by Leah Braemel
He’d made it halfway through his inbox when his nose broadcast his taste buds a caffeine alert. “Hey, Sandy? That coffee ready?”
“Sure is, you want one?”
He answered her question by stalking past her desk to the coffeemaker and filling a mug. Damn it, he needed a big slug of java injected straight into his veins. His concentration was shot. All thanks to not being able to finish his workout that morning.
He chugged down half of the black coffee, ignoring the pain as it scalded his esophagus. No other woman had his balls drawing up and his dick getting hard, preparing to send his little soldiers out on field patrol. What exactly was it about Rosie that had him so horny?
He downed the rest of his coffee. Goddamn it, he was going to have to move back to Atlanta if his dick didn’t start behaving itself.
Realizing Sandy was watching him as she handled the letter opener like a surgical instrument, Sam gestured toward the coffeemaker. “You want a coffee? I was just fixin’ to pour myself another.”
Sandy nodded at her own Hauberk mug. “No, thanks, I’ve barely touched mine. Do you want to go over today’s agenda here or in your office?”
“My office, I guess. But give me about fifteen, will you?”
When the outer door opened and Chad walked in, Sandy’s head lowered. She stared up at Chad through her bangs in a Lady Di pose. With anyone else, Sam would have said it was practiced, but with Sandy it was a natural movement.
“Good morning, Chad. Can I get you a coffee?” Her voice had a little breathy hitch to it he’d never noticed before. Now wasn’t that interesting?
“No, thanks, Sandy. Sam, you got a minute?”
Anyone not knowing Chad would look at his businessman’s haircut with a few prematurely silver strands at his temple, and his double-breasted black suit, and be taken in by the relaxed image he projected. They’d assume he was just another mid-level management type. Or perhaps they’d catch his dark grey eyes and notice his sharp assessment and think him one of the hundreds of lawyers that populated the nation’s capital. Only if they managed to spot the shoulder holster he wore beneath his jacket, or the baby Glock strapped on his ankle, might anyone guess he was former FBI agent now in charge of the D.C. office of Hauberk Protection.
But today all trace of his relaxed persona had vanished. He prowled into Sam’s office and paced until Sam followed him. Once the door was closed, he folded his arms across his chest. “Why do I have to hear from my receptionist of all people that you had a break-in while you were away?”
“It’s no big deal, Chad. There was no damage.” Other than the word “Bang” written in ketchup on the comforter his mother had given him last Christmas. Sam pulled the envelope containing the photograph and slid it across the desk. “It’s basically the same as the others, though this one is a bit better quality.”
Chad cursed under his breath. “You touch it?”
Puh-leaze, like he’d make such a rookie mistake. “Nope.”
Once they’d both donned latex gloves, Chad peeled open the envelope and shook the contents onto the desk. When he saw a photo of Sam standing in line at Reagan National, half his head missing, brains trailing down his shoulders like snakes, Chad exhaled noisily.
“Jesus! It’s worse than the last one.” Chad grabbed a pen from his pocket, and turned the photo right side up. “I’ve seen real crime scenes with less gore.”
“Yeah, the addition of the blood and exposed brains is a new touch.” Sam pushed himself away from the desk, wanting to pace, but forced himself to stay seated. There had to be a clue here. More than just a threat. Some key to the identity of whoever was stalking him.
“Good thing the bastard didn’t have a gun at the airport instead of a camera,” Chad muttered. “Ink jet quality photo paper, eight and a half by eleven, same as last time.”
“Yup.” Sam lifted his coffee cup then swore when he realized it was still empty.
“Which means it was probably printed with a home quality printer as opposed to a professional printer.”
“Yeah, can’t see Wal-Mart processing that.”
Chad carefully slid the photograph back into the envelope. “This has been going on for three months now, Sam. At least let me assign a couple of CPOs to you.”
