by Vivien Vale
His To Protect
A Second Chance Billionaire & Virgin Romance
Vivien Vale
Crimson Vixens
Contents
Also By Crimson Vixens
Description
Author’s Note
Table of Contents Instructions
1. Ford
2. Adelaide
3. Adelaide
4. Ford
5. Adelaide
6. Ford
7. Adelaide
8. Ford
9. Adelaide
10. Ford
11. Adelaide
12. Ford
13. Adelaide
14. Ford
15. Adelaide
16. Ford
17. Adelaide
18. Ford
19. Adelaide
20. Ford
21. Adelaide
22. Ford
23. Ford
24. Ford
25. Adelaide
26. Adelaide
27. Ford
28. Ford
29. Adelaide
30. Adelaide
31. Ford
32. Adelaide
33. Ford
34. Adelaide
35. Ford
36. Adelaide
37. Ford
38. Adelaide
39. Adelaide
40. June
41. Carter
Big Package
Hard Bargain
Hard Luck
Hard & Fast
Double Feature
Double Dealing
Caught On Tape
His To Protect
A Second Chance Billionaire & Virgin Romance
By Vivien Vale
Copyright 2018 by Crimson Vixens
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work intended for adults only.
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Also By Crimson Vixens
Vivien Vale
Mountain Man Baby Daddy
Hard Pressed
Hard Bargain
Hard & Fast
Hard Luck
Big Package
The Good Twin’s Baby
Spring Break Bride
Daphne Dawn
3 Men Of The House
Baby Bargain
Double Dealing
Double Feature
Double Stuffed
Triple Pleasure
Second Chance Baby Daddy
Wanted: Big Bad Single Dad
Triple Taught
Double Stuffed
Triple Threat
The Proposal Problem
Natalie Knight
Taste
Painting Her
Caught On Tape
4 Men of the House
The Other Brother
The Proposal Problem
To John
She's mine to protect.
And I'll do it with my life...
Adelaide. Sweet, charming Adelaide.
Thought she was out of my life for good.
Until I'm called in to protect her.
And I'm the only man for the job.
This job just got a whole lot harder.
Now I want to take her captive.
Watch her mouth as she pants my name.
Watch her shiver as I trace her curves.
Take the chance we both deserve.
But second chances are a dangerous game.
And so is she.
Because while I may know how to play her,
Turns out she's playing me right back…
Author’s Note
Hello my darling Vixens!
Sun. Heat. Wild.
OMG.
And that’s only the characters. Just kidding. The characters are two amazing people who need to find each other.
Our courageous heroine and super strong male are destined to be together. They just need to work that out.
What a better place than in an isolated village near Nairobi.
This story was about accepting each other for who they are and understanding none of us are perfect but we still deserve to be loved.
I hope you enjoy getting to know the characters as much as I enjoyed creating them.
You might need a cool drink as you read this hot steamy romance.
Love to you all,
Vivien Vale
Table of Contents Instructions
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Vivien Vale
1
Ford
Let’s get one thing straight right here, right now: I would take a fucking bullet to the brain for Adelaide Johansen.
Before this day’s through, I won’t be surprised if I do exactly that.
“Fuck,” I swear as the puddle jumper’s left engine sputters to death. We’re coasting on fumes and dreams now—and my pilot knows it.
I swear again as I check for parachutes—the jackass only stocked one, and judging by the fear in his eyes as his gaze meets mine, he knows that, too.
I shake my head and toss it to him. At least he’s got the good sense to look grateful as I pull him out of the pilot’s seat.
“There’s a town about three clicks east of here,” I grunt, taking the wheel for myself. I ease the nose up a little, catching the air stream we’re currently riding so I can maintain enough altitude for the pilot to parachute to safety. “Stay low, stay quiet—and no matter what happens, if anyone stops you, don’t let them know you’re an American.”
Funny thing about these war torn countries, really. You’re better off being from fucking Mars as far as these bastards are concerned. Doesn’t matter if you’re in the middle of the Middle East or out here in Africa where we’re now.
