As I approach the doorway, the constable holds out his arm effectively blocking the entrance and, bike forgotten now, he gives me a suspicious look. “Can you tell me your business here, sir?”
In answer I hold up my card which identifies me as a privately employed CPO or, in layman’s terms, a Close Protection Officer or bodyguard as we used to be called, working on behalf of Grade A Security Ltd, Security Consultants. In fact, I’m one of the three partners, but there’s little need for him to know that. Or that the reason I’m here is on behalf of Ben Carter, the senior partner who apparently owes a literary agent friend of his a favour. As he’s up to his neck in an important case at the moment, I stepped in to help.
Of course, realistically I could have sent one of the many experienced ex-police or ex-military officers that we have working for us as CPOs, but I decided to come in person after spending last night reading one of Dexie Sanders’ novels as background research. Just remembering the scene of the submissive servicing her Dom and the very detailed and competent way in which it was handled has me shifting my legs to avoid exposing the developing bulge in my jeans. I don’t want to be arrested for public indecency. But boy, that girl can write! Perhaps the plot didn’t interest me with its happily ever after ending, but even I learned something from the intimate scenes she wrote about, and I’d thought I’d seen it all! Whoa. Down boy! I half turn away as I will my unruly cock to behave.
I hear the commotion still going on inside and realise it’s time to get my mind back to the business in hand, and ascertain what the fuck’s going on. I didn’t expect to turn up to find police swarming around, and the sight is disconcerting. But I take heart there’s no ambulance here, which hopefully means I’ve still got a body to protect. “What’s happened?” I ask the police officer at the door. Ben’s already briefed me on Tuesday’s stalker issue.
Having accepted my credentials, and luckily oblivious to my now, fortunately, receding state of arousal, the constable tells me. “A bunch of white lilies was delivered earlier today. And another threat.”
“Delivered here?” I check. As he nods I still, realising the implications that quickly have the effect of entirely dousing my ardour. The stalker knows where she lives. That puts a difference connotation on the case. “Can I go inside?” I wave my hand to the front door, requesting permission with the gesture. He’s not going to keep me out, but I go through the appropriate motions which will keep him happy, and avoid certain argument were I just to barge in. He’s clearly a stickler for following the rule; a ‘job’s worth’ type.
After a short hesitation during which he gives me a careful scrutiny, his thought processes apparently running through the procedures he’s been taught to follow, he stands back to let me through. I walk across to another police officer who appears to have custody of a card in a plastic evidence bag and introduce myself all over again. I find taking the initiative and dotting every ‘i’ and crossing every ‘t’ right from the start usually helps me gain co-operation more smoothly. So once more I show my identification and give him the extra information that Grade A will be providing any required protection and security arrangements for Ms Fable. Then I request sight of the latest threat. He clearly knows of Grade A and our stellar reputation, so doesn’t appear to have a problem with either my presence or request, and shows me the note, watching my face to see my reaction. I whistle quietly through my teeth, knowing that while the threat is worrying, the delivery address and the name it’s addressed to, is of most concern.
Nodding my thanks and handing the evidence bag back, I make my way on through the small, homely lounge and down a short hallway with the stairs off to one side. I arrive at the entrance to the kitchen where a detective is evidently going through the motions with Mia Fable, the identity behind Dexie Sanders. Holding back before entering, I listen in to the discussion. It's soon becoming clear the police aren’t going to be of much help, but no one could criticise them for that – there isn’t a lot to go on, I’m stumped at the moment too. The detective tells her that a florist could have delivered the flowers – an apparent effort to calm her fears that the stalker personally came to her house – and that they’ll be checking with the shop whose name decorated the card. As I listen to their conversation, I take the opportunity to glance around her small home.
