One Night with Her Brooding Bodyguard

by Cara Colter

  She did not want him to know, ever, that what she felt right now, catching that first glimpse of him again, was the same thing she had felt when she was that teenager and he walked through the doors of the Black Kettle Café in Mountain Bend, Oregon, four years ago.

  So much life had happened to her since then!

  And yet, there it was. Her eyes had touched on him, and it felt as if her heart was falling, as if all the world was fading, until her vision became a dark tunnel that ended in the bright light that was him.

  Lancaster.

  She slid back up a bit, squinted at him and slid back down. Rationally, he did not look like any kind of a bright light!

  His handsome, perfectly sculpted features were closed, and if anything, when he gazed directly at her window, having seen her despite her efforts to shrink away, something around the line of that sensual mouth tightened marginally.

  Well, who could blame him? She’d been just barely an adult—fresh out of high school—the first time she had met him. She could feel her cheeks burn, even now, as she recalled chasing him so shamelessly, his firm putting away of her, as if he saw only the child she had wanted so desperately to outgrow.

  Two years later, at the christening, she had been even more intent on proving to him she was a grown-up in every way that was possible. Even without the excuse of her youth, he had rejected her. Rather resoundingly!

  Lancaster was an attractive man. Feeling attracted to him was natural, a function of biology, nothing more.

  Well, since then, Sophie had matured. Come into herself. Men chased her, not the other way around. Her fiancé—now ex-fiancé, Troy—had been relentless in declaring his love.

  So why had it all fallen apart?

  Sophie shook it off. The point wasn’t that her relationship had failed, but that she was more jaundiced about true love, now. Romance was for children, and she had long since lost her childhood.

  This time it would be different around Lancaster, she told herself, because she had the tools of disillusionment to override her sense of being pulled toward him like a magnet being pulled to steel.

  Taking a breath, Sophie pulled herself back up, forced herself to look out the window, and straight at him.

  His eyes met hers through the plane window. His eyes were a cool color of jade that she had never seen in another human being. In her weakest moments, she had wondered if he would pass that feature on to his children.

  In her weaker than weakest moments, she had wondered what the combination of her blue eyes and his green eyes—

  Thunk.

  Biology, Sophie reminded herself firmly. She was a lucky woman, indeed. The universe had brought her this opportunity to test her newly hardened philosophies on men, romance, life and the value of total independence for women.

  She broke eye contact with him—she did not smile at him, because he did not smile at her—and got up from her seat, gathering her things.

  She took one final glance down at herself and congratulated herself that this part, the image she was projecting, was just right.

  At the christening, she had been so eager to overcome that waitress-in-a-small-town first impression she had made on Lancaster that she had worn a gown. It had been a confection of gray mist and pure sexiness. It had been her first designer purchase. It had seemed to reflect the new sophisticated her, a college graduate now, ready to take on the world with her freshly minted two-year marketing diploma.

  Or marry Lancaster, if he had asked.

  In retrospect the gown had been way too sexy for the occasion, though the brief light that had come on in Lancaster’s eyes, when he had gazed at her over the head of the godson he held in his arms, had made it worth the investment.

  That look, as it turned out, had been his one moment of weakness in the whole disastrous weekend.

  Sophie, she told herself firmly, you are not taking that particular walk down memory lane.

  Today, Sophie considered herself way more a jaded woman of the world—broken engagement under her belt, world travels because of her job with the band—and her outfit reflected that. She was dressed casually in narrow stretch jeans that showed off the length and slenderness of her legs.

  She had paired the jeans with a white button-down shirt that she had unbuttoned quite a ways down. She had on a white tank underneath it, and had belted the shirt. The outfit was saved from total “photographer on safari” by a pair of stilettos that stretched her five foot six to an easy five foot nine.

  Her long black hair was loose and straight, and she knew from experience that that particular look was a total temptation to men. Still, the last thing she wanted was for Lancaster to think she was trying to tempt him—again—a horrible little voice inside her insisted on reminding her. So, just before she picked up her oversize handbag, she scooped her hair back into a clip, and dabbed on a bit of clear lip gloss.

  She wished she had a mirror that would confirm she had accomplished the I’m just not that into you look that she aspired to.

  A crew member opened the door of the private jet, and she passed the captain and crew to get to the door. She thanked them for the flight, aware that inside she was still the small-town girl who, despite life experiences, sometimes looked at her circumstances and wanted to pinch herself.

  Here she was, Sophie Kettle, arriving at the castle of her good friends, who were royalty. She was the godmother to a prince!

  She stepped out of the plane and made herself pause and take a deep breath. She felt the warmth of sunshine on her face, drank in the crisp scents of fall that were in the air. Then, she allowed herself to look at him.

  Lancaster had moved to the bottom of the stairs. His expression was bland, an annoyingly professional mask in place, ready to do his duty and assist her if need be.

  Not knowing that she would not accept assistance from him if he was the last man in the universe.

  Which was, of course, precisely the kind of vow the universe liked to play havoc with.

