by Tina Duncan
Approved of what?
The fact that she didn’t diet?
Or did he approve of her body?
The fact that it might be the latter made a rush of hot blood hurtle through her system.
She wanted to look away, but her eyes just wouldn’t obey. They remained locked on Royce as if they were glued there.
Royce didn’t look away either.
The air between them began to pulse, as if a soundless drum were beating.
It wasn’t until she saw the thick plume of dark smoke rising up behind him that she broke out of her trance-like state. ‘Royce! The pan!’
Royce cursed and spun on his heel. With swift efficiency he turned off the gas, swiped a dishcloth from the bench and flapped it in the air to dissipate the smoke.
Bending down, he inspected the contents of the frying pan.
Straightening, he threw her a mind-numbing smile over his shoulder. ‘It’s a good job I like my bacon crispy,’ he said, picking up a spatula and scooping the bacon on to a plate.
Shara eyed the results. ‘That’s not crispy. That’s dead.’
Royce shrugged. ‘Each to their own. I happen to like it that way.’
‘Are you sure you’re not just saying that because you’ve burnt it? It takes a man to admit when he’s wrong.’
His eyes glinted. ‘No, I’m not fibbing. This really is the way I like it.’
Shara grimaced. ‘I suppose you like your fried eggs with a runny yolk too?’
He flashed her a grin that made her go weak at the knees. ‘You bet. Is there any other way to have them?’
Shara smiled back. Then, realising what she was doing, she forced her mouth into a straight line.
This man was not her friend. He wasn’t exactly her enemy either. But he was standing between her and something she wanted—which was the right to make her own decisions. That right was something most people took for granted. It wasn’t until it was taken away from you that you realised how much you valued it.
‘I like mine cooked through,’ she muttered, and turned away.
Grabbing a chopping board, she began cutting strawberries with all the attention a surgeon would give to the most complicated and delicate operation.
They worked silently for a while. Much as she tried, Shara couldn’t stop her eyes from straying back to him.
For such a big man Royce moved with silent gracefulness, each movement precise and self-assured. Somehow she knew he’d make love the same way.
She flushed, dropping her lashes. She didn’t know where the thought had come from but she wished it would go back there.
His competency as a lover was of no interest to her.
Why should it be?
She was over men.
Shara took a seat at the breakfast table and began eating. Royce joined her a few minutes later with a plate piled high with food.
‘So, tell me about this ex of yours,’ he suggested softly, when he’d demolished half of the plate with considerable gusto.
The mention of her ex-husband almost made her choke on a strawberry. ‘He’s not my favourite topic of conversation.’
‘Perhaps not.’ He took a bite of mushroom. ‘But the more I know about him the easier it will be for me to do my job.’
Shara angled her chin into the air. ‘I don’t care. I don’t want to talk about him. Besides, I’ve already told you that I don’t want a bodyguard, so why would I want to make your job easier for you?’
She had no intention of answering personal questions.
Painful questions.
And she had no intention of helping him. She didn’t want him around, poking his nose in her business. It would be safer—for all of them—if he quit and left her alone.
His expression remained unchanged but his eyes had hardened. ‘Maybe because it’s the polite thing to do? Maybe because it would give two strangers sharing breakfast something to talk about?’
Shara stared at him over the top of her spoon. ‘Actually, I think it’s impolite to ask someone you’ve just met personal and intrusive questions. If you feel we must talk then I can think of at least a dozen more interesting topics than my ex-husband. What about the weather? Or the exorbitant price of petrol—which in my opinion has gotten way out of control?’
Royce snapped off the blackened end of a rasher of bacon, popped it in his mouth and chewed. When he’d swallowed, he said, ‘I’d much rather talk about Steve Brady.’
Shara put her spoon down on the table less than gently. ‘And I wouldn’t. Now, unless you want to talk about something else, I’m leaving.’
Royce sighed. ‘Stubborn.’
‘Yes.’
And she wasn’t about to apologise for it.
She had to protect herself.
No matter what it took.
Royce sighed again—even more heavily. ‘Will you at least tell me about how Brady is harassing you?’
Shara sat back against her seat. ‘Didn’t my father tell you?’
‘He mentioned a few phone calls and the fact that the guy has been seen hanging around outside the house.’
Shara stared back steadily, keeping her expression neutral. ‘Well, there’s nothing more to tell. Dad has summed it up nicely. Which is why hiring you is a complete and utter over-reaction.’
She’d tried telling her father that but he hadn’t listened. Maybe he sensed that things were worse than what she’d told him.
‘I’ve known Gerard for a number of years,’ Royce said. ‘He’s not the type to over-react.’
Her chin angled into the air. ‘Well, in this case he has.’
Royce stared back at her. ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
Royce received ample evidence of Steve Brady’s harassment several hours later. He walked into the lounge room, where Shara was sitting flipping through a magazine, just as the phone rang.
He noticed the way she jumped like a scalded cat, and watched as the colour drained out of her face.
