Wild About the Bodyguard
Tabitha Robbins
Part of the
Wild About the Boy Series
Published by HAT Rock Publishing
Smashwords Edition
© Copyright 2014 Tabitha Robbins
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Chapter 1
“Hey, buddy, you awake?” he asked. “Wanna toss over a towel?”
Samantha Mayne registered the man’s question. It required an answer—demanded some action. But, holy balls, that dude was built. Every time he moved, prime-time muscle and sinew rippled all over the place. Thanks to the fire-tipped tendrils licking their way through her veins, Sammy had drummed up a sweat.
When she’d escaped in here a minute ago, she’d found him in that shower stall, lathering up his hair and belting out a classic about being gone in the morning and bats out of hell. Then, strumming that six-pack like he was making love to an electric guitar, he’d swung around and everything else had zoned out. Now the singing had stopped, the faucet was off and her dark-haired Adonis was studying her, his head angled and sharp blue eyes uncertain.
Move, damn it!
She found a towel from a nearby laundered pile and crossed over. Stepping out from the stall, he swiped the towel down his curious face, around that delectable GI-Joe chest.
“You’re a waiter?” he asked.
Pressing the fake moustache firmly under her nose, Sammy got back into character and lowered her voice. “Yes sir.”
“Why don’t I recognize you?”
“I’m, er, new at the club. Started today.”
When he ran a hand through his wet locks, that bicep bulged, making her insides quiver more.
“Try again,” he said. “I personally hire all my staff.”
Her jaw dropped. This guy owned the place?
The Don was an exclusive gentleman’s club reserved for San Francisco’s elite. Sammy had imagined the boss would be polished, stuffy. Probably gray at the temples. One foot in the grave. None of that gelled with this man, his choice of song, or that bad-ass tattoo trailing over one shoulder—a fanged serpent set to devour a big shiny apple.
Thinking on her feet, Sammy came up with a believable excuse. He hired all his staff?
“I work casual, through an agency.” She shrugged like it was no big deal. “All I know is you were short on hands today and I got a call.”
The man’s mouth curved with a knowing smile–a streak of white set in a sun-bronzed face. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“I was finding my way around. I took a wrong turn. I need to get back.”
As she headed for the exit, he drawled, “Not so fast, sport.”
Squaring her shoulders again, she angled back around. “Something else I can get for you, boss?”
He was rubbing the towel up around either side of his neck. “I want the truth, and I want it now.”
Once back in grade school Sammy had been accused of cheating on a math test. Now she drew upon that memory—that sense of injustice. This minute, she was an unjustly charged waiter who had simply lost his way in a new environment, not an out of work actress struggling with where to look next. This would be a lot easier if he covered up that snake.
He wiggled a finger under his nose. “Ditch the fuzz hanging off your top lip and we’ll talk. Or, if you prefer, we can get the cops involved.”
She slumped.
Oh crap.
She tugged off the moustache and, winching, rubbed that tender strip of skin.
With a look that said, Don’t panic, I won’t bite, he asked, “Now, what’s your name, son?”
“Samantha Mayne.”
“What the— You’re a girl?”
Any other woman might have been insulted. Sammy, however, felt a measure of pride. Not Academy Award winning stuff but at least that part of her performance had been convincing.
With his brow furrowed, he lashed that towel around his hips, securing its end a hand-span below the navel she still had a craving to kiss. Her eye line craned north as his chest expanded on a big, patient breath.
“So, what are you doing here, Samantha—aside from having a good, hard perv?”
Seriously—had he looked in the mirror lately?
“You were standing right in front of me,” she explained, “sudsing all the way up, rinsing all the way down—”
“Sign on the door says Men’s Locker Room.”
Yeah, well… “I missed that.”
“Do your parents know where you are?”
Wrangling out of the vest, she released her squashed boobs and siphoned in the big breath. “Do I look twelve?”
He blinked several times and then composed himself again. “I’ll ask the questions. How old are you?”
She whipped off the wig, too. Shoulder-length hair spilled out. “Twenty-five.”
“So, old enough to face the courts on a charge of trespassing.”
While she flinched, he hitched a hip over the corner of a nearby timber table that was stacked with magazines and complementary toiletries. Sitting like a guy would—thighs apart—the towel’s opening pulled apart, too. When her fingers twitched, the moustache slipped and wafted to the linoleum floor.
“Is this your way of asking for a job?” he asked.
“I already have a job.” And a degree. She kept a few small businesses’ books, but that wasn’t how she ever introduced herself. She lifted her chin. “I’m an actress.”
One eyebrow hiked up. “An actress, huh?”
“I’ve featured in a number of commercials.”
“Such as?”
“You mean recently?”
“Uh-huh.”
