His voice was deep, smooth, and it washed over me in ecstatic waves. Was it even possible for him to get any sexier?
“You’re not exactly my target audience.” I winked. Had I seriously just done that? Internally, I rolled my eyes at myself. Get it together, Jez!
His jaw clenched, the defined muscles tightening. The area between my legs quivered. There was nothing sexier than a man with a chiseled jaw who happened to be wearing a suit. I had every cologne, luxury car, and evening wear commercial to thank for my high expectations of men’s appearance.
“Right, so,” Tara said, tapping the end of her pencil against her notepad, “tell us a little about yourself, Mr. Blakely.”
“I enlisted in the Marine Corps at seventeen, but shortly after, I was placed in a special operative team. Last year, when it came time to renew my contract, I left.”
“Why is that?” Tara asked.
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bouncing against his throat, and I held back a moan. Since when did I find Adam’s apples sexy?
“My unit wanted out, and I was loyal to them. It was time for them to retire. They’d already put in twenty years, and they had spouses, children. With the rest leaving, I didn’t feel the need to stay. To be frank, I wasn’t interested in joining another team.”
“Loyalty’s important,” Tara stated.
“It is, ma’am.”
Our eyes locked, and I saw it. The emptiness, the alpha stripped away. The man who sat before me wasn’t the cool, collected person he’d been showing us. He was damaged, wounded. He blinked, and it was gone; the facade remained. The switch was brief, lingering just long enough for me to see myself in him.
“Do you have family?” I asked, swallowing the knot that formed in my throat whenever I allowed my memories to creep into my conscious.
He arched an eyebrow. After my earlier display, he probably assumed there was a hidden meaning to my question.
But he was wrong.
Scratch away the surface, the pretty face, the muscular body, and I saw the vulnerability that he tried to hide in his eyes. There was darkness there. And I knew it well.
I saw that same sadness every time I looked in the mirror.
“No, ma’am,” he said simply. His lack of an elaboration told me everything I needed to know. I’d given the same quick responses and generic replies whenever someone asked me about my family.
Few people could be asked that question and honestly answer with a ‘no.’
I was one of those people, and clearly, Blakely was, too.
I released the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Please, call me Jezebel.”
“Jez means to say that this job requires a lot.”
I knew Tara would chime in. She was more than just my agent or my friend. After the accident that claimed my parents’ lives, she strove to be my savior.
“It’s twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five work. You’ll be staying at Jez’s apartment. At least until things settle. This would be taxing on a significant other or even children. I imagine you’d hate the position after just a few weeks.”
“Understandable, of course, but no, I don’t have anyone. Being in the military for the past fourteen years made it impossible to form relationships, and my parents died when I was young. They didn’t have siblings. I’ve been on my own for years.”
Tara offered a sad smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Blakely.”
He brushed away her concern with the wave of his hand. “It’s been a long while.”
I shifted in my chair, wondering how long it’d take until I could shrug away concern with that same ease. The conversation had taken a turn for the worse—a turn I’d instigated. The familiarity of his words was too close for comfort. That longing he showed mirrored my own—and I wasn’t ready to deal with those feelings yet.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready to deal with the death of my parents—or the fact that I’d been responsible.
I cleared my throat, and Tara understood my silent message. I chastised myself for succumbing to the past—the past hurt, but I couldn’t change it. I needed to live for now. I pushed down the pain and focused on the interview, focused on Blakely.
That brief vulnerability I’d witnessed in his eyes was gone. I could do the same.
“Can you tell us about any specialized training you’ve had?” Tara asked quickly, giving me something to focus on.
He nodded, but as he answered her question, his eyes were on me, acknowledging the way I shifted uncomfortably. He acted just like a bodyguard. He was already annoyingly good at it, and I hadn’t even hired him yet.
“I’ve studied various forms of martial arts, though I’m passionate about Krav Maga. It focuses more on you and your surroundings. I’m much more about having a good offense than defense. Certain situations are avoidable. It just depends on how you work the people around you. I’m very good at reading people,” he said, his eyes still on me.
“Great. Anything else?” Tara asked.
At some point, I would have to speak again. I knew this. I was just finding it incredibly difficult to put even simple thoughts together. My primal instincts, though, were clearly intact.
My mixed emotions were waging a war within me: I was torn between fight, flight, or just screwing the man in front of me.
Thank God I didn’t have this reaction to most people. Controlling my urges twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five would be exhausting.
“I have taken up boxing, and staying fit and healthy has always been an important lifestyle decision for me—even before I joined the military, really. I’ve also been trained to handle various weapons, and I do have a concealed carry permit.”
I shook away the thoughts creeping in and focused on my potential bodyguard. His arms strained against the fabric of his suit as he leaned forward and adjusted in his seat. I met his gaze, and he smiled. I swallowed down the drool that would have inevitably slid down my chin. My eyes strained to see if I was having the same effect on him, but he didn’t give away anything.
“Have you ever been a bodyguard?” I asked.
“In a way, yes. After leaving the military, I’ve worked odd jobs that’ve required me to run security for… individuals during events.”
