Protect Me - A Steamy Bodyguard Romance (You Can't Resist a Bad Boy Book 5)

by Layla Valentine

  The thing is, I have to be secretive about it all.

  “Is Mr. Ford in?” I ask the receptionist, who looks at me like I’m insane.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m Noelle. I’m a reporter here. This is my second week.”

  “Oh,” she says with disinterest. “Then don’t you know how to get in touch with him yourself?”

  I ignore the question.

  “I’m working on an assignment for him. It’s important. I’m sure he would be very unhappy if he was made to wait.”

  That gets her moving. She makes a phone call while I hang onto the edge of the counter, holding my breath.

  She hangs up and points a gangly arm to the right.

  “Down the hall, take a left.”

  “Thanks.”

  I’m off, knees shaking a bit as I go. What I’m about to do is risky. Once I get into that office and start causing a scene, Mr. Ford could very well lose his patience with me.

  But it’s the only shot I have. He’s not about to hand over information, so I have to make things personal. If I lose all decorum, maybe he’ll do the same. Maybe he’ll let something slip.

  It’s similar to the approach I tried taking with Ryan—Zach—but that turned out much different than I had expected.

  “Is this Mr. Ford’s office?” I ask the male secretary. “I need to speak with him.”

  “Yes, but he’s—”

  I plow on, pushing open the heavy office door and going right in.

  “Hey!” the secretary calls after me. I don’t look back at him.

  Mr. Ford looks up from his desk, papers spread out in front of him and a gargantuan corner office with massive windows stretching around him. As his eyes connect with mine, the hotshot attitude I’d worked myself into goes straight out the window.

  Because I’m still a woman. And he’s a hot man.

  And I’m turning to putty right in front of him.

  I stop a few feet away from him, hand on my hip, trying to act like I’m everything I don’t feel: brave, sure of myself, and completely unaffected by his Greek-god good looks.

  I expect him to yell at me for barging into his personal space unannounced, but he simply folds his hands and leans back in his chair.

  “I like the natural look.”

  He says it without a hint of sarcasm. Remembering that I had no time to put on makeup after washing off last night’s raccoon eyes, I self-consciously tuck some hair behind my ear. With the exception of when I’m hitting the gym, makeup is usually a daily staple.

  “How did last night’s interview go?” he asks, already moving on.

  “So you did set me up.”

  His perfect forehead wrinkles.

  “Set you up? What are you talking about?”

  “You sent me in without giving me the full details. Zach knew the whole time what was going on. He even…” My face heats up, because revealing that I was tricked makes me feel like a fool. “He even lied to me and told me that he was his assistant, as in Mr. Garner’s assistant…and I believed it.”

  Mr. Ford’s jaw hardens.

  “Sounds about right.”

  “Why? What’s the point of all of this? If you already know Zach Garner, why send me to interview him? Can’t you just call him up yourself?”

  “What makes you so sure I know him?”

  My eye roll can’t be stopped.

  “No offense, Mr. Ford, but I’m not that stupid. He mentioned you by name. He said that you should try being more subtle when you send one of your lackeys to get dirt on him.”

  Mr. Ford’s tongue drags across his bottom lip.

  “What exactly happened last night?”

  More dancing around. Is this man ever going to answer one of my questions directly?

  Giving up on my original game plan for this conversation, I just shake my head. Maybe if I give Mr. Ford what he wants, he’ll give me what I need to actually write a good article.

  “When I got to the offices, I waited for an hour, and then a person who introduced themselves as Mr. Garner’s assistant came down. We went to get drinks, but he kept dodging my questions. So then we started talking about other things. I think he was trying to distract me, because we got, uh, close. And then he didn’t tell me he was actually Zach Garner until later.”

  I don’t specify that by later, I mean the next morning.

  Mr. Ford smirks.

  “He can never resist a pretty face.”

  I quickly look away. He knows. I’m a shitty liar, and I bet anyone could tell from my poor cover-up that I slept with Zach Garner.

  “So that’s why you had me go?” I quietly ask. “It had nothing to do with my journalistic skills?”

  “No one can get a story out of Garner. No typical journalist, anyway. A person needs to have other skills. We talked about this, Noelle.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t get any information on him, other than that his apartment is super clean and minimal. So there.” I throw my hands up. “Should I write an article on that?”

  Mr. Ford smiles, and for a second the hardened expression he’s been wearing vanishes. He looks younger, more carefree.

  But then he clears his throat and looks away, almost as if he’s caught himself sinning.

  “You’ll go back, of course.”

  I stare at him. Did this man hear anything I’ve said?

  “He found out,” I slowly say. “He knows that I was a plant.”

  “And so he knows that I know, so perhaps he thinks I am giving up.” Mr. Ford gives a subtle shake of his head. “But I don’t do that.”

  My head spins with the sheer lunacy of all of this.

  “This can’t work.”

  “Why not? Zach already proved he has a taste for girls like you.”

  “Well, that doesn’t mean much,” I snap. I hate how this conversation—this whole situation—is making me feel. I really liked the man I met last night. Now I’ve just found out he’s a fraud.

