Leah Braemel - Personal Protection

The hood of his raincoat pulled well over his head, he strolled past the empty security desk. The pungent smell of marijuana drifted through the lobby, telling him his diversion had worked. Even so, as he inserted the security key that would bring the elevator to him, he kept his head lowered and away from the lobby’s concealed camera. Not that they could easily identify him past the hood, especially with the wig and fake beard he’d donned.

The hallway to the penthouse suites was empty when the elevator doors slid open, though a dog yapped and growled in a suite at the opposite end to his objective. Assured there’d be no witnesses, he walked to the door of 1201 and withdrew the spare key he’d procured.

Once inside the apartment, he disengaged the alarm and took a deep breath. The multimillion dollar penthouse sprawled in front of him, large leather couches and massive chairs, flat screen TV hanging over a gas fireplace in the living room. He’d been here so often, he didn’t even need to use his flashlight to find his way to the master bedroom. He briefly considered trying to find the safe room he knew was concealed in the suite. Knowing Sam Watson’s tastes, it had probably been outfitted as a personal dungeon for those days he couldn’t get to La Porte Rouge.

Some guys had all the luck.

Not that Sam’s involvement in the private club had started with anything remotely to do with luck. Which reminded him just why he was breaking and entering the apartment of the one man he trusted more than life itself. Who after tonight might never-should never-trust him again.

He pulled the photograph from the envelope and carefully positioned it on the pillows at the head of the wrought iron bed.

After a moment’s thought, he headed to the kitchen and grabbed the ketchup bottle. Less than two minutes later, a scarlet threat left on the ivory comforter, he walked to the French doors leading to the terrace. Light glinted off the end of the telescope from a suite in the building opposite Sam’s where his compatriots, his co-conspirators, waited and watched.

He started to lift his thumb to signal the job’s successful completion, then hesitated. Was he-were they-doing the right thing in forcing Sam like this? For three months they’d waited for him to make his move. Hell, for eight years, they’d bided their time. Yet nothing had changed. And so they’d decided to take action. To set right the wrongs that had been done.

But did the end justify the means? And what happened if their plan backfired?

The sun hadn’t yet risen when Sam waved his passcard at the card reader guarding the entrance of Hauberk Protection Services’ D.C. facility. The front door unlocked, granting him access to the reception area.

The bulletproof doors were overkill, because that area only held the Accounting and Human Resources departments that were responsible for not only Hauberk’s Protection division but also for the newly acquired Security subsidiary. A half dozen empty desks occupied one corner for the local Close Protective Officers to do background checks or fill out reports. At the back of those sections was the executive office area that his operatives jokingly referred to as the Inner Sanctum. But the heavy steel doors he’d had designed to resemble the wooden gates of an ancient English castle he’d once stayed in impressed the hell out of potential clients.

Most mornings he would have headed into his office. But this morning he turned toward the indoor firing range and its armory. He placed his hand over the new-to-America palm vein scanner. Another device he’d been recommending his mid-level security clients start installing instead of the easy-to-fool fingerprint scanners.

Hearing the muffled sound of gunfire beyond, he opened his locker and selected a pair of ear plugs, then signed out a box of ammo and a couple of paper targets.

As it did every time he entered the range, the familiar scent of gunpowder both soothed and irritated him as it reminded him how much he missed the camaraderie out in the field. Now he drove a desk, having to get his thrills through reading others’ reports, instead of the adrenaline rush of guarding a principal himself.

Two shooting booths were already occupied, including his favorite one at the far end. Chad-he should have guessed his area manager would be on the range this early, and… Well, well, well, instead of wearing her usual pair of baggy cargo pants, Ms. Rosalinda Ramos wore a pair of hip-hugging blue jeans. Jeans that hung low enough he could tell that she wore a blue thong and had some sort of tattoo on the small of her back. Aw, damn, he didn’t need to know that. Now he’d be thinking of taking those jeans off her all day to discover what the rest of the tattoo was and just how far down it went.

She raised her gun and fired. The shot hit directly in the heart of her target. She fired again. The second shot doubled the size of the original hole. She glanced over her shoulder, then muttering something he couldn’t hear, put her gun on the counter and bent over to fiddle with her left shoe.

Oh, mama, her jeans pulled taut over the tight round globes of her ass. An ass that begged to be squeezed. To be fucked. With a groan, he adjusted his pants, his dick firming at the thought of being buried in such a tight channel.

Ever since she’d won him in the charity bachelor auction three months before, he’d sensed a carefully hidden sensuality in Ms. Ramos. As if deep within, she guarded a slow burning ember waiting to be ignited. A fire that would set his world ablaze.

He’d been hard pressed not making a move on her the night he’d fulfilled his obligations and taken her to dinner. While he’d wanted to see if he could add a little oxygen to the fire and kick start the inferno, he’d held back. He’d had to. She was his employee after all. So instead of making a move, inviting her up to his place or pressing his case when he’d escorted her home, he’d been the perfect gentleman. At least that’s how she’d described his behavior the next morning, much to his disgust and everyone else’s amusement.

But damn, it was getting tougher to maintain his hands-off policy. That element of danger and the heat he was sure would envelop them both was too enticing to resist. If he just had the right reason to breach her defenses…if he could find some way to let her make the first move.

Rosie straightened and took two more shots. Both shots were low and outside, yet the center of the target had a good half-dozen holes from where she’d been firing before he’d arrived. Interesting, had he thrown off her concentration?

Seeing his opening, he strode over to her. His body touching her in all the right places, he wrapped his large hand around hers over the gun barrel, repositioning her fingers. Dayam, it was like holding a sparrow, her hands were so tiny.

He leaned down and nudged her earmuffs so he could murmur in her ear, lowering his voice to a whisper, “It’s better this way.”

Her pulse jumped, racing beneath his fingers. Oh, yeah, that ember was definitely burning brighter. He should have made a move that evening three months before. He should have invited himself into her apartment at the end of the evening, given her more than a chaste kiss on her cheek. He should have put on some soft jazz-Diana Krall maybe-pulled her against him as they danced so she could feel what she did to him.

“Thanks,” she said, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips. Did she realize she was doing that?

The scent of her shampoo-apricots-filled his senses. She always wore her hair in a rigid bun making him wonder if her hair were long or short, curly or straight. He had the strange compulsion to pluck the pins taming it just to satisfy his curiosity.