His to Defend (The Guard Book 2)

by Em Petrova

  It took him a second before he realized he’d stopped breathing.

  Just then, a knock sounded at the door. He held up a finger to Lillian as a way to tell her to remain silent and moved swiftly to answer it. In a practiced manner, he passed his wrist over the door and used the microchip embedded in his skin to open the extra locks the door had been reinforced with.

  With one hand poised over the weapon along his spine, he opened the door. The scent of food wafted up from the tray a man held out to him.

  “Thank you. Your tip has been taken care of at the desk.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The man gave him a nod before moving away.

  Lars watched him a moment and then closed the door again. When he turned to Lillian, tray in hand, some of the pink flush left her cheeks, replaced by a paleness he hated to see.

  “You carry a weapon to open the door to room service,” she said.

  Ah. He thought that might have been the reason for her loss of color.

  Without responding, he moved to set the tray on the table. The door automatically locked behind him, securing them inside, and he took a moment to pass his wrist over the tray. If anything meant to harm them, such as an explosive, had been delivered, his phone would buzz. It remained silent.

  He straightened from the table and looked to Lillian. “Food is served.”

  She tilted her head in that curious fashion that shouldn’t be so damn intriguing yet he couldn’t shake off.

  “What is it? It almost smells like…” She drifted to the table and removed one of the covers. “Pissaladière!” She spun on him, jaw dropped and eyes sparkling. “How did you know this is my favorite guilty pleasure?”

  He offered her a crooked smile. “I have my ways.”

  She burst out laughing. “This isn’t typical breakfast food.”

  “I didn’t want to be too predictable with yogurt and berries again.”

  She swept into a seat and pulled a dish toward her. “No one would ever call you predictable.”

  He took the opposite seat. The scent of the French pizza with onions, anchovies and black olives didn’t exactly strike him as bad, so he reached for his own plate and slice.

  She bit off the tip and closed her eyes with relish. When she opened them, she smiled. God, he loved seeing her happy.

  “The only way you’d know this is my favorite is if you know the restaurants I frequent in Paris and speak to the waitstaff.”

  “Not that complicated, if you know who to ask.”

  “I don’t know how you even had the time. And why does a resort on Guernsey even have such a thing on hand, let alone prepared?”

  He took a bite and worked it around his mouth. The strange flavors meshed into something very good, and he chewed and swallowed. “I told you I have my ways. I’m glad you like it.”

  She polished off another bite. “This crust.” She made a kissing motion with her fingers and lips.

  Sitting here with her like this felt more like a date than a job. As a bodyguard, he did sometimes share more personal moments and connections with the occasional ward, but Lillian had been different from the moment he knocked her out of the path of that bullet.

  “I haven’t eaten this treat in months.”

  “Watching calories?” He reached for a second slice. “You don’t need to, you know.”

  “I eat the way I eat, so stop judging me, Lars.” She looked at him closer. “What is your last name?”

  He paused midbite. He never shared it. Hell, probably half the Church didn’t know his last name either. They called him Brother or Lars. Roman called him Asshole on occasion, and lately, Lars was certain his dislike ran deep and the guy meant it. Not that Lars cared—he didn’t change for anyone.

  Lillian lowered her pizza to the plate. “You won’t tell me, will you?”

  He considered what he’d gain from refusing to share his name with a woman he’d just thoroughly loved several times. While he should push her away, he couldn’t.

  “Ivanov.”

  She smiled. “Very Russian.”

  “Three million of them in the Russian phone book. It’s my adoptive parents’ name. A Russian ministry paired me with a family with Russian heritage in America.”

  “Do you have any wish to find your biological family?”

  He finished his pizza slice before answering. “I know who they are. If I can find out you like pissaladière, finding out who shares my DNA isn’t so difficult.”

  She watched him carefully, as if studying his face for signs of a crack. She wouldn’t find any. Long ago, he’d come to terms with the fact his parents gave him up.

  “My parents were teenagers when I was born. They couldn’t give me a good life, and I’m grateful I received a set of parents who could. Not all children are as lucky, even when they grow up with their birth families.”

  “That’s true. I’m glad you had opportunities that you wouldn’t have without being adopted.”

  Discussing these things never left him feeling comfortable, though with Lillian, he didn’t mind.

  After her second slice of pizza, she leaned back in her chair, as relaxed as he’d ever seen her. Maybe the woman just needed a few orgasms and some pizza. Fuck—she really is my equal.

  “So what comes now? The people after me will find me in a matter of time.”

  “My people are hunting them right now.”

  “You’re hunting the hitmen. But who hired the hitmen? You mentioned Pierre’s sponsor, but…”

  She grew silent so long that he cocked a brow. “You don’t believe Brun is the man who hired them.”

  Pressing her lips together, she shook her head. “I know him. He has a temper when Pierre doesn’t show up for a visit, though who wouldn’t get angry? His time is valuable, and keeping him waiting is a show of disrespect.”

  “Sometimes things aren’t all they seem on the surface. That’s where I come in.”

  “Then we’re back to disagreeing.”