I nodded. “Anyone I know?”
“Perhaps.”
He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t push it further. Most of his clients were likely wealthy and paid him good money to keep his mouth shut. Just like I would if I were to hire him. He was going to see me at my good, bad, and ugly, and I needed to know that he could keep his experiences confidential. Sure, if he was hired, he’d have to sign the dotted line that told him to shut up, but I liked to know there was more there. I liked to know his silence was more than just a thin piece of paper between him and whoever bid the highest for my baggage.
“Well, this all sounds great. We have a few more interviews lined up, but once we make our decision, we’ll—”
“I want him,” I said. I knew those words held a deeper meaning, and I was sure he knew it, too.
But I didn’t need to think about the burning desire to rip off his clothes. This is the first candidate I cared to be around, and his background was more than sufficient. I knew Tara would recommend him once he left the room—so I beat her to it.
“Excuse me?” Tara whispered.
Tara had always been by the book. She liked order; I liked emotion. Every decision I made was emotion-based. It might not have been the best strategy at times, but I was still breathing.
“You’re hired,” I said, ignoring Tara.
“Jez, we still need to run background checks and—”
“Then you’re hired as soon as you pass the background checks.”
Tara frowned. We hadn’t discussed this, and I knew that bothered her. But the truth was, I was going to spend a lot of time with this person. I’d rather have that person be someone I was comfortable being around.
And, really, how much more comfortable could I get at this point? I didn’t want to fuck
the others.
“Tara, someone thought it was a good idea to hand him a gun permit, so I’m fairly confident he’s safe.”
“Jeze—”
“How long will it take to get the background checks in?” I asked.
“Well, we can rush them,” she replied.
I nodded and leaned over, grabbing the folder that lay on Tara’s lap.
“Has he signed a nondisclosure yet?” I asked as I flipped through the documents in the folder.
“Yes, ma’am, I have,” he said when I reached the stack of stapled documents I’d been looking for. I tugged it from the folder and handed it to him. He scanned it as I spoke.
“This lists your pay, benefits, and what would be expected of you. Take some time to read it thoroughly, and give me an answer once your background checks come back.”
He frowned.
“What is it?” I asked.
“The pay.” He glanced up. “This is too much.”
I shook my head. “I pay well.”
“I can’t accept this.”
I cleared my throat and stepped into my business shoes, the ones I loathed wearing because they hurt like a bitch. “This isn’t a gift, Mr. Blakely. The person I hire will be uprooting. The person I hire will have little to no social life. The person I hire must be willing to take a bullet for me. I don’t look at my expectations lightly, so what I pay is fair. I should warn you, though, before you get to the next page. There are pay increases after certain milestones. If you stay with me for a long time, you very likely will become a rich man.”
“I have no desire to be rich,” he said. “Money changes people.”
I blinked. Once. Twice. He was right. Money did change people, and usually, it wasn’t for the better. Even so, I hadn’t expected that response.
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing deliciously in his throat. “I—I apologize, ma’am. That was uncalled for and unacceptable. It won’t happen again.”
I brushed away his concern. “No worries. I didn’t take it personally. So, we’ll be in touch?”
He smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
I gestured for the packet. “Give me that packet back.”
He frowned but handed it over.
Un-clipping the pen from Tara’s clipboard, I flipped to the back page, scribbled something down, and handed the papers back to him.
He grinned as he read what I wrote.
“What did you add?” Tara asked.
“Another condition of employment. This ‘ma’am’ business won’t work. I’m twenty-seven, Mr. Blakely, not seventy-two.”
He smiled a wide, cheeky grin, flashing me an award-winning smile, and I nearly crooned.
“Well, Mr. Blakely, we have your paperwork, and we’ll process your background checks. We’ll be in touch in a day or so.”
He nodded and stood. “Thank you,” he said, shaking Tara’s hand.
I absently handed Tara her folder and pen as I shook his hand. His sapphire-blue eyes sparkled as they searched mine.
“Until we meet again, Mr. Blakely,” I promised. His name rolled around my head, and I couldn’t deny that I liked the sound of it.
I reached the door that held us captive in Tara’s office and yanked it open. The cool air of the hallway assaulted me, and only then did I realize I’d been overheated. My porcelain skin was likely pink, made even brighter by the light gray of my sweater. I cringed at the thought.
I turned back and brushed up against my soon-to-be bodyguard’s firm torso. He caught my hand before I could tumble into him, steadying me. I bit my lip as I glanced up. He was tall. Very tall. I hadn’t noticed earlier. I was five foot seven, but in my black pumps, I was pushing five foot ten. He still towered over me—a good half-foot, at least. Realizing I was already practically groping my hired help, I stepped back, running a hand through my hair and pushing back the chocolate-brown strands that fell before my eyes.
“Tara will put a rush on the checks.” Because I’d like to make sure I’m not fucking a sociopath, I added silently.
I glanced at her. She nodded in response, still sitting in her chair.
Blakely nodded and smiled as he passed me. I bit my lip and rested against the door frame as I watched his retreat, my eyes trailing the length of his torso, stopping when they reached his perfect ass. I sighed.
