MY MISTAKE-MAKING DAYS are in the past. That’s what I repeat as the lift ascends and I brace myself for the vision that I’m certain awaits me on the other side of the doors. Even for a guy who likes to watch, four months is a long time to ignore the ultimate in female temptation. Especially a woman who’s paid to showcase her astounding body. But I’m here to protect my client for the next five days while ignoring all the parts of her that make this assignment torture.
I release a sigh, calling on the last line of defence—my hard-won control—in order to face the many challenges I’m up against. The most infuriating is my client’s inability to follow the simplest of safety instructions: wait in your room.
The lift doors part, the humid, chlorine-scented air rushing in like fog. Of course she chose to hang out at the hotel’s pool—a move probably designed to taunt me to the max. Because the pool most likely means a bikini. A bikini means I’ll have to avoid looking at her long legs and womanly hips, her sensational arse and pert breasts. All that topped off with the face of an angel wearing a playful smile that could charm the birds from the trees...
I deserve a fucking medal.
I exit the lift and enter the indoor pool-complex, trepidation a tight ball in my gut. My eyes latch onto the object of both my drool and my dread.
Lady Brooke Madden. Model, socialite, businesswoman. The only thing currently in my life that I can’t control.
Adrenaline smacks me in the head. As predicted, she’s bikini-clad. The sight of her relaxed and being herself, not the polished, bubbly, untouchable version the public see, is like walking into a lamppost. Every damned time.
Her name and title scream breeding, class and elegance—and there she doesn’t disappoint. But her being everything I’m not, and the opposite of my usual type of woman, is not what causes my sleepless nights and vivid dreams, nor what wakes me rock-hard and dreading another day at the ‘office’.
It’s the less obvious parts of her I’m drawn to. That almost childlike concentration—as she stoops over her knitting, which makes her seem younger than almost thirty. Her sexy, world-famous body is sprawled over a pool-side lounger, shapely legs casually bent at coltish angles. And her signature white-blonde pixie cut frames a face of doe-eyed sweetness that’s too girl-next-door for the savvy businesswoman and brand ambassador who’s here in Milan to walk Europe’s most prestigious runways.
I shove aside the irrelevant attraction and search my bottomless supply of patience. I’ve been staring for at least a minute. She hasn’t once looked up.
I clench my teeth, chasing the calm I’ve honed to perfection over the years since I last gave free rein to bursts of emotion. Why couldn’t she simply wait for me as instructed while I made a sweep of tonight’s fashion-show venue? Despite employing me for her safety, she seems to think the only dangers out there are people toting cameras equipped with tele-photo lenses, sniffing out a story worth selling.
I ignore the pulse thumping in my head as I skirt the otherwise deserted pool. It won’t do to show any sign of exasperation. One thing I’ve learned about Brooke Madden in the four months since she first contracted me for her security—she loves to push boundaries, especially mine.
My fingers curl into fists as I formulate the verbal bollocking I’m obliged to deliver. This twenty-four-seven detail is new territory for us, but my rules are the same. There will be no international scandal—not on my watch. After all, I too have a business to run.
I wait next to her lounger, my rigid body fighting frustration. Does she have no regard for her personal safety? I’m six-foot-four and I keep the physique of a heavyweight boxer, my body the tool of my trade. I’m standing a foot away but she still hasn’t noticed my presence. She’s clearly deafened by the music coming through her ear buds and too focussed on her damned knitting.
Next time she requests my services I vow that I’ll be busy. She’s just too much trouble. And too much temptation.
Give me strength...
My temperature spikes, beads of sweat forming on my brow. In my line of work, I often meet Brooke Madden’s type. Privileged, wealthy women who possess endless power but are naïve to the dangers in the world outside their own sphere. But I know those dangers. I’ve been a part of that darkness. The daily battle for order, control and emotional distance is the price I pay for carrying a piece of it inside me.
I glance down. Whatever it is she’s knitting looks fit for the bin. I’ve never wielded a knitting needle, but even I can see the many holes studding the pale blue knitted rectangle.
‘Bloody hell,’ she mutters, withdrawing one needle from the stitch she’s just worked with frustration and pulling off half a row of stitches in the process. Her shoulders slump. She stares at her handiwork as if the dropped loops of wool will miraculously jump back into place of their own accord.
I’m half-tempted to learn to knit myself, just so I can fix her knitting disasters along with her security and travel logistics. Yeah, right...
No, my role here is simple: protect her and ignore all...this.