“There was Dougie’s Dog Shampoo. Extra flea control. I’m the one on rollerblades being pulled by two cartoon otters—”
“I thought you said dog shampoo.” He held up both palms. “Forget it. I’ll get dressed and see you out before anyone else comes in and freaks.”
Sammy groaned. It had always been a long shot. She’d already tried the more conventional, legal means to sort out her problem. To an outsider, this might seem like a desperate act. In truth she was a little desperate. If she failed here–and it seemed that she had–where in hell could she turn next?
“What are you doing here anyway?” the man asked, sauntering across to a locker. “What, or who, are you after?”
“Does it matter now?”
Sharp blue eyes pierced hers. “You’re not exactly the cooperative type, are you, Miss Mayne?”
“Sorry.” She rubbed an aching temple. “I’m disappointed…out of ideas.”
“You never know. If you tell me what’s wrong, maybe I could help.”
She looked him up and down. “Why would you want to do that?”
A soft smile tugged at his lips. “It’s been a slow week.”
When he began sifting through the locker, she sighed. What did she have to lose?
“I need to speak with Hector Garfield,” she said. “He’s a patron he
re.”
“What’s your relationship to Garfield? Are you a disinherited granddaughter or something?”
“Never met him.”
“You know he’s disgustingly wealthy?” Sammy nodded. “And already married.”
“What? No. I don’t want to be anyone’s sugar baby. His wife has a ruby and pearl ring, hundreds of years old.”
“So?”
“So, it belongs to me.”
When his head snapped around, she read his eyes. Now I know you’re nuts. With a line etched between the dark slashes of his brows, he slid his dynamite arms through the sleeves of a crisp, white button-down shirt. “I’ll have my driver take you home. Wherever you want to go.”
He’d put on added security to keep her out, too, she’d bet. But he’d asked the question. Implied that he might help. Now, damn it, he’d hear the rest of the story.
“There was a famous French courtesan in the 18th century,” she said. “Her admirers showered her in gifts.”
He began buttoning the shirt, tail end first. “That’s…nice.”
“The courtesan is an ancestor. The ruby ring was hers, handed down through the generations via every second daughter. The courtesan had been a second daughter herself.”
He grabbed a pair of boxer briefs from the locker. Towel still hanging on his hips, he stepped in, one long muscular leg then the other.
“I tried to contact Hector Garfield other ways,” she croaked. Her mouth was dry from watching him dress, which, believe it or not, was even sexier than seeing him naked. “But his bodyguard’s a bulldog. I did some research, found out he liked to chill here. There are tons of movies and plays were a woman dresses up as a man to gain an edge. I decided to get a costume together, slide in back, find Garfield and toss out a couple of quick questions before slipping away again.”
“Things didn’t go as planned, I presume.”
“Garfield was sitting by himself, working his way through a document and a hand full of mints when one of your staff called me over. Guess I said something that didn’t fit. Then another waiter got in my face and threw me off course. I made some excuse then bolted down a corridor, in through the nearest door and inside a ways. And, well…here I am.”
“How is Garfield supposed to have come by the ring?” he asked, finding a tie and sliding the strip of blue paisley through his upturned collar.
“It was stolen ten years ago.”
“Garfield doesn’t need to steal. He’s rich enough to own the Mona Lisa.”
“I didn’t say he was a thief. I don’t know how many people think they’ve owned that ring since it vanished. When it went missing, we contacted the authorities—”
“We?”
“My older sister and me. The cops came up empty.” Sammy remembered the day her life had been tossed upside down, twice in a matter of months. At first, she’d felt numb, and then ill. After that, she’d gotten stinking mad.
“Was the piece insured?” he asked, and she nodded. “Money collected?”
She nodded again. “But I never gave up hope. Then, the other month, I caught a picture of Garfield’s wife on the net. She was wearing my ring, I swear it.”
“There are a lot of rings out there.”
“The ruby is surrounded by a special casing. A pair of gold lips.”
Stepping into his suit pants, he considered her while she did some considering of her own. Without a lie, he was the most attractive man she’d ever met. His proportions, the way he held himself, the gravelled, sexy depth of his voice...
“So, your plan is—what exactly?”
She cleared her throat. “I want to explain the situation to Garfield, and, ultimately, somehow, get that ring back.”
“Do you have evidence to prove it’s yours?”
“I have a photo of my mother wearing it. The insurance papers.”
“Hasn’t your mother suggested you contact the police again?”
Sammy tried to set the pang aside. “She passed away not long before the theft. The ring belongs to me now. Or it should.”
“The second daughter…” he mused, remembering the line of succession.
“And I did go to the police with a printout of that image. The sergeant took my details, but when I mentioned Judge Garfield’s name, I saw the look on his face. When I followed up, they told me to be patient. That was three months ago.”
When he rubbed the back of his neck, the shirt strained across his power-house chest before he fetched a pair of polished lace-ups and sat on a bench. “Old cases can be hard to pick up again.”
