Protecting His Beautiful Lover: Southern Soldiers of Fortune Book Three

by North, Leslie

  Tara immediately switched into recovery mode, her heart going out to little Ashley. Lord knew she’d felt lonely and like she was at the bottom of her mother’s to-do list growing up.

  “Still no regrets?” Clint asked from the top of the ladder, giving her an apologetic stare. “I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.”

  “No, it’s fine,” Tara said, heading for the cleaning supplies in the kitchen. She’d actually picked up some stuff thinking she might need it if one of her photo shoots went wrong. “I’ve got some stain remover.”

  But even as she scrubbed at the growing red stain on the cushion, she couldn’t help wondering if Clint was right and inviting them to stay here had been the wrong choice.

  * * *

  Clint finished snapping the last camera into its bracket, then climbed down the ladder and stepped back to survey his work. All the entrances and exits were covered now, so that part should be done. As always, having everything in place gave him a keen sense of satisfaction. Details were key in his line of work. Details saved lives. Details put criminals behind bars. Of course, the guys always teased him that his hyper-focus on details and stressing over whether everything was perfect would also probably land him in the looney bin someday, but whatever.

  Clint was who he was, and he didn’t plan on changing any time soon. Then he glanced over and saw Tara cleaning up the last of the juice spill and his heart sank. She’d started cleaning it half an hour ago—for her to still be working on the stain seemed like a very bad sign. “Does it need some extra elbow grease? Here, let me help.”

  “I’ve got it,” she said, waving him off. “Seriously. Please don’t worry about it.”

  Except he was worried. He and his daughter were guests here and already they’d clearly thrown Tara’s world into chaos.

  “Honestly, it’s no trouble,” he said, heading her direction anyway. “Please, let me—”

  Unfortunately though, Tara stood at the same time that Clint started into the living room and they collided. The bottle of cleaning fluid and the rag in her hand went flying. The rag hit the hardwood floor with a wet splat while the bottle made an impressive arc through the air, cleaning fluid spraying out the top the entire time, before slamming into the brick wall and shattering. To top it all off, the thing made a perfect bullseye hit onto the keypad controlling the alarm system and those damned deafening alarms went blaring again.

  While he and Tara stood there, dumbfounded, the cameras started going haywire too, whirring from one direction to the other while the emergency lights strobed on and off, nearly blinding them both.

  Ashley tore downstairs holding her ears, screaming “Daddy! Daddy! Make it stop!”

  Instead of running into his open arms, though, she latched onto one of his legs and one of Tara’s, hugging them both tight in her arms and preventing either of them from moving. From the way she was wailing it could have been the end of the world.

  It was certainly the end of his patience, that’s for sure.

  Cursing a blue streak, Clint disengaged himself from his daughter’s embrace and stalked over to punch the disarm code into the keypad, then stood there in the abrupt silence, head spinning and ears still ringing, stunned at how quickly chaos had taken over his surroundings. He was a man who lived an orderly life. He did his best to avoid messes, both physical and emotional. And in the course of one day, he’d walked right into disaster central. Good God. What the hell had he been thinking, moving in here?

  “Hey,” Tara said, crouching to take a sobbing Ashley into her arms, stroking her blond hair while watching Clint over the little girl’s shoulder. “It’s okay. Your daddy has got it all taken care of now.”

  But Clint didn’t have it all taken care of. In truth, he’d never felt more out of control in his life and he didn’t like it. Not at all.

  7

  Tara and Clint finally managed to get Ashley to sleep later that night, after reading her at least six stories and fetching her several glasses of water. Poor thing. Tara felt shaken enough after this evening herself. She couldn’t imagine how it must have felt for Ashley, especially on her first night in a new home.

  She leaned over and kissed the little girl on the top of the head and made sure she was tucked in tight, then went to the door while Clint said his goodnights to his daughter. Tara did her best not to eavesdrop, but in the situation it was kind of impossible to avoid. There was only so far she could walk away and their voices carried.