As the pilot takes his jump—damn near pissing himself in the process, from the looks of him—all I can hope is that he’s got a good fucking Steve Irwin impression up his sleeve. Because when the fuckers who shot out our left engine see a chute fly…
Well, I suppose the least I can do is buy him some time.
Maybe it’s my CIA training, or maybe I just never put a whole hell of a lot of importance on my own life—but playing the hero is the only thing that’s ever made sense to me. It’s not complex, and it doesn’t keep me up at night—because frankly, I never fucking fail.
As I veer the plane west, risking some of my precious altitude in the process, it hits me that this is just how I fucking operate.
You keep kids safe. You respect women. You put your brother before yourself, and you don’t fucking bitch about it.
Their lives before mine. Always. Forever.
I mean, ideally, you pack more than one fucking parachute while you’re at it, but that’s neither here nor there at this point. I may not be the man who stocked this plane, but I’m the man who’s going to land it safely.
Until, that is, the fuckers who shot out our left engine make a point of shooting out the right as well.
At that point, a crash landing isn’t so much an option as it’s an ine
vitability. And a Podunk little plane like this…
It’ll crumple on impact like a piece of tin foil balled up in a fucking fist.
This isn’t the first time I’ve faced near-certain death. If I make it out of this, I’m sure it will be far from the last.
But just like always, knowing that these very well may be my final moments…
I turn my thoughts to her.
Adelaide fucking Johansen. She sashayed her way into my life when I was just a half-wit, hormone-riddled teenager with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove…and even though we parted ways ten years ago now, there’s not a day that’s gone by that she hasn’t been on my mind.
We went to school together, Addie and me. I got into that stuck-up fucking private school on some kind of bizarre combination of sympathy and book smarts. Foster care kid from the wrong side of the tracks, never knew his parents but had The Count of Monte Cristo memorized from cover to cover…yeah, taking me in probably looked good on St. Anthony’s recruitment brochures.
Adelaide, though?
If I was the back page sob story of St. Anthony’s brochures, Adelaide was the wholesome blonde bombshell in a plaid skirt on the front cover.
The Johansens have money. Even back then, everyone fucking knew it. When I first met Addie’s brother, Sten, I knew it just by looking at his shoes—you can always tell. His were brand new and shined so bright I could see my own reflection when I looked down at them.
My shoes? Scuffed to all hell and two sizes too small. I think the nurse fished them out of an ancient lost and found box—and they were so ugly, you could understand why some poor bastard made such a point of losing them in the first place.
But Sten never judged me for being such white fucking trash—and neither did Addie.
Maybe that’s why, when Sten offered me this gig, I said yes so fucking quickly.
Or maybe I might have had a somewhat ulterior motive.
Hell, I’d gladly take a bullet to the brain if it meant seeing Addie one last time.
Probably shouldn’t have taken this job, all things considered. These days, I doubt Addie ever wants to see my sorry ass ever again.
But when I found out that not only did pretty little Addie get it in her head to join Doctors Without Borders after med school, but that she also felt it necessary to take the most dangerous fucking assignment she could get those slender, elegant fingers on…
Well, what can I say?
I didn’t make millions starting a private security firm by resting on my fucking laurels and sending some other jackass to do a job that’s mine by right.
In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I felt it must be true.
Protecting Adelaide Johansen while she tries to singlehandedly to save the world must be what I was put on this earth to do.
My only regret is that I’m not going to live to fulfill that task—because this plane is going down. Fast.
There’s a nasty, dull explosion to my left, accompanied by a cloud of noxious black smoke that billows from the left engine like oil made air.
The heat that follows tells me that the plane I’m in is now on fire—which means that now, it doesn’t matter how long I keep it flying. It’ll explode before it hits the ground.
There’s only one option left.
I wrench the hand break out of its socket. It comes free with a groan of metal separating from metal. I use it to jam the controls of the plane, so our course is set for a steady decline…
Then, I take a big fucking breath.
Do or die.
When the plane is near enough to the ground, I jump.
Whatever the movies tell you, they’re lies.
You don’t hit the ground running—you tuck and roll.
And even then…the body doesn’t like it much.