Oh, come on. “They don’t want to annoy one of the State’s richest men, a retired judge, because of some crackpot’s claim.” She edged forward. “But you said you would help.”
“I said I might be able to help.”
“You could ask Garfield about the ring for me.”
Looking amused, he set the shoes on the floor and then lifted his square-angled jaw to finish straightening his tie.
“A couple of simple toss away questions,” she went on, actually liking the idea. “Where and when he came by the ring. I’ll take it from there.”
“Sorry. That’s not gonna happen.”
Her stomach tightened.
Figures. No help. Just like the cops.
“Then I guess it’s back to plan A.” She swept the moustache up off the floor. “I’ll find some way to ask him myself.”
He looked up from tying a lace. “Not on my watch. You need to leave these kinds of problems to the grown-ups.”
“Grown-ups?” she ground out.
“I mean people who have experience in investigating criminal activity—or should I say alleged criminal acts. If the ring was stolen, chances are there’s a dangerous element involved somewhere along the line. Do you own a firearm?”
“Of course not.”
Straightening, he slapped his thighs as if that sealed it. “You’re an amateur and, in situations like these, amateurs cause trouble. Believe me, it’s tough enough when you’re trained.”
When he pushed to his feet, she saw empathy shine in his eyes. Except, he could never walk in her shoes. Sammy had grown up in a home minus a father and anything resembling luxury. Without much of an education or the self-confidence to strive for more, her mother had cleaned offices for a living; Sammy and her sister Ann had spent most nights alone in their Tenderloin apartment. That heirloom had been their only valuable possession, and yet no matter how tough times had gotten, their mother would never pawn it. It wasn’t for her to sell, she’d said, and once it was gone, it would be gone for good.
Before her mom had died, she had squeezed Sammy’s hand and asked of her only two things: every day find the joy, and never surrender that ring. Despite their hardships, her mom had loved life, and she believed the link they’d shared via the ring would always connect them somehow. But within weeks of the mother’s death, the ring had vanished.
Even if that piece wasn’t worth a dime, Sammy would still fight tooth and nail to get it back. She longed to put a face to the creep behind the break-in and theft. After ten years, she still wanted the lowlife caught.
Now, Mr. Gorgeous here, who knew next to nothing about her life or her story, was suggesting she ought to give up? Walk away?
Crossing her arms, Sammy spoke over the lump in her throat. “Sorry, but you don’t qualify to give advice.”
He tugged and straightened each cuff. “We’ll forget my ten years in law enforcement then.”
She was confused. “You’re a police officer?”
“Private investigator slash bodyguard. Retired.” He crossed over. In her flats, he towered above her. “Look, you seem like a nice girl.”
“I’m not a girl.” And, damn it, I’m tired of being nice.
“You have no experience in crime investigation.”
“I found that first clue, didn’t I?”
“And look where it got you.”
“Here, talking with a P.I slash bodyguard.”
�
�Retired.”
She was shaking now. Shaking inside. Why wouldn’t anyone believe her? Why would no one help? Two lousy questions. That was it. This guy had gotten her hopes up, held out a branch only to whip it away before she had a chance to take a hold.
She wanted to smack him even more than she wanted to press up against him, and that was a lot. That chest was so broad and strong, and he smelled so good—citrusy and masculine and freshly-soaped hot–
Sammy screwed her eyes shut. Swore under her breath.
Somehow, somewhere, she’d find a way. For now, she needed to get her head together, cool down and put this man, and his snake, out of her mind for good.
Chapter 2
Samantha Mayne might be small, but she exuded energy. Radiated spunk. Given her current situation, that could prove dangerous.
At first, Chase had thought she was a kid playing some kind of game. Petite and elfin-featured, she’d hidden a fall of rich-brown hair under a wig. As she’d explained her story, big green eyes had pleaded with him, and damned if he hadn’t almost buckled. She was a mix of vulnerable and feisty—fresh as well as feminine in ways Chase simply couldn’t ignore.
He liked women—the way they felt and spoke and smelled. Some guys were drawn to legs, others to shapely behinds. No shame in admitting, he was a breast man. And while he’d tried not to react, when she’d ditched that vest, Miss Mayne’s accessories in that department had promised big things.
Still, he couldn’t get involved—not on any level. His former life of helping others track down clues and find answers was a dark and not so distant memory. No going back.
After escorting Samantha out the back door, Chase headed for the administrative area on the other side of the building. He passed through the club’s oak-trimmed main lounge where patrons were discussing business or sports over coffee. Others were ambling toward the gym for a mid-morning workout, or the courts for a hit. Many of the staff, however, followed Chase with wide eyes. Word of a security breach had gotten out.
His on-duty manager was usually smooth as. When Rodney Long strode up to Chase now, however, his ginger hair was spiked, and not in a stylish way.
Wild About The Bodyguard Page 1