Sam scowled and flopped into his chair. “Come on, Chad, I don’t need close protection. Of all people, you know I’m trained in escape and avoidance techniques. In fact, I’m better than anyone you’d assign.” Sam shifted in his chair. “Besides, what’s it say to clients if the owner of a protection agency can’t protect himself?”
“It says he’s smart that he knows he needs an extra set of eyes. Damn it, Sam, this is no idle threat. You’re being followed. Stalked. And someone broke into your apartment, remember? The bastard could have set a bomb to go off when you opened the door.”
“Yeah, well…”
“What’s Mark say about the threats?”
Sam shrugged one shoulder. He’d meant to talk to his Dallas-based partner last time he’d flown down to Dallas but then Mark announced Jodi’s pregnancy and Sam hadn’t wanted to intrude on his friend’s happiness. And now he felt uncomfortable discussing it via email. Oh, by the way, thought you should know, someone’s taking pictures of me. Yeah, that would make him sound a real lame-ass weenie.
“You haven’t told him about them, have you?”
“Damn it, Chad, there’ve been a half dozen pictures in the past three months. And the phone calls—it’s some kid who dialed a random number and got lucky, that’s all.”
“Christ, Sam, listen to yourself. You get a picture doctored so it looks like your brains have been shot out, you’re getting phone calls with some mechanized voice telling you to prepare to die—”
Sam covered one fist with the other, cracked his knuckles. “If they wanted me dead they could have shot me any one of those times, but they didn’t. They took my picture a couple times and made a coupla calls. Big deal.”
“What about the break-in? No,” Chad corrected himself. “They didn’t need to break in, they had a key. And they knew the code to disable your security system so they could take as much time as they wanted. And yet here you sit trying to pretend it’s…what? A kid pranking you? Some practical joke?”
Yeah, the break-in had been hard to ignore. But damn it, that meant he knew whoever it was who was stalking him. Intimately. This wasn’t something he wanted to call the cops in on. He’d handle it himself. “So they emptied the ketchup bottle on my bed, along with one of those damned photos. That’s it. They’re not trying to hurt me, Chad.”
Chad forced his shoulders down and exhaled through his mouth in a long slow blow. “Sam, if I were a client receiving these pictures, you’d recommend I wear a vest every time I went out in public. You’d tell me to change up my routine—to take different routes at different times—”
“I’m already doin’ that. I check my six regularly—no one’s following me. They’re trying to psych me out, that’s all.”
Chad continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “You’d insist I used one of our special bullet-proof limos with a bodyguard trained in defensive driving as the chauffeur, and you’d assign a team of Close Protective Officers to guard you twenty-four/seven. And if I still didn’t listen, what would you say?”
Sam slumped back in his chair. “I’d ask you if your will was in order.”
Chad folded his arms across his chest and rocked on his heels. “So tell me, Sam, you got your will in order?”
Chapter Three
“Stupido!” Rosie muttered as she picked up a ten-pound barbell.
“What was that, Rosie?” Andy Walters asked as he increased the incline on the treadmill. Considering he’d probably run about six miles, he’d barely worked up a sweat. A tad less than six feet, he wasn’t the typical body-builder people expected from a bodyguard. Today’s shirt had I’m the man your mother warned you about silk-screened across the chest, which most people meeting him for the first time woul
d believe. Especially once they got a look at the tattoos completely covering his left arm and shoulder that made most people think he was a member of Hell’s Angels instead of one of the highest level operatives in Hauberk. But if they talked to him they’d discover he was a soft-spoken man who didn’t swear, didn’t smoke or drink and had manners that would stand him in good stead at Buckingham Palace.
“Just talking to myself, Andy.”
Five minutes later she was muttering again.
It wasn’t as if Sam Watson even knew she was alive. All right, maybe he knew she existed, but she doubted he realized she was female. He’s your boss. You know you shouldn’t get involved with people you work with—it’s trouble with a capital T. Yet she couldn’t stop watching her boss. Couldn’t stop fantasizing about him. Especially after the night he’d escorted her to one of Washington’s finest restaurants. Pity he’d only taken her to dinner because she’d made the winning bid at the bachelor auction. It’s not like it was a real date or anything. But a girl could pretend.