He pushed the button for the elevator, walked in, and then kept his eyes on me until the doors closed.
This one was going to be trouble.
I slid my key into the lock, listening for the familiar clunk. Turning back, I waved to the overly-friendly taxi driver, who insisted on waiting until I was safely behind the confines of my Upper West Side brownstone. I closed the door behind me and took the stairs to my third-floor apartment.
My building was easy to spot. It was the only brownstone on the block that had been painted white. The contrast of the white brick beside the endless rows of red and brown brick was jarring.
I still remembered the day I moved into my apartment. The building had been brown then, and the interior was dark to match. I bulldozed through the entire apartment and started from scratch, creating a beautiful open-concept retreat. And now, the bright whites and light grays of my apartment matched the outside brick.
Painting the brownstone was the talk of the neighborhood. The building was in a historic district that was known for its brownstones, so naturally, painting and modernizing the building was considered taboo. I was sure there were rules in place to prevent this from happening, but money talked. Someone paid off someone else to look the other way, and now, I lived in a white brownstone.
A whitestone.
It just didn’t have the same ring to it.
Eventually, people got over it. My neighbors stopped complaining to me in the hallway when I grabbed my mail, and we went back to the usual relationships New Yorkers adopted.
In truth, we never spoke. Not anymore.
I closed the front door to my apartment and latched the five locks that separated the rest of the world from me. The chain, deadbolt, and doorknob lock weren’t enough, I’d learned, after a close encounter. I’d been staying at a hotel while my apartment was being painted, and I came back to my hotel room to find it ransacked; my underwear and bras had been placed delicately on the bedspread, as if the intruder wanted me to know he’d been sniffing my panties. Even with the hotel’s security staff, cameras, and a locked door, he still managed to get in.
When I got home, to give Tara peace of mind, I ended up adding two extra deadbolts. Each lock had a different key, which meant it took me several minutes just to get through my front door. I wasn’t sure how to pick a lock, so maybe having a different key for each lock didn’t matter. But it made Tara and me feel better.
Luckily, my apartment took up the entire third floor, which meant no one was taking that extra flight of stairs unless they were coming to see me.
Having the upper level also meant I was the only one with access to the rooftop deck—just like the first-floor apartment had access to the garden out back. The only thing the renter of the second-floor apartment got was a cheaper mortgage.
The elderly lady who lived there was a shut-in. Our first-floor neighbor used to bring her baked treats, but now, she didn’t open the door for anyone. In fact, I didn’t think she opened the door at all. After she’d stopped answering phone calls, the baked goods were left outside her door. They sat there until they molded and the building’s cleaning manager tossed them.
She stopped receiving gifts after that. I guess it became apparent that she wanted to escape reality. She wanted to be left alone.
I could relate to that mentality.
I tossed my bag onto my kitchen counter and strolled into my living room. I drew back the curtains to let in the light and smiled. The street was jam-packed with bumper-to-bumper cars. I didn’t understand why anyone had a car in Manhattan. Between gas prices, insurance premiums, parking fees, and public transportation, the decision to go green had been easy o
n me.
I stood back and scanned the room, which served as living room, dining room, and, since I’d cleared out the spare bedroom for the bodyguard, office. Though open, it felt cluttered with my desk in the room. I liked to have it open and airy, especially since I didn’t get much space when I ventured outside. My style was modern minimalist, so even when I looked for items to toss to make room, I couldn’t let go of anything. Everything I owned had a purpose.
My phone buzzed in my bag on the kitchen counter. I dug it out and glanced at the screen to find a picture of Tara and a flashing text message icon.
Background checks sent.
I smiled. I hadn’t thought about Blakely after he left, but I was sure I’d be thinking about him tonight. I texted Tara back.
Thanks. Keep me updated.
She replied instantly.
Will do.
I tossed my phone onto the counter and walked past the kitchen and down the hall. The apartment’s one bathroom was to my left, and at the end of the hall, there were two bedrooms. I walked into the spare, crossing my arms and looking around.
“Seems… empty,” I said aloud.
After moving my desk to the living room, I’d furnished the room with necessities: a bed, end tables, and a dresser. But that was it. The room was lifeless. The bed was bare, the closets empty, and I hadn’t yet gotten lamps.
I squealed and ran back into the kitchen. I grabbed my phone and quickly texted Tara.
Shopping?
I glanced at the time. 9:30.
Breakfast? I added.
While I waited, I scanned my emails. Every day, I woke to even more emails that Tara had forwarded me from the press. I rolled my eyes and deleted them without reading. The press was so demanding; they were, by far, the worst part of being a writer. Prior to moving into my apartment, they’d discovered where I lived and stalked me. I’d wake to reporters at my door every morning, and I’d come home to them every evening. A girl could only comment so much.
I searched my weather app. It had been cooler earlier, but soon, the heat of the afternoon’s sun would be suffocating. The air would turn humid, muggy. My black leather pants and sweater would be too heavy. I silently chastised my wardrobe choice. After all, it was June in New York. What was I thinking?
Lies We Keep Page 2