  “There’s something else to disagree about.”

  Her stare pierced him. “I’m listening.”

  “I want to take you out of here. Hide you in America.”

  She blinked. “Why would I go there? This is my home.”

  “You’re part American. You said yourself that your mother’s from New York.”

  “These people coming for me won’t stop at an ocean, Lars. What is your real motive for wanting me to go to America?”

  He didn’t want to answer that. Because his reason was purely fucking selfish on his part, and he couldn’t deny it.

  “How long are you talking about?” she asked.

  “As long as it takes. I can put you with people who can take care of you while I hunt these bastards.”

  When she stood, he drank in everything about her body, from her pose to the tight movements she made, which spoke of her irritation. She walked to the bed and fiddled with the covers he’d already drawn up.

  “Lillian, I realize all of this feels crazy and unbelievable to you.”

  She twisted to look at him. “You think I forgot there are people shooting at me? I understand the dangers. I still don’t want to leave my home.” She turned and faced him, arms folded. “I can help you.”

  “Help me hunt your hunters?”

  “Yes. I know Brun. I can find him easy enough.”

  “What makes you think we aren’t monitoring his every move?”

  “Fine—you probably already know. But I have connections too.”

  “Lil…” He stood and sauntered to the bed. She stood so close to the mattress that one nudge would have her flat on her back, where he wanted her. “My job is to ensure you’re safe. This island is just a stop, and I don’t like moving my wards very much. It draws more attention and therefore more danger.”

  She tensed. “Yes, all I am is a ward. I don’t know your business, but I do know Brun can be found and simply taken into custody for questioning. Or if you find he really is responsible for the hit on Pierre, then t
hrow him in jail.”

  “Why are you defending him?” he blurted out.

  Brows crinkling, she shook her head. “I’m simply saying he is innocent until proven guilty.”

  “You pull out the American words when it suits you.”

  “I say what fits, and in this case, it fits.”

  “Again, I ask why you’re defending Brun. I saw you with him, before the race.”

  She dragged in a deep breath. “My job is to talk to people. Brun is my client’s sponsor. We work closely.”

  He took a step toward her. “How closely?”

  “Are you insinuating we’re lovers? First Pierre and now Brun? I really hop from bed to bed, don’t I?”

  He sliced a look at her bag. “You do travel with condoms.”

  She threw herself in his line of vision. “I’m a single woman who comes prepared for anything. Is this some jealousy thing?”

  Her words slammed him. Fuck. It was.

  He didn’t like the idea of her in any man’s bed except his. Now that he’d claimed her, he wouldn’t tolerate anyone touching her but him.

  With a growl, he whirled back to the table and in a few quick movements, cleaned up the mess. He carried the tray to the door and whipped it open. One glance at the corridor, and he yelled, “Lil, get down!” right before he threw the tray and yanked out his weapon.

  * * * * *

  Lillian hit the ground and rolled under the bed just as Lars fired upon the man outside the door.

  Mon Dieu. Oh my God.

  What kind of hitman walked right up to a door looking for his mark? Either the men after her weren’t the brightest hitmen on the planet, or they seriously underestimated Lars’s ability to protect.

  The thump of a body collapsing to the floor raised the bile in her throat. She breathed shallowly and swallowed hard to keep down the delicious meal she’d just shared with a man she had begun to actually like. At least up until he accused her of being a slut.

  From her position beneath the bed, she saw Lars’s boots move across her field of vision. Then he closed the door. When she shifted her stare to the side, she saw the dead man lying on the floor, his face frozen in death.

  She bit off a scream.

  “Fuck. Don’t come out yet, Lil.”

  “Why did you drag him in here?”

  “Because I couldn’t leave him in the hallway. Stay there and keep your eyes closed.”

  She did as he told her, but it didn’t erase the image of the man’s face from her mind. Heart tripping fast, she tried to calm her nerves and found there was no possible way when she shared a carpet with a dead man.

  On that thought…

  She clambered out the other side of the bed and sat up, back pressed to the bed frame and knees drawn to her chest. Lars spoke, and her skin prickled at the words: “I need a cleaner.”

  Breathing through her mouth in case the stench of blood reached her, she leaned forward to allow a few tears to drop onto her jeans. She wrapped her arms tight around her legs and held on through the bumps and noises that took place over the next few minutes. Just when she thought she might not live through another moment, Lars closed the door again. His footsteps rounded the bed.

  “Fuck, Lil.” He dropped next to her and dragged her into his lap. She curled close, breathing in his piney smell that somehow erased the fact he’d just killed another man for her.

  He rocked her slightly and smoothed her hair on her spine. “I’m so goddamn sorry. I fucked up.”

  She pulled back to stare at him. “You fucked up?” she repeated.

  “Yes.” His voice grated as he tucked her head beneath his chin. “I didn’t take precautions before I opened the door. If I’d been slower…”

  She shuddered, not wanting to think about it, though at the same time she picked up on the anger in his tone.

  “I didn’t hear a gunshot. How did you…” She trailed off, unable to utter the words.