At least when he pulled the car in front of her apartment, she hadn’t blurted out how sexy she found him and revealed how horny she was by inviting him to come up to her apartment. Instead she’d fled. Like a coward.
Not that he would have come up to her apartment if she’d asked. All the photos she’d seen of him showed him beside tall leggy blondes with names like Cynthia or Allison or Lee-Anne—not short Puerto Ricans named Rosalinda who had hair resembling Lisa Simpson’s if she didn’t wrestle it into a bun every morning. Look at that night—she’d dressed up in her sexiest little black dress and he’d barely given her a second glance, if he even bothered with a first one. No, she was his employee, nothing more.
And then this morning—she’d proven herself a total airhead. She’d been hitting the target until he walked into the firing range, and then she started hitting snow. It’s not that he’d said anything or made a noise, it was his cologne, that wonderful dark scent of cedar and amber he wore. She would have known he was there if she’d been blindfolded. It wasn’t right that a man could smell so good.
Instead of concentrating on her target, she’d imagined commanding him to strip off his clothes. Slowly. First she’d have him shrug off his shirt to reveal that rock hard stomach and chest that she’d often admired in Hauberk’s private gym. Have him turn around, maybe even bend over so she could admire his ass. Ay bendito, that man had the best ass of any man she’d ever seen.
Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips as she imagined him kneeling in front of her, ready to do her bidding, his cock pendulous between his legs. No! Bobbing high against his abdomen. If it matched the rest of him, he was probably as wide as her wrist. The ache in her pussy increased exponentially, her panties now drenched at the thought of him suckling her nipples, his full lips feathering down her belly until his tongue lapped at her labia, taunted her pulsing clit. He’d probably be an expert in making a woman come with his tongue. And then she’d lay back and feel those muscular thighs between hers as he pounded her into the mattress. And all the while he’d murmur to her softly in French, or growl at her in German. She’d heard he spoke six languages, four fluently. Body parts always sounded so much sexier in a different language.
Then he’d strolled over to her and wrapped his hand around hers as he corrected her grip. His touch, combined with the strength of his rigid muscles of his thighs pressed against her body, had scattered her wits.
To make matters worse, less than an hour ago, he’d once again proven his disinterest, or worse. She’d stepped on the treadmill—of course the only one free had to be the one right beside his. Less than two minutes later, even though the meter on his treadmill showed he’d only run three miles instead of his usual five, he’d slung a towel around his neck and walked away.
No, Sam Watson didn’t just walk, he prowled like a lion. And not just any lion, Samuel T. Watson was Mustafa himself, the king of the pride, right down to the deep voice. It was a good thing he’d left when he did, because when she’d attempted to peel off the sweatshirt she was wearing over her tee, the treadmill rocketed her into the wall behind her like a sling shot flinging a pea. She’d tried to pretend she’d intended to step off, but from the grin Andy had given her, she was sure everyone in the office would now think her the clumsiest operative of the group.
At least Sam hadn’t witnessed her humiliation.
Or Kris, the newest trainee she’d been assigned. If he’d witnessed her total spazzdom, she’d never hear the end of it.
“Speak of the devil,” she muttered when Kris chose that moment to walk in. His gaze lingered on her cleavage briefly, then trailed down to her legs, his grin slowly widening. “Put your eyeballs back in their sockets, Campbell.”
He grinned, a wide crooked smile. “It’s the drool that’s the problem. I swear you need to hand out bibs when you’re working out, Rosie.” As usual he wore a pair of faded tan shorts, and the ubiquitous blue T-shirt with its gold Hauberk crest. “You going to need a sparring partner later?”
She glanced over at Andy as she chugged back a quarter of the water in her bottle. He was in the middle of a good sprint—he wouldn’t be ready for a while yet. Pity, she wanted to figure out that leg sweep he’d used on her last time they’d paired up. “Yes, I just want to get in a couple more reps.”