‘What is it meant to be?’ I ask, tired of waiting for her to notice my not insignificant—some would say intimidating—presence.
She gasps, one hand flying to the valley between her perky breasts. ‘Oh, you made me jump... Hi.’
A tiny frown forms between her perfectly arched brows as she tugs the ear buds from her ears. Her cheeks darken, the colour sliding down that elegant neck of hers, and probably further, to the tops of her incredible breasts. Not that I look. Indulging my stare by dipping that far is strictly off-limits.
I’m so practised at curbing my desires that I’ve committed every tiny intricacy of her bright blue eyes to memory. I linger there now as I fight the irritation simmering in my blood that she ignored my express instructions.
She holds up the knitting, waving it in my direction as if I’ll miraculously be able to decipher its final destiny. ‘It’s a cardigan, for my baby nephew. Clearly it’s a work in progress.’ She observes the disaster of holes and tangled wool, her full mouth a little down-turned.
I swallow my rush of amused affection, press my lips together and fight the indulgent smile that has no place in my relationship with this woman.
‘Why don’t you just buy something?’ I don’t arse-kiss my famous clients. But she’s a conundrum. And, the more I get to know her, the greater the temptation. She has an international modelling career. She’s an obscenely successful businesswoman. A household name. She could buy a cashmere version of whatever tiny, delicate garment she’s knitting a million times over, but clearly she’s determined to master the skill and spread the home-made love to all her friends and family.
She nods, a grin of delight dancing on her lips. ‘I should. You know, I like that about you, Nick. You don’t fawn like most people. You give it to me straight.’ She fidgets with the knitting, wrapping the loose wool around the needles and stuffing it inside her knitting bag, which is emblazoned with the caption Knitting is my Superpower.
‘So, what’s up, Big Guy?’ Her wide-eyed innocence is a little act she puts on every time we have a conversation like the one about to go down.
It’s almost as if she deliberately tests me with her nicknames, her teasing and her playful personality. Hoping to rile me up enough that I’ll flirt back. But my riled-up days are long gone. I’m no longer the reckless young man who once used his intimidating size to earn the respect I mistakenly thought mattered.
‘Oh dear, not that face...’ She smiles, resting back against the pillow and stretching out those endless million-pound legs.
‘What face?’
She likes to believe she knows what I’m thinking, but if she could read my mind she’d probably fire my depraved arse.
‘The one you do when you’re trying to be formidable. I’m immune to it, by the way, but I know it works on other people.’
‘So why do you keep hiring me?’ I’m not her only security, and it’s been hard enough up until now doing the local, one off events. I’ve started to dread the phone ringing because, aside from being a logistical challenge, she’s an enticement I just don’t need. But like and idiot, I agreed to this business trip.
A small smile shapes her lush mouth. ‘I did my homework. Asked around. Everyone recommends you, Nick.’ She tilts her head provocatively, as if I’m a prize cow and she’s deciding which cut of meat is the juiciest. ‘Although they warned me not to expect idle chit-chat.’
‘I talk when there’s something worth saying, which is why I need to remind you of the safety recommendations I outlined back in London.’
She uncurls her body, rising from the lounger as if she’s being paid to model that bikini—elegant, confident and with some nefarious intent glinting in her eyes.
‘I know you said to stay in my room, but it’s so peaceful up here in the afternoons. That’s why I stay here when I’m in Milan. And I had all this pent-up energy.’ She laughs, a tinkling sound that, despite my rigidity, flutters down my spine. ‘I wanted to get in a swim before the show tonight.’
‘Lady Madden, I can’t do my job if you refuse to take my suggestions for your safety seriously.’
She huffs, her hand ruffling her short hair in frustration. ‘I’ve told you a thousand times, Mr Rivers—just call me Brooke.’
She grins more widely, a taunt I’m only too happy to ignore along with the rest of her sensational body. ‘Look, I checked that the pool was deserted before I came up here,’ she says, donning a hotel robe and scooping up her belongings.
I look down. Despite her statuesque height, I tower over her. ‘You didn’t hear me approach. I could have been anyone.’ I point out the obvious perils of her ignoring my instructions, for which she pays me handsomely. Because I’m the best—personal protection, handler and driver all rolled into one. And while my business, Rivers Security, employs plenty of competent staff that could run this relatively straightforward and low-risk gig, Brooke Madden is the type of woman to demand the personal touch.
Another reason, if I needed it, that she’s way too rich for my blood.
