“I checked in earlier today,” he explained with a slight shrug. “Your publisher arranged for me to have the room next to you.”
This is real? This is happening?
I have to share a space with a man? I never thought I would have to do that again. Never wanted to.
I suddenly felt claustrophobic.
“Wh—I . . . ” Words eluded me. I could not believe such lengths had been taken for my safety. Presumably my publicist knew about this. Melani knew about this too.
Moretti waved at the adjoining room’s doors. “I would prefer these doors remain open. I can get to you should you need me.”
Indignation bristled from my every pore. I didn’t need him. I wouldn’t need him. “Oh? Would you prefer that?”
“If there is a situation—”
“A situation?” I sputtered. “Like what? “A tricky bottle of lotion I need help uncapping?”
“A threat,” he amended.
A threat? I sighed. This was ridiculous. “You’re fired.”
He blinked at that. His only reaction. And then: “You can’t fire me. I don’t work for you.”
I opened and closed my mouth several times, feeling helpless in the face of this truth. Helpless in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. Vulnerability was something I had banned from my life.
“Do you want to call your editor?” he inquired in an even voice, but it felt as though he was humoring me with the question. I already knew what Melani was going to say. He knew, too. No bodyguard = no tour.
“Fine,” I snapped.
I could close the door to my bedroom and pretend he wasn’t there on the other side. Just to show him how it was done I marched from the adjoining door and into my bedroom. Whirling around, I faced him, all of me vibrating in outrage. Staring across the distance at him, his stoic expression galled me. The guy was an emotionless robot.
My excitement at being here, at being on an international book tour and living my dream, took its last breath. Irrational or not, I blamed him. I knew it wasn’t fair. I should blame the culprits who were sending me stupid hate mail and wrecking my signings.
Grasping the edge of the door, I swung it shut in his face with a resounding bang.
Childish. But it felt good. I felt in control.
I fell back against my door, releasing a huff of indignation.
So much for provoking him to quit. Ha. The only one who felt provoked right now was me.
A slow smile lifted my lips. With a devious little laugh, I made my way to the phone by my bed and dialed room service.
Someone answered promptly. “Good evening, Ms. Mathers. How may I assist you?”
“Um. Yes. Hello. I would like to order your menu.”
“I beg your pardon? Do you mean you would like to order from the menu?”
“No, no. I would like to order one of everything on the menu and could you please send it to room 520. For Mr. Moretti. He has the room adjoining mine.”
There was a pause and then: “That will take an hour.”
“That’s okay. My boo is starving.”
“Very good, ma’am. We’ll have that sent up as quickly as possible. Good evening.”
“Good evening to you,” I returned, feeling very pleased with myself. Humming lightly, I hung up the phone.
Chapter Four
I showered, availing myself of the luxury shampoo, conditioner, and body wash provided by the hotel.
Wrapped in a towel, I dried my dark hair with the blow dryer, letting the mid-length strands whip all around me while wondering if room service had arrived yet. Moretti was going to owe quite the tip. Grinning, I lathered moisture generously on my face. One thing Mama that taught me that I actually believed in was to moisturize.
I applied lotion to my face and neck, then up my arms, making sure to rub into my elbows. Once that was done, I propped a foot on the edge of the garden tub and applied to both my feet and legs.
Standing, I tightened the belt of my robe that had loosened around my waist and emerged into the bedroom. A quick glance confirmed my bedroom door was still closed. Not that I expected it to be open. I didn’t peg him as the kind of guy to enter my room uninvited—at least not unless he heard gunfire.
Shaking my head, I snatched up the remote and turned on the television. I was browsing channels when I heard a distant knock. My pulse jumped as I jumped from the bed and crept to my door. Pressing an ear to it, I listened closely.
Another knock sounded and Moretti called out. “Coming.”
