Jane Harvey-Berrick Guarding the Billionaire

by Harvey-Berrick, Jane

  Then he stands up straight and backs away from me.

  “Later, Mrs. Smith.”

  “Indeed Mr. Trainer,” I reply.

  His voice is steady, unlike mine, but I can’t help noticing the bulge in his pants.

  A frisson of pride pulses through me. I did that to him. Yay, me!

  He opens the door of the SUV and helps me inside, and I really do need the help, because it’s quite high up and this dress is very tight.

  He slides the satin up to my thighs.

  “That’ll make it easier,” he grins.

  I glance up at the security camera and he laughs.

  “I’ll watch the reruns later, baby.”

  We drive for twenty minutes through the evening traffic. Justin is a picture of calm competence at the wheel. It’s very sexy.

  “Where is Mr. Anderson tonight?”

  Justin frowns.

  “Can we have one night where we don’t talk about him?”

  His tone is abrupt, maybe even annoyed.

  “Of course. I’m sorry.”

  He glances at me, his expression contrite.

  “He has a meeting with Mason to discuss security at one of the overseas factories. I wasn’t needed.”

  “Thank you.”

  I smile at him, because he took the time to tell me what I wanted to know even though he really doesn’t want to talk about Mr. Anderson. I’m sure that he’d hate me saying it, but Justin is sensitive.

  He finally parks outside a small Thai restaurant that I remember reading about as one of the Village’s up and coming trendy eateries, and I’m touched and how thoughtful he’s being. Excited, too. And it’ll be so nice to eat someone else’s cooking for a change. My mouth waters at the aromas as Justin opens the door for me.

  He takes my hand in his, warm and strong, and walks up to the hostess.

  My mouth drops open a little at his very public display of affection, maybe even possession. It’s unexpected and rather thrilling.

  “Reservation for two, under the name of Trainer.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Trainer, Mrs. Trainer. This way, please.”

  I stumble, shocked by the words, and inside I feel an ugly stab of guilt. It’s ridiculous, I know. I’ve been a widow for more than five years. Brian wouldn’t want me to be alone, but being called ‘Mrs. Trainer’, I feel as if I’m cheating on my husband.

  Justin grips my hand more tightly, his eyes questioning.

  I shake my head and paste on a smile. That’s what we widows do, I think.

  I regain some equilibrium when the server brings us the menus, and my stomach rumbles in anticipation of all the wonderful dishes on the menu.

  I choose Pad Kaprow Gai Kai Jea, which is spicy basil chicken with Thai omelet, and Justin opts for the grilled prawns with tamarind sauce.

  He also orders a glass of rosé wine for me, but sticks to sparkling water for himself.

  And then there’s silence.

  For a scary moment, I wonder if we only have sex and Mr. Anderson to talk about, but then he starts asking me about myself and my family, where I grew up, funniest high school story, and so on. The conversation is easy and fun. Even though he doesn’t like talking about himself, the exception being his daughter Lilly.

  I was surprised when I found out he had a daughter, but even though he doesn’t see her that often, he obviously dotes on her, and I know he calls her at six o’clock most evenings if he’s not working.

  “It sounds like she’s got you wrapped around her little finger, Justin,” I laugh, as he recounts the time he took her shopping, totally forgetting that he was wearing a tiara she’d put on his head.

  “Yeah, she does,” he smiles. “Got hit on by a lot of women that day.” Then he frowns, “a couple of dudes, too.”

  I splutter into my wine, picturing the scene in my head.

  “I bet you looked adorable!” I laugh.

  “You know it, babe,” he grins at me. “I can’t wait for you to meet Lilly. She’ll love you.”

  He says it so calmly, so easily, and goes back to eating his food, but my fork falls to my plate.

  He wants me to meet his daughter?

  I’m shocked—in a really good way.

  Suddenly, our moment, whatever it was, is interrupted by raised voices.

  Four businessmen seated in the corner have been getting rowdier throughout the evening, but now one of them is yelling at the poor server, a young girl who’s probably still in college.

  Justin’s gaze hardens.