She shrugs with nonchalance, although her eyes flick to the roof-top views of Milan. Then she takes a pointed look around the pool. ‘We’re the only people here. You need a pass key to even access this level.’
She shoves her feet into flip-flops. ‘Come on, Nick, I just fancied a swim, and then when I saw I still had the place to myself I stayed to relax a little. I was perfectly safe.’
I clench my jaw. ‘Safety is a relative term. The world is a lot less safe than most people realise. And there’s no point me being here if you’re just going to run roughshod over my professional recommendations.’
No one is always perfectly safe, a lesson I learned in prison. And the person she’s most at risk from is me and my fantasies. On the short walk from the lift to her lounger, I envisioned taking her on every available surface this room has to offer. Seeing those crystal-blue eyes wild with arousal, hearing that sweet voice of hers beg for my cock, watching her sultry mouth take my length...
Yeah, safe as houses...
I knew she’d test my detachment and restraint. She always does. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on your viewpoint—these days I have discipline to spare. And, as this afternoon’s stunt proves, I need it in spades for this client. As her employee, there’s a power differential that just doesn’t work for me.
Yep, a nice big stack of reasons to keep my dick in my trousers...
Bored of my lecture, she huffs and moves past me. ‘Don’t be so paranoid.’
‘A little bit of paranoia is why I’m good at my job. Why you employ me,’ I say, following her towards the lift, my stare determinedly avoiding the way her arse moves under the robe.
‘You have other charms,’ she tosses over her shoulder with a provocative look. ‘There aren’t many people I trust enough to have around me twenty-four-seven.’ She presses the call button and gazes up at me from under her long lashes in her most flirtatious look yet.
A ripple of unease grips me, tensing muscles. Brooke is a level-headed, practical woman. I have to hope she doesn’t imagine we can share more than our turbulent working relationship.
Never going to happen. Not with a woman like her.
A woman who makes me feel a little out of control every time she looks at me, as if trying to figure me out. A woman who’d no doubt run if she knew all the depraved things I want to do to her until I’ve worked her from my system. A woman I want to drag into the darkness with me...
‘You’re due at the Palazzo Giorno in an hour,’ I remind her, bringing us back to business—a charity fashion-event at a sixteenth-century mansion a few blocks away in central Milan. She’s the star of the show, a favourite of the biggest fashion houses in the world.
Brooke nods. ‘Thank you for taking care of me so thoroughly.’ Her voice is smoke and sin and seduction, despite the rest of her being sunshine. But, just like my body and mind, my ears too can be disciplined.
‘I’ll jump in the shower and meet you in the lobby in thirty minutes. Will that restore your good humour and banish that scary look from your face?’
I bite my tongue. I rarely display good humour. And she should be scared. If she had any idea how I want to take care of her––not her welfare or her time management, but her flippant mouth and her sinful body and her sexual pleasure... But I’m not here for that. I’ve stepped out of my lane once before with a woman like Brooke—easy to fall for but out of my league. The safest risk is no risk at all.
‘Text me when you’re ready and I’ll escort you downstairs,’ I say in my usual bland tone. There’s no point torturing myself with the room next to hers to simply meet her in the lobby. I need to stay close to her for work. No other reason. Protecting Brooke Madden might present my toughest challenge to date, but I’ve survived worse. I’m up to the task.
She invades my space now so I’m hit with the scent of her warm skin––a hint of chlorine and the enticing undertones of pure, fuckable woman. Not that fucking her is an option. Not only is she a renowned socialite, the daughter of nobility and one of the UK’s most successful exports, she’s a client for the next five days. My usual ‘one fuck and run’ won’t work. And in recent years I’ve developed tastes—ones that help me stave off the worst of my darkness and harness control—that would no doubt shock Lady Brooke Madden to her well-bred core.
‘Such a gentleman,’ she purrs, her enticing eyes tracing my face.
My body feels so rigid, I might snap with the effort of keeping still. Every impulse I possess clamours for just one touch, just one kiss of that mouth that loves to tease and taunt.
‘I’m no such thing. I’m just here to protect you.’ Nothing more, nothing less.
And ignore you in order to protect myself.
Because I’ve spent most of my adult life defying my own base instincts. Bad instincts. One fateful decision, one hot-headed moment of weakness as a youth, changed my life. Better to avoid Brooke’s kind of temptation altogether so there’s no way I’ll repeat the same mistake.