My stomach heaved and I had a moment’s doubt. Maybe I went too far? My first husband had a temper. This kind of thing would have sent Brent into fits. I was a naïve twenty-year-old when I married him. I didn’t know any better. Now I knew to avoid men with short fuses.
Now I knew to avoid men.
Voices carried through the door. Muffled words I couldn’t decipher. I heard the squeaking wheels of a cart and I assumed it was the food being rolled into his room.
A few minutes passed and then silence. Had the server left?
I pressed the side of my face deeper into the door as though that might somehow clue me in to what was happening on the other side.
“Oh!” I jumped as a knock resounded directly against my ear.
I pressed a hand against my racing heart and took a steadying breath, convinced I had just suffered a minor cardiac episode.
Shaking my hair back off my shoulders I opened the door wearing the most innocent expression I could manage. “Yes?”
Moretti stood there minus his jacket. He’d undone the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt, exposing the tanned column of his throat and an enticing patch of bare chest. My gaze lingered at the base of his throat and the pulse that seemed to be thrumming quickly against his skin there.
His gaze swept over me. “Your room service arrived.”
“Room service?” I blinked innocently and peered around his shoulder. The door to his room yawned open and I could see across the sitting area inside his room to multiple trays of food. There had to be more beyond my vantage that I couldn’t see. “Oh. I already ate dinner.”
His dark eyes narrowed slightly. “You ordered the entire menu.”
I fought back a grin. “I thought you might be hungry since you skipped dinner at the pub. A strapping bloke like you must keep up his strength. Especially in your line of work, I imagine.”
His gaze held mine for a long moment and I waited for his anger, fully expecting it. “Thank you, Ms. Mathers. That was very thoughtful of you.”
My smile slipped. Thank you? He wasn’t annoyed with me?
“Ah. Yes, enjoy your dinner. Good night.” Determined to not let him see I was annoyed at his lack of annoyance, I pasted a fresh smile on my face and closed the door on him.
As soon as the door shut, I got rid of my stupid smile and replaced it with a scowl. What didn’t he understand? I was a pain in the ass and I planned on being his pain in the ass. He should be looking for a way out of this assignment.
Sighing, I brushed my teeth and got ready for bed. I left the bathroom light on and cracked the door. In lieu of a nightlight, it would have to do. Whenever I was in a hotel or a strange place, I always left the bathroom light on so that I wouldn’t be totally submerged in darkness . . . it especially helped if I woke disoriented in the night.
Dropping my robe, I changed into my silk nightie, enjoying the way the fabric swished around my hips and thighs.
Turning off the TV, I moved to my shut door and pressed my ear against it one more time. Not a peep from him on the other side. He was probably in there enjoying his buffet. I’d have to come up with something better if I was going to get rid of him.
Pulling back the covers, I climbed into bed, sighing as my bare legs slid against the crisp sheets. It had been a long day. The nap I’d taken earlier to help recover from jet lag felt like a long time ago. I was exhausted.
In the near darkness, my mind slid into the fact that I was essentially sharing a h
otel room with a man. It was something I had vowed would never happen again. Men and me. Me and men. Those two things weren’t supposed to converge ever again.
After three divorces, I had learned my lesson. Only someone clinically insane would go there again. But here I was stuck with this guy, and all because my signing in D.C. had gotten out of hand.
Before I had been hustled into a back room, the man had knocked over a chair and become belligerent, calling me several colorful obscenities. It had been a little jarring, but I didn’t need protection because of one freak incident.
My head was starting to ache, and I closed my eyes, rubbing lightly at the backs of my eyelids.
I was overtired. Sleep now. Later I could think.
I stood at the front of a crowd. Faces swam before my eyes. Blurred features zoomed in and out of focus. Mom was there. And Grandma. Both shaking their heads as I talked about things like sex and a woman’s right to orgasms and independence—things no female in her right mind should ever discuss publicly, at least as far as they were concerned.
Then my exes were there, all three of them glaring at me in censure.
I faltered in my speech, but continued, asking the audience if they had any questions for me.
