The Wingman

by Natasha Anders

  And just like that, little Daisy McGregor felled him. The thought of her full breasts straining against the confines of a sexy, barely there bra was ridiculously hot. He could picture the soft, pretty mounds overflowing at the top, eager to be released, quivering and ready to spill into some lucky bastard’s willing hands. Pink tips distended and begging to be tasted.

  Kissed. Licked. Suckled.

  Mason was hard in seconds, and his own breath came in jagged pants as he fought to bring himself back under control.

  “Matching panties, of course. With little red bows at the sides.” He bit back a groan at her words. The woman was killing him. She was utterly destroying him, while casually swinging her feet back and forth like a schoolgirl and taking appreciative sips from her warm drink. The higher-than-usual pitch of her voice and her slight breathlessness were the only indications that she wasn’t comfortable with this role of femme fatale and that the whole conversation was well outside of her comfort zone.

  Despite that—or maybe because of it—her words were a huge turn-on. Largely innocuous though they were. It was Mason’s own imagination, filling in the blanks, that was doing the real damage here. If she knew the thoughts racing through his mind right now, she’d bolt. So he did his level best to even out his breath and slouch even further down in his chair in an effort to conceal yet another hard-on.

  It was becoming an embarrassing habit by now.

  “Well, hell, we’re going to have to start calling you Dirty Doctor Daisy from now on.” He grinned lazily. “Your fantasies are showing some improvement. Definitely heading into PG-13 territory.”

  To his own ears, his voice sounded strained, but she huffed and tossed a napkin at him, clearly not finding anything amiss. He deftly caught the napkin and leaned forward to pinch her cheek, like some creepy affectionate uncle. He had to keep her oblivious to his inconvenient attraction to her. If she knew about it, and he acted on it, she would wind up getting hurt. Sex for her would be an emotional act; for Mason it was a basic animal need. He would break her heart, and Mason didn’t think he’d be able to handle the massive amount of guilt that would go hand in hand with breaking her heart.

  “So what happened after the party?” she asked, and he frowned, confused.

  “What?”

  “After you saw Sam Brand with the old lady?”

  “Oh.” Shit, that conversation felt like forever ago. He’d forgotten that her fantasy was supposedly constructed around Sam Brand, and suddenly he fucking hated the thought of her fantasizing about taking off her clothes for Sam.

  Logically he knew the whole thing had been made up on the spot, but the fact that Sam was the leading man in that little scenario made Mason feel downright murderous. He picked up his mug, viciously controlling the slight shake in his hand, and took a measured sip of the rapidly cooling drink, desperate to get his thoughts in order before replying to her question.

  “Sam called me the next day, gave me some shtick about prancing around in my underwear, before telling me that he was working for a personal protection company. He didn’t agree with some of the company policies and was thinking of branching out on his own. Wanted to know if I would consider giving up my pretty-boy gig for some real men’s work.”

  He snorted at that last thought. Men’s work. The four badass women they employed would happily—and efficiently—kick Sam’s ass if he ever said anything like that in their presence.

  “I said yes so fast I nearly sprained my tongue. We went into the business as full partners. Luckily, both Sam and I had connections—Sam from his previous jobs and me from the modeling industry—and built a client base from there. We had a staff of twenty elite close protection officers in a year and became a recognized and trusted brand within eighteen months.”

  He shifted his shoulders; he wasn’t comfortable talking about himself, but Daisy had once again dropped her chin into her palms and was staring up at him over the tops of her glasses. She looked like a curious little owl, with her hair haloing wildly around her face, and despite the distinct lack of anything seductive in the pose or in her expression, Mason crazily wanted to kiss her again.