  “Go to sleep, honey,” Clint said, kissing his daughter’s head once more. “I’ll be just downstairs if you need me.”

  “I miss my bed, Daddy,” Ashley said, her voice so small and sad, it broke Tara’s heart. “I just want to go home.”

  Heart aching, she wandered into the kitchen. It was definitely way past wine o’clock. As she poured herself a glass of chardonnay, she heard Clint’s footsteps pounding down the stairs and toward the bathroom. Soon, the sound of the shower echoed and Tara went to the corner of the living room to check her emails in the little home office she had set up there.

  She scrolled through messages, then popped onto social media to see how her latest posts were doing. Once the board hired a new permanent director, the plan was to transition Tara back to the social media post—so in the meantime, it was being handled by a temp. The girl was nice enough, but she just wasn’t as good at engaging people as Tara had been. So in addition to being director, Tara found herself still doing about half of her old job, too. With all that work on her plate, and so much urgency behind this legislation, it was little wonder that everything else fell by the wayside—including relationships. Who had time for that when there was a new mountain to conquer, right?

  People called her a go-getter, and Tara didn’t disagree. She’d always been that way, from the time she was seven and her mother had run for mayor of their small town on a platform of small business rights. The cause had been close to Tara’s heart at the time because her favorite bookstore in town had been going out of business and that had been unacceptable to her. She’d brought it up to her mother several times and had hoped that her mother would take action to support the store—but that never happened, and the bookstore went under. Her mother won the election but taught her daughter a harsh lesson that day. Tara learned that she couldn’t count on other people to prioritize something just because it mattered to her—not even if the person was her own mother. And if she wanted to make a difference, she’d have to step up and do it herself.

  It was a lesson Tara carried with her still.

  She’d just finished going through all her accounts when the soft strain of instrumental, new-age music drifted from behind her. Curious, she closed her laptop and peeked over her shoulder, wine glass in hand, to see what was going on.

  In the opposite corner of the open living room was a shirtless Clint on a black yoga mat in a Downward Dog position. She’d never really thought guys exercising was particularly sexy, but damn. The way he was filling out those black gym shorts was impressive, to say the least, and that pose gave her a perfect view. She swallowed her wine and drank her fill of him, glad he had no idea she was up here ogling him, until…

  “If you don’t quit staring I’ll have to start charging you for the show,” he said, his tone snarky.

  Damn.

  Good thing her wine glass was empty now or she would have spilled it everywhere, as quickly as she swivelled back to face her computer. Cheeks hot and heart racing, she swallowed hard and hurried back to the kitchen for a refill, looking anywhere but at him now. Him and his buff, naked chest. Oh God. “I wasn’t staring,” she said, her words tumbling out in an embarrassed rush. “I was just trying to figure out what you were doing.”

  “Yoga,” he said, laughter evident in his voice. He was enjoying her discomfort, apparently. “Sorry to take over your living room, but there wasn’t really a good space for the mat in my bedroom. You should try it some time. Very relaxing.” Several beats passed before he said, “How about now?”

&n
bsp; “What?” She turned fast to find him now in a tree pose, looking totally serene while she felt like a complete mess inside. “Uh, no. I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  Clint cracked one eye open, his hands folded in front of his chest like he was praying. “Why not?”

  Because all I can think about is ripping those shorts off and licking you all over. Instead of saying that, she gulped more wine and did some praying of her own—mainly for the strength to resist her carnal urges. “I can’t,” she said, trying to come up with some excuse that wouldn’t sound lame. Her arm still itched like hell under those damned bandages and she seized on the opportunity. “The, uh, the doctor said I shouldn’t do anything strenuous while my bullet wound is still healing. All those yoga moves, stretching and stuff—especially when I’m not used to it. Yeah, no.”