Suddenly the man from the Washington, D.C. tour stop stood up from the crowd and tossed a chair at me. My exes cheered and clapped. Even Mom and Grandma looked on in smiling approval—like I was getting what I deserved.
Another chair flew through the air, this one catching me and bringing me down. I scrambled out from under it and ran. He gave chase and then we weren’t in the bookstore anymore. We were in a deep wood and he was thrashing through trees and bushes behind me. He was so close. Terror clogged my throat. And then he caught me. His hands were on me, and I was trapped in a real-life horror movie.
A scream burst from my lips. I fought. Punched, slapped, clawed, kicked with all I had.
Hard hands closed around my flailing wrists, restraining them, and I fought against the confinement. One of my hands broke free and I brought my palm cracking against my attacker’s face.
Everything stilled in the echo of that slap. The current of it rippled up my arm and through me like electricity.
Then my hand was reclaimed and suddenly both my arms were pinned against the mattress on either side of my head. The long length of him splayed over me, strong thighs straddling me, holding me in place.
I twisted and tried to buck his weight off me, but he was heavy. A solid immovable mass.
“Easy, there.” A deep voice spoke above me. “You’re all right. You’re safe.”
I blinked. That voice did not sound like it belonged in a horror movie. It sounded . . . British and soothing.
“Ms. Mathers!”
I blinked several more times. Suddenly I wasn’t in the woods anymore.
No. It was worse than that.
I was on a bed, on my back, shrouded in gloom with a man over me.
I whimpered, bewildered, disoriented.
And then I remembered where I was and who was restraining me on the bed.
It all clicked together in my mind like a key and lock coming together. I had a nightmare and I was in bed with my bodyguard. Or rather he was in my bed.
So much for not being affected by what happened in D.C. I swallowed back a sob.
“Sssh. It’s all right. You’re safe. Everything is going to be okay.” One of his hands released my wrist and smoothed over my forehead and into my hair. It felt good. I didn’t want it to, but that nightmare was still plaguing me, and his touch felt so damn good.
I buried my face in his neck, forgetting myself and accepting the comfort he was providing. It had been a long time since another human held me—and never had anyone promised me that everything was going to be okay. Not my mother or grandmother. Not any of my exes. And maybe it was something no person could guarantee, but it was nice to hear someone say it. It was nice that someone thought I was important enough to deserve comfort and protection.
I wrapped my free arm around his shoulder, absorbing that he was not wearing a shirt. His skin felt warm and firm and smooth under my touch. I splayed my fingers wide, reveling in the way his back muscles flexed under my palm and the press of each finger, like steel under satin.
His heavy body pushing me down into the mattress felt amazing. I liked the weight of him. My legs widened instinctively, welcoming him deeper into the cradle of my body. And that’s when I felt it. He was hard. Full-on erection hard and it felt . . . impressive. Massive. I whimpered and wiggled against it, trying to get it in the right spot against my aching clit.
I opened my lips against him, breathing in his skin—man and soap and pheromones. It was a stimulating mix that I couldn’t remember inhaling before. You would think I knew such a smell. I’d been with three men, after all, but never had I inhaled such a heady combination.
I moved my lips, brushing them over the mouthwatering skin of his neck and a tremor rocked him, vibrating through me. I couldn’t help myself. My tongue darted out for a taste.
He groaned and I opened my mouth wider, sucking on his neck.
He responded, driving his erection against my sex. I cried out. It was both stimulating and frustrating because of the barrier of my underwear and his briefs.
I dragged my lips down to where his neck met his shoulder and sank my teeth into his skin.
He gasped, thrusting against me again.
His fingers speared through the thick mass of my hair, the pads of his fingers pressing into my scalp and melting my bones. The action stirred up the scent of my shampoo. Pears wafted around us. A soundless sigh coursed through me.