  And my boss isn’t that much better of a person either.

  “Listen, Mr. Ford, I really appreciate this job, but I’m not just going to be your pawn. You haven’t even told me why you want me to get info on Zach—or even what specific info to get. I’m completely in the dark here, and I’m being made to look like the fool.”

  “I’ll tell you.”

  He gets up and walks around the desk while I apprehensively watch. Just a couple feet away from me, he folds his arms and leans against the front of his desk. My heart speeds up.

  “I’m going to publish a tell-all expose on Zach.”

  “Telling what?”

  He nonchalantly shrugs. “Whatever.”

  “You mean you’re going to make something up.”

  “Hopefully, I won’t have to. It would be better if the information you brought back was what was needed.” He dips his face to look straight into my eyes. “This could work out well for you, Noelle. I’m going to need a writer for the book.”

  “What do you have against him?” I can’t keep the spite out of my tone.

  His eyes flash, something personal and deep hidden in there.

  “That part isn’t your concern. Don’t worry about it.”

  A sharp exhale leaves me. This web is just becoming more and more tangled…

  “Anyway, it won’t work.” Haven’t I already told him this?

  “I think it will.”

  “It won’t,” I stubbornly repeat. “Zach has already made it clear he’s telling me nothing.”

  “You underestimate yourself, Noelle. I can tell you have no idea just how much power you have over men.”

  Each inch of my skin shivers. This guy is my boss. And a manipulative shark at that. I wish he’d stop looking at me—and yet I also hope he never stops.

  “Go back to him,” Mr. Ford directs. “Apologize. Trust me, he’ll accept. And he’ll welcome you right back in.”

  “No.” It’s out of my mouth without a moment’s hesitation. “I can’t get
behind this, Mr. Ford. Neither ethically nor personally. I’m sorry, but this is one article I am just not going to write. Assign me anything else. I’ll even commit to writing about the nut festival every single day until it withers up and dies, but I’m not going to help write some salacious tell-all that’s probably going to be full of lies anyway.”

  Fire jumps in his irises.

  “You know all about the salacious side of Zach Garner?”

  I force myself to keep my mouth shut. He’s trying to get a rise out of me.

  Mr. Ford straightens up, towering over me. “You won’t be writing any articles on the nut festival. You won’t be writing any articles at all. Not for a while. Go home. You’re suspended.”

  “Excuse me? I’m being punished for refusing to write something absolutely immoral?”

  “You’re being put back in your place for refusing to do your job. You can leave now.”

  He dips his head and marches back to his seat, refusing to make eye contact. My body burns with fury, and my fingers itch to pick up the glass paper weight on the edge of his desk and smash it on the floor.

  But somehow I restrain myself and walk away.

  I walk past the baffled secretary, down the hall I came from. I don’t bother going to my desk. There’s nothing important there anyway. I haven’t even been here long enough to get a plant or put up pictures.

  Down the elevator I go, into the parking garage across the street.

  I drive all the way home, park in the street, and trudge up the stairs to my apartment.

  Finally, finally, when I’m sitting on my couch, surrounded by the silence of the lonely morning, I let the tears come.

  Chapter 6

  “Who died?” Claire whispers into the phone.

  “No one.” I press my palm against my eyes. I’ve been lying immobile on the couch for twenty minutes. With the pain becoming too much to bear, there was only one thing to do: call my best friend.

  “Is everything all right?”

  A door shuts on her end.

  “Where are you?”

  “In the mop closet.”

  “Ew.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I come in here all the time during prep. Everyone thinks I’m, like, rolling silverware or taking out the trash.”

  Despite my agony, I actually laugh. Claire works lunches at a sports bar. Despite the fact that she hates the job and I’m pretty sure she puts in close to zero percent effort, she makes good tips because she has a big personality and people love her.

  “Are there any openings at the bar?” I grumble. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m about to lose my job.”

  “Oh, no,” she gasps. “What happened?”

  “Well…” I take in a long breath and uncover my eyes. The popcorn ceiling stares back. Where do I begin? “To sum it up, my new boss wants me to write a morally corrupt article, and I refused to do it, so he suspended me.”

  “Shit, I’ve been suspended before. It’s no big deal. It’s not getting fired.”

  “Yeah, but it’s on the fast-track to it. Also…”

  “Also what?”

  “There’s more to the story, but you might not believe it.”

  “Oh, shit.” She lowers her voice. “I think the line cook is about to blow my cover. I gotta go.”

  “Come over tonight?” I quickly ask.

  “I’ll be there at six with a bottle of red.”

  The line goes dead, and I’m left alone with my thoughts once more. Sighing, I sit up, everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours running through my head. Zach… Mr. Ford.

  I keep seeing the look on Zach’s face when I left. He was so defensive, but also…hurt?

  He tricked me. I should be mad about that.

  But maybe he thinks that I was also tricking him. For all he knows, I’m in on Mr. Ford’s plan to bring him down.

  The very thought makes me want to vomit. If the person I talked to at the bar last night was the real Zach, then there was something there. I don’t think I’m imagining it.