  Maybe it was because she looked so damned interested in everything he had to say. It was flattering. Intelligent women like her tended to put him into one of two categories: dumb jock only good for a fuck, or arm candy . . . only good for a fuck. He was accustomed to being overlooked and underestimated. He was often dismissed as nothing more than a good-looking, brainless slab of muscle, a henchman to keep the bad guys at bay. Clients appreciated his appearance because the wealthy liked to surround themselves with beautiful things, and that was all he’d been to them: a functional ornament, there to look pretty but be scary. He sure as hell hadn’t minded the no-strings sex that came along with the territory. Clients were strictly off limits, of course, but their friends most definitely were not.

  Still, it had rankled to be dismissed as nothing more than a moron with big muscles and a low IQ.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t he? Poor dear is frightfully good looking but unfortunately quite dull-witted. Then again, it doesn’t take much brainpower to jump in front of a bullet, does it?” That comment, from an aging pop diva, still stung, and it hadn’t even been close to the worst he’d heard. But he’d been starstruck when he met her and disillusioned very soon afterward.

  “Why do you want to know all of this anyway?” Irritated by his lapse into melancholia, the question came out a bit more abruptly than he intended. “We’re supposed to be focusing on you and the wedding stuff.”

  “Isn’t it better if we each know something about the other? More believable?”

  Yeah, that made sense. And kind of disappointed him a little. He wanted her interest to be genuine, and wasn’t that just perverse as hell?

  Get it together, douche bag! the general in his head commanded.

  “I suppose you’re right. But seriously, enough about me. Tell me more about you.”

  “We covered that last night.”

  “Surely there’s a lot more to know about you?”

  “I’m pretty boring,” she said with a self-deprecating grin. “I knit in front of the TV on Friday nights. Nothing earth-shattering there. You’re the one who has partied with princesses and politicians.”

  “Hardly partied. That was all work.”

  “Even the modeling parties?”

  “Especially those.” He grimaced as he recalled that scene. Sex, drugs, alcohol . . . and a shitload more drama than a frickin’ telenovela. While he was modeling he might as well have spent his Friday night knitting in front of the TV, he had been that far removed from the party scene. The only reason he had been at that party, the night he’d reconnected with Sam, was because Chris had needed . . . He nearly choked back a laugh as he remembered. Chris had needed a wingman.

  Because, of course he had.

  As if on cue, Chris bustled back with a basket full of freshly baked, delicious-smelling bread, which he placed on the table between them. Daisy’s eyelids slid to half-mast, and she moaned as the warm, tantalizing aroma drifted upward. She reached for a slice and bit right into it.

  “Oh my God, this is amazing,” she said around a mouthful of bread, and Mason grinned at the lack of artifice. He grabbed her hand and pulled it toward him and tugged the remaining piece of bread from her fingers. With his teeth. He didn’t really think about the intimacy of the impulsive act until his lips brushed against the tips of her fingers. And then he couldn’t prevent himself from compounding the colossal error in judgment by giving her skin the tiniest of flicks with his tongue.

  Daisy snatched her hand out of his hold, folded it into a defensive fist, and cupped her other hand over it, cradling her fist to her chest like an injured bird.

  Chris whistled slowly before pointedly retreating.

  “Don’t do things like that,” Daisy hissed, and Mason shrugged, his expression maddeningly unperturbed.

  “I just wanted a taste of the bread,” he explained, and she g
lared at him.

  “There’s a basketful of the stuff right in front of you. I’m placing a moratorium on all the pretend PDA when we don’t have an audience. And while we’re at it, I want no more of that practice kissing either.”

  His hand hovered above the breadbasket as he perused what was on offer, taking his time with his selection while he kept her waiting for his response. He finally chose a slice exactly like every other slice in the basket and methodically ripped it apart, dipping chunks into the provided assorted preserves.

  “You want this all to look good when it comes to showtime, right?” he asked between bites.

  “It’s making me uncomfortable,” she confessed without thinking. Her words stilled his hands, and he gazed at her for a long moment.

  “I make you uncomfortable?”

  “The situation does. And the touching . . . and stuff.” Her voice petered out, and she cleared her throat awkwardly. His eyes narrowed as he kept her pinned beneath his gaze for a moment longer.

