by Leah Braemel
She can cover him with one hand tied behind her back. Maybe two.
Hauberk Protection, Book 2
Sam Watson excels at keeping other people safe. Now a stalker is targeting him, but so what? A few doctored photos and a couple threatening phone calls are no big deal. He can watch his own back. Then again, the view from behind the sexy spitfire assigned to protect him isn’t so bad…
Rosalinda Ramos has managed to keep her attraction to Hauberk Security’s owner tightly under wraps. It’s just as well he doesn’t know. One slip—in the bedroom or on the job—will cost her her heart and her career, so she’s got only one thing on her mind. Protect Sam, whether he wants it or not.
The stakes—and the heat—rise exponentially when she discovers Sam belongs to an exclusive sex club—one she must investigate for potential suspects. Suddenly she finds herself immersed in a world that pushes her boundaries.
Sam delights in leading Rosie deep into his sexual shadows—until they go one game too far. Making him wonder if he can allow the woman he loves to take a bullet for him.
Warning: May incite the reader’s protective instinct, forcing her to throw herself on the nearest man.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520
Macon GA 31201
Personal Protection
Copyright © 2009 by Leah Braemel
ISBN: 978-1-60504-526-9
Edited by Angela James
Cover by Natalie Winters
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: May 2009
www.samhainpublishing.com
Personal Protection
Leah Braemel
Dedication
I had a lot of help from authors who graciously helped me in my research. So thank you to CJ Lyons, Red Garnier, Tempest Knight, Rae Monet and Diana Cosby along with the members of Crime Scene Writers. Thanks also to my critique partners, Sue, Marley, Wylie and Dani for investing their time and energy, and boosting my morale when I needed it most.
And thanks again to my family who have supported me as I chased my dreams. I love you guys.
Chapter One
The hood of his raincoat pulled well over his head, he strolled past the empty security desk. The pungent smell of marijuana drifted through the lobby, telling him his diversion had worked. Even so, as he inserted the security key that would bring the elevator to him, he kept his head lowered and away from the lobby’s concealed camera. Not that they could easily identify him past the hood, especially with the wig and fake beard he’d donned.
The hallway to the penthouse suites was empty when the elevator doors slid open, though a dog yapped and growled in a suite at the opposite end to his objective. Assured there’d be no witnesses, he walked to the door of 1201 and withdrew the spare key he’d procured.
Once inside the apartment, he disengaged the alarm and took a deep breath. The multimillion dollar penthouse sprawled in front of him, large leather couches and massive chairs, flat screen TV hanging over a gas fireplace in the living room. He’d been here so often, he didn’t even need to use his flashlight to find his way to the master bedroom. He briefly considered trying to find the safe room he knew was concealed in the suite. Knowing Sam Watson’s tastes, it had probably been outfitted as a personal dungeon for those days he couldn’t get to La Porte Rouge.
Some guys had all the luck.
Not that Sam’s involvement in the private club had started with anything remotely to do with luck. Which reminded him just why he was breaking and entering the apartment of the one man he trusted more than life itself. Who after tonight might never—should never—trust him again.
He pulled the photograph from the envelope and carefully positioned it on the pillows at the head of the wrought iron bed.
After a moment’s thought, he headed to the kitchen and grabbed the ketchup bottle. Less than two minutes later, a scarlet threat left on the ivory comforter, he walked to the French doors leading to the terrace. Light glinted off the end of the telescope from a suite in the building opposite Sam’s where his compatriots, his co-conspirators, waited and watched.
He started to lift his thumb to signal the job’s successful completion, then hesitated. Was he—were they—doing the right thing in forcing Sam like this? For three months they’d waited for him to make his move. Hell, for eight years, they’d bided their time. Yet nothing had changed. And so they’d decided to take action. To set right the wrongs that had been done.
But did the end justify the means? And what happened if their plan backfired?
Chapter Two
The sun hadn’t yet risen when Sam waved his passcard at the card reader guarding the entrance of Hauberk Protection Services’ D.C. facility. The front door unlocked, granting him access to the reception area.
The bulletproof doors were overkill, because that area only held the Accounting and Human Resources departments that were responsible for not only Hauberk’s Protection division but also for the newly acquired Security subsidiary. A half dozen empty desks occupied one corner for the local Close Protective Officers to do background checks or fill out reports. At the back of those sections was the executive office area that his operatives jokingly referred to as the Inner Sanctum. But the heavy steel doors he’d had designed to resemble the wooden gates of an ancient English castle he’d once stayed in impressed the hell out of potential clients.
Most mornings he would have headed into his office. But this morning he turned toward the indoor firing range and its armory. He placed his hand over the new-to-America palm vein scanner. Another device he’d been recommending his mid-level security clients start installing instead of the easy-to-fool fingerprint scanners.
Hearing the muffled sound of gunfire beyond, he opened his locker and selected a pair of ear plugs, then signed out a box of ammo and a couple of paper targets.
