Kat Martin - Against the Sun

A good-looking woman in her late twenties with wavy, shoulder-length, mink-brown hair was busily searching the drawers and cabinets behind the desk. The way she bent over in her tailored pencil skirt provided him with a perfect view of a very shapely ass.

He almost smiled.

Even the help was first-class.

She jerked upright at his approach, noticing him for the first time, and her face colored. It was a pretty face with amazing golden-brown eyes that looked him up and down, which took a while, Jake being six-five, two hundred thrty-five pounds.

“May I help you?” she asked.

He gave her a smile. “I’m Jake Cantrell. I’ve got an appointment at ten with Ian Dumont.”

She frowned, looked down at the computer screen on the desk, but apparently didn’t see his name. “He didn’t mention it. He’s getting ready for another meeting. You might have to wait awhile.”

“Not a problem. In the meantime, I could sure use a cup of coffee.”

Amusement tipped her mouth up, making a tiny dimple appear next to those plump, rose-colored lips. He could see the curves beneath her tailored suit, suggesting her breasts were just the right size, and her waist was small.

Jake’s groin tightened. Which surprised him, since he needed the coffee to recover from the night he’d spent with Deanna Leblanc, an old flame who was in Houston to film a TV commercial.

The receptionist cast him a look. “I’ll see what I can do.” But she didn’t make a move, just turned to the woman hurrying toward her across the waiting room.

“Oh, I’m so sorry I’m late, Ms. Dumont,” the newcomer said.

Son of a bitch. A Dumont, Jake thought. Asking her to fetch him a cup of coffee was probably not the best idea he’d ever had.

“Is Paulo all right?” the Dumont woman asked.

“My son wasn’t driving, thank God.” The real receptionist, attractive and in her mid-forties, had straight black hair pulled back in a bun and smooth, olive skin. “Paulo has a concussion and a couple of fractured ribs, but it looks like he’s going to be okay. Thank you for covering while I was gone.”

“Your boy was in a car accident, Marie. It wasn’t a problem. I’m just glad he’s going to be all right.” The Dumont woman tipped her head toward Jake, her soft mahogany curls sliding around her shoulders, making the muscles across his abdomen clench.

“Mr. Cantrell is here to see Ian,” she said. “I have to get to the meeting. Could you fetch him a cup of coffee while he waits?”

Jake felt the slight rebuke in the glance she cast his way. Clearly, she wasn’t used to fetching a man much of anything.

“Of course,” Marie said. Ms. Dumont walked away, heading for the tall walnut door leading into Ian Dumont’s imperial domain. Her strides were long and purposeful, Jake noticed, as if she had someplace important to go. He liked a woman who didn’t dawdle. And his earlier assessment was right—she had a great ass and a pair of legs that wouldn’t quit. She was only about five-six, but her expensive spike heels pushed her somewhere close to six feet.

He watched her disappear behind the door, wondering what role she played in the Dumont empire, then turned his attention to the receptionist.

Marie was smiling. “Mr. Cantrell?”

“That’s right.”

“Mr. Dumont mentioned yesterday that you would be coming in this morning. I believe he wants to see you as soon as you arrive.” She indicated the office door. “I’ll bring coffee for everyone into the meeting.”

“Thank you, Marie.”

The woman blushed as Jake turned and walked away. It was his size mostly, he figured, that made women take a second look. He was used to it by now.

He swung open the walnut door and stepped inside, finding only two people in the room—the woman he had subtly insulted and a silver-haired gentleman in his late seventies, slightly stooped but still impressive, undoubtedly Ian Dumont.

“Mr. Cantrell, I assume,” the man said. “Our mutual friend, Trace Rawlins, had nothing but good things to say when he recommended you for this job.” Trace knew Ian well. He’d recently helped design the state-of-the-art alarm system for Marine Drilling when the building was renovated. “Please join us.”

The Dumont woman was staring, one of her dark eyebrows slightly elevated in question. He noticed she was wearing a flashy diamond engagement ring. Since he felt a jolt of heat whenever he looked at her, it was probably good she was out of his reach.

Ian Dumont walked the length of the long conference table to greet him, reaching out to shake his hand—a strong, solid handshake that set the tone for the discussion ahead. He’d once had calluses on those hands, Jake figured.

“Why don’t we all sit down?” the CEO suggested.

They grouped themselves at one end of the table, which was done in the same walnut and chrome as the waiting area. Wide plate-glass windows looked down on the city streets, and modern artwork in bold bright colors lined the inner walls.

The door swung open and Marie walked in with a silver coffee service. She set the tray down on the table and poured each of them a cup.

“Thank you, Marie,” Ian said as she quietly headed back out the door. He fixed his attention on Jake. “I asked you here today to discuss providing security for one of our people during an upcoming business negotiation.”

“Right. An S. E. Dumont, you said, when we spoke on the phone.”

“That is correct.”

“Wait a minute,” the woman interrupted, her gaze sliding toward Jake. “Ian, you aren’t thinking—”

“Mr. Cantrell, I’d like you to meet my granddaughter, Sage Elizabeth Dumont.”

The room fell silent. Son of a bitch. She was his assignment?

“I don’t need a bodyguard, Ian.”

The older man turned toward her, a determined glint in eyes that looked strikingly similar to the flashing, gold-ringed brown ones belonging to his granddaughter.

“This man has experience in Middle Eastern protocol as well as a background in personal security. Isn’t that correct, Mr. Cantrell?”

“This is a business transaction,” Sage argued. “I’m not in any sort of danger.”

Both men ignored her. “Over the years, I’ve done a lot of corporate protection work, both in South America and the Middle East,” Jake said. “I worked in Saudi Arabia for three years after I got out of the marines. So yes, I’m familiar with the protocols.”

“I understand you were in Special Forces. You served in Iraq, I believe?”

“That’s right.” Ian Dumont had done his homework.

“Sage is vice president of acquisitions and distribution for Marine Drilling. Currently she is involved in a transaction that may reach the three-hundred-million-dollar mark, a deal being negotiated with Sheik Khalid Al Kahzaz of Saudi Arabia. The sheik and his family are due to arrive in just a few days.”

“I see,” Jake said noncommittally. Protecting a corporate executive was one thing. Protecting a young socialite who got her job because she was a member of the Dumont family was something altogether different.

“With your experience,” Ian continued, as Jake took a sip of his coffee, “I’m hoping you will be able to guide my granddaughter through this visit with our Saudi friends, and should any trouble arise, also keep her safe.”

“That’s what I get paid for.”

Sage shifted in her chair, irritation clear in her face. “We need to discuss this in private, Ian.”

The old man smiled indulgently. “We can do that, of course, but the result will be the same. You’re representing Marine Drilling International. You will be prominently engaged in entertaining the sheik, his daughter and son, and the remainder of his party. The unrest in their part of the world has reached all the way to our city. A man was killed in a Middle Eastern prodemocracy demonstration last night.”