Leah Braemel - Personal Protection

“What makes you think it might be?”

“Drinking is against the rules for an operative protecting their principal. Yet you deliberately offered me a beer-twice.”

“It’s not a test. I was trying to be hospitable-it’s how my momma raised me. My daddy taught me to look after myself-which is why having you-anyone-babysit me while they’re waiting around for someone to try to take a potshot at me sticks in my craw.”

“That’s precisely what Hauberk hired me to do. It’s understood that we’re agreeing to protect our principals by whatever means necessary.”

“Yeah, well…if it comes down to taking a bullet for me, don’t.”

“I’m supposed to let them shoot Hauberk’s owner and president?” She crossed her arms and waited for him to answer.

He lifted the bottle to his lips and hesitated, his gaze dropping down to her cleavage and the three buttons she’d left undone.

Her nipples hardened into tight buds that pushed against the thin fabric of her T-shirt. Yup, agreeing to stay with a man who could make her so horny just with a look was a major logistical error.

He muttered something under his breath that sounded rather like “death of him” but she couldn’t be sure. Her theory about him having a death wish started niggling again. Had he done something he was ashamed of? Did he feel he deserved a bullet for whatever he’d done?

“How will you protect me if you’re dead?” he demanded. “I’m not the president with over two hundred agents who can jump in if one falls. If someone shoots me, you’ll follow standard Hauberk procedure-keep yourself safe, and get me the hell out of Dodge. You can get me medical care once you’re clear of any danger.” He finished his beer and stashed the empty bottle in a bin under the sink then stalked out to the living room.

Once he’d flipped on the large flat screen to a football game, she knew it was time to change tactics. She wandered around the apartment, waiting for a commercial break before picking up a picture of a woman with similar golden skin and high cheekbones. She already knew who it was, she’d been through his file, but wanted to keep him relaxed. Hoping to project a casual manner, she asked, “She’s pretty, who is she?”

“That’s my little sister, Sarah.” His defensiveness dropped, pride filling his voice. “She graduated medical school last year and is doin’ her residency in Atlanta.”

“And this lady?” She picked up the picture of a Hawaiian woman in traditional Hawaiian garb with dark hair and high cheekbones, and Sam’s beautiful smile.

“That’s my momma.” His entire face softened as he looked at the picture. “After Pop died, she moved back to Hawaii.” His brow creased. “If she calls, don’t tell her that you’re here to protect me, all right?”

“She’ll get upset?”

Sam snorted. “More likely she’ll get on a plane and come here to try to run the detail herself. She was a nurse with the Army-served in ’Nam for two tours-that’s where she met Pop. I swear she’s a mind reader because you can’t get away with anything when she’s around.”

The next picture was one of Mrs. Watson and a small boy with a full head of black curls. Before she could ask, Sam sneered. “Yeah, that’s me. And if you say how cute I was, I’ll kick you out.”

“I won’t.” But she wanted to.

He ran a hand over his stubble. “And don’t tell me you’d like me to grow it out because I’m tall enough as it is without lookin’ like someone parked a goddamned poodle on my head.”

Rosie couldn’t help but laugh as she moved along the mantel and picked up the next picture. Sam in leather pants and motorcycle jacket, standing by a black and chrome Harley, the Washington Monument in the background. It was the look of adoration on his face as he smiled at a curvy redhead wrapped up in his arms that had caught Rosie’s attention when she’d first seen the picture earlier that day.

“That’s Jill Hoskins.” A bleak look crossed his face as he turned his head to stare out the window. “She died two weeks after that picture was taken.”

Carefully setting the picture back on the mantel, Rosie murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. So am I,” he replied even quieter, one of his hands rubbing idly at his chest. After a moment, he hit the remote and unmuted the television, focusing on the scrimmage instead.

She waited until halftime before speaking again. “Has Chad told you about Troy loaning us one of his operatives to help out?”

“Yeah, Scott Phillips.” Sam’s scowl and something that sounded like it would be a particularly filthy curse in what might have been German. “If anyone should be on vacation, it’s Scott. Instead Troy sics him on me. Do him a favor-give him a pile of files to check out or something. Keep him busy, will ya? He sits around with nothin’ to do, he’ll drive himself crazy second-guessing himself.”

Without another word, he stalked from the kitchen and headed down the hall to his bedroom. Obviously she needed to take a look at Phillips’ file herself and find out why he deserved a vacation. A burnt out operative definitely wouldn’t help protect Sam.

Thirty minutes later, a rhythmic noise had her peeking around the door. Wearing only a pair of shorts, Sam was working out on a rowing machine. His shoulder muscles rippled and his thighs bulged as he hauled on the pulley. Rosie stood in the doorway, entranced by a bead of sweat as it rolled down his forehead and slid down his neck.

The play of his muscles as he worked out made her imagine his chest flexing as he positioned himself over her, his arms planted either side of her head. She’d dig her fingers into those broad shoulders, feel his strength as he held himself above her. When he drove into her, she’d wrap her legs about his, feel the power of his thighs flexing as he whipped her into an orgasmic frenzy.

He’s your boss, her conscience hissed. She fled to the safety of the living room, wondering if she was fleeing Sam, or the strength of her desire.

You’re just horny, she reminded herself. It’s been almost a year since you’ve been with a guy and now you’ve got the man of your dreams at your fingertips. You’ve been on a starvation diet and he’s a delicious hunk of cherry chocolate cheesecake.

Forty minutes later the sounds changed and the whir of the treadmill started, followed by a regular thumping that gradually sped up as his feet pounded on the belt. An hour more had passed when she heard the shower turn on in his bathroom.

She found herself prowling along the floor-to-ceiling windows like a panther trapped in a cage. He’d be naked, those four showerheads in his expansive bathroom were pounding his back with steady pulses of hot water. Water that would cascade over his chest, sluice down his belly and over his cock. A cock she wanted to-STOP IT!

When the water shut off, she turned her back to the room and pretended to focus on the lights of the city. But once he stepped into the room, the lights faded and all she could see was the reflection of Sam. Wearing only a pair of navy sweats and a towel wrapped around his neck, he prowled across the room to stand directly behind her. The broad expanse of his chest was still visible in his reflection for the top of her head barely cleared the base of his sternum.

“The view is beautiful, isn’t it?” he said softly. Except he wasn’t looking at the panorama of the city, he was looking at her reflection.

“Y-yes.” It took every ounce of her willpower to continue facing the windows, not to turn into the chest that formed a wall at her back, not to touch the scar down the middle of his chest, or the star-shaped bullet wound just to the left and ask him about it. She’d once asked, but no one, not even Chad, would tell her about the story of who’d put it there. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe slowly.