  Because, as she descended the narrow gangway, on the third step from the tarmac, her oversize bag caught on a metal rivet in the handrail. It stopped her forward momentum with shocking abruptness, and the high heels proved ridiculous when faced with the obstacle of unexpectedly being thrown off balance.

  She lurched forward, and probably would have fallen down the remaining few steps and crashed into the asphalt.

  Except for Lancaster, who was always aggravatingly ready for anything, including, it seemed, a woman falling into his arms.

  Sophie registered that he did not even have the decency to look startled as he moved gracefully up the narrow step and blocked her fall with his own body.

  She hit him with enough force that it should have knocked them both over, but he was rock steady. His arms folded around her, absorbing some of her momentum. Still, she found her nose squished into the solid strength of his chest, her body crushed against the hard, uncompromising length of his.

  Biology was definitely trumping her life experiences!

  Because time stopped. She was enveloped in him. His scent was tangy and clean, so utterly masculine it made her feel a dizzy sense of longing. She could feel the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath the crisp fabric of his tunic, the play of warm skin and hard muscle beneath that.

  A sensation welled up in her of pure and unadulterated longing, and something even more unsettling. Homecoming.

  As if this was the only place she had ever wanted to be, in the circle of Lancaster’s arms.

  She crooked her neck and looked up at him.

  He stared down at her.

  She could see the faintest growth of red-gold stubble on his cheeks and chin, and she remembered the taste of his lips when she had stolen a kiss from them at the christening. She had to fight an insane desire to trace the firm fullness of his bottom one with her fingertip.

  Th
at would shatter his composure! That familiar electricity was thrumming dangerously in the air between them. Or, if their history was any indication, thrumming dangerously in her, and he was not feeling a thing.

  His voice seemed to confirm the latter was true. She was on fire. He was on ice.

  “Miss Kettle,” he said, and his voice licked at that fire within her as if it had been fed oxygen. The brogue, the tone, the totally unconscious sexiness of it, made her want to stay crushed against him for as long as he would allow it.

  “We meet again.”

  Even though she loved his voice, the faintly amused—or maybe it was annoyed—note penetrated. He said it as if she had planned to tumble into his arms.

  Given her past indiscretions where he was concerned, that probably wasn’t such a stretch, but it was still aggravating. And humiliating.

  Her brain kicked in fully. Obviously, the Miss Kettle was setting up a deliberate barrier between them, and that was a good thing. She pushed hastily away, certain he had not indulged the long embrace out of affection.

  He was too much of a gentleman to shove her away before he was certain she had achieved her balance. She teetered on the stair above him, cursing the shoes she had adored just minutes ago. Carefully, she straightened her clothing, anchored her bag firmly on her shoulder and moved down the remaining stairs, ignoring the hand he held out as he stepped back from her.

  “Aren’t you being ridiculously formal?” she asked, brushing by him. “We share a godson. We love all the same people. We’re practically family.”

  “But we’re not family,” he said, with elaborate patience as if she was being slightly trying, like a small child who needed help with table manners.

  She paused and looked back over her shoulder at him. Was he ever going to stop seeing her as a child? It made her want to—her eyes skittered to that lip she had just wanted to touch with her fingertip—well, it made her want to do what she always wanted to do around him.

  Which, she should not have to remind herself, had always led to humiliation and disaster.

  Sophie reminded herself of the new her: hardened to romantic illusions of any sort, able to discern that following biological impulses, as strong as they might be, could not possibly lead to wise decisions.

  “All right, then. Yes, we meet again, Mr. Lancaster,” she returned, her voice chilly, her eyes deliberately moving away from his lips. She drew herself to her full shoe-enhanced height, and lifted her chin.

  He cocked his head at her. “Lancaster is fine.”

  She turned to face him, full on. “If you’re going to call me Miss Kettle, I’m going to call you Mr. Lancaster.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you. You’re not here as my acquaintance, but as a guest of the prince and princess. If you prefer me to call you by your first name, you can invite me to do so.”

  Oh! There was that temptation again! To shock that formality right out of him. But of course, it would just confirm, in his mind, that she was as immature as ever.

  Was she as immature as ever?

  “Can I call you by your first name?” she asked. She had always called him Lancaster, always used that name in her mind. The name had always seemed complete in itself. It even had a certain sensuous pull to it. Wouldn’t it make a great start to their new chapter if he had a nice unassuming first name like Melvin or Dunstan or Felix?

  “No one calls me by my given name,” he said. A smile attempted to make that not quite as unfriendly as it was.

  “I don’t even know your first name,” she realized.

  “As I said, since I entered the guard, no one uses it, so it’s not really necessary to know it.”

  “No one uses your fist name?” she said, skeptically.

  “No.”

  “Not your mother?”

  “My mother’s gone.”

  Sophie had a sudden desire to ask him if his wife had called him by his first name. It was really the only personal detail about himself he had ever shared with her, that he was a widower who had lost his wife and young son to a fire. But casting a quick glance at his closed features, she sensed that would be crossing a line, going to the place no one ever went with him.

