Myla Jackson - Wyatt's War

“Great. I—”

“Oh, and Carmelo DaVita, the delegate from Paraguay will be arriving late tonight. He prefers to have satin sheets on his bed. I called the hotel to make sure they arranged to have the bed made up in satin.”

“Maddie!”

“I’m sorry. Did you have something you needed to say?”

“Yes.” Fiona inhaled and let the breath out slowly, calming herself. “The hotel screwed up my reservation and double-booked me with an odious, pain-in-the-ass man.” With broad shoulders, narrow hips and eyes she could totally fall into. And equipped? Oh yeah. Pulling her head out of the image, she said, “Stay on the phone with them until they fix it. I forgot to look and I’m already downstairs and late. Do you have the name of the man from Homeland Security?”

“No, do you need me to call?”

“No, no. I’ll figure it out. Just stay on the hotel and get me another room.”

“You’re supposed to meet with the DHS rep now though.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m on my way.” Fiona muttered a curse. “How hard can it be to find some old government employee?”

“Deep breath,” Maddie said. “It’ll all work out. The fabulous Fiona Allen is on the job. She never lets a detail slide by her without tweaking the hell out of it.”

Fiona’s lips twisted as she pushed through the door to the ladies’ room. “Let’s hope I can tweak up a hotel room in the next hour or so. My feet are killing me.”

“I’m on it like hair on a monkey’s back.” Maddie laughed and hung up.

In the bathroom, Fiona made quick work of the facilities, washed her hands and tried to make sense of her crazy curls. Well, hell. Short of chopping it off, nothing would ever bring her hair under control. It would have to do. Besides, it didn’t matter for this meeting. The man Homeland Security had sent was bound to be an older government employee with poorly fitting clothing and worn shoes, and be completely clueless when it came to organizing a security staff of over fifty people.

The security firm she’d hired came highly recommended, fully vetted and bonded. They screened all their employees and trained them extensively. Fiona had full faith in them and thought the added layer of supervision redundant and frankly annoying.

Smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles out of her skirt, she left the bathroom and headed for the lounge. Her gaze darted to the reception desk. The man who’d wrecked her perfectly ordered day by first knocking her into the river and then stealing her room had disappeared.

Good.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Sadly, he was all over her mind and fully entrenched in her thoughts. Images of his naked body couldn’t be wiped from her memory that easily, like they’d been permanently etched on her brain. The man had a great shape and he was by far the most well-endowed man she’d ever had the pleasure of viewing naked.

Her heart pounded and her palms moistened, along with other areas of her body she would prefer remained nameless. Yes, indeed, the man was hung like a—

As she stepped into the lounge, the man foremost in her thoughts appeared in front of her, seated at the bar, tipping a longneck beer back. He even made swallowing look sexy.

Aggravating man!

Determined to ignore him and get on with this untimely meeting with the rep from Homeland Security, she stood in the center of the room and made a 360-degree turn, searching for a likely candidate.

A couple sat at one of the tables, completely engrossed in each other. Four men sat at another, suit jackets hung over the backs of their seats, glasses of whiskey in front of them. Not one of them looked up from their conversation.

A man sat at a table nursing a martini, wearing slacks and a polo shirt with a logo for an aerospace company embroidered on the left breast. He stared into his drink, never once glancing up.

The only other man in the place stood beside the odious Wyatt Magnus. Or should she say swayed beside Wyatt. Five empty shot glasses were stacked in front of him and he waved to the bartender for another.

The bartender shook his head. “Sorry, mister, I believe you’ve had enough.”

“Ah, don’t be a party pooper. Jush one more.” The man nearly fell off his seat, righted himself and raised one finger.

“Sorry.” The bartender turned away and went back to stacking beer bottles in a cooler beneath the counter.

“Wass with the service ’round here?” the drunk exclaimed. “Can’t a man get a drink?”

“Hey, buddy. Why don’t I help you up to your room?” Wyatt suggested.

“I don’t need help gettin’ to my room. I’m perfeckly capable.” He slid off his barstool and would have done a face plant on the floor if Wyatt hadn’t caught him beneath his arms.

“That’s right. You don’t need any help.” Wyatt grunted, straining under the man’s weight.

One of the waiters rushed forward and looped the drunk’s arm over his shoulder. Together, they half-walked, half-dragged the man toward the exit.

Much as she wanted to detest Wyatt Magnus, everywhere she turned, he was helping someone out. First the little boy who almost dove into the river, now this drunk. Most men would have let the guy hit the floor and left him for someone else to clean up.

Not Wyatt. He patiently hauled the guy out.

A bellboy met them at the door, insisting on taking over for Wyatt.

Relieved of his burden, Wyatt turned back toward the lounge and spotted her for the first time since the drunk fell all over him.

Fiona’s heart stuttered and then raced, her belly tightening. She scrunched her damp hands into fists, digging her fingernails into her palms. Maybe that little bit of pain would keep her from drooling over the broad shoulders and dreamy eyes of the man who’d been a thorn in her side since she’d met him.

“That was nice of you,” she admitted reluctantly.

“So now I’m nice?”

“I didn’t say you were nice. The gesture was nice. I’m still mad at you for taking my room.”

Wyatt motioned toward a barstool. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“No, thank you. I’m supposed to meet someone here.” She glanced around and back down at her watch. “He was supposed to be here by now.”

Wyatt’s eyes narrowed briefly and then widened. His lips turned up at the corners in a very sexy smile. “I’m kinda slow on the uptake here, but let me guess—Fiona Allen. As in F. Allen of FA International Event Planners?” He shook his head. “I expected to meet a man, not…well, not you.” He stuck his hand out. “Wyatt Magnus, sent here by my commander, on loan to the Department of Homeland Security to supervise the security for this convention.”

Taken aback by Wyatt’s revelation, she took his hand automatically as she scrambled for a functioning brain cell and a single coherent thought. “You?”

He chuckled, the sound warming her insides more than she ever cared to admit. “Me. Granted, it wasn’t my idea. I’d much rather brave a deployment to Afghanistan than stand around checking for Boy Scout knives in businessmen’s pockets.”

“This will never do.” Fiona swallowed hard. “I can’t work with you.”

Wyatt almost laughed out loud at the way the blush rushed up Fiona’s neck and she pressed her hands to her cheeks. The woman was far too uptight and stirring the sand in her sandbox suited Wyatt perfectly.

“Sorry, but I’m on orders.”

“What do you mean on orders ?” She shook her head. “I’m telling you, I don’t need you here. I have a perfectly good security firm with fifty guards lined up to handle the security of the convention center and this hotel. They’ll have metal detectors in place and will perform whatever pat downs need to be done.”

“That’s all well and good for checking for weapons on people entering. What about bombs and improvised explosive devices?”