Devil Within (Bodyguard Incorporated Book 1)
Page 3
She wrote a sentence. Deleted it. Rewrote it. Deleted it again.
It wasn’t writer’s block. The words were there, playing at the fringes of her thoughts. She knew exactly what she wanted to say, but couldn’t seem to concentrate. Fortunately, she didn’t have to search too hard to find the source of disruption.
Tall and handsome, with inky locks and deep, penetrating brown eyes, Rayce Hawkins had starred in every one of her dreams since their meeting. Even in her waking hours, she would find herself thinking back to their encounter, and she’d hear his deep, persuasive timbre—like cool water flowing over smooth stones—in her ear.
He probably thought she was a complete idiot.
Phoebe didn’t have much practice when it came to social interactions, and she sometimes forgot that not everyone had conversations with the voices in their heads. Talking about her books came easily. When she was nervous or unsure, her characters, the worlds she’d created, and her storylines often filled the awkward silence, whether she wanted them to or not.
At book signings and romance conferences, her particular brand of social ineptitude had been an asset. In more generalized settings, however, she always ended up wishing a gorge would appear in the floor and swallow her whole.
Rayce had been witty, charming, and his smile had mesmerized her. Then, she’d opened her mouth and ruined everything with clumsy conversation, followed by imaginative threats. Well, at least no one could say she didn’t have a way with words.
Groaning, she dropped her face into her hands and shook her head.
She’d like him, maybe a little too much considering how brief their interaction had been. He’d rescued her from her ex, though, and he’d done it in such a way as to keep her pride intact. What girl didn’t love a knight in shining armor? Therein resided the problem.
She had the worst taste in men.
Before Tucker, there had been Joseph. She’d been with him for six months, and she’d had no idea he’d been selling drugs out of his apartment until the police had arrested him. Before that, there was Darren. Their relationship had lasted only a few weeks, ending when he’d disappeared with her credit cards and jewelry. She didn’t even want to think about the long list of loser boyfriends she’d had throughout high school.
So, while Rayce seemed normal on the surface, she didn’t trust herself. Her instincts always proved to be wrong, and her decent-guy compass never pointed due north.
Atop the desk, beside her mug of steamy coffee, her phone vibrated with an incoming call for the third time that morning. Grateful for the distraction, she snatched it up, only to flop back in her leather office chair and frown at the display.
“Go away,” she mumbled as she stared at Rayce’s number on the screen.
She knew it to be his number, because he always left her a voicemail when she didn’t answer—one every day for the past week. Clearly, the guy couldn’t take a hint.
Tossing her smartphone back onto her desk with more force than necessary, she scrubbed her hands over her face, then nearly jumped out of her skin when the doorbell rang. Laughing at her own foolishness, she pushed up from her chair and exited her office through the open French doors. She loved those stupid doors. It had been one of the major selling points when she’d purchased the three-bedroom home in the suburbs.
Down the hallway decorated with whimsical paintings she’d picked up from a local gallery, she stopped in front of the front door and pushed up on her toes to peek through the small rectangle of glass. A sharp gasp escaped her parted lips, and she spun around, pressing her back against the door as she crouched below the window. Of course, her visitor had already seen her. No way he couldn’t have when she’d stared right into those deep, dark eyes.
“Phoebe, I know you’re in there,” Rayce called from the covered front porch, his voice muffled through the thick wooden door. “Open the damn door.”
“Go away!” she called back.
“No.”
“Then stand out there and freeze, because I’m not opening the door.”
“It’s seventy degrees.”
True to the state’s unpredictable weather, a warm front had moved in the day before, pushing the temperatures into the low seventies. The weatherman predicted rain for the next several days, followed by another blast of cold air. To a native like herself, cramming all four seasons into a single week seemed perfectly normal.
“What do you want?” she asked, her back still pressed against the door.
“I called. I left messages.”
“So?”
“You didn’t call me back.”
He’d seemed a lot smarter during their last meeting. Maybe he’d suffered a brain injury since then. “When a girl doesn’t call you back, that typically means she’s not interested.”
“Goddamn it, Phoebe, open the door.”
Growling under her breath, she finally straightened and turned, but paused with her hand on the doorknob. “How did you find out where I live?”
“I work for Watchdog Security Solutions.”
She’d know he was employed with a private security firm, but knowing which one hadn’t seemed overly important at the time. Her subdivision had contracted with WSS the year she’d moved in, meaning every house in the neighborhood was protected by one of their home security systems.
Turning the knob, she opened the door only enough to stare at Rayce through the three-inch crack. “Well, at least you’re not a stalker.”
Jesus, he looked even better than she remembered. His dark hair had a wet sheen, as if he’d just stepped out of the shower, and it curled slightly at the ends before brushing against the collar of his gray T-shirt. His suit at the party had been well-tailored, but it hadn’t done him justice. The thin cotton of his shirt stretched across his broad chest, and the seams strained along his shoulders as the sleeves fought valiantly to contain his bulging biceps.
