Leah Braemel: Personal Protection

“What was that, Rosie?” Andy Walters asked as he increased the incline on the treadmill. Considering he’d probably run about six miles, he’d barely worked up a sweat. A tad less than six feet, he wasn’t the typical body-builder people expected from a bodyguard. Today’s shirt had I’m the man your mother warned you about silk-screened across the chest, which most people meeting him for the first time would believe. Especially once they got a look at the tattoos completely covering his left arm and shoulder that made most people think he was a member of Hell’s Angels instead of one of the highest level operatives in Hauberk. But if they talked to him they’d discover he was a soft-spoken man who didn’t swear, didn’t smoke or drink and had manners that would stand him in good stead at Buckingham Palace.

“Just talking to myself, Andy.”

Five minutes later she was muttering again.

It wasn’t as if Sam Watson even knew she was alive. All right, maybe he knew she existed, but she doubted he realized she was female. He’s your boss. You know you shouldn’t get involved with people you work with-it’s trouble with a capital T. Yet she couldn’t stop watching her boss. Couldn’t stop fantasizing about him. Especially after the night he’d escorted her to one of Washington’s finest restaurants. Pity he’d only taken her to dinner because she’d made the winning bid at the bachelor auction. It’s not like it was a real date or anything. But a girl could pretend.

At least when he pulled the car in front of her apartment, she hadn’t blurted out how sexy she found him and revealed how horny she was by inviting him to come up to her apartment. Instead she’d fled. Like a coward.

Not that he would have come up to her apartment if she’d asked. All the photos she’d seen of him showed him beside tall leggy blondes with names like Cynthia or Allison or Lee-Anne-not short Puerto Ricans named Rosalinda who had hair resembling Lisa Simpson’s if she didn’t wrestle it into a bun every morning. Look at that night-she’d dressed up in her sexiest little black dress and he’d barely given her a second glance, if he even bothered with a first one. No, she was his employee, nothing more.

And then this morning-she’d proven herself a total airhead. She’d been hitting the target until he walked into the firing range, and then she started hitting snow. It’s not that he’d said anything or made a noise, it was his cologne, that wonderful dark scent of cedar and amber he wore. She would have known he was there if she’d been blindfolded. It wasn’t right that a man could smell so good.

Instead of concentrating on her target, she’d imagined commanding him to strip off his clothes. Slowly. First she’d have him shrug off his shirt to reveal that rock hard stomach and chest that she’d often admired in Hauberk’s private gym. Have him turn around, maybe even bend over so she could admire his ass. Ay bendito, that man had the best ass of any man she’d ever seen.

Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips as she imagined him kneeling in front of her, ready to do her bidding, his cock pendulous between his legs. No! Bobbing high against his abdomen. If it matched the rest of him, he was probably as wide as her wrist. The ache in her pussy increased exponentially, her panties now drenched at the thought of him suckling her nipples, his full lips feathering down her belly until his tongue lapped at her labia, taunted her pulsing clit. He’d probably be an expert in making a woman come with his tongue. And then she’d lay back and feel those muscular thighs between hers as he pounded her into the mattress. And all the while he’d murmur to her softly in French, or growl at her in German. She’d heard he spoke six languages, four fluently. Body parts always sounded so much sexier in a different language.

Then he’d strolled over to her and wrapped his hand around hers as he corrected her grip. His touch, combined with the strength of his rigid muscles of his thighs pressed against her body, had scattered her wits.

To make matters worse, less than an hour ago, he’d once again proven his disinterest, or worse. She’d stepped on the treadmill-of course the only one free had to be the one right beside his. Less than two minutes later, even though the meter on his treadmill showed he’d only run three miles instead of his usual five, he’d slung a towel around his neck and walked away.

No, Sam Watson didn’t just walk, he prowled like a lion. And not just any lion, Samuel T. Watson was Mustafa himself, the king of the pride, right down to the deep voice. It was a good thing he’d left when he did, because when she’d attempted to peel off the sweatshirt she was wearing over her tee, the treadmill rocketed her into the wall behind her like a sling shot flinging a pea. She’d tried to pretend she’d intended to step off, but from the grin Andy had given her, she was sure everyone in the office would now think her the clumsiest operative of the group.

At least Sam hadn’t witnessed her humiliation.

Or Kris, the newest trainee she’d been assigned. If he’d witnessed her total spazzdom, she’d never hear the end of it.

“Speak of the devil,” she muttered when Kris chose that moment to walk in. His gaze lingered on her cleavage briefly, then trailed down to her legs, his grin slowly widening. “Put your eyeballs back in their sockets, Campbell.”

He grinned, a wide crooked smile. “It’s the drool that’s the problem. I swear you need to hand out bibs when you’re working out, Rosie.” As usual he wore a pair of faded tan shorts, and the ubiquitous blue T-shirt with its gold Hauberk crest. “You going to need a sparring partner later?”

She glanced over at Andy as she chugged back a quarter of the water in her bottle. He was in the middle of a good sprint-he wouldn’t be ready for a while yet. Pity, she wanted to figure out that leg sweep he’d used on her last time they’d paired up. “Yes, I just want to get in a couple more reps.”

By the time Kris had finished his warm ups, her foot was braced against the wall over her head as she stretched her hamstrings.

“Goddamn, woman. It isn’t right that a body is so flexible.”

“It isn’t right that a woman should be expected to pass a basketball through an opening the size of her nostril either, but we can.” She lowered her leg and flexed a few more times. “You ready?”

Kris grinned. “I’m ready to kick your butt. You ready to kiss the mats?”

As they moved to the sparring area, Rosie saw several of her co-workers exchanging money. If they bet on Kris, she vowed they were going to regret it.

Although she was ten inches shorter and a good eighty pounds lighter than Kris, she managed to flip him onto his back fairly quickly.

“Aw hell,” he muttered as he rolled to his feet. “I wasn’t warmed up properly.”

She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. “World’s smallest violin, you big baby.”

“That’s cold. And strangely arousing. Let’s see you do that move again.”

As Kris rolled to a stand, Andy winked at Rosie and called, “Hey, cougar bait, I hear you had another date with that old lady who bought you at the auction.”

Kris shrugged and turned away. “Hey, Bonnie may be forty, but she’s still hot. I figure it’s a win-win situation.”

“Just make sure when she asks to check out your gun, that you don’t rack a bullet in the chamber prematurely.”

Turning bright red, Kris grimaced and muttered to Rosie. “Wow, he’s so subtle.”

He rushed her as he had before but when she moved to intercept him again, he changed directions and she found herself flat on her back, staring at the ceiling.

“Shit!” That was the same move Andy had used on her. How had he done that? She’d have to ask him. After she paid him back, of course.