  “I’m a tactile guy. It’s natural for me to casually touch someone when I’m talking to them.”

  “It is?”

  No. It was complete bullshit. He didn’t go around sucking people’s fingers, or brushing his knuckles against their cheekbones . . . he wasn’t wired that way, but he could think of no other way to divert her from the fact that he was a touchy-feely fucker around her. And her alone. How could he explain that to her when he couldn’t make sense of it to himself?

  “I’ll try to curb my natural instincts. But I can’t make any promises. It’s what you signed up for when you asked me to be your fake boyfriend.”

  “Fake date. Not fake boyfriend. There’s a difference.”

  “Other people won’t see it that way. If they’re not used to seeing you date, they’re going to assume that this is serious between us.”

  “What makes you think they’re not used to seeing me date?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that you’ve roped me into doing this for you?” Her teeth nibbled at her soft lower lip as she considered her words. Mason’s eyes dropped to that lip; her teeth were making little white crescents in the soft flesh, which almost immediately darkened into a deeper shade of red when the teeth moved on to a different location. It was distracting as hell, the tug and release of her teeth on that soft, juicy-looking lip. How was he supposed to concentrate on this conversation when she was doing that?

  “Stop that!” Daisy jumped at the sudden harshness in Mason’s voice. Why did he look and sound so angry?

  “What?”

  He reached over and shockingly dragged his thumb down over her lower lip, tugging it from between her teeth and brushing the pad of his thumb over the sensitive surface.

  “Stop biting your lip.”

  “It’s a nervous habit.”

  “I make you nervous?” His brows slammed together, making him look even scarier, and she shook her head.

  “No. Yes . . . I mean, maybe a little.” He reached over again and his thumb gently rubbed back and forth across the surface of her bottom lip, one end to the other, and it felt . . . much too good. For a brief, crazy second she leaned in to his touch before sanity reasserted itself and she pulled her head back and out of reach.

  She sucked her lip into her mouth, trying to rid herself of the residual sensation of his rough thumb so gently caressing her skin.

  “Don’t do that again.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper, devoid of the commanding edge she’d hoped for.

  “I can’t make any promises,” he muttered, and she sighed impatiently. He was just being difficult again. “I start having X-rated visions when you do that thing with your mouth.”

  “Stop being a smart-ass, Mason. I’m serious.”

  She thought he was kidding. She’d probably head for the hills if she knew that he was as serious as a heart attack right now. He forced a grin and shrugged.

  “You’re getting a little too good at reading me.”

  “You’re making it easy,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

  Chris chose that moment to return, holding two plates of the most beautiful-looking food Daisy had ever seen.

  “I present to you, my version of twice-baked goat’s cheese soufflé with an accompaniment of arugula, fig, and roasted almond salad.” He placed the plates in front of Daisy and then Mason with a flourish.

  “It looks amazing and smells even better,” Daisy enthused, her mouth already watering as she stared down at the perfectly baked soufflé, next to a beautiful, fresh-looking salad, on a plate garnished with artistically sprinkled tiny purple and yellow flowers.

  “Bianca,” he called to the sweet-faced young woman hovering behind him, and she shuffled forward to place a couple of flutes of brightly colored drinks in front of them. “Mimosas with my compliments. Enjoy.”

  “Thanks, Chris. Looks good,” Mason said, and Daisy sent him a disbelieving look. His returning gaze was perplexed, and Daisy sighed. Men were seriously clueless sometimes.

  “It looks more than merely good, Chris,” she corrected, and Mason made a sound that was somewhere between exasperation and laughter.

  “You already said that,” he pointed out.

  “One can never receive too much flattery,” Chris said calmly. “But I’ll leave you to enjoy the fruits of my labor. Bon appétit.”

  He left with a flourish—she guessed he was the type of guy who added flourish and flare to everything he did—taking Bianca along with him.