‘Leave it,’ Royce ordered as Shara reached a hand towards the phone.
‘Leave it?’ Shara asked. ‘Why?’
‘You think it’s him, don’t you?’ Royce asked. ‘Your ex?’
A frown creased the smooth skin of her forehead as she nodded her head slowly.
‘Let it ring,’ he dismissed.
‘Why?’
Royce sank down on the lounger opposite and stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘Because I said so.’
Her chin jutted. ‘That’s not good enough. I’m not a puppy dog. You can’t order me to sit, beg or roll over any time you feel like it. If you want me to do something I suggest you remember two things.’
He lifted a brow, trying to ignore how damned sexy she looked. ‘And what would those be?’
Her chin lifted even higher. She uncrossed her legs and then recrossed them the other way. The action pulled the fabric of her Capri pants tight around her hips. Royce tried not to stare.
‘There’s this movie I saw once. It’s about a guy whose life is going nowhere until he signs up for a self-help programme based on one simple covenant, which is to say yes to anything and everything. It begins to transform his life.’
‘Well, that sounds very interesting, but what has that got to do with you co-operating with me?’
Her eyes—they really were the most magnificent colour—seared into his. ‘I’ve spent a year of my life with a man who has told me what to do and what not to do every minute of every day. When I walked out I made a vow not to let that happen again. So if you want me to do something I suggest you try asking me instead of telling me.’
‘Fine. Please don’t answer the phone.’ He raised the other brow this time. ‘There. Is that better?’
‘Yes. Much better,’ she said. ‘The second thing you need to remember is that I’m not going to do anything unless I know why. If you don’t want me to answer the phone the least you can do is give me a reason.’
Royce stared at her. He couldn’t argue with her approach
. He was a logical, facts-and-figures kind of guy. If he were in her situation he’d react the same way.
What he did object to was the hoity-toity princess tone of voice she was using. As if she was a queen instructing one of her minions.
Normally her attitude would be water off a duck’s back. He’d accepted a long time ago that the rich liked to think they were better than everyone else.
He’d never understood the mindset that the measure of a man lay in how much money he had in his bank account or how large his investment portfolio was.
He hadn’t understood it when students at the exclusive boarding school he’d attended had made it clear that a scholarship didn’t mean that he belonged. All it meant was that some rich person had bequeathed upon him a privilege he wasn’t otherwise entitled to.
He understood the attitude even less now that he was a grown man. A successful man. For some reason he’d assumed that his achievements would earn him an automatic entrée into the exclusive club of the wealthy.
Not so.
It also seemed to matter where—or was it how?—you made your money. Inherited wealth made you part of the group; earning it yourself didn’t.
In Royce’s mind the exact opposite was true. Succeeding off your own bat held a hell of a lot more weight in his view than leeching off someone else’s success. Just as the measure of a man should be in how he acted and what he stood for rather than some meaningless dollar value.
Royce was no longer interested in being accepted by a group of people who saw the world so differently from the way he did.
So why was he letting Shara’s princess tone annoy him?
Royce wasn’t sure. So he simply nodded and said, ‘OK. I don’t want you to answer the phone because if it is your ex then answering will give him what he wants. If you refuse to pick up you cut him off at the knees, so to speak.’
‘Won’t that make him mad?’ she asked.
Royce smiled. ‘More than likely. But who cares? It sounds to me like he’s had his own way for too long. Now it’s our turn. We’re going to take control of the situation.’
He could tell from her expression that Shara was undecided about his approach, but by then it was too late. They both fell silent as the answering machine picked up the call.
There was nothing for one long minute, and then the phone was slammed down.
Shara winced.
Royce smiled.
The phone rang again almost instantly.
‘Ignore it,’ Royce said again.
This time Shara shook her head. ‘I think I’d better answer it. It might not be him.’
‘Then why didn’t they leave a message?’
‘I don’t know. But there’s one way to find out, and that’s by answering the phone.’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘This is my home, not yours. I’ll do what I like. You can’t tell me what to do.’
Royce shook his head. ‘This is your father’s house, and he’s put me in charge.’
Again it was too late for Shara to do anything. The answering machine picked up for a second time. The silence lasted for a couple of minutes this time, before the caller slammed the phone down again.
Royce watched Shara, who was studiously staring at her clenched hands.
Her hair really was magnificent. As dark as a raven’s wing and as glossy as the finest satin. His fingers itched to touch it—so much so that he curled his fingers into his palms.
The curve of her cheek was exposed. The skin was milky-white, absolutely flawless and ridiculously vulnerable.
How a cheekbone could be vulnerable Royce wasn’t exactly sure, but that was how it struck him.
The phone rang a third time.
Royce studied Shara carefully.
She was staring at the phone as if it was going to jump up and bite her.
Her body language was easy to read. It was painting a very different picture from what she’d told him that morning.
‘You lied to me earlier,’ he said, in a conversational tone that hid the anger tightening his gut.