It’s not large but wouldn’t have been cheap considering the area that it’s in and it’s proximity to London. She’s a successful writer, but that’s not a particularly high earning profession. There are monetary implications for Grade A of taking this case on; I’ve already drawn down Mia’s financials, and the bottom line is if she needs a full-time CPO, and with the latest threat it’s likely she does, she won’t be able to afford our standard rates. But we’ve taken on cases before pro bono, or at a considerably reduced fee if we think the case is worthwhile. And of course, Ben’s already committed us to helping her out. I have to admit I’m curious as to exactly what favour he’s repaying, but that’s none of my concern for the moment. Though perhaps one day I’ll get him drunk enough to find out.
Putting my thoughts about that particular mystery aside, I hear an opening when there’s a pause in the conversation happening in the kitchen, and step into the room. Realising as I do so, how unlikely it is that a twenty-four-year-old woman who seemingly spends her life locked up with her books would know where to start looking for a security system or a company to fit it. Especially, when it needs to be installed in a hurry. “You can leave that to me,” I say, firmly.
As the words leave my mouth, Mia Fable turns, and as I get my first glance of the author behind the sexy novel I’d read. And it’s at that point I immediately regret coming here in person today, and not assigning the case over to somebody else. I'm not arrogant, and my looks aren’t your typical definition of handsome, but I’ve been around long enough to know that something about the way I’m put together makes me attractive to a significant proportion of the opposite sex. I could have a different woman in my bed every night of the week if I so wish and, I have to admit, often do. But to give my full attention to a person I’m supposed to be protecting, it’s preferable that they’re immune to my charms and I to theirs. I’m a man, after all, and wouldn’t be a very effective bodyguard if I’m balls deep fucking the daylights out of the woman I’m supposed to keep safe. And the way Mia’s devouring me with her eyes shows she’s very far from immune to my charms. But what surprises me most is my own immediate, visceral reaction to her.
There was no photo on the jacket of the novel I’d read and Grade A hadn’t had time to compile much of a dossier on her, so I’d been prepared to be disappointed. My mind had conjured up this writer of such erotic fiction would turn out to be a not particularly attractive, possibly overweight young woman, living vicariously through the lives of her characters. But my rather low expectations turn out to be one hundred percent wrong. Now, my cock will stand at attention for females of all shapes and sizes, but it’s rare I do anything other than admire from afar unless it’s a playmate who’ll have no qualms about a temporary arrangement. But this woman, with such delicate, ethereal beauty about her, and a figure I want to get my hands on, looks so lost I just want to fold my arms around her and hold her tight. And I’m not sure if I’d ever want to let her go. Mine! Unbidden the thought comes into my head.
What. The. Fuck?
Utterly disturbed by this strange reaction, I watch as she gets to her feet, her hand clutching the back of the wheel-back chair as though she needs the support. “Who the fuck are you?” she asks. Her voice is unsteady, but the tone is soft and melodious, the swear word sounding harsh coming from her lips.
Fuck, I’ve got to get out of here. Her voice stirs regions which have no business being stirred while I’m working, and my desire to protect her has nothing at all to do with me being here in my professional capacity. I look at her face, instantly captivated by her large brown eyes, currently open wide and fraught with worry. Freaking hell, they’re pretty. As her scrutiny meets min
e, she can’t hold my eye and her gaze drops to the floor, and I have to suppress a grin. Continuing my examination I see chestnut brown shoulder-length hair hanging down in waves, framing her oval face. If I wanted to be critical, her nose is a little large and not perfectly straight, but it works to give her a unique attractiveness. My gaze drops lower, and any feeling of arousal fades and turns to anger when I see the darkening bruises around her neck where the bastard grabbed her two days ago. Immediately I want to cause serious injury to the man who caused the damage.
The challenge to stay calm and collected is not one I’ve ever had to fight with on a job before. Usually, I’ve no trouble staying dispassionate and focused. The intensity of these feelings, quite foreign to me quickly make me realise how wrong it would be for me to offer her my personal protection. In my head, I run through the other CPOs who work for Grade A and who are currently available. Sean or Ryan, perhaps? But something inside of me flares at even the thought of either of those experienced Doms being anywhere near this obvious submissive. Harry, maybe? He’s in Amahad at the moment, but I could call him back. At least he’s happily married and in his forties. There has to be someone. Quickly I rack my brains.