‘Of course. But all work and no play makes for a very dull Brooke, so please try to lighten up,’ she says, wrapping the robe across her sublime body and tying the belt. ‘You’ve worked for me long enough to know that all I do is work. I love it, of course. But the down side is that I’m always hiding too. Sometimes I just want the freedom to do something normal, like swim in a hotel pool.’ She sighs. ‘Even that’s complicated.’
The lift closes, trapping us in a confessional cocoon. I’m not made of stone, as much as I’d like to be. She’s endlessly intriguing. The least dull person I’ve ever met. Playful, full of boundless energy, charming, funny and kind.
‘Lighten up?’ I say. There’s no lightness left in me, only darkness. And she’s the opposite. Another reason I shouldn’t have taken this job. But she’s persistent. Persuasive. Pushy.
Tell me about yourself, Nick.
What do you do for fun, Nick?
It’s okay to relax a little, Nick.
Even if I wanted to lighten up, which I don’t, I wouldn’t do it with her. Our professional relationship works just fine for me, despite the attraction. We’re from different worlds. Ever since my young life imploded at my own reckless hands at the age of eighteen, I’ve avoided women like Brooke Madden. She’s too much like my ex-girlfriend—influential, privileged, used to doors opening without resistance. Even though I brought the helpless and defeated feeling upon myself, I never want to be victim to it again.
Now the life I’ve engineered for myself is disciplined, predictable and as safe as I can make it. And, aside from taking this job and the temporary temptation of this woman, there’s no room for error.
Her lips twitch in a nervous snigger. ‘I know you haven’t done an overnighter for me before, and I’m here to work, but I also deserve a little down time.’
I bite my tongue. It’s not my place to curtail my client’s activities.
But...
‘In order to protect you I need notice of any unscheduled movements. Anything not on the itinerary forwarded by your assistant requires my prior approval.’ Damn, her plans have been set for weeks. Typical Brooke to throw in some impromptu ‘fun’, whatever the fuck that means. Perhaps a knitting circle...
‘Of course,’ she says, eyeing me with a curiosity that makes me want to don my dark glasses. ‘I appreciate everything you do to keep my name and pictures off the Internet, but surely together we can come up with safe ways and places for me to let my hair down?’
She laughs, then strokes the closely shorn hair at the nape of her neck. ‘Not literally, of course.’
‘Can we?’ I think of all the ways I want to show her a good time, ways miss Goody Knitting Needles would probably quail over. Most involve her naked and following my directions. I’m certain that’s not what she has in mind, although I’m not blind to the fact that she finds me attractive. But, despite the flirting, she’s too radiant to drag into my darkness, even for a short while. And too risky.
She nods nervously. ‘Yes. I don’t employ you to babysit me. I have a public profile, but I’m not a nun.’
More’s the pity...
‘Let’s improvise,’ she says with a sexy smile. ‘That’s why I’ve tagged on a couple of days in Saint Moritz once my work in Milan is complete—a little winter break away from it all. I’m due a holiday and, since I no longer date, you’re it to keep me company, I’m afraid.’
I say nothing, my brain still filtering images of Brooke at one of the clubs I frequent, and bombarded with curiosity as to why she no longer dates... My mouth dries at the idea of entertaining her exactly the way I want...
Why is she pushing this agenda? She’s usually astute enough to take the hint that I’m not one for small talk or sharing stories. I’m going to be the worst company she’s ever had.
The Brooke Madden too busy doing her thing to see me is hard enough to ignore. This inquisitive, engaging version showing me glimpses of the real woman behind the public persona, and the prodding at my defences is hellish.
The lift reaches our floor and relief drains through me like a cold shower on a hot day.
At her room she hands me her knitting bag while she rummages in her robe pocket for her key card. ‘I’m usually pretty energised after a show so, in the spirit of full disclosure, I’d like you to take me for a nightcap later tonight. Somewhere quiet and classy.’
She pushes into her room and turns to face me. ‘Okay?’
I want to say no. To confess I prefer it when she’s safely tucked up in bed, her bed, and I can retreat to my own room from some much-needed breathing space. Not only from the physical temptation, but also because wanting her with the ferocity I do reminds me of my biggest failure, the series of events that decimated my life and the lives of the only two women I’ve ever loved.
Instead I suck it up, lock down any emotion unrelated to doing my job and nod.
Five nights, four more days.
Protect her. Protect yourself. And never work for her again.
Copyright © 2020 by Clare Connelly