Unable to stop herself, she followed the line down the center of his chest to his narrow waist, her gaze slowly sinking to the denim-encased tree trunks he called thighs. He looked so out of place standing there on her brick porch, surrounded by her dragonfly wind chimes and dancing fairy figurines.
“Is there a problem with my alarm system?”
He blinked twice, his lips turning down slightly at the corners. “Not that I’m aware of. Why? Did something happen?”
Their conversation continued in circles, getting Phoebe no closer to any answers that made sense. Sighing, she stepped back and pulled the door open wide. Clearly, he had no intentions of leaving, and she’d rather not argue with him through a crack in the door.
“Why are you here, Rayce?”
“I left messages,” he repeated as he stepped across the threshold, pulling the door from her hand to close it behind him.
“I wouldn’t exactly call those messages. ‘Hey, Phoebe. It’s Rayce, the guy from the Frost Gala. Call me back,’ didn’t really tell me much.”
The tension bled out of his shoulders, and he relaxed his stiff posture as he sauntered deeper into her house. “You’ve got a nice place here. I like the open floor plan.” His gaze strayed across the living room to the double sliding glass doors that led out onto her oversized deck. “Those doors are a security risk, though. Have you considered replacing them?”
“No. I like them.”
“Do you at least have a security bar for them?”
“I live in the safest neighborhood in six counties. I think I’ll be fine.” Good thing he was nice to look at, because damn, he infuriated her. “Stop changing the subject and tell me why you’re here.”
Rayce turned his penetrating gaze on her, his eyes raking over her from the messy ponytail at her crown to the fuzzy slippers on her feet. She’d planned to write all day, and as such, she’d dressed for comfort rather than fashion. The black sweatpants and matching tank top were a favorite ensemble of hers, but she still struggled not to fidget under his scrutiny.
“You seemed pretty upset when you left the party
last week. I wanted to be sure you made it home safely, and that your ex didn’t come looking for you afterwards.” He paused, a sneer curling his upper lip. “No offense, but how the hell were you engaged to that douchebag?”
“No offense taken, and it’s a long story.”
“Fair enough.” His expression softened. “Anyway, you weren’t answering your phone, and I was worried something had happened.” He took a step back and held his arms out the sides, fingers splayed, palms up toward the ceiling. “So, here I am.”
“Here you are,” Phoebe murmured. “You take your job seriously, huh?”
As quickly as the weather in Texas changed, Rayce’s mood soured, and he glared as he folded his arms across his chest. “I do, but my job didn’t bring me here. Clearly, you’re all in one piece, so I guess I’ll get out of your hair.” As abruptly as he’d arrived, he turned and marched toward the front door. “I’ll send someone over to fit your patio doors with a security bar.”
He’d just jerked the door open when Phoebe’s head stopped reeling long enough for her to call him back. “Rayce, wait. I’m sorry.” The guy had come all the way from Dallas to check on her because he’d been worried, and she’d treated him like an inconvenience. “I was about to make breakfast. Do you like pancakes?”
After a brief hesitation, he closed the door gently and spun around to face her with a beaming smile that stopped her heart. It shouldn’t be legal for anyone to look that good so early in the morning.
“It’s almost noon.”
For a moment, she’d been afraid she’d spoken aloud, until she realized he’d been referring to her mealtime. “Yes, well, it’s my breakfast. I don’t really keep nine-to-five hours.”
“Are you writing today?”
“I’m trying,” she admitted.
“Why don’t you let me take care of breakfast, and you can get back to it? I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
“As much as I appreciate the offer, I invited you. Besides, I said I was trying to write. It’s not exactly going as planned.”
“Hmm,” he mused, following her through the living room and around the corner to the kitchen. “Okay, you cook, and I’ll listen.”
“Listen?” Phoebe laughed as she directed him to a barstool at the marble island. “You mean ‘watch?’”
“That, too, but I said what I meant.” The stool scraped across the hardwood floors when he pulled it out and settled down on the edge. “Tell me what has you tangled up with this story. I don’t know anything about writing, but it might help to talk through it out loud.”
It wasn’t a terrible idea. Normally, she talked through story problems with Elena, but her best friend was still visiting family for the holidays, and she wouldn’t be home for a few days yet. Since she had plenty of time before her deadline, she hadn’t wanted to bother Elena while she was on vacation, but having a sounding board might be exactly what she needed.
Digging through the cabinets to find the ingredients needed to make her not-so-famous apple cinnamon pancakes, she gave Rayce a summary of her story, highlighting her favorite parts to come, and probably delving a little too deeply into the psyche of her characters.
Fortunately, he didn’t seem to mind.
“Would you like something to drink?” she blurted, interrupting her own monologue. “Sorry, I don’t have people over much, so I kind of forget these things.”
Rayce just chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down her spine.
“Just point me in the right direction,” he said as he pushed up from his seat, “and I can fend for myself pretty well. The coffee smells good.”
Just about everyone and their mother had a single-serving coffee brewer now, but Phoebe liked the simplicity and instant gratification of the old-school coffee makers. Sure, it took a little more work at first, but after that, she had an entire pot of coffee at her fingertips. Plus, considering how much of the stuff she drank, it was a hell of a lot more cost effective.
