Sleeping with the Playboy

by Julianne MacLean

  “My mood changed. You want one?”

  She moved all the way into the room and set her bag on the bed. “No, I never drink on duty. You like Canadian beer?”

  He looked down at the label. God, she was observant. “Yeah.”

  “Me, too. I didn’t take you for a beer drinker, though.” She unzipped her bag, pulled out a baby monitor and an alarm clock, which she set on the bedside table.

  “That’s two things then,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Two things that have surprised you about me. Triathlons and beer.”

  She smiled noncommittally. “Yeah. Two things.” She pulled out a laptop and set it on the bed, then unraveled the cord and went looking for an outlet.

  Donovan continued to stand in the doorway. “Can I get you anything? Towels? Something to eat? If you don’t want a beer, there’s orange juice and Perrier and Coke and…I think there’s ginger ale—”

  “I’m fine. If I want anything, I’ll help myself if that’s okay.”

  “Sure.” He continued to stand there while she plugged in her computer at the desk.

  After a moment, she approached him. “Look, you don’t have to baby-sit me. It’s my job to baby-sit you. I don’t sleep much, so I’ll be working late on some proposals for improvements to your alarm system, and making sure your place isn’t bugged. I’ve got keen ears, and when I do sleep, I generally do it with one eye open, so you can relax and get a good night’s sleep tonight, and not worry so much about being able to reach that baseball bat you’ve got stowed under your bed.”

  Donovan slowly blinked. She’d noticed the bat, too. And she wanted him out of her hair. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had told him to go away, and certainly not in a bedroom doorway at this time of the night.

  He never imagined rejection could feel so damn good. And so damn frustrating.

  Sometime after three in the morning, wearing her tank top and plaid pajama bottoms, Jocelyn e-mailed her assistant, Tess. She gave her instructions to contact the two alarm system companies she trusted for quotes, and to arrange for Dr. Knight’s locks to be changed first thing in the morning. She then shut off her computer and rubbed her burning eyes with the heels of her hands.

  Dr. Knight seemed to prefer lamps that gave off dim, golden lighting. Relaxing and romantic, yes, but not very practical. She should have had the overhead light on, rather than staring at that bright screen in the semidarkness.

  She rose from her chair to take her empty water glass back to the kitchen. After rinsing it out in the spotless, gleaming sink, she still didn’t feel much like going to sleep, so she decided to look around the penthouse a bit more. She wandered leisurely around the kitchen.

  Dr. Knight certainly had an impressive collection of cookbooks. He had an entire floor-to-ceiling bookcase full of them, and they covered everything from vegetarian cooking to Indian food to chocolate and poultry. Did he like to cook for himself? she wondered, imagining those hands of his stirring chocolate batter, cracking a delicate egg.

  She could imagine those hands doing a lot of things—unbuttoning buttons, unzipping zippers, sliding beneath a waistband….

  Something inside her tingled pleasurably as her mind meandered around that idea, but when she caught herself veering off the path of professionalism again, she shut her eyes and shook her head. She spent the next few minutes forcing herself to think about the penthouse, instead of the man who inhabited it.

  Jocelyn made her way out into the main hall and walked slowly in her bare feet, checking out the paintings on the walls. Most of them were contemporary landscapes, with plenty of seascapes as well. Closer to the front door, there were more framed black-and-white photographs of old abandoned, dilapidated farm houses.

  She peeked into Dr. Knight’s exercise room and flicked on the light. He had a treadmill, a life cycle and a weight bench, and again, everything was shiny and clean. There wasn’t a hint of clutter anywhere. She wondered how anyone could be so perfect all the time.

  Where did he keep his junk? Did he even have any?

  She crossed the room to check the window latches, even though she had already checked them a couple of hours ago, then realized with some uneasiness that she was overcompensating for something: a personal rather than professional interest in poking around. She had questions about the man down the hall, sleeping soundly in his bed for what must be the first time in days.