  “You could have asked him to join us,” Daisy admonished, picking up her fork and sending another admiring glance down at her plate. It was almost criminal to eat something so beautiful.

  “He wouldn’t have,” Mason said, having no qualms about completely destroying the work of art on his plate. He had two huge bites down before she even had time to gently prod her quivering soufflé with her fork. “Besides, it’s bad form to just insert yourself into someone’s date.”

  “Mason.”

  “Yeah, yeah, not a date,” he said from behind a mouthful of salad. “Got it. Point is, Chris doesn’t know it, so bad form.”

  Daisy took a small amount of the soufflé onto her fork and sighed when the rich, tart flavor burst across her taste buds. She couldn’t quite contain the tiny moan of appreciation that slipped out. Her eyes slid shut to fully appreciate the taste.

  Fuck me! I’m in such deep shit here. Mason paused, his fork hovering halfway between the plate and his mouth. Did she have to look like she was having an orgasm? It was just a soufflé, damn it! It tasted eggy and cheesy and shouldn’t make anybody look like they were coming. He could damn well give her a real reason to look like that.

  He shifted in his seat in an attempt to alleviate his discomfort. He and Spencer really had to go cruising for babes soon. This was getting tiresome.

  “So, a few logistical issues to work out,” she said prosaically after a few more moany, breathy bites. “I’m driving to the Wild Coast; everybody else is heading there a day earlier, but I’ll be finishing up some last-minute stuff at the practice. It will be the first time the locum goes to Inkululeko, and I want to go over a few of the more serious ongoing cases with him. I’m not sure when you want to leave—”

  “With you.” No question about that. She was the only reason he was going in the first place, and he for damned sure didn’t want to spend any more time with those bitches her sisters called friends than was absolutely necessary. “We can take turns driving. And just to be clear, we’re taking the BMW.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary.”

  “Yes, it is. I’m not going to be stuck in that little toy car of yours for nearly seven hours.” She seemed to think it over before shrugging and nodding. There was a lull in the conversation as she made love to a slice of fig, and he diverted his gaze and guzzled down his entire mimosa in a single gulp.

  “Anyway, I think the hotel may be fully booked already, but I’m looking in to reserving a room for you at a nearby lodge.”


  “We’ll share.” She looked scandalized by his words, and he pretty much felt the way she looked, not sure where the hell the suggestion had come from.

  “We will not.”

  “Are you sharing with one of your sisters? Or maybe one of those other bitches?”

  “No.”

  “Great. I’ll take the sofa.”

  “Mason, absolutely not.”

  “And just to be clear, I’ll be paying for my half of the room.”

  “No, you don’t have to. I asked you to do this; I’ll pay. But for a separate room. In a different hotel.”

  “And how will that look? Like we’re platonic friends. And not even close platonic friends since I’ll be in a completely different hotel.”

  “It’ll look like I’m not easy.”

  “Nobody will think you’re easy. Two weeks from now we’ll be well past our third date. Everybody will assume we’re sleeping together anyway. And I’m paying for my half of the room. End of story.”

  “Mason . . .”

  “I won’t lay a finger on you, promise.” He considered that for a moment before amending, “Well, not unless you want me to.”

  “I won’t want you to.” She looked pissed off now, which was disappointing because it meant that she was done eating. Which meant no more sex show. He supposed he should be grateful for that, considering what a state it was putting him in, but he couldn’t help but feel a tiny pang of loss.

  “Daisy, in all seriousness, it’s your best move. It’ll shut them up for years,” he said, trying to inject some earnestness into his voice, even though he wasn’t entirely sure he had her best interests at heart.

  “I’ll think about it,” Daisy conceded, even though she couldn’t believe she was actually considering the idea. Sharing a room with him for two nights didn’t seem like the sanest course of action.

  “Great.” He speared a fig from her plate, having demolished his own meal in record time, and bit it in half, before offering the other half back to her.