As it did every time he entered the range, the familiar scent of gunpowder both soothed and irritated him as it reminded him how much he missed the camaraderie out in the field. Now he drove a desk, having to get his thrills through reading others’ reports, instead of the adrenaline rush of guarding a principal himself.
Two shooting booths were already occupied, including his favorite one at the far end. Chad—he should have guessed his area manager would be on the range this early, and… Well, well, well, instead of wearing her usual pair of baggy cargo pants, Ms. Rosalinda Ramos wore a pair of hip-hugging blue jeans. Jeans that hung low enough he could tell that she wore a blue thong and had some sort of tattoo on the small of her back. Aw, damn, he didn’t need to know that. Now he’d be thinking of taking those jeans off her all day to discover what the rest of the tattoo was and just how far down it went.
She raised her gun and fired. The shot hit directly in the heart of her target. She fired again. The second shot doubled the size of the original hole. She glanced over her shoulder, then muttering something he couldn’t hear, put her gun on the counter and bent over to fiddle with her left shoe.
Oh, mama, her jeans pulled taut over the tight round globes of her ass. An ass that begged to be squeezed.
To be fucked. With a groan, he adjusted his pants, his dick firming at the thought of being buried in such a tight channel.
Ever since she’d won him in the charity bachelor auction three months before, he’d sensed a carefully hidden sensuality in Ms. Ramos. As if deep within, she guarded a slow burning ember waiting to be ignited. A fire that would set his world ablaze.
He’d been hard pressed not making a move on her the night he’d fulfilled his obligations and taken her to dinner. While he’d wanted to see if he could add a little oxygen to the fire and kick start the inferno, he’d held back. He’d had to. She was his employee after all. So instead of making a move, inviting her up to his place or pressing his case when he’d escorted her home, he’d been the perfect gentleman. At least that’s how she’d described his behavior the next morning, much to his disgust and everyone else’s amusement.
But damn, it was getting tougher to maintain his hands-off policy. That element of danger and the heat he was sure would envelop them both was too enticing to resist. If he just had the right reason to breach her defenses…if he could find some way to let her make the first move.
Rosie straightened and took two more shots. Both shots were low and outside, yet the center of the target had a good half-dozen holes from where she’d been firing before he’d arrived. Interesting, had he thrown off her concentration?
Seeing his opening, he strode over to her. His body touching her in all the right places, he wrapped his large hand around hers over the gun barrel, repositioning her fingers. Dayam, it was like holding a sparrow, her hands were so tiny.
He leaned down and nudged her earmuffs so he could murmur in her ear, lowering his voice to a whisper, “It’s better this way.”
Her pulse jumped, racing beneath his fingers. Oh, yeah, that ember was definitely burning brighter. He should have made a move that evening three months before. He should have invited himself into her apartment at the end of the evening, given her more than a chaste kiss on her cheek. He should have put on some soft jazz—Diana Krall maybe—pulled her against him as they danced so she could feel what she did to him.
“Thanks,” she said, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips. Did she realize she was doing that?
The scent of her shampoo—apricots—filled his senses. She always wore her hair in a rigid bun making him wonder if her hair were long or short, curly or straight. He had the strange compulsion to pluck the pins taming it just to satisfy his curiosity.
Yeah, he’d watch that hair spring free from its confines, push her jeans down—no, she wouldn’t be wearing jeans, she’d be wearing that little black strapless number she’d worn to dinner that night. Even better. He’d push the skirt up as he slid his hands up her thighs. Then he’d remove her thong and go down on her. Hell, he wanted to stretch her petite body over the firing counter right now and pound into her from behind.
He nearly groaned when her breasts brushed the side of his forearm. The heat of her body snugged up against his blasted a shot of pure lust to his groin. Dayam! If she turns around right now and sees the hard-on you’ve got for her, you’re gonna get yourself sued, boy! Or your dick shot off. If not both.
Going against the natural instinct to grind against her, he eased his hips away from hers and resettled her earmuffs back in place.
Muttering something about needing to get back to work, he whirled back through the soundproof door and tossed his earplugs into his locker. D.C. didn’t need him here—he could work out of the Atlanta office, no problem.
Atlanta. Where there were no spitfires with bitable asses to tempt him. Maybe then he could avoid future cases of blue balls he’d constantly been dealing with lately.
—
Sam checked the water temperature before stepping into the private shower he’d had specially built to accommodate his height. He palmed his cock as the warm water sluiced over it, wondering what he should do about his little problem. He’d not been so drawn to a woman in a long time. Oh, sure, he had a ton of phone numbers in his PDA, women all willing to jump into the sack with him. Not to mention he could always find relief at the Rouge. But no one in a long time had made him as hard as the one woman he couldn’t have.
Was that what made her more of a challenge? That, as his employee, he couldn’t have her? Was that why his cock was turning into a compass needle with Rosie his magnetic north?