  An image of Dr. Knight stretched out on that huge bed, his muscular arms and legs sprawled out, his sun-bronzed body tangled in that thick, down duvet, burned suddenly in her brain. Her vision had him sleeping in jockeys, but perhaps he slept in boxers. Or maybe nothing at all.

  Damn, she was doing it again. She willed herself to stop, and tried to remember her rule about not permitting herself to entertain any personal curiosities about her clients.

  Not to mention the fact that Dr. Knight seemed like Tom in every way, and she had no business feeling curious about anyone who resembled her ex—people who derived their joy from living in lavish penthouses, wearing expensive tuxes and being spotted at the opera.

  Then again, a few little things had made her wonder if there was more to Dr. Knight than what appeared on the surface. The beer thing had thrown her.

  She came to the telephone near the front door, and noticed the high-tech answering machine beside it. Since he’d told her she could go through his underwear drawer if she wanted to, she decided to listen to his messages. One never knew where clues about stalkers could emerge.

  She pressed play and reached for the volume control so she could keep the messages from waking her client. The machine clicked as it kicked in.

  “Hi, Donovan, it’s Eleanor. I had a great time last week. Just wondering how you’re doing. Give me a call.” Beep.

  “Donovan, where were you the other night? I missed you, baby. Oh, it’s Christine.” Beep.

  “Hi, gorgeous. Where’ve you been? Call me when you get a chance. I have tickets to Die Tageszeiten on Saturday night, and no one to go with.” Beep.

  There was one message from Mark, then four more like the first—more women sounding desperate and needy, wondering why Donovan hadn’t returned their calls.

  Pitying those poor women, Jocelyn shook her head and slid back into security specialist mode. She returned to her computer to note the names of the women, and decided to ask Dr. Knight about them in the morning.

  At 4:45 a.m., the baby monitor that Jocelyn had positioned by the front door woke her instantly. She heard the sound of a key in the lock. She sat up and grabbed her gun.

  Slipping out of bed without making a sound, she glided out of the room and made her way down the hall. A woman was sneaking in, quietly closing the door while she made an effort to be quiet. Before she had a chance to turn around, Jocelyn was behind her with the gun pointed at her head. “Hold it!”

  The woman screamed and jumped.

  “Put your hands on your head!” Jocelyn ordered.

  Dr. Knight’s bedroom door flew open and he came hurling out. Jocelyn kept her eyes on the intruder. “Get back in your room, Dr. Knight.”

  “No, no, it’s okay!” he said. “This is my housekeeper!”

  Only then did Jocelyn feel her own heart racing and the searing sensation of adrenaline coursing through her veins. She lowered her weapon. “I thought you said she came in the morning! It’s 4:45 a.m.”

  “She likes to start early.”

  Jocelyn’s shoulders went slack. “You could’ve told me! What was I supposed to think when someone sneaks into your penthouse at this hour?”

  Dr. Knight moved toward the woman at the door. “I do apologize, Mrs. Meinhard. I’m so sorry. This is Jocelyn Mackenzie. She’s a security specialist. I hired her last night. Jocelyn, this is Brunhilde Meinhard.”

  Shakily, the older woman turned around. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun on top of her head. Her glasses were large with clear, plastic rims—the old-fashioned kind from the eighti
es.

  Jocelyn, feeling guilty for frightening the poor woman, held out her hand and gave her an apologetic smile. “Hi.”

  With trembling fingers and a limp, fishlike grip, Mrs. Meinhard shook Jocelyn’s hand.

  Suddenly uncomfortable in her skintight tank top and pajama bottoms, Jocelyn nodded politely and pointed toward her bedroom. “Well, now that I’m up, I’ll go get dressed.”

  Neither Dr. Knight nor Mrs. Meinhard said a word. Jocelyn turned away from them.

  In her bare feet, she padded down the hall, and to her chagrin, all she could think about was one thing: Her client wore pajama bottoms to bed. And Lord, what a chest.

  She was in deep trouble.