She’s staring at me, and I realise I haven’t answered her question. “My name’s Jon Tharpe.” I introduce myself, walking forward and holding out my hand for the requisite handshake. She hesitates, before tentatively taking my hand in her own and shaking it and I swear sparks fly as we make contact, skin to skin. Carefully schooling my features to hide my reaction, I extract yet another business card from my wallet, and hand it over to her. As she reads the information on it, my mouth opens, and the words came out before I have a chance to filter them. “Your agent has contacted us to provide close protection for you. I’ll be staying with you as your CPO until we find out just what’s going on here.” In case she doesn’t understand, I clarify, “I’ll be your bodyguard.”
What?
Fuck, what the hell’s got into me? Why did I tell her that? I should have told her that I was just here to assess the situation; that someone else would be doing the actual work, but my thought and speech centres seem disconnected as I find myself committing to giving her my full, personal attention. She needs someone here to protect and reassure her, and somehow my subconscious has decided that person is going to be me, and no one fucking else.
She takes a step back, putting some distance between us. The flush making her cheeks pink suggests whatever the attraction is between us is mutual. I fucking hope so! I’m angry with myself. This is a crazy situation and not one I’ve ever had to deal with before. But I just can’t bring myself to be the one to walk away. If she’s sensible, she’ll demand someone else. I hold my breath, knowing I’m hoping she won’t take the prudent option.
“Thank you, Mr Tharpe, but I’m certain I won’t be able to afford…” she looks at my card, “Grade A Security.” There’s a slight tremor in her voice, but whether it’s her reaction to my presence or to the events of the morning I have no way of knowing.
With a wave, I brush off her concerns, “We’ll talk about the finances later. But for now, let me go and organise that security system for you.” My voice is quiet, but purposely full of authority, leaving her no room for argument without revealing an irrational response to me. For her to make a refusal of help at this point would be difficult to justify.
Even so, she seems about to protest when the detective coughs, drawing her attention back to him. “Someone staying with you here is probably the best option for now.” He nods at me, “Thanks for coming. I’ll leave you to take this from here.” Glancing back to Mia he tells her, “We’ll be in touch if we have any new information for you.” With that parting shot he ups and leaves, gathering up his team of police officers with him.
I smirk, realising he’s metaphorically kicked the ball at me and run off the field as quickly as he can.
Seeing Mia is about to speak and to forestay any further objection to my presence, I hold up my hand to stop her, “Let me make this call first, and then we can discuss how this is going to work.”
Calling up one of my pre-set numbers, I get straight through to our security department and request the system she needs, emphasising that it has to be installed today and dismissing Howie’s protests at being giving yet another rush job. When I explain the situation, the security consultant agrees to make it a priority. As I end the call, she raises her eyes to look at me, having to crane her neck as she only just reaches to my shoulder. My cock twitches. A small woman feeds my protective instinct; I’d be able to tuck neatly under my arm. A woman I can lift and fuck in the shower, against a wall… Fuck Tharpe; get your filthy mind back on the work in hand. I force my thoughts out of the gutter and lower my head to meet her eyes. As she raises her eyebrows, I see she’s surprised by my side of the phone conversation I just had, and what I was asking for.
“Cameras? That will cost a fortune.” She’s biting her lip, concerned and reluctant.
I know it will seem expensive to her, but the question has to be asked. “How much is your life worth, Ms Fable?”
She stills, and then a mirthless laugh comes out of her mouth. “Probably more than I can afford,” she says, disparagingly.