He valued honesty above everything else. Not only did he see too much dishonesty in his line of work, but after what Fiona had done to him any form of deception was abhorrent to him.
Her head snapped around. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Royce crossed one ankle over the other, rested his hands on his thighs. ‘You said your father was over-reacting to the situation, but it’s clear to me that you’re terrified of your ex-husband.’
She looked startled, then wary. She issued a laugh that fell well short of being humorous, although he was pretty sure that was what she was trying to convey because she’d unclenched her fists and made a concerted effort to look relaxed.
‘Nonsense,’ she dismissed.
‘It’s too late to deny it. I believe what I see above what I’m told. My eyes don’t lie, whereas people do. I saw your reaction just now.’
She tossed her head. ‘What you saw is my frustration at being told not to answer the phone in my own home.’
Royce shook his head. ‘Sorry, but I don’t believe you.’
She looked about to say something, but at that moment the answering machine picked up.
Shara looked away from him, back to the phone.
Royce grew rigid in his chair as a male voice started speaking. Although speaking was a polite word for the filth that came spewing down the phone line.
Foul language and even fouler content.
About how he had no intention of letting Shara go. About the fact that he’d rather kill her first.
Royce tried to look past the surface stuff to the deeper meaning and intent beneath the words.
What he was listening to convinced him that Steve Brady was a sociopathic bully.
Bullying was all about power and control.
Bullies also typically targeted people who tended not to retaliate, who in fact responded in such a way as to feed their negative behaviour.
Which surprised him.
Shara was not that kind of person.
Their short acquaintance demonstrated that she gave as good as she got. He couldn’t imagine her allowing herself to be bullied.
But then everything wasn’t always as it seemed.
As he should know.
He’d fallen for a woman who’d pretended to be something she wasn’t.
He knew first-hand that looks could be deceiving.
In Shara’s case he’d seen her fear a moment ago.
It had been genuine. He would bet his career on it.
The question was: why was she pretending she wasn’t?
There had to be a reason.
There was always a reason.
That was something he’d learned well before starting the Royce Agency. People always had a motive for doing something.
Royce rose to his feet.
Shara’s head shot in his direction so fast he was surprised she didn’t pull a muscle. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going to talk to him.’
Her face showed alarm. ‘Don’t do that!’
Royce ignored her and picked up the phone. ‘Brady …?’
The tirade was cut off mid-stream and replaced with screaming silence. Royce let the quietness drag on. He was used to situations like these, and immune to the resulting tension.
He doubted it was the same for Brady. No doubt the silence was playing havoc with the other man’s nerves.
As he’d expected, Brady broke the silence first. ‘Who is this?’
‘My name is Royce. I’m a friend of Shara’s.’ He spoke calmly and confidently, although his voice hardened as he added, ‘And I’m warning you to leave her alone or you won’t like the consequences.’
His response was more silence. Uncertain silence. Obviously Brady was trying to come to grips with the sudden turnaround in events.
‘My God! It didn’t take the little slut long to move on, did it?’ His voice was vicious. ‘You’re not the first, you know. Why don�
��t you ask her just how many men she slept with while she was married to me?’
Royce frowned. If he ignored the content of Brady’s words for a moment and concentrated on the way he spoke he would be able to learn a lot.
One, although his tone was vicious Brady had spoken more calmly than Royce would have given him credit for, given his previous tirade. And, two, Brady didn’t wait for an answer but hung up the phone—softly.
Both of those things suggested he was very much in control.
Surely that hinted at the fact that Brady was telling the truth?
He’d seen enough musical beds in the homes of the rich and famous during his time running the Royce Agency to know that that kind of behaviour went on all the time.
It was an attitude that sickened him. Although he was no monk, and had had his share of women over the years—some might even say more than his fair share—Royce always remained faithful to the woman he was with.
For however long it lasted—which admittedly wasn’t very long.
Why would he want to tie himself to one woman when there was a world of women out there to enjoy?
Back in his parents’ day getting married and having children was the done thing. These days things were much more flexible. Some couples got married. Others chose to live together. And others remained single, either through choice or circumstance.
Royce planned on being one of the latter.
But while he was in a relationship he treated his woman with respect.
Royce glanced at Shara.
Beautiful, sexy Shara.
Maybe she had been sleeping around. Maybe that was why her marriage had turned sour.
It was possible.
But it didn’t really matter.
He was a bodyguard, not the morality police.
Nothing excused Brady’s behaviour. Abuse of any kind—whether it was verbal, emotional or physical—was inexcusable.
And what he’d just heard—both on the answering machine and during his conversation with Brady—convinced him that Shara had been abused in some way.
A wave of fury rode up his spine.
He was going to take a great deal of pleasure in bringing the other man to his knees.
‘What the hell did you do that for?’ Shara demanded as Royce dropped the phone back into its cradle.
Royce swung in her direction. ‘I beg your pardon?’