“Sugar is by the coffee pot. Spoons are there.” She pointed to a drawer on her left. “Cups in that cabinet over there. There’s milk and creamer in the fridge.”
“Black is fine.”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “You’re one of those people.”
Her guest laughed again as he selected a mug from the cabinet and filled it with coffee. “What can I say? I’m a purist.” Drink in hand, he rounded the center island and returned to his perch on the barstool. “Now, back to your book. I guess I just have one question.”
“Oh?”
“Why?”
She paused in the middle of stirring the batter and frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You told me what your characters are doing and how they’re going to accomplish it. You haven’t told me why, though. Why does it matter?”
“What are their motivations?” Phoebe bobbed her head thoughtfully as she resumed stirring. “Okay, I see what you’re saying. Right now, their motivations are shallow, which is fine to get them started, but it’s not going to sustain the plotline.” It was such a rookie mistake, and she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought about that. Carrying the wooden spoon to the sink, she looked up at Rayce and smiled. “Thank you.”
Rayce shrugged, but inwardly, he could barely breathe. Phoebe’s smile lit up the entire kitchen, and he adored the way her button nose wrinkled along the bridge. Her happiness was infectious, and he found himself ridiculously pleased that he’d been able to give her even a small measure of help. Hell, if she kept smiling at him like that, he’d quit his job and become her personal assistant.
Clearing his throat, he sat up a little straighter, searching for a safe topic for them to discuss before he did something stupid—like drag her across the island and kiss the breath out of her. Nothing came to mind, likely because every thought in his head revolved around the tiny pixie with her big, hazel eyes and full, pink lips. Thankfully, Phoebe spoke first, saving him from possible humiliation.
“I want you to know that I really am grateful for what you did at the Frost Gala. I kind of suck at human interactions—except kids. I’m good with kids. Otherwise, I tend to say the wrong thing, or get nervous and start to ramble.” She paused to take a deep breath, a hint of panic slipping into her gaze, but she seemed determined to finish. “So, if I didn’t say it before…thank you.”
Watching her turn away, her shoulders rounded, her head ducked, Rayce didn’t know how to respond. From the moment they’d met, he’d considered Phoebe to be an intelligent, charming woman with just a dash of stubbornness to make things interesting. He wondered who in her past had convinced her she was anything less than remarkable.
“You’re welcome. If you ever need me to pretend to be your boyfriend again, you have my number.” His joke had the desired effect, and though he couldn’t see her face, he did notice some of the tension eased from her stiff back. “Why do you think you always say the wrong thing? You stood up in front of all those people, spoke about something very personal, and you made them feel something. I don’t know many people who could have done that, myself included.”
“I was scared to death.”
“But you still did it.”
“That was different,” she argued as she flipped one of the pancakes. “I was prepared. I spent an entire week working on that speech and practicing it. Spontaneous conversation is harder. I talk too much, or too little, or I say something stupid. Sometimes, I try to be funny, and it just comes off bitchy or awkward.” Transferring the pancake to a white plate decorated in red flowers, she dropped her head and sighed. “Obviously, I tend to overshare.”
“Is that what Tucker told you?”
Phoebe paused in the act of reaching into an overhead cabinet, her hand slightly curved around the handle of a bottle of maple syrup. With a little shiver and a slight shake of her head, she grabbed the bottle, then closed the cabinet door slowly. Without a word, she moved back to the stove, scooped two more pancakes from the griddle, and stacked them on top of the first.
“I think…” She trailed off, her tone hesitant, unsure. After retrieving the bottle of maple syrup from the opposite counter, she returned with an odd, lopsided grin. “I think that’s a conversation for another day.” She slid the syrup across the island. “Eat before it gets cold.”
“Aren’t you going to eat?” It hadn’t escaped his notice that she’d turned off the burner under the griddle, or that she’d only taken down one plate from the cabinet.
“I’m not really that hungry.”
Rayce frowned. He’d stayed because he genuinely enjoyed being in her company, not because she’d offered to cook for him. Naturally, there was only one solution.
“Grab another fork,” he ordered while he drowned his pancakes in gooey syrup, then cut the stack in half.
“Rayce, that’s really not—”
“Get a damn fork and come sit your cute ass down.”
Both brows swept toward her hairline. “Excuse me?”
“Thank you for making me breakfast, but the deal was that I join you. So, you can get another fork, or I can feed you from mine. Either way, you’re eating half of these pancakes.”
Phoebe snorted, but she dug another utensil out of the drawer and circled the island to climb up on the stool beside him. “You’re kind of bossy. You know that?”
“Nah. I’m just persuasive.” He winked as she speared a bit of the food onto her fork, loving the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed. “I’m going to get a refill,” he added, holding up his empty mug. “Do you want some coffee?”
“Oh, here, let me get that for you.”
“Phoebe, stop. Eat your pancakes.” Standing, he placed a hand on her shoulder to keep her in place. “Now, do you want coffee?”
Her brow furrowed, and she chewed her bottom lip for a moment before answering. “No. I love coffee, but I don’t really like it when I’m eating. I know, it’s weird.”