  Three

  An hour later, showered and dressed, Jocelyn walked out of her room with her gun holstered under her arm, her blazer buttoned over it. She went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, and met Mrs. Meinhard who had already taken care of that and was now polishing the brass knobs on the white cabinetry.

  “Good morning, again,” Jocelyn said.

  Mrs. Meinhard regarded her coolly. “Morning.”

  Jocelyn poured herself a cup of coffee and watched the housekeeper scrub the hardware. “Look, I’m sorry for what happened earlier. I didn’t mean to frighten you, but Dr. Knight hired me to do a job, and that’s what I was doing.”

  Saying nothing, the woman continued to scrub.

  “I guess you weren’t here when the attack happened,” Jocelyn continued, taking a sip of coffee, “but is there anything you noticed that was out of place when you came in the next morning? Anything out of the ordinary that you might not have told the police?”

  The woman straightened and folded her cloth. She spoke with a thick, German accent. “I tell police everything.”

  “I don’t doubt that, ma’am, I’m just asking if there might be something you didn’t think of before.”

  “No. There is nothing. You work for police?”

  Jocelyn carefully studied the woman’s face. “No, I’m a private Executive Protection Professional. E.P.P. for short.”

  Mrs. Meinhard nodded, but Jocelyn suspected she wasn’t completely sure what that meant.

  Jocelyn fired out some more questions. “Can you tell me anything about the people who visit Dr. Knight? What about friends or family? Do any of them have keys?”

  She shook her head. “Dr. Knight has no family—at least, none that come here.”

  “No brothers or sisters?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jocelyn cleared her throat. How could a housekeeper, who worked in someone’s home everyday for four years, not know if her employer had brothers or sisters? Then again, besides one framed picture of a young couple and a baby, there were no photographs of people anywhere, only landscapes and seascapes and old farm houses. Maybe Dr. Knight was at work most of the time when Mrs. Meinhard was here, and she was gone home when he entertained.

  Still, it was strange.

  “What about friends? Does his partner, Dr. Reeves, have a key? Or what about any girlfriends, past or present?”

  Again, she shook her head. “No women. He goes out a lot, but there is no one.”

  Jocelyn heard Dr. Knight’s bedroom door open, and the sound of footsteps approaching. She expected to see him in his work clothes, but instead, he wore a tank and shorts.

  Jocelyn felt a sharp tingling of awareness move through her. He looked nothing like he did last night in the tuxedo. In sneakers and a shirt that showed off his broad, muscular shoulders, he looked almost like a regular, everyday guy. Well, not too regular. Not with that body.

  He passed through the kitchen, apparently on his way to the door. “Morning.”

  Jocelyn set down her cup and followed him. “Wait a second, we were supposed to go over the contract this morning. Where are you going?”

  “For a run.” He reached the marble foyer and pulled open a small cabinet drawer to retrieve a key in a shoe wallet and fasten it to his sneaker.

  “Not without me you’re not. Did you forget what you hired me for? I’m not here to guard your penthouse. I’m here to guard you.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. “I was wondering how this was going to work…. Do you think you can keep up?”

  She gave him a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look.

  “Of course you can. Sorry.” He glanced down at her loafers. “Even with those?”

  She glanced down, too. “Yes, with these, but I’d rather not risk an injury. Wait here and I’ll change.”

  “You have running gear?” His voice gave away his surprise.

  She flipped her hair over her shoulder as she headed to her room. “I have everything. We can discuss the contract while we run.”

  Jocelyn placed the flat of her hands on the marble, vestibule wall, and leaned in for a calf stretch. She wore black, thigh-length Lycra shorts and a matching Y-back bra top. Her arms, shoulders and stomach were firmly toned, and just as Donovan had imagined last night as he’d watched her flicking window latches in that brown suit, she had a terrific, tight butt and long, suntanned legs to die for.

  “Is there anything you don’t do?” he asked.

  She finished the stretch and bent into another one. “Cook.”

  “No? I love to cook.”

  “We’ll get along well, then. You love to cook, and I love to eat what other people put in front of me.”