  “Can’t hold his fucking liquor,” he mutters, leaning back in his seat and taking a long drink of water.

  I can’t hear what the girl is saying, but it seems as if she’s apologizing for something.

  I feel sorry for her: being a server is a miserable job when you get belligerent customers.

  The bullying tone gets even louder.

  “Listen, you dumb bitch! My order still isn’t fucking right!” He grabs the menu and waves it in her face. “How many fucking times do I have to tell you before your dumb brain comprehends that I don’t want this shit or that shit. I’ve told you…”

  He rants on, his friends grinning as his face turns purple. All the other diners are embarrassed, and the hostess rushes over. Unfortunately, the argument just seems to escalate, and the man’s language is appalling. Justin regularly swears like curse words are on sale, but never in public like this, never once in all those times he’s driven me to the store or grocery shopping.

  By now, the server is in tears, and that’s when I realize Justin is no longer sitting opposite me, but striding across the room.

  He says something too quiet for me to hear, but the angry man yells at him, and his friends start shouting, too. My heart is in my mouth, wondering if I should call the police. It’s four against one.

  And suddenly, I’m not watching my passionate lover—I’m watching a steely-eyed soldier whose hard expression is terrifying. He hauls the angry man up by his tie, cutting off his oxygen with astonishing speed. He looks lean and dangerous, and I’m afraid he’ll hurt the angry man.

  He says something, his voice low and rough. The angry man’s head bobbles like it’s on a spring, but I think he’s nodding.

  Then Justin drops him, and the man’s butt thumps into his seat. He looks up at Justin, his eyes full of fear, and with shaking hands, pulls out his wallet, dropping some bills on the table. The other men do the same, their eyes darting between Justin and their friend.

  Justin crosses his arms over his chest as the no-longer-angry man stands on trembling legs.

  The businessmen leave, scuttling past Justin in silence.

  In the restaurant, I think everyone is holding their breath, and the hostess follows him with her eyes wide.

  Justin slides back into his seat and winks at me.

  “I fucking hate foul language,” he says.

  Chapter 15

  In the Line of Fire

  Trainer

  ANDERSON IS SWEARING so badly, even my ears are burning. Ryan has taken cover behind his desk and Howard … yeah, he’s the same as ever, rambling on about the possibility of putting a terra-farming operation on the moon.

  On the other hand, maybe that’s not entirely unrelated to the boss’s tantrum.

  I have no idea how that Howard dude has lasted so long working for Anderson. I know that MENSA says he’s a genius, but I’d say the guy has a few screws loose. Even so, there isn’t anything he doesn’t know about IT, computers, or hacking. Although, come to think about it, he knows a lot about everything, even terra-farming. I’d guess that knowing about women could be the exception to the rule. Possibly humans in general.

  The swearing in the boss’s office has reached a new velocity. I’ll give it another five minutes then either call the boss’s therapist for an urgent consultation … or maybe a veterinarian for a rabies shot.

  Pam strides out of the elevator, clearly having been summoned by Ryan. She listens for a moment, a small smile of amus
ement on her face, and she glances at Anderson’s P.A.

  “Really? The President wants to meet him?”

  Ryan nods and whispers, “Mr. Anderson isn’t very happy about it.”

  “Yes, I can hear that.” She glances at me. “I’ll talk to him. Trainer, with me.”

  “I’ve made a tactical withdrawal,” I state, refusing to move.

  “Well, now you’re making a strategic ambush, followed by a little divide and conquer. You’ve got my six, big guy.”

  She marches into the room, and reluctantly I follow her.

  “Devon, you’re a thirty year-old billionaire entrepreneur. Of course the President wants to meet you: you’re an icon of everything he stands for—America is open for business.”

  Anderson snaps and snarls some more, but he knows she’s right.

  “It’s a fucking waste of everyone’s time,” he growls.

  “It’s a good PR opportunity,” Pam bats back, unaffected by the boss’s mood. “God knows, you don’t let us do enough of that.”

  It’s true. The boss is to PR what vampires are to a vacation in the Florida Keys.

