was going to be a long night waiting outside some asshole’s brownstone. And with fall chilling the air he should switch to his thermal jacket for these late-night assignments. He sure hoped there was a diner close by that served eggs and bacon. And coffee. He was going to need lots of coffee.

  Becca leaned in toward the guy with whom she’d been dancing and shouted a “thanks” and “see you later.”

  He grabbed her by the wrist. “Want to take this someplace quieter?”

  She gave him a kiss on the cheek, noting his aftershave was the kind that bored her. Spice. And clean-shaven? For some reason, lately, she had a taste for stubble.

  “Sorry, I’m tired,” she offered. His grip did not relent so she employed the classic man deflector by pressing a palm over her belly. “Cramps!”

  He released her with a wince. And just as quickly, she pushed through the dancers with hopes that he wouldn’t follow. Ha! They always fell for that one. Men. They associated a woman's period with something disgusting or plague-like. Idiots.

  Jess had already hooked up with Bruce Parkin-something-or-other. He was a yoga instructor. The Jesster loved her men flexible.

  With a glance toward the dance floor, Becca determined that the guy she had deflected was already in a tight clutch with someone else. Good call on that one. The cramps weren’t real, but she wasn’t tip-top. Tonight, she felt off, not with the program.

  Deftly avoiding a waitress who brandished a tray of silver drinks high above her head, Becca slid onto the barstool next to Hawk who sat in the shadows near the wall. The man always put himself as far from the crowd as possible. She should feel sorry for dragging him to clubs, but she didn't. She paid him well.

  He spun around with a surprised look, and then a cursory glance over the dance floor. “You want me to call the limo?”

  “Sure. But let me have a few sips of your tea first. Lemon?”

  “Peppermint.” He shoved the cup toward her.

  She could always rely on him for a warm sip at the end of the night, no matter what nightclub. He must have tea summoning Jedi powers because really, what bar served tea?

  “Where’s doofus?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Aren’t you going home with the guy you were dancing with? You kissed him.”

  “I kiss a lot of guys, Hawk.” She finished the tea and set the cup before him. “Got a problem with that?”

  “Not at all. But you usually end up going home with the ones you kiss.”

  She cringed inwardly to consider that her bodyguard had tallied her kisses on the dance floors across Manhattan and had matched them up with the men she had gone home with. Really? Did she always go home with the ones she kissed?

  She didn’t want to consider the truth.

  “Well, tonight you’re wrong. I wasn’t feeling it. Not that he wasn’t a great kisser.”

  “So are you,” he said and then grabbed his cup and peered into it. “You always drink the last few sips. What's up with that?”

  “You’re changing the topic, Hawk. You just said I was a good kisser.”

  “Great. Uh, I mean…”

  She wiggled on the barstool, delighting as the metal mesh dress schushed over her thighs. “I am a great kisser, aren’t I? You’re not so bad yourself.”

  “I think we need to change the subject.”

  “Why? And now that we are on this topic, tell me why, exactly, you kissed me. I know you said it was to shut me up, but seriously? I’ve never heard of a bodyguard employing such a sensually evasive tactic.”

  He bowed his head and shook it. She’d cornered him. But she wanted to press his buttons. See if she could get a rise out of him. The spunk in her was a patented wild child asset. The guy had best beware.

  He nodded toward the exit. “Should I worry about the man Miss Fletcher went home with?”

  Changing the subject again? “No. She’s known him for years. And much as I adore your concern for the Jesster, she’s not your client.”

  “She’s your best friend. That constitutes my need to look out for her welfare.”

  Could the man get any more heroic? But how many heroes let the heroine take the fall by allowing their pic to make Page Six for the wrong reasons?

  “Back on topic.” Becca leaned closer to him. Mint and his fresh, outdoorsy scent mingled below her nose. “The kiss. Why?”

  “You’re not going to let this go?”

  She shook her head.

  “It was the truth, what I said. I didn’t know how else to make you shut up.”

  If that were the truth, she might never stop talking again.