  If she’d stopped there, things would have been fine. But the wine seemed to have loosened her tongue because to her horror, she kept babbling on. Or maybe it was the fact she had six and a half feet of gorgeous half-naked man standing in her living room inviting her closer to him that had her ruffled six ways from Sunday. Whatever it was, she couldn’t seem to shut up. “It’s so frustrating, really,” she said, carrying her glass and the wine bottle out of the kitchen and into the living room, knowing she was courting danger and not able to stop herself. “I hate having limited mobility, especially at my job. But I still get it all done, because that’s what I do. But I’d really like them to let me off my leash once in a while.”

  She flopped down on the end of the sofa farthest away from him and kicked her stockinged feet up onto the cushions, grateful for her comfy PJs as she chugged more wine.

  He switched positions again, looking over his shoulder at her with those pretty blue eyes, his full lips quirked into half smile. “I know a thing or two about bullet wounds.”

  Tara bet he did as she studied his torso over the rim of her glass. From down here, she could see his smooth, tanned skin was marked in places with paler, shinier scars. There were several on his back and sides. Before she could stop herself, she asked, “Where’d you get those from?”

  As he moved from pose to pose, he told her about how he’d been a sharpshooter in the SEALs and how getting shot came with the territory. “I earned my position.”

  “Hmm.” Part of her felt honored he’d share all that with her. But the other part just wanted to feel those scars under her fingers. Tara was on her feet before she could rethink her actions and walked up beside Clint as he performed a Namaste and bowed slightly. When he straightened, she reached out and traced her finger along a scar on his side. He moved into her touch, so her hand ended up on his back, directly behind his heart.

  “That scar is the worst of them,” he said, his voice so low and quiet, it held her hypnotized. “My team came under attack. We weren’t expecting it and I ran into the situation without thinking. The bullet missed my heart by millimeters. I almost died that day.”

  “Oh God,” she gasped, unable to pull away as he slowly turned around to face her, so close his heat wrapped around her, penetrating the thin cotton of her PJs. So close she could smell the soap on his skin, see a tiny drop of sweat run down from his cheek to his neck, hear the softness of his breathing. Her tongue longed to catch that drop, see if it tasted as salty as she expected. She bit her lip to keep from doing it. Flustered, she murmured, “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, leaning down so his breath stirred the hair near her temple. “All these scars remind me of all the future opportunities I’ll miss if I’m not careful.”

  She was staring at his chest when Clint reached up and grasped her chin gently, tipping her face upward so her gaze met his, the pad of his thumb tracing her jaw. “Have you thought about that? No bill is worth your life, Tara.”

  Time seemed to slow as she rose on tiptoe while Clint bent even more, their lips meeting in the middle. The kiss started off sweet, soft. Tentative at first, then growing more heated as he groaned and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her to him. Tara’s head was spinning, her blood pounding in her ears and molten warmth spreading from her core out to her extremities. This was too much. It would never be enough. She slid her arms up his chest to twine her hands around his neck, toying with the soft dark hair at the nape of his neck and loving his slight shiver against her. He rocked his hips into her, letting her know he was enjoying this as much as she was and she lifted one leg, to wrap it around his waist, thinking she’d like to climb him like a redwood if…

  “Daddy!” Ashley called from down the hall. “I’m thirsty again.”

  Clint pulled back, his breathing fast and his eyes locked on her lips. His pupils were blown wide, all but obscuring the blue irises. He looked as ragged as she felt and she wanted more, wanted to undo him completely—and damn if the intensity of that desire didn’t have her pushing him away.

  She didn’t do this. Didn’t lose herself over some guy. She had goals, dreams, things to achieve. A relationship would only get in the way of that. She stumbled back to her seat on the sofa, watching as he went to the kitchen for a glass of water and headed upstairs to his daughter.

  Her heart pinched a little. Just once in her life, she wished she could feel like a priority to someone. But Clint wasn’t offering that—not to her. And she wouldn’t be able to accept it, anyway. Not when her focus needed to stay on her plans, no matter how thirsty for something else she might be.