  But by the time we’ve left his office, Pam has confirmed the meeting and I’ve spoken to one of the security grunts a.k.a. Secret Service who I’ll be liaising with about the visit.

  Genital warts would be more fun than the upcoming Anderson Vs President stand-off. I like to be in charge of the boss’s security, but the Commander-in-Chief’s dogs of war have made it quite clear what my role is: unwanted, like shit on their shoes.

  Which is why, two days later, I’m getting ready to leave with an expression on my face like a Texas cowboy at a vegan buffet.

  Rachel watches as I pack for the trip to D.C.

  “Take the blue tie, it matches your eyes.”

  Pissed as I am, I smile at her in amusement.

  “Babe, no one is going to be looking at me.”

  “Justin, any woman with a pulse will be looking at you.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Of course.”

  Her words make me smile, but I don’t want to think she’s got anything to worry about. I glance up again, but I don’t think she’s joking.

  “Rachel, I’m many kinds of jerk, but I’m not a cheater.”

  Her eyes soften.

  “I never said you were. But…”

  “No, baby. No buts, unless it’s yours pressed against my cock when I wake up in the morning. I’ll be away for one night, two tops, and then I’ll be back warming your bed…”

  “And stealing the duvet and taking up all the room.”

  “Yeah, you love it.”

  She doesn’t answer, but hands me the blue silk tie.

  I put it in the suitcase.

  THERE’S ONLY ONE word to describe the drive to Teterboro Airport: gruesome. Traffic was backed up everywhere, and it took longer than the flight to D.C. on Anderson’s Learjet 60. One of the smaller private jets. Yeah.

  Anderson spent most of the time in the cockpit getting a free lesson from the pilot. Or maybe they call it multitasking. I’m guessing that piloting his own jet will be the next thing on his bucket list. The man’s going to be disappointed when he gets to thirty-five and finds that he’s done everything he wants to do. Maybe he’ll write a novel. His autobiography would be a bestseller. Or banned.

  Maybe I’ll write a bestseller. I mentioned this to Rachel once as a joke. But as usual, the joke was on me.

  “I’m sure you could, Justin, if you put your mind to it. You’d have to change all the names, all the places, and well, most of the facts—after all, who’d believe the truth anyway?”

  Her eyes lit up.

  “Or maybe a movie! Jason Stratham could play you, except he’s too short. Oh, I can hear the voiceover now: I’m the silent bodyguard at the back of the room. I’m the eyes watching you. I’m the ears listening to you…”

  “I thought I was a foul-mouthed grunt?”

  “That, too. But what about me, Justin? I’m in this story, as well!”

  Her blue eyes were going for outraged, but I saw the humor behind them.

  “Babe, if my book was about you, it would be called ‘Cooking for the Billionaire’. But it’s not. It’s all about me.”

  “Men! It’s always about them! As if the sun revolves around you.”

  I love it when my woman gives me grief. Makes me horny.

  I PICK UP A town car from Dulles and put in the address for the hotel Ryan booked—the Four Seasons in Georgetown.

  I’ll say one thing for Anderson: the guy isn’t stingy when it comes to hotel rooms. Ryan reserved the Royal Suite for Anderson which is three times bigger than the house I grew up in. Four thousand square feet, ten-seater dining room, bullet resistant glass. And a ninety gallon bathtub. I shit you not.

  Oh, and a private gym with elliptical, treadmill, air-bike and free weights. A steal at only $18,500 per night.

  My Premier Deluxe room on the same floor pales in comparison. Yeah, kidding: it’s a friggin’ palace in its own right.

  You’d be amazed how many employers put their security team in shitty rooms and bitch about the cost. Not Anderson.

  I check out his room first as part of my job. I’m impressed, but he doesn’t even glance up at ‘the galaxy of Swarovski crystals’ in the ceiling at the suite’s entrance. Nope, he finds a desk, plugs in his laptop and goes to work.

  He mumbles something about room service, and I’m given the next two hours off.

  In theory.