  She leaned in closer to ask near his ear, “Have you ever thought about kissing me before, Hawk?”

  “All the time,” he said, too quickly, and then he winced and caught his forehead against his palm. “I mean—”

  “I’ve thought of kissing you, too,” she hastened out because she could feel his discomfort rising. “A lot.”

  He turned his gaze on her. Flickering strobe lights glinted in the bright whites of his eyes. If they weren’t out at the club, Becca would kiss him again just to satisfy the lingering want that tingled in her entire being. But they were in public. And she knew the paparazzi would plaster a picture of said kiss across the newstands if she were to even think about brushing her lips across his very nice, firm mouth that absolutely begged for—

  “Time to take you home,” he said. He dug out his cell phone and punched in a speed dial number that she knew was his signal to the limo driver. “Ready?”

  She nodded. “Right. You avoided that conversation like a pro. But we’re not done discussing this.”

  “I don’t know what there is to discuss. We kissed.”

  “Twice.”

  “Yes, but I believe that second time was a retaliatory kiss on your part. I've never been the receiver of a kiss as a weapon.”

  “It might have been.” It had been. Mostly. Until it wasn’t, and she had wanted to eat his luscious lips more than the cupcake. “Want to retaliate back?”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d guess you were drunk. But I know you’ve had your usual one cosmopolitan tonight.”

  “Does a girl have to be drunk to want to kiss you, Hawk? Poor guy.”

  He stood and tugged at his suit coat. Eyes straight ahead and jaw set. Bodyguard mode: activated.

  Well, she’d tried to get a rise out of him. Ah hell, she could have tried harder, but truly, she was tired. She wanted to go home, slip into her silk pajamas, and snuggle into bed. Must still be a bit of lingering jet lag from last weekend’s adventure.

  “Coat in coatcheck?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She turned and headed toward the exit. He would follow.

  Hawk picked up her coat and once they arrived at the back door, he stuck out his head to ascertain the situation.

  Pulling his head back inside and slipping on his sunglasses, he said, “A crowd.”

  Becca nodded and tugged at her dress hem. She tucked a strand of hair over her shoulder. She knew if she could offer the paparazzi a smile and a wave when exiting, they would be content to let the flashes flicker and not try to crowd, preventing her from getting in the limo. And she’d known
when putting on this dress tonight to expect interest. She wouldn’t deny her public. Besides, she needed a new pic to distract from the rough-night photo.

  “Ready?” Hawk asked.

  She eyed her reflection in his dark glasses and gave him the go for it nod.

  He stepped out first and held the door for her. Blinded by the burst of flashes and the sudden cacophony of shouts for her to smile and wave, Becca stepped carefully toward the limo, guided by the sure touch of Hawk’s hand at her back. This was why the man wore his sunglasses at night. So he could see beyond the bright lights and guide her.

  She managed a smile and a wave but avoided answering the rude question about her rough night and if it had been with the same British rock star she’d hooked up with last month.

  As usual, by the time she reached the limo, Hawk had somehow made his way around her and stood before the opened car door. As she slid inside, he stepped behind her, blocking the photogs from getting a shot of her legs and the possible faux pas of a panty reveal. Or, a panty-less shot—sometimes commando just felt right. And then the limo door closed, muting the maddening din.

  Hawk climbed into the front passenger side and the limo slowly navigated through the crowd.

  Closing her eyes, Becca tilted her head against the car seat. Wrapping her arms around herself, she drifted into the thought that nagged at her a lot lately. Just one day. She would give anything for one day of freedom. To be able to walk around the city without the nosey press of cameras following her. A day without the need of a bodyguard.

  Then again, a day without Hawk walking behind her wouldn’t feel right. He belonged there. So close. Protective. Her rock. A man who would never let her down.

  She wished he would kiss her again.

  4

  By the following Monday, the world had forgotten about the wild child’s rough night. It was now whispering, tweeting, texting, and confessing about the hot new ingénue singer who’d dropped her purse in Macy’s, only to have thousands of dollars of stolen scarves, necklaces, and perfumes spill onto the floor.