  “Silencer.”

  She shivered, and he flexed his arms, pulling her closer.

  “Do you see now why I need to get you out of here? I can’t protect you on this island. There’s a boat waiting for us, and from there, a flight.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t leave. What about my parents?”

  “You’ll tell them you’re going with a client on a media tour in America.”

  Okay, that worked. “What about Olivier?”

  He stared at her, confusion etched on his handsome features.

  “My cat,” she reminded him.

  He issued a sigh. “You almost lose your life and all you can think about is your damned cat.” He stood with her still in his arms and set her on her feet. She didn’t want to look at the area where she’d last seen the body, but she must. One glance revealed nothing amiss at all. Not a speck of blood on the tan carpeting and no trace of a body bag.

  “Gather your things, Lil. We’re leaving—now.”

  She stared at him, feeling those tears pricking at her eyelids once more. What choice did she have? She must go along with him? She couldn’t survive this without Lars’s help.

  As he waited for her to gather her things, she took note of that harsh, steeled mask covering his face again. He walked to the door and folded his arms, waiting for her to finish stuffing items into her bag.

  She threw him a cautious look. He’d returned to his arrogant, militant self. She was beginning to think she’d be better off taking her chances with the men who wanted her dead than with Lars.

  Once she had her bag zipped, he moved forward and took it from her.

  Pausing, she faced him. “Do we really have to go to America?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t imagine a worse travel companion. You don’t even like me,” she muttered.

  She started to turn away, and he pinched her chin lightly between his thumb and forefinger. His gaze bored down into hers. “I like you fine, honey. My job is to keep your pretty face intact.”

  Pulling from his grasp, she raised her chin a notch. “There are plenty of places to hide in France.”

  “No.” He took out his phone. Staring down at her, he spoke to whoever he’d called. “We’re set.”

  He listened a moment and then ended the call. When he gripped her upper arm and hauled her to the door, she dug in her heels. Part of her felt like a defiant child, but she refused to be manhandled.

  She shrugged out of his grasp. “I’m capable of walking to the door.”

  His expression darkened, brows drawing downward. “Fine.” He swept an arm toward the door to usher her forward.

  “Half an hour ago, you were treating me like a human being. Now you’re ordering me around and can’t wait to dump me off in America with some other bodyguard.”

  He issued a low noise, almost a growl. “You’re even more contrary than you claim I am. One minute you’re unbuttoning your top and the next you want me to take my hand off you.”

  “Just be honest with me—why is it so damn important for me to go to America now? Why not Germany? Italy?”

  He leaned in so close that for a moment, she considered surging upward for his kiss. On the flip side, escaping him sounded like a fine idea too.

  “It’s important because I need you safe,” he grated out.

  “You can keep me safe here.”

  He sliced a hand through his hair, creating furrows with his thick fingers. “Why are you so afraid to go to America?”

  She dropped her stare to the floor. His huge boots seemed to take up all the floorspace. Everything about the man screamed massive concrete wall, but when he laid his hands on her, his touch could be oh, so gentle…

  Lars smoothed his thumb over her cheek. “Lillian?”

  She pulled out of his touch. If she allowed him to distract her from her argument, she’d never prove her point.

  “I can’t go to America,” she reiterated.

  “So you’ve said, and you have yet to explain why.”

  How to put a lifetime of her paren
ts’ worries into words? She bit her lip and met his gaze. “My mother would tell stories of her childhood, and my father told me it always worried him how bright my eyes got when she spoke of those times and how interested I am.”

  He waited for more as if he didn’t understand.

  She went on, “I’m all they have, Lars. I’ve never wanted to even visit America, because I’m afraid that part of me will connect with the country, and I’ll never want to come home. It would break my parents’ hearts.”

  The corner of his lips twitched.

  “You’re laughing at me.”

  “It’s a legitimate concern to you, and I’m not laughing. I was just thinking I’ll have to make sure you have a really miserable time, so you want to return to France immediately.”

  All right, she did see the humor in the situation. She gave him a nudge in the arm. “I’m sure if anyone could make me miserable, it’s you.”

  He grunted and checked his phone again. “Time to go, Lil. And I vow to return you to your home country and your parents.”

  With a nod, she allowed him to lead the way out of the room, to a car, to a boat and then to a private jet bound for America.

  Chapter Eight

  Lars’s boots created a hollow thump on the hardwood floors leading through the Church. The cathedral looked the same—tall stained glass windows casting colored lights on the floors. The scent of wood polish used on the pews filled his head. So why did he feel so out of sorts over being here again?

  Roman sat in one of the front pews. With his forearms on his legs and his head bowed, he couldn’t look more despondent.

  Lars may not have the best relationship with his brother, but he’d never leave one of his fellow Guards in need of support. Whatever it took, he’d be there for them.

  Pausing at the pew, Lars reached out and settled a hand on Roman’s shoulder. He looked around and saw him. After pushing out of his hunched position, he rested against the back of the pew.

  “You’re back.” His voice sounded rough, as if he hadn’t used it in a while.