I need to touch her, comfort her; it’s the last thing an experienced CPO should do, but I reach out my hand and gently rest my fingers on her arm. “I know your financial situation, Mia, down to the last penny. It’s the first thing we do when we take on work for a new client. Our fees will not be outside of your budget. The most important task for us is keeping you safe; the cost doesn’t come into it.” I know she’s going to protest the intrusion into her personal life, but that’s how Grade A functions. We fleece the likes of wealthy oil sheikhs and millionaires when we work for them, so we can lower our charges for people who need us. It’s a system that works.
“How dare you access my personal information!” she hisses at me.
I just shrug, and let her think about it for a moment. Then, as she’s about to challenge me I forestay her, “The upshot is, you can afford us. And, sweetheart, you need protection.” The endearment slips from my lips without me being consciously aware of it. Fuck where did that come from? Luckily she doesn’t seem to notice.
She walks away from me; her frown showing wheels are turning in her head. She’d be stupid to turn us away, and she’s soon going to realise she’s no other option. I give her a few minutes to process what I told her, and feel something in the air alter around us as she reaches the obvious conclusion. Her shoulders slump when she realises this is the only path she can take. “So, the security system,” she begins, but then, as she remembers, adds with her eyes narrowed, “But you said you’d stay…?”
I nod.
She’s shaking her head, her eyes narrowed and a slight flush to her cheeks, “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that. I don’t want anyone here.” Then she adds with emphasis, “I don’t want you here.”
Asking her why would be stupid. There’s no denying there’s something inexplicable between us, and if it’s scaring her, it’s terrifying me. I’ve never felt such a strong connection so quickly with anyone else. Sure, I’ve seen women I’ve immediately wanted to strip and fuck, but this goes far deeper than that with the woman standing in front of me. My head tells me to run away as fast and far as possible while my dick tells me to stay close and explore what’s happening. My heart tells me... Christ, what the hell has my heart got to do with it? That organ is covered in cobwebs and dust and has never been involved in any relationship before.
I’m an experienced Dom; I should know how to keep myself under control. But today, acting logically seems impossible. Despite common sense dictating I leave before things get complicated, I find words coming out of my mouth to convince her to let me stay. “It’s not safe for you to be alone. The threats might just be a cruel joke to upset you, or they could be very real. Do you really want to stay here by yourself knowing that there’s a fucking lunatic out there and t
hat he knows where you live? Keeping you safe isn’t a nine-to-five job. Your stalker isn’t going to conveniently time his threats, or attacks, to take place during normal working hours. You need twenty-four-hour protection.”
I watch as she takes a deep indrawn breath. Even though I get the feeling that I’m playing with dynamite, I continue to persuade her, “I’m here; I’ve made the necessary contact with the police, and I’m up to speed with what’s happened.” I run my hand through my hair as if thinking and then lie, another thing I don’t normally do. “We don’t have anyone else available, Ms Fable.” I resist the impulse to touch my nose to see if it has lengthened.
I don’t miss the point when she accepts the inevitable, and her face drops as she gives in. “You’ll be staying overnight?”
“Until we catch the bastard, yes. Either myself or one of my colleagues, if I’m tied up elsewhere.” Or tying someone up. As soon as I get my head on straight, I’ll appoint someone to provide me with back up and time off – twenty-four-seven with Mia Fable might just be the end of me. The quicker I’m out of here and get back to my usual self the better. A boy’s gotta play sometime, and a night in the BDSM club I frequent might be just what I need. But she’ll need someone else to provide cover if I’m not here. Damn it! I don’t want anyone else near her! And then I wonder what playing with her would be like. Fuck, is my cock doing all my thinking today?
“I use the spare room as an office….” She’s still struggling to come up with excuses.
“The couch will be perfect.” It looks lumpy and not big enough for my tall frame, but maybe I won’t be sleeping there for long. I freeze, as I realise a very particular part of me is hoping to get into her bed. No Tharpe. That’s NOT what you’re going to do! Fuck, what the hell is the matter with me? I’ve been a CPO for long enough to know you don’t get involved with a client. It’s the number one rule in the book!
Close Protection (Blood Brothers #2) Page 5