  It made her aware of how alone he was in the world. And that the last thing he would ever appreciate was her thinking that needed fixing.

  “Okay then, Mr. Lancaster,” she said. “If no first name is forthcoming, you may call me Miss Kettle.”

  He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. “It’s Major, if you would prefer formalities.” He said this so reasonably that she wanted to kick him. That should startle that impassive look off his face. She also fought the plain and childish urge to say You started it.

  Instead, she narrowed her eyes at him, and flicked her hair.

  “Whatever,” she said, with what she could only hope was supreme indifference. Then on an impulse, she shrugged her bag off her shoulder and shoved it into his arms. He wanted to be treated like a servant? Fine! She put her nose even higher in the air, went to the car and opened the front passenger door, slid in and slammed it shut.

  She smiled as she looked through the tinted glass at the flummoxed expression on his face as he gazed down at her bag.

  “It’s not going to be the way you expect, Mr. Lancaster,” she promised him under her breath. “It’s not going to be the way you expect, at all.”

  Of course, then she noticed that the steering wheel was on the right-hand side of the vehicle, the opposite of what it would have been back home in the United States. She had inadvertently gotten in the driver’s side.

  Sophie sighed, and had the awful thought that maybe it wasn’t going to be the way she expected. At all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LANCASTER LOOKED DOWN at the bag in his hands, bemused.

  His first sensation, when Sophie had stepped out of that plane, had been one of abject relief. She was in his territory, now. He could keep her safe.

  Of course, typical of Sophie, his comfortable sense of being in control had lasted less than a second. He had become aware, as she stood there in the doorway of the plane, how truly beautiful she was, more so even than the last time he had seen her. It was as if she was coming into herself in new—and dangerous—ways.

  She had clipped back that waterfall of black hair, shiny as a fresh-tarred road, but it only made the exquisite bone structure of her face more apparent. Her eyes were as blue—and as changing—as the waters of the famous hot springs that dotted Havenhurst.

  He hadn’t seen her since Prince Ryan’s christening. There had been opportunities. Princess Madeline had met Sophie in Mountain Bend several times to work on the town revitalization projects, but he had stepped back from the security team on those occasions.

  From the christening, he remembered how young she was—twenty at the time—wearing that dress that had been way too grown up for her. The dress that actually made her look younger because it was so unsuitable, but it had telegraphed she was in that place where she was discovering her power as a woman, but still had to have too much to drink to be comfortable with that power. It was the too-much-to-drink part that had enabled him to put her off.

  Though in truth, her lips had scorched like a permanent brand, and changed, probably for all time, the way he looked at her.

  Which explained the avoidance strategy he had employed on all things Sophie Kettle to date.

  Now, seeing her standing at the top of the steps coming down from the plane, he was aware that Sophie Kettle had come into herself, and that the transition was complete. There seemed to be no uncertainty left in the woman who came toward him.

  She’d always been striking. Now, there was a layer of sophistication there that brought it to the next level.

  The word dangerous came to his mind again. But he was a man who had prepared for danger all his life, and his strategy of avoiding her had worked w
ell, so far, and would work again.

  And then, fifteen seconds in—giving him fair warning nothing was going to go according to his plan where she was concerned—she had been in his arms. He had felt the soft crush of her body against his, looked into the sapphire of her eyes and breathed in the spring water freshness of her, and felt about as unsafe as he had ever felt.

  Not just from her.

  But from a longing that had bubbled to the surface in him. Had been bubbling, really, ever since Edward and Maddie had started showing him, on a daily basis, what it meant to share a life with another instead of going it alone.

  Lancaster reminded himself, grimly, that he’d had that once. He had failed and he was not a man who tolerated failure—or would leave himself open to it again.

  With that fresh resolve he watched, still bemused, as Sophie realized she had taken the driver’s side of the vehicle. She got out, gave him a dirty look, as if it was somehow his fault she had ended up behind the steering wheel, and then got in the passenger door.

  Still the front seat.

  He deposited her bag in the back seat, took a deep breath, opened his door and slid in.

  “I’d prefer if you rode in the back,” he told her, his level tone not betraying, in the least, how essential it felt to get the barriers up between them and keep them there.

  Her carefully clipped-back wave of shiny black hair had fallen over one shoulder, and she tossed it back. “I prefer riding in the front. And this time, your preferences don’t override mine.”

  He cast her a look out of the corner of his eye, and saw from the delicate blush rising in her cheeks that she regretted saying that. She turned her face and looked out the window.

  The last time it had been what he preferred, she had had a bit too much to drink at Ryan’s christening. She’d wanted his lips. He had wanted hers, too, but luckily discipline was part of his daily routine, and he had managed to walk away from the temptations she offered. Sophie didn’t ever need to know how hard that had been.

  “The preference is not mine, exactly,” he told her reasonably. “We have certain protocols. Guests of the prince and princess do not generally ride in the front seat. Nor do the staff address them by their first names.”