His to Defend (The Guard Book 2)

by Em Petrova

  Behind him, Lillian shivered. Fear didn’t stop her from asking yet another question. “Who are they?”

  He waved a hand to silence her. The minute the men break down the door, they’ll wake up in Hell.

  The door handle turned, and he fired on the first man. The second came prepared for a fight and squeezed off a shot just as Lars knocked his arm sideways. The bullet ricocheted around the room.

  Sweeping his leg around the shooter’s, Lars took him down and put a bullet through his temple before he whipped around to face the third.

  “How many of you do I need to kill?” he drawled out and didn’t wait for a response. He aimed and fired. The man dodged to the side, and the bullet meant for his heart missed and struck his right arm. The automatic weapon he carried tumbled to the ground, and Lars set a boot on it. He pulled it toward him and finished off the third man. Leaving any behind meant that many more would come after them.

  Waving to Lillian, he said, “Quick.”

  She stumbled across the room to him, and the strange stiff-legged walk reminded him of a new colt just finding its legs. Terror lived in her hazel eyes, and she paled, but at least she hadn’t fainted. Carrying a woman’s dead weight while trying to make a getaway would be a pain in the ass.

  A glance at the courtyard told him the coast remained clear, and he dragged her outside just as the back door exploded off the hinges.

  The men after them arrived by van, and he ran up to it with Lillian in tow. “Get in,” he barked out and whirled to pop off a shot at a fourth attacker now reaching the front door.

  As soon as he heard the van door slam shut and knew his ward made it safely inside, he jumped behind the wheel and gunned the gas. They laid down rubber on the cobblestoned street, and he threw a look in the rearview as they rushed away.

  “Did you steal that man’s keys?” Lillian stared at the empty ignition.

  Fuck, she noticed I didn’t use a key to start the van.

  “It must be rigged to start without a key,” he lied. Buried in the sinew of his wrist was a microchip that aided him in all possible ways. Every door opened to him, and he never needed a key to drive away. He could also use it to search databases worldwide. Hell, he hadn’t tried, but if he wanted to control a satellite’s path, he probably fucking could.

  “Hold on.” He took a tight turn at top speed, and Lillian leaned hard to the side.

  “Who are those men? What is happening?” Some of her fear had vanished, replaced by that demand in her tone once again.

  “I don’t know those men’s names.”

  “Dammit, that isn’t what I mean!”

  He sliced a look at her. Keep her talking, even if she’s angry. At least she won’t be afraid.

  “My guess is that you’re being targeted because you recognized that shooter back at the track.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh my God.”

  He crested the hill and jammed his boot into the gas pedal. “Is that a yes?”

  She nodded.

  “What did you say to him before he shot at you?”

  Her stare landed on him. Something about the piercing look unsettled him. He’d met a handful of people who had the ability to look into a man, and Lillian possessed the same type of stare.

  “He’s acquainted with Brun, the man who sponsors Pierre. I told him we had to get away from the explosion.”

  “And he turned and looked at you. That’s when he fired.” He nodded to himself as all the puzzle pieces fell into place.

  “What does this all mean?”

  “It means you’re their target.”

  “Where is Pierre? I thought they were after him.” Her voice rose with an edge of hysteria that made him question just how close she and her client were.

  “Pierre is safe.”

  “Take me to him. I need to see for myself.”

  “Not possible.” Upon their arrival at the country house, a fellow guard acting as a go-between came to the back door, carrying information from the missionary watching over Pierre. “Your client is safe, and that’s all you need to know for now.”

  He drove for several minutes, continuously glancing in his mirrors. For now, he’d stalled the efforts of the men out for Lillian’s blood, but he had enough experience to recognize the calm before the storm.

  Lillian looked at him, and he saw the questions swirling behind her eyes. He didn’t know much about her, having spent his energy on learning everything about Pierre Moreau’s life, from daily habits and voice inflections right down to how he liked his eggs.

  Before the woman could get a word out, he asked a question of his own. “How much of Moreau’s life do you know about?”

  “I work with him on almost a daily basis. He has many press conferences and interviews. He also does magazine advertisements and TV commercials, so there’s always someplace he needs to be, and I’m the one who has to push him to go.”

  “Then you’d say he’s lazy?”

  “Lazy? No. Distracted, yes.” Suddenly, she gasped.

  “What is it?”

  “Pierre loves women. Maybe he got involved with a married woman and her irate husband wants him dead.”

  Lars ingested the information in two ways—how Moreau’s acts could play into his present troubles, and that Lillian wasn’t involved romantically with the racer.

  “This is much more than a jilted husband.”

  She bowed her head, and her warm brown hair tumbled forward. She carried herself with that guileless yet charming ease of a Parisian. Everything about her appearance suggested she didn’t put a lot of time into it, though he’d known enough French women that he didn’t buy that.

  Naturally slender, with a straighter, more boyish body, she also projected something oddly alluring. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint what. Her androgynous trousers and simple button-down shirt could belong to either sex. She wore no makeup, not even mascara, though it might have worn off with crying.

  He felt an urge to reach out and touch her hand to offer comfort, but he held back.