  In actuality, I’m meeting with the Prez’s Secret Service so I know exactly which hand to use to wipe my ass in the morning. They call it ‘managing expectations of the guest and entourage’.

  I met the old President once. Got a medal pinned on me and all of that shit. I don’t know about this other guy but I definitely don’t want his hairdresser. I heard that when they tried to make a wax figure of him, they couldn’t get the hair right. So they ended up using yak hair—the same stuff they used for Chewbacca.

  After a quick shower so I smell nice for the G-men, I trek on over to the private meeting room. Even though they’re expecting me, and even though my ID checks out, they still do a body search and confiscate my Smith & Wesson. I’m not happy about that, but not surprised either.

  “Nice weapon,” says the least douchey of them. “All the wannabes use them.”

  Nope, I was mistaken: he’s the full douche-canoe.

  I watch eagle-eyed as he takes out the clip and places everything out of reach at the end of the long table.

  I’m happy they don’t do a full-body cavity search, although I can’t help thinking that the boss might enjoy one. Different strokes for different subs, I mean, folks.

  Then they sweep the room for bugs but don’t find any. But just in case, they set up a Bluetooth blocker and WiFi-jamming equipment—well, the Secret Service equivalent. Their radios use DES encryption keys, and at least one of them has a military grade radio I recognize that uses Type 1 encryption algorithms. I have no fucking clue what that means, except that this stuff works and I want a set for the Farm. These boys sure do love their toys. Although Howard has them beat in this department; not that I’ll be sharing that morsel of information with the guys in polyester. I wonder if they’re interested in terra-farming on the moon.

  They go through all the normal protocols and there’s nothing unexpected, which makes everyone a lot happier. It’s the unknown that can sucker-punch you.

  They’re professional, only slightly condescending on their power trip. After all, I’ve got the job they’ll want once they retire from the Secret Service. Having fewer resources, powers and all the luxuries of a 100 man team makes a better operator—respect where respect is due. Plus, they’ve read up on who I am and what I’ve done. I don’t know jack-shit about them, but we all have that ex-military look. It’s easy to spot in someone else when you’ve been there.

  So their obvious lack of respect pisses me off. But it’s the old private Vs working-for-the-go
vernment Washington two-step.

  Really, the meeting is just confirming what I’ve already been told by email and in a personal phone call: they’ll send a car for me and the boss, code word for the driver so we know it’s legit, don’t bring any laptops or flash drives, don’t bring food or drink, no large bags or suitcases, no restrooms available (unless you’re invited to dinner, I guess), cell phones will be checked along with my weapon at the White House, Anderson will meet privately with the President for thirty minutes. Same protocol on the way back.

  “You know, Trainer, there’s no need for you as CPO to accompany Anderson.”

  I shrug.

  “If he says he doesn’t want me there, I’ll stand down, but until I hear it from him, I guess you’ll be making me coffee tomorrow morning.”

  They exchange looks, but I really don’t care.

  The rest of the meeting is what I expected. Right up until the goons are leaving. The youngest one, who looks like he’s got something to prove, turns to me with a smirk on his face.

  “What’s it like working for Anderson? Not too much spare pussy, heh?”

  “Wow, you know what a pussy is? Was that before or after you learned to jerk off?”

  “You’re a funny guy. You crack me up.”

  “You’re cracked? Gee, maybe a shrink could help.”

  The younger guy doesn’t seem to think I’m funny—either that or he’s constipated.

  “Or maybe you and Anderson are butt buddies?”

  “Jealous, G-man? Did you Botox those lips or just suck a lot of cock?”

  His face turns purple and I think his next trick might be an aneurysm. The other G-men are laughing their brass asses off.

  “Did you just call me a cocksucker?”

  His tone is so indignant that it makes me burst out laughing. Okay, not really, but I may have raised an eyebrow.

  “Guess you weren’t recruited for your brains.”

  “See how funny you think you are when I get you fired! See how you like that, funny guy!”

  He has no idea how fucking amusing that is. Or how shit their deep research is. The Prez should be worried.

  I shake my head and sigh.

  “You have no idea.”