His workout had gone to shit earlier when he’d spied her doing her standard two hundred pushups, her firm breasts reminding him of ripe peaches gently swaying in a summer breeze. He’d been hard pressed to find an activity that wouldn’t draw attention to the return of his hard-on. It hadn’t helped his control when she lay down on the stability ball and did crunches.
There’d been two other women operatives in the gym at the same time but neither of them attracted him like Rosie. No one else smelled of apricot shampoo and Ivory soap when they jogged on the treadmill. Well, okay, Vince smelled like Ivory too, but he was a guy, and the clean scent wore off within five minutes on the treadmill. Plus Vince sure as hell couldn’t put his leg over his head like Rosie could. Thank the good Lord for that.
So here he was, fleeing to the privacy of his shower for the second time that morning, jerking off in order to stop a potential lawsuit. Could be worse things he’d have to do. But damn, he wished he’d dragged her out of the gym for a little personal exercise session.
He’d start by stripping her of the T-shirt that hid those ample curves. Then he’d peel off her bra and expose her completely. Nothing manufactured about those lovely breasts. They’d be firm but not fake. Cuppable. Squeezable. Fuckable. Her nipples would probably be dark brown but would they be large or small? It didn’t matter. He’d lick them and blow on them until they hardened. Then he’d capture them between his thumb and fingers and play with them, squeezing gently at first, then harder.
His fingers squeezed his dick, mimicking what he would do to her nipples.
After a while, he’d exchange his fingers for his mouth, tasting them, catching them between his teeth, suckling while his hands explored every part of her. Those big brown eyes of hers would close as he discovered what made her hot. She’d start panting, making tiny mewling sounds with each touch, each lick, each taste.
He tightened his grip, flicking his thumb over the head of his cock, spreading a drop of leaking come over the sensitive foreskin.
Then he’d pull off her shorts, let them pool around her feet. Ever since he’d seen the thin straps of her thong, he’d wondered if she shaved, leaving what would be a beautiful pussy completely bare? Or did she leave a thin triangle of dark curls? He hoped she left a triangle. He’d love playing with her crisp mat of hair before he went down on her.
He’d kneel between her thighs. Would her clit be hard yet? It didn’t matter. Her lower lips would be creamy, and he’d thoroughly kiss them. A soft kiss at first, then he’d trail his tongue between them. Down and then up.
What would she taste like? Sweet? Or musky? Either way, he’d gather her essence on his tongue, lapping until she squirmed beneath him, her hands clutching his shoulders or perhaps his head, her hips thrusting in time to his licks. When she started moaning louder, he’d thrust a finger into her pussy, curl it slightly and slowly drag it along that sensitive spot at the front. Then a second. All the while his tongue would be paying particular attention to her now pulsing clit.
His balls aching, he rested his head against the cool tile and closed his eyes as he continued to palm his throbbing cock.
He’d cup her firm ass in his palms and lift her until she wrapped her legs around his hips, then nudge the head of his cock against her warm moist entrance. Obeying his murmured instruction, she’d open her eyes and watch as he slowly pressed into her. Together they’d watch her labia surround his shaft, kissing him as he slid home.
His hand slowed, letting the heated water from the shower gather in his palm warming his cock until he could believe he was buried in deep within her. Then it sped up again, mirroring t
he thrusts of his imagination.
Would she be a moaner or a screamer? A moaner, he hoped. Soft sounds would spill from her lips as she arched her back, her heels digging into his butt, pulling him deeper. He’d touch her sweet little clit and watch her eyes glaze. He’d flick the sensitive bud once more. Twice. Then her body would tighten around him. She’d be unable to draw a breath as she orgasmed, her muscles clenching his cock and milking him.
He barked his own release, his come jettisoning against the shower wall in a pulsing stream.
—
One hour later, his cock finally wrestled into submission, the door to the outer office opened and his assistant walked into the inner sanctum.
The poster girl for the stereotypical girl next door, Sandy was one of those people who matched their name, sandy-colored hair, blue eyes, even a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. He could picture her growing up with the proverbial white picket fence and tire swing. But behind that façade was an iron-hard backbone. Which was one reason he’d hired her as his assistant. He needed someone who wouldn’t take any bullshit from anyone. Including himself.
Sandy placed the mail she’d brought from reception on her desk, then took off her jacket and hung it beside his in the closet. “Morning, Sam. Good to have you back. How was Miami?”
“Mornin’, Sandy. Miami’s hot as usual.”
As Sandy set to work booting up her system, Sam scrolled through the weekly reports the other offices had emailed him. The solution to the problem in Miami he’d proposed seemed to be working, his station head there reported. The New York office had three new clients requiring ’round the clock coverage. They needed him to sign off on their request to hire more manpower. He copied the HR department and gave his approval. The manager in Nashville had a potential problem that may head to court—he’d be receiving a letter by courier soon. Chicago and Atlanta reported no problems. And as expected, the Dallas and Houston offices were running just fine—though Mark had made a note that he had something he wanted to discuss in private. Hmm, wonder what that was about.