  She scrubbed her hands over her face. “I don’t understand any of this. Who would want Pierre dead? One of his competitors?”

  He considered how much information to share with her. He found when it came to his wards, he had to provide enough for them to recognize the dangers they faced so they obeyed him and he could keep them safe.

  “Someone took a large life insurance policy out on him. He was supposed to die today in that crash on the racetrack, and right now, there is a very angry person who won’t be collecting the insurance money.”

  She blinked at him. Her lashes were naturally long—she didn’t require the thick makeup so many women he’d been with did. He pulled his gaze back to the road.

  “How much was the policy worth?” she asked.

  “Enough to provide for the owner’s family for a very long time, especially if invested.”

  “And you know who this person is.”

  “Of course.” Moreau’s sponsor wanted him dead and had gone to extreme measures to see that done. However, Lars had thrown a wrench into the workings, and when Lillian recognized the shooter, she’d drawn the attention of those who worked with the hitman. They didn’t want to be identified.

  Lars couldn’t put it past the sponsor not to put out a hit on her too.

  “I don’t understand why I’m being chased,” she said.

  “Simply put, you’re involved with the wrong man.”

  She splayed her long fingers over her face, concealing her features he found himself far too interested in studying, if only to make out what it was that intrigued him. “Pierre pays me to do this work. We aren’t friends.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Look, maybe you should rest. We have a bit of a drive to reach our destination.”

  “Then you actually have a destination?”

  He eyed her in surprise. “What would give you the impression I don’t?”

  “I thought you were randomly driving just to get away f
rom those men.”

  He tried not to take that as an insult. After all, she didn’t know him or what he was capable of.

  “I know where I’m going,” he assured her.

  After that, she twisted in her seat to stare out the side window. He couldn’t tell if she’d closed her eyes, but she wasn’t asleep. He took the time to study her. He prided himself on reading people in the blink of an eye, though he hadn’t figured out Lillian just yet. To do her job, she would be an organized person and probably worked long hours, weekends and nights. To talk up her client, she needed the gift of gab, which accounted for her flood of questions.

  Some people gathered information about the world by silent observation, like him. Others needed to talk it through. If he had to make an educated guess about his ward, he’d say she was the latter type.

  Now that he had her somewhat placed into a box and labeled, he could focus his attention on keeping her alive. Then why did he find himself glancing from the road to study her again?

  He forced his attention away from the woman. He’d deal with her later—right now, he needed to figure some shit out.

  The hitman and those in his circle were some of the more dangerous men known to The Guard. Years back, Roman had dealt with the same crew, and he’d taken out six of the fuckers before they finally backed off. They were like a bad gang, though, always recruiting, and now Lars knew the group of mercenaries numbered in the triple digits and were spread all over several continents.

  They took pay for any kill, and nothing seemed out of their reach. Not even a fiery crash on a racetrack.

  The driver of the car that slammed him also walked away. He’d seen the man gun his car down the track to avoid the worst of the explosion. How many more of his cronies were in that crowd? At least one—who’d shot at Lillian. Right now, Lars’s fellow guards would have dealt with the shooter, and Lars took out several himself.

  There will be more.

  He shot another glance at Lillian. From her rigid pose, he saw the tension hadn’t left her, but her fingers lay relaxed on her thigh, and she jostled with the motion of the van as he sped through the French countryside.

  Protect at all costs.

  He’d damn well do his duty and safely deliver her on the other side of this shit pile she’d landed in.

  Afternoon approached, bathing her in a golden glow, and streaked her hair auburn. The soft pink pads of her fingertips lying on her thigh stirred his protective instincts, and he glanced away.

  He’d see this job done and move on, just as he always did.

  * * * * *

  Lillian couldn’t believe she’d drifted off. She never slept in the day and couldn’t imagine how she’d napped after such a horrifying experience, but she jostled in the seat and realized with a start where she was.

  She threw Lars a guarded look. He didn’t pull his gaze from the road.

  “Why are we going north?” she asked.

  “Because that’s the direction we’re traveling in.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  He slanted a look at her, his stare inching over her face in a way that raised her irritation level another notch. Though he answered her questions, he did so with an edge bordering on cockiness and had her balling her fists.

  After several heartbeats, he answered her. “We’re going someplace safe for the night.”

  Odd to think of the race continuing on without Pierre. As far as everyone knew, Pierre walked away from a crash and took off with her.

  “How did you survive that crash? Your car flipped so many times.”

  “Four.” His voice sounded as though he spoke of the weather.

  “Then it exploded.”

  “I got out before that happened.”

  “Are you some kind of a stuntman?”

  He finally glanced her way again. Whenever he did, she wished he’d remove his attention from her at once. Except when he ignored her, she felt that itch of annoyance.

  “I’m trained to make maneuvers in a vehicle.”

  “And you’re trained to fight.” She suppressed a shiver at the memory of him killing those men. He hadn’t blinked an eye. What kind of man could do that?

  Of course, they were being attacked, which changed things quite a bit. If Lars hadn’t done what he did, she wouldn’t be sitting here right now.

