Cassie Miles - Mountain Bodyguard

“I have a question for you. You had arranged to pick me up at five o’clock, in just a few hours, for a date. Doesn’t it seem weird for you to ring the doorbell and announce that you’re moving in with me?”

“A valid question.” He translated her concern: “You want to know if it’s unprofessional for me to agree to act as bodyguard for a woman I’m attracted to.”

“Are you?” She brightened.

“Attracted?” He regretted the use of that word. “You’re a good-looking woman. I’m a single man.”

“And you’re my bodyguard. If we’re dating, isn’t that a professional conflict?”

“I considered asking somebody else at TST to take this assignment.” For about three and a half seconds, he’d considered. “It’s not a problem. I can control my personal feelings. At five o’clock, I can quit being a bodyguard, and we’ll have our date. Or not.”

“How do you decide?”

“We’ll know,” he said.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CASSIE MILES,a USA TODAY bestselling author, lives in Colorado. After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Mills & Boon Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.

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To Khloe Adams and her brilliant advice.

And, as always, to Rick.

Contents

Cover

Introduction “I have a question for you. You had arranged to pick me up at five o’clock, in just a few hours, for a date. Doesn’t it seem weird for you to ring the doorbell and announce that you’re moving in with me?” “A valid question.” He translated her concern: “You want to know if it’s unprofessional for me to agree to act as bodyguard for a woman I’m attracted to.” “Are you?” She brightened. “Attracted?” He regretted the use of that word. “You’re a good-looking woman. I’m a single man.” “And you’re my bodyguard. If we’re dating, isn’t that a professional conflict?” “I considered asking somebody else at TST to take this assignment.” For about three and a half seconds, he’d considered. “It’s not a problem. I can control my personal feelings. At five o’clock, I can quit being a bodyguard, and we’ll have our date. Or not.” “How do you decide?” “We’ll know,” he said.

Title Page Mountain Bodyguard Cassie Miles www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author CASSIE MILES, a USA TODAY bestselling author, lives in Colorado. After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Mills & Boon Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.

Dedication To Khloe Adams and her brilliant advice. And, as always, to Rick.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

The hotel was a bodyguard’s nightmare. Mason Steele fidgeted beside French doors that opened onto a flagstone terrace. With extreme impatience, he watched while Admiral Edgar Prescott, tonight’s honoree, made his way through the stragglers who were toasting the crimson glow of a June sunset and finishing off their complementary glass of Colorado merlot.

Number one security problem: isolated mountain location. This seven-story structure was surrounded by national forest with only two viable access roads. Never mind that Aspen was less than forty minutes away, this site was remote. An attacker could assault the hotel, dash across the ninth green and vanish into the forest before Mason and his colleagues figured out where they were hit. To prevent such an ambush, his firm, TST Security, had stationed their own snipers on the roof.

This charity banquet was all hands on deck for TST. They were using five regulars and six part-timers, plus had a helicopter pilot on standby.

Security issue number two: though the styling of the hotel was meant to resemble a hunting lodge from the early 1900s, the interior of the banquet hall featured a wall of windows and another of French doors. The design was an open invitation to long-distance shooters.

Issue number three: the people. Too many had been invited. The circular tables reached almost to the walls, which meant a sure pileup if they had to evacuate quickly. The well-dressed guests had all passed through metal detectors, but that was no guarantee of safety in this era of plastic firearms. Potential weapons were everywhere. Prime rib was on the menu; steak knives were on the tables. The centerpieces blocked sight lines, and the tall Art Deco arrangements on either side of the dais were large enough to hide a couple of AK-47s.

As soon as the admiral stepped over the threshold from the terrace, Mason signaled to one of his men to round up the last few people that were outside and lock the French doors. As for himself, he took a position against the wall where he could watch the crowd. Most of them had settled into their assigned seats. Some had already been served. Others table hopped, chatted and chuckled and showed off photos on cell phones.

A woman in a sleeveless blue jumpsuit approached him. He’d been introduced to her before, had noticed her thoroughly and had paid particular attention to the way the clingy blue fabric hugged her curves. She was part of the entourage for the admiral, his movie star wife and their several children. When the lady in blue sidled up next to him, the top of her head was only as high as his shoulder. Lights from the chandeliers glistened on her curly auburn ponytail.

She nudged his elbow. “Whose body are you guarding?”

“The admiral’s.” He dropped a glance in her direction, expecting to quickly look away. Instead, she seized his attention with her big brown eyes and the constellation of freckles that spread across her nose and cheeks. The corners of her mouth naturally turned upward as though caught on the edge of laughter.

“Your friend across the room,” she said with a nod toward Sean Timmons, who was the first T in TST Security, “must be in charge of watching Helena Christie Prescott’s body. How did he get the good assignment?”

“Seniority.” The admiral’s glamorous dark-haired wife showed a lot of cleavage, and the slit on her skirt was thigh high. Watching her was kind of a treat.

“You’re Mason, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mason Steele was the S in TST Security. “And you’re Francine Alexandra DeMille.”