“Christ,” he muttered, his accent thicker, deeper, a little less cultivated. He pumped his hips once more, grinding his cock into my soaking-wet panties. “You smell so good . . . feel good.”
I shuddered at his words. They were the first from him that sounded personal. Intimate. Not robotic. They were coming from the man, not the specialist.
I was so close. I pushed up against him, seeking that pressure. Needing it like I needed air.
“God,” he choked. “You’re so wet.”
I arched my neck, purring like a cat and settling my scalp deeper into the cradle of his hand. “I’m sorry I hit you.”
I flattened my fingers over the planes of his cheek tenderly. His skin felt warm under my fingers and I hoped it wasn’t from the burn of my slap. I’d never slapped another living soul, but I’d struck him. I stroked his cheek as though in apology.
He stilled for a long moment, and then he was suddenly peeling my hand off him as though it were something diseased. He leapt off me, landing lightly on the carpet beside my bed. “No worries, Ms. Mathers.”
I flinched and expelled a shuddery breath. And just like that, we had returned to formality. Sitting up on the bed, I smoothed my nightie back down over my hips with shaking hands.
He continued, “I’m glad I was here to . . . ”
“To save me from a nightmare?” I finished, nodding jerkily.
“Yes. I heard you scream.”
I winced. Had the entire hotel heard me? He probably thought I was being murdered. “Sorry about that.” Clearly the thing that happened in D.C. bothered me more than I wanted to admit to myself. Or to anyone. But now he knew. Now he knew I wasn’t as tough and invulnerable as I pretended.
I winced again. Now I knew I was pretending.
I tugged down on my nightie again, trying to make the fabric cover more of my thighs than possible.
“As I said, it’s not a problem. Ms. Mathers.” Ugh with the Ms. Mathers again. “It’s okay. You were scared.”
Scared? No. I did not do “scared”. Not around anyone else anyway. His words left me feeling . . . seen in a way I did not like.
I tucked my hair behind my ear. This was all very much a problem. This guy had just nearly made me combust. I was still trying to climb back into my skin. And he was still here. Standing beside my bed half naked in his skivvies. Ye
s, this was a problem. My problem.
I tried not to gawk, but he was hard not to take in. The bathroom light illuminated his silhouette. A boulder-size lump lodged itself in my throat as I scanned him up and down. His body was clearly built for utility. He was indeed a protector. A weapon to be wielded. The broad shoulders and bulging biceps and defined pecs and ridged abdomen veeing down to a narrow waist were primed for defense . . . among other things.
My mouth dried as my gaze dropped to rest on the not so insignificant bulge in his briefs. God. I could still feel it pushing insistently against my sex. No no no no no. I didn’t require protection or any of those other things from a man. Even one that looked like him.
I could handle everything just fine by myself.
“I’m fine now. You can go back to bed. Thank you.”
A long pause. He still stood there in his skivvies. With that bulge I couldn’t stop staring at. I did the only thing I could in that face of it. I rolled over and presented him with my back. “Good night.”
“Good night, Ms. Mathers,” he said softly, and now I was grateful for that formality—for the reminder that what we had was professional and not personal. Not intimate.
I listened as his muffled steps faded away.
I woke before my alarm went off. I didn’t have any more nightmares, fortunately. I’d slept like the dead, dreamlessly and deep.
I turned my phone alarm to silent so it did not have a chance to go off, and then just remained sprawled in the bed for a few moments, rubbing my eyes awake with the heels of my palms. Murky light crept in around the edges of the drapes and the bathroom light still offered its sliver of illumination, but otherwise my room was still comfortingly shrouded in gloom.
I didn’t have anything to do until later in the afternoon, but it didn’t appear as though I was going to fall back asleep. Once that was determined, I flung back the covers and padded to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth and swept my hair up into a ponytail. I didn’t bother with makeup. Right now the thought of coffee, orange juice and some manner of lavish breakfast beckoned.
Naughty Brits: An Anthology Page 16