But as the interior of the plane catches fire and explodes overhead, I’m reminded once again that my body is a little tougher than most. A few more scuffs, scrapes, and scars won’t kill me.
I’m Ford fucking Armstrong, after all.
If Liberian warlords, hostile uncontacted tribes, and rogue Nazis hiding from Interpol in Argentina couldn’t kill me, rolling out of an exploding aircraft sure as hell won’t.
I straighten, shake the savanna dirt out of my beard, and check for injuries.
Not too shabby. Nothing that I can’t walk off, at any rate.
I feel my breast pocket and locate the compass I keep there to check my bearings. It’s a reminder from a long lost friend, I guess you could say.
As indestructible as I think I am sometimes, no man is immortal.
My thumb runs across the dull golden surface while I let my mind linger on buddies of mine whose tours of duty have already ended.
Someday, I’m sure I’ll end mine, too.
But today, I’m alive.
I’m alive, and Adelaide Johansen needs me.
Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
I flick the compass open and orient myself. The needle trembles, and true north points my way…
Right back to her.
I pocket the compass, grab my pack, and get marching.
It’ll be a long, hard trek…
But Addie needs me.
To keep her safe.
Whether she likes it or not.
2
Adelaide
Hold him, please,” I say to Faraja, my assistant. “Tell him it will stop hurting in a moment.”
“Yes, Dr. Adelaide.”
I watch her turn to my patient and speak to him in his mother tongue.
He nods, clutching his injured arm, but his eyes are terrified. I can feel rivulets of sweat moving down my back and beading on my forehead, but I make a real effort to keep my expression composed and smiling.
Faraja helps the man lie down on the table, and I tell her to hold him around the waist.
“I’m going to pull on your arm,” I say to him in a calm voice, as Faraja puts her arms around him. I brace my foot against the table, gently straighten his arm, and start pulling on it.
“Oueee!” the man yells, then says something I can’t catch that’s probably the equivalent of Let go of me, you stupid bitch.
I keep my grip on his arm, pulling until I feel the ball of his humerus bone slide back into the shoulder socket. Almost like throwing a switch, the man stops yelling and blinks in surprise.
“Better?” I say, and he nods.
Then he climbs off the table and scurries away, almost as if he’s worried that I’ll start pulling on some other part of his body.
As I straighten up, my back and arms sore from wrestling with him, I hope that he’ll stay out of range of his mule’s kicks from now on.
And I thought I was fit. Workouts at the gym are nothing compared to this.
I brush ineffectually at the coating of dust and dirt on my once-clean shirt and khaki shorts and almost laugh at myself. Face it, Adelaide, you aren’t going to be clean again for a long, long time.
These are the joys of working for Doctors Without Borders in a remote, dusty village in Kenya. Oh well. At least no one expects me to be glamorous.
“Well done, Dr. Adelaide,” Faraja says admiringly as she cleans off the table.
“It looks worse than it really is,” I say, tugging the elastic out of my long blonde hair and fluffing it to get some of the dust out before twisting it into a ponytail again. “Kind of hard on the patient, though.”
Faraja grins, her white teeth flashing against her chocolate brown face. I was lucky to have her as part of my nursing staff at this tiny village medical clinic: university-trained in Nairobi, speaks excellent English, and is already one of my best friends here.
“It makes you look like a miracle worker,” she says in her lilting accent. “It’s no wonder that the villagers love you.”
I smile again, turning to wash my hands in the basin.
It’s an amazing feeling, to practice medicine in a place where people are so grateful simply to have the attention o
f a doctor, even a white woman doctor from the United States.
It’s taken me a while to earn their trust, but we’re getting there. As I scrub at the dirt under my fingernails, I can still hear my family’s voices echoing in my head.
“You graduated from Johns Hopkins top of your class,” my father said. “You could work in any hospital in the country. Why are you going to Africa?”
My mother: “With our family connections, you could have a private practice for only the best people.”
And my brother, Sten: “Are you crazy? White girls like you—especially rich white girls from prominent families—aren’t common in Kenya. You might as well be holding a sign that says, ‘Kidnap me.’”
