Leah Braemel - Personal Protection

Chad made some weird noise in the back of his throat. When she looked up at him, he picked up a pen and began to doodle. “I, um, I think I can convince him to cancel out on a couple of those functions.” He tossed the pen back in the pot and took another, cleared his throat again. “As for the rest, you can ask, but don’t be surprised if he refuses. Man’s determined not to let someone get the best of him. You know what they say about doctors being the worst patients? Sam’s going to be our worst client.”

“Men,” Rosie muttered under her breath.

“It’s not all ego, Rosie. Sam’s got his reasons for not wanting bodyguards. He’s going to fight having CPOs to his last breath. And I sure as hell don’t want it to get that far. Which means you’ll need to stick to him like glue.”

The limo pulled into the underground parking lot and past his Jag. A sigh escaped Sam as they cruised past his Harley. The crisp October day would have been perfect to drive his Road King. Instead he was cooped up like a damned dog in the back of the limo that finally stopped near the elevator where Rosie was waiting.

Damn it, why had Chad insisted on Rosie Ramos as his lead CPO? If he’d wanted a woman to accompany him to any upcoming parties or meet ’n greets-the reason Chad had given him-why not McKee or Anderson? Neither of those women got his cock twitching like Rosie did.

The fantasy he’d had of getting her alone in his apartment hadn’t included her wearing a gun and acting in as his personal bodyguard. All right, maybe one had. But, damn it, if a bullet was going to be aimed in his direction, there was no way in hell he wanted the little spitfire throwing herself in its path. He’d rather have her throw herself in his bed. Go down on her knees and unzip his fly… Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!

“All clear, Mr. Watson,” Rosie said quietly.

“Of course it is.” Sam ducked his head and clambered out of the limo, then stomped to the elevator. Goddamn it, she’d even acquired a key to the elevator, locking the door open so no one else could use it. He ignored that it was standard operating procedure and lashed out, “You think other people might not need the goddamned elevator?”

“Better than having the door open and somebody shoot you from inside. Besides there are other elevators still available.”

Her voice was so damned reasonable. Placating. Like he was some baby to be soothed out of a tantrum.

Which is exactly how he was behaving but goddamn it, his people were supposed to be protecting others. Not him.

She turned the key and let the door close, pressing the button for the penthouse. The elevator began to rise, a quiet chime announcing each floor they passed. And with each ding, Sam became more and more aware of the delicate smell of apricot shampoo and woman filling the confined area. He closed his eyes, trying not to deliberately inhale great lungfuls of that amazing scent.

As long as she was around him, he’d not sleep. Instead he’d be staring at the ceiling imagining what it would feel like to cup her breasts in his hands, to unzip her pants and nudge aside that blue thong. Imagine going down on her and tasting her honey. When she’d been in the gym doing those stretches, he’d obsessed about some of the positions she could get into while he fucked her. Then in his office while Chad had been briefing her, he’d pictured her stretched out over his desk, her legs hitched over his shoulders. And now she’d be in the next apartment, so damned available.

Damn it!

“Mr. Watson, do you have a problem with me guarding you?”

“Nope.” He couldn’t help that his answer sounded like a growl. He had one helluva a problem and at the moment it was punching against his zipper. He shifted his briefcase so she wouldn’t see his hard-on.

“I mean, do you have a problem with a woman guarding you?”

Shit! She thought he didn’t want her because she was a woman? Why not add sexual discrimination to the mix today? He exhaled and opened his eyes. “No, Ms. Ramos, I do not have a problem a female operative leading my team.”

“Then do you have a problem with me personally?”

Was it a problem that he was imagining pinning her up against the wall and ramming into her until she screamed her release? How the hell did he explain that to her without getting slapped with a sexual harassment suit in addition to the discrimination one?

“If I didn’t have complete confidence in your abilities, you wouldn’t work for Hauberk, and Chad wouldn’t have personally chosen you as team leader.”

That must have been the answer she was looking for. She nodded, and her shoulders imperceptibly relaxed. “Thank you.”

“I’m pis-ticked off at whoever is sending those damned photographs, and I fu-frickin’ don’t like having to accept that I had to ask my own people to protect me. Leaves me damned twitchy. So don’t take my grouchiness personally, Ms. Ramos. It’s not directed at you.”

No, what was pointing directly at her was his goddamned dick.

The elevator bounced once before the doors slid open, and Sam waited for her to precede him.

Aw, crap. Now he had to watch that bitable ass of hers walk along the hallway and that did nothing to help him control his raging hard-on.

She’s your employee. She’s a crack shot with that Glock 11 she carries. He almost groaned as the image of her bending over on the firing range, wiggling that ass at him, had his cock so hard it hurt.

She can stomp on your nuts and have you singing soprano without breaking a sweat.

Didn’t work. All his dick thought of was wrestling on the ground with her body pressing against him, over him, under him. Around him.

What was in that coffee of Sandy’s today that left him so fucking horny? Spanish fuckin’ fly?

As they approached the door to his apartment, the door to 1202 opened and Kris nodded. “Evening, Mr. Watson.”

Sam couldn’t help but notice his newest and youngest operative standing at attention, a worried frown marring that baby-smooth face of his. Aw hell. He’d stomped on that poor boy’s ego pretty good earlier. Hadn’t he been a bucket of sunshine today?

He stopped, and blew out a breath. “Look, Kris, I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have yelled at you this morning. I’ve been…”-a festering pile of self-centered dogshit?-“under a lot of pressure lately.”

Yeah, right, and if you buy that one, I’ve got some land in the Okefenokee for you.

“It’s all right, Mr. Watson. I don’t think I’d be feeling too happy if someone threatening me had access to my apartment and personal information either.”

He might have bought Kris’s smile if it hadn’t been for the Mr. Watson. Unlike some of his employees, Kris had never had a problem referring to him as Sam. Or even “buddy” on occasion in the gym. Mr. Watson meant he still had some fencing to mend.

“Chad told me you and Walters got those cameras in place.”

“Sir, yes, sir. It was no problem at all, sir.”

First Mr. Watson and now sir. And not just sir, but the military sir, yes sir. Well, he supposed it was natural for Kris to fall back on his naval training.

“I didn’t expect you’d have a problem with it, son.”

Son? Son? Kris is twenty-five, you idiot, not eight the way you’ve just made him feel. He’s not young enough to be your son.

Okay, technically he probably could have been a father at fourteen thanks to Becky Sue’s idea of a birthday present that year. Thank the good Lord above, she’d stolen a condom from her brother Billy’s bedside table before sneaking out. Not that he’d needed another condom for a coupla years after that, but if she’d not had the forethought that night, he could have been a daddy by his fifteenth birthday. But he sure as hell wasn’t old enough to call Kris son.