  When they rolled into a small village, she recognized it as one of the locations tourists often visited, stopping for tours of local vineyards. Lars turned onto a side street.

  “Are we going to the inn?”

  He looked at her. “You have a very good sense of your country.”

  “I travel a lot. I live in Paris, but I like to visit the countryside.”

  Wordlessly, he parked the van they’d…stolen? Commandeered? God, she couldn’t believe this was real.

  He led her in through the back door of the establishment, keeping a hand on her arm. His big, rough fingers gave her a sense of him doing manual labor, and his chiseled form suggested as much too. Maybe when he wasn’t playing bodyguard, he worked construction. For some reason the idea brought a hysterical giggle to her lips, which she squelched before she could expel it.

  A middle-age man greeted them at the door.

  “Do you have any other guests here tonight?” Lars asked.

  “No. We aren’t busy at this time.”

  “Good.” Lars pulled out a money clip and peeled several big bills off, which he handed to the man. “Keep the inn empty.”

  “I’ll do that, monsieur.”

  “Do you have food?”

  “Sandwiches only this evening, us not being busy and all. Roast beef and—”

  “That’s fine. Please bring it to us.”

  “Of course. If you’ll come this way, I’ll show you to your room.”

  She hiked up her brow. Room? Did he expect to share a bed with her?

  The spacious inn boasted original stone walls in places and some more modern conveniences, such as an electric fireplace in the corner of the room the innkeeper led them to. She cast a glance around the space, wondering where in the world Lars would sleep—the bed or a very small chair the man probably couldn’t fit his hips into, let alone nod off in.

  Once the innkeeper left them alone, Lars closed the door and twisted the lock. He didn’t move away from the door, standing on alert as if waiting for that slump-shouldered man to return and challenge him to a fight.

  Lillian moved to the window.

  “Come away from there, Lillian.”

  Skin prickling with a trace of fear, she moved toward the bed. That almost scared her more.

  In a few strides, he walked the perimeter of the room. She watched, halfway expecting him to test the walls for weak spots where people could break through. He checked the window locks and looked out at the darkening sky.

  A knock sounded on the door, and he stalked over to it. With one hand riding along his spine, close to his waistband, he opened the door. He dropped his hand and stepped aside to allow the innkeeper to enter with a tray. After he set it down, Lars tipped him heftily again and saw him back out.

  She couldn’t shake the vision of his hand poised to grab for the gun she couldn’t see though knew he carried. Knew he’d killed with.

  Her stomach pitched, and ice filled her veins.

  To cover her unease, she started to ramble. “You’re American but very fluent in French.”

  He dropped to the chair and eyed her. The armchair seemed too dainty to support his bulk and weight. As he sighed and leaned forward, his thighs seemed to bow the arms outward. “What makes you think I’m American?” he asked in impeccable French.

  “My mother’s American.”

  He arched a brow and reached for the coffeepot. She watched him pour two cups and take a sip of his. “God, I needed that.” He slurped half the cup of black coffee.

  Moving to the table, she scanned the tray of sandwiches, some delicate pastries with what appeared to be honey dollops and some grapes native t
o this region. She dumped a teaspoon of sugar into her coffee and moved back to the bed to sip and stare at the man in front of her.

  He picked up a sandwich and bit off half in what seemed to be one big bite. Even while eating, he possessed a hard edge. She understood where it derived from, but she didn’t like it.

  However, he did have nice eyes. Dark green like a pine. She knew from riding behind him on the motorbike that he smelled like it too.

  When he caught her staring, she slid her gaze away and drank more coffee. “How long do you think we’ll stay here?”

  “Not long.”

  “Do you know the innkeeper?”

  “No.”

  She sipped and lowered her cup, cradling it between her cold fingers. “Who hired you to protect Pierre?”

  “Some people who take offense to hitmen thinking they can collect for taking someone’s life.”

  “You don’t work for the French government?”

  “No.” He cracked open the sandwich and pulled off a pickle, which he set aside on the plate.

  “You dislike pickles.”

  His gaze landed on her, heavy and unmoving. “You talk a lot.”

  “It’s what I do for a living. Plus, I’m nervous.”

  “I make you nervous?”

  “Who’s asking questions now?” She stood and grabbed her own sandwich. Sinking back to the mattress’s edge, she nibbled on the homemade bread that had been sliced for the sandwich.

  “This is good.” She chewed and swallowed another bite. “And the pickles are homemade. I’m surprised you dislike them.”

  He didn’t respond, only stared at her and stuffed the rest of his food into his mouth.

  “Will we be safe here tonight?”

  “If I thought otherwise, I wouldn’t have stopped.” The words projected on a growl.

  She cocked her head to study him. “Why are you so grumpy?”

  A laugh burst from him, catching her off guard. The crinkles around his eyes and the way his hard lips tipped upward added to his handsome appearance. His laugh sounded nice too.

  “I’m an asshole,” he said.

  “Assholes are grumpy? Did you study to be one or were you born that way?”

  He chuckled again and settled against the back of his chair with more coffee. “I was adopted, so I’m not sure if it’s nurture or nature, Lillian.”