  I need to apologize for what went down between us. He has to know that I in no way played a role in Mr. Ford’s plan.

  And maybe, just maybe, he’ll accept my apology.

  Maybe we’ll meet up again.

  Maybe I’ll get to see if the jovial, intelligent guy I swooned for over drinks last night is the real Zach Garner.

  It’s a lofty hope, but I’m hanging onto it.

  Crossing the very limited open space, I take my laptop from the desk and plop back down on the couch. I might know where Zach lives, but my shot at getting back in there is so low it’s not even worth mulling over. I highly doubt he wants to talk to me. The doorman has probably been assigned to call the police if he even sees me around.

  Email is my only choice. Except finding his email is difficult.

  He’s a CEO, I remember as I fruitlessly search the web. Did I think his personal email would just be plastered all over the place?

  Finally, though, I locate a general affairs address for his company. It’s better than nothing. Maybe I’ll get lucky and someone will forward it to him. Sitting back, I compose an email that’s apologetic and as general as I can make it, since someone else is going to be reading this as well.

  Dear Zach,

  I know you probably don’t want to talk to me ever again. If so, I understand that. I just really need you to know that I was completely unaware of my boss’s plans. I was not privy to the personal connection I was dealing with. My understanding was that I was writing a simple, straightforward article on a successful businessman.

  I read it back, wishing I could get more specific. ‘Please don’t hate me,’ I want to say. And, ‘I really like you.’

  Unfortunately, there’s no right way to end this email.

  A knock on the door makes me sit up straighter. I stay still. Who would stop by this early? Claire is at work, and my few other friends have regular nine-to-five jobs. Maybe it was just a knock on a neighbor’s apartment.

  Knock, knock.

  Setting the computer down, I cautiously pad over to the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Ethan.”

  My blood runs cold. I work my mouth around, trying to get out a response.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  “I’d just like to talk,” he says, as if reading my mind.

  “Um, okay. One sec.”

  Quickly, I check my hair in the small mirror hanging next to the door. Not that it matters. It’s just as frizzy as it was when I barged into his office earlier.

  Taking a deep breath, I open the door. Seeing my delicious boss here, standing in the doorway of my tiny studio apartment that contains dishes in the sink and a basket full of laundry next to the couch, is a mind warp. His dark eyes flick around as he steps across the threshold.

  “Cozy little place you have here.”

  “Uh-huh…”

  I shut the door and stay where I am, watching him. He slowly walks the length of the room, from the couch, past my bed and desk, to the window, where he peers out into the street.

  His hands are in his pockets and he can’t seem to stop jiggling his keys as he studies the kitchen area and the door to the bathroom. It’s almost as if he’s…nervous.

  No. Not Ethan Ford, the asshole who just suspended me from my job for daring to have a moral compass.

  “You live here by yourself?”

  “It would be kind of a tight space for two.” I cross my arms, still not moving.

  Mr. Ford stops his awkward pacing and looks at me. “It’s nice.”

  “I think you said that.”

  He drops his face to the floor, his lips twisting.

  “How did you find out where I live?”

  “You put it on your job application.”

  “Oh. Right.” There go my cheeks, burning right up again.

  An uncomfortable silence passes. It’s like he’s waiting for me to start a real conversation.

 
“Mr. Ford, why did you come here? If this is to fire me, then fine. I don’t care. You don’t have to be scrupulous about it. I’ll find another job.”

  And I’ll like it a hell of a lot more.

  Of course, a recommendation from the Tribune would have been nice, but you can’t have everything…

  “No. I’m not here to do that.”

  “Oh.”

  More silence as he just looks at me. I drop my arms, feeling my defensiveness starting to melt away.

  “I…” He runs his hand through his hair and sighs, looking away. “I came here to apologize. What I did wasn’t right.”

  “Oh.”

  I blink. Is that all I can say?

  Mr. Ford locks eyes with me, and my heart just about stops. The honesty there, the rawness… It’s real.

  “Thank you,” I emphatically say, taking a careful step toward him. “I appreciate that. Would you…like to have a seat? I can make coffee.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  He settles down on the couch while I root around in the kitchen, pulling a bag of grounds and a paper filter from the cupboard with shaking hands. My stomach is a mess of nerves. What made him come over here and apologize? Just the fact that he had some alone time to think about what happened?

  Either way, it’s nice. But I haven’t forgotten that he suspended me.

  We don’t speak as the coffee maker starts gurgling, the brew filling the apartment with its rich scent. I stay busy, getting down mugs and filling the silly little ceramic pitcher my mom got me with cream. Never in a million years would I have thought I’d use that thing, but now I even put sugar into a little glass bowl and jam a spoon into the granules.

  All the items go on the one serving tray I have: a plastic one with birds on it. I feel stupid carrying it over to Mr. Ford, like I’m trying to be a professional hostess or something. When I get to the coffee table, though, he smiles.

  “Wow. VIP treatment.”

  I look away to hide my smile. “I just figured… I don’t know… Do it right. Even if we are in sitting in a hole-in-the-wall apartment.”