  Her delivery was deadpan, but there was something there that suggested again that she did have a sense of humor, even if she wasn’t obvious about it.

  Donovan suspected there was a lot more to his bodyguard than what she showed the world. No one could be as indifferent as she seemed to be, every day of their life. This had to be her professional persona, and he found himself wondering quite acutely what she was like around her closest friends. He’d give anything to see her smile or laugh. Maybe he should make that his goal for the day.

  Donovan continued to watch her. “Anything else you don’t know how to do?”

  She pulled her arm across her chest to stretch her triceps. “I don’t know how to fix cars. It’s on my to-do list.”

  “Me, neither, but I can’t say it’s on mine.”

  “No, you probably hire people to do that kind of menial work.”

  Donovan grabbed onto his sneaker and lifted his foot for a thigh stretch. “Now, why do you say it like that? Like I’m a snob or something.”

  “I never said that.”

  “No, but you implied it with your tone, and it’s not the first time.”

  She said nothing. She just continued to stretch.

  “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”

  “Like I said, I try to be invisible.”

  “Invisible is one thing. Rude is another.”

  “I wasn’t being rude.”

  “Yes, you were. I asked you a question, and you ignored me.”

  She glanced at him only briefly. “I didn’t ignore you. I just didn’t reply to what wasn’t a question in the first place. It was an observation on your part, and you’re entitled to your opinions.”

  Donovan stretched his hamstrings. “My opinions… God, I don’t even remember what I said now. Do you always have this effect on men?”

  Jocelyn ignored the last part of his question. She finished stretching and pressed the elevator button. “You said I implied you were a snob.”

  He snickered at her deadpan tone again, as he gazed down at her dainty profile. She was looking up at the lighted numbers over the elevator doors.

  “So, did you?” he asked.

  “Did I what?”

  “Imply that I was a snob? You can’t argue that that wasn’t a question.”

  The elevator dinged, the brass doors opened and Jocelyn stepped inside. She held him back from entering, looked up at the ceiling, then motioned for him to follow. “If I implied it, I apologize. It’s none of my business what kind of person you are.”

  Donovan pressed the lobby button. “So you don’t deny it
. You think I’m a snob.”

  Her mouth curved up in a half smile as she shook her head at him. It was a cute smile. A little on the devilish side, but cute. He’d like to see another one. A looser one. The kind of smile she’d have right after sex.

  If she ever had sex. He imagined there’d be a few “walls of inhibition” that would have to come down first. Or be scaled.

  He would enjoy that—scaling her walls.

  “What does it matter what I think, Dr. Knight? I’m just your bodyguard.”

  “It matters a great deal. We’re going to be in close quarters over the next little while, and call me vain, but I can’t stand the idea of a woman not liking me, especially when she doesn’t even know me. And why can’t you call me Donovan?”

  “Because our relationship is a professional one, and keeping those lines firmly drawn is important in my line of work, especially when I’m required to inhabit people’s homes.”

  He nodded. “Ah, that makes sense. You could have said so last night, when the subject came up.”

  “I hadn’t decided whether or not I was going to take the job last night.”

  The elevator reached the bottom floor, and they crossed the lobby and passed through the large revolving doors. Once out on the street, they began to jog alongside each other.

  “How’d you get the scar on your left shoulder?” she asked, never taking her eyes off what was ahead of her.

  “You don’t miss a thing, do you? I was in a car accident a year ago.”

  “Your fault?”

  “No, I was rammed by another driver who ran a red light. My door caved inward and broke my arm and a few ribs. The glass cut me up pretty bad, but it was all fixable. It took me a while to get back in shape, though. I used to compete in triathlons, but now I’m just in training.”

  “You seem like an exercise nut.”

  “I just like staying healthy.”

  They jogged a block or two, then Jocelyn said, “Let’s talk about the contract now, and what level of protection you want from me.”

  Donovan settled into a comfortable pace, his breathing controlled. “Since you’re going to be in my house anyway, we might as well go for the highest level.”