  8

  Clint didn’t get much sleep that night. Instead, he lay awake in the second guest room, staring at the shadows dancing across the ceiling and remembering just how good that damned kiss had been. Too good, honestly, which was a huge issue.

  He had enough problems to deal with already without breaking his cardinal rule—no dating clients.

  Finally, after a few hours of not-snoozing, he decided to just get up and rolled out of bed. After showering and changing, he padded into the kitchen barefoot to start a pot of coffee. Following the chaos of the night before, it was nice to have the place quiet for a change. Ashley and Tara were still sleeping. He yawned and found the supplies in the pantry, then scooped grounds into the filter before pouring a pot of water into the top of the machine and pressing Start.

  Nothing happened.

  Squinting through the hazy, early morning sunshine, Clint tried the button again. Nada. Checked to make sure it was plugged in, but still no go. Dammit. He glanced over to the digital clock on the stove, but that was off too. Must be a tripped fuse.

  Still a bit groggy, he began to search for the fuse box, but didn’t find one in the house, which meant it must be out in the garage somewhere. Dandy. Less than an hour in and already his day was off to a rockin’ start.

  Grumbling under his breath, he grabbed the spare key and a flashlight, then headed out of the front door to the garage at the side of the house. The air was still chilly, frosting his breath. He made it to the garage, his bare toes curling on the icy cement, and wrangled the door up before walking inside and turning on the flashlight. He blinked into the bright beam, giving his eyes a minute to adjust, then skirted his way around Tara’s car to the back corner where the main electrical panel was located. With a sigh, he opened the metal door and began to scan the numerous fuses with the flashlight beam, each marked with a label, before finally reaching the last one for the master switch. But instead of finding a simple switch to flip back on, what he saw had him wide-awake in seconds.

  Fuck.

  This was no tripped fuse. Someone had deliberately cut the wires. The coppery ends stuck out and glinted ominously in the brightness. Worse, as he scanned to the side, he found a scrawled sticky note attached to the inside of the metal door warning Tara to “cut” her losses and stop her campaign to get the climate change legislation passed.

  Or else.

  Whoever wrote the note left the specifics of “or else” up to the reader’s imagination, but Clint had a pretty good idea of what that meant, and he didn’t like it at all. Time to ge
t law enforcement involved, if for no other reason than to have a police report on file of the threat.

  Careful to avoid damaging the evidence any more than he already had, Clint closed the door to the breaker box before hurrying back inside Tara’s house, scanning the perimeter of the property as he went. No footprints or sign of anyone else around now, dammit. He’d check the camera footage, though, to see if they’d caught anything.

  After closing and locking the door, he headed back to the kitchen, only to find his daughter and Tara up and sitting at the kitchen table, an open box of cereal between them while they munched on handfuls of the stuff and watched him. Clint flinched. He needed to talk to Tara, update her on the situation, but this wasn’t the kind of thing he wanted Ashley overhearing.

  “Daddy, you want some cereal?” Ashley asked, holding out a sticky hand full of pink, sugary cereal with tiny marshmallows shaped like monsters. “It’s really good.”

  “Uh, no. Thanks.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, the stubble on his jaw scratching his palm. Glancing back over his shoulder, he caught Tara’s eye. While he knew they needed to talk about the threat, he couldn’t help asking, “Don’t you have any normal, healthy cereal?”

  “This is normal, healthy cereal,” she said, raising a brow at him as she pointed to the box where it proclaimed to be fortified with vitamin C. “I suppose you only eat whole-bran stuff.”

  “I like whole bran stuff,” he admitted.

  “There’s a power outage,” Tara said, looking far too adorable with her hair mussed and those darned PJs of hers askew. Clint’s fingertips itched from the remembered softness of that material and the equal silkiness of her skin beneath his touch. He gritted his teeth against the forbidden memories as she shoved another handful of dry cereal in her mouth and chewed, speaking around it. “We should call the electric company.”