By the time Kris had finished his warm ups, her foot was braced against the wall over her head as she stretched her hamstrings.
“Goddamn, woman. It isn’t right that a body is so flexible.”
“It isn’t right that a woman should be expected to pass a basketball through an opening the size of her nostril either, but we can.” She lowered her leg and flexed a few more times. “You ready?”
Kris grinned. “I’m ready to kick your butt. You ready to kiss the mats?”
As they moved to the sparring area, Rosie saw several of her co-workers exchanging money. If they bet on Kris, she vowed they were going to regret it.
Although she was ten inches shorter and a good eighty pounds lighter than Kris, she managed to flip him onto his back fairly quickly.
“Aw hell,” he muttered as he rolled to his feet. “I wasn’t warmed up properly.”
She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. “World’s smallest violin, you big baby.”
“That’s cold. And strangely arousing. Let’s see you do that move again.”
As Kris rolled to a stand, Andy winked at Rosie and called, “Hey, cougar bait, I hear you had another date with that old lady who bought you at the auction.”
Kris shrugged and turned away. “Hey, Bonnie may be forty, but she’s still hot. I figure it’s a win-win situation.”
“Just make sure when she asks to check out your gun, that you don’t rack a bullet in the chamber prematurely.”
Turning bright red, Kris grimaced and muttered to Rosie. “Wow, he’s so subtle.”
He rushed her as he had before but when she moved to intercept him again, he changed directions and she found herself flat on her back, staring at the ceiling.
“Shit!” That was the same move Andy had used on her. How had he done that? She’d have to ask him. After she paid him back, of course.
A grin split Kris’s face when he loomed over her. “Sorry, Rosie, but if you want to dish it out, you gotta be able to take it too. Isn’t that what you told me my first day?”
She took the hand he held out to help her up. Once on her feet but before he released her, she forced his thumb toward his wrist and wrenched his arm behind him in a classic takedown maneuver. In an effort to lessen the pain, he twisted as she’d intended and fell to his knees. She placed her knee in his back and forced him flat onto the mat where she’d been moments before.
“Cheater!” he gasped.
“Weren’t you just talking about taking what you dish out?”
“Ah, Kris with his face in the mats, and Rosalinda controlling him. All is right with the world I see,” a voice said from the doorway to the men’s locker room
.
Rosie released her grip on Kris’s arm and straightened. She grinned when she saw Chad watching them. “It was like taking candy from a baby. As always.”
Kris stood so fast she’d sworn someone had called attention on deck. “Heya, boss! What’s up?”
“You two hit the showers and then come to Sam’s office. Andy, you too. We’ve got some business to discuss.”
Rosie raced through her shower, muttering curses under her breath as she struggled to tame her wayward hair, hurriedly drying it with her diffuser and using the silicon hair tamer she wished she’d bought stock in. Finally she wrestled it into the bun she found easiest to deal with.
“At least I won’t look like a dandelion,” she grumbled. She stepped into the hall at the same time Andy exited the men’s change room.
He gestured back at the men’s change room with his head. “Skippy’s still making himself look beautiful. You want to wait for him or head over to the Sanctum?”
“He can meet us.”
They’d made it as far as the accounting area when Kris jogged up behind. “Hey, you guys got any idea what this is about? Must be special though if Sam’s in on the meeting, don’t you think?”
“We’ll find out soon enough, Skippy,” Andy said. She could hear the amusement in his voice, especially when he shook his head and muttered, “Newbies!”
Andy reached for the door to the manager’s section then stepped to the side when he saw Sandy heading out.
“Heya, beautiful, what’s cooking?” Kris grabbed Sandy’s hand as she passed. He whirled her into what he obviously thought passed as a waltz.
Andy snorted and headed into the inner sanctum alone. Rosie would have followed but her path was blocked by the dancing duo.
“Thought any more about going out on a date with me, Sandy? I was thinking we’d go dancing, maybe enter us in Dancing with the Stars. We’d be good together, you and me.”
