Texas Bodyguard

by Jean Brashear

  They shared a quick grin. “So do I get to see the inside?”

  “You do recall the whole shoving laundry, throwing away pizza boxes thing, right?”

  “It can’t be that bad. I have brothers. I’ve been in their bachelor pads, and I survived.” She shuddered dramatically. “If only barely.”

  “Consider yourself warned.” With great trepidation, he unlocked the door and gestured for her to precede him.

  She stepped into the wide entry, looked at the staircase that curved upward to the bedrooms. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”

  Beautiful? The scarred banister, the treads that dipped in the center?

  “Don’t you love it?” She turned to him, eyes wide. “Can’t you just picture a woman descending this a hundred years ago, her long skirts trailing behind her as her hand glides down the banister?”

  He blinked. Took another look. “I’ll be damned.”

  But she was moving ahead of him to the right, going for the heavy sliding doors that sealed off what was once a parlor. She tugged at them, but couldn’t make them budge.

  He put his muscle into the task. “These rooms are closed off for now.”

  When the door opened, she made her way to the center of the room, taking in the peeling wallpaper, the high windows and their dirty glass. “Oh, look at this old wavy glass. You can’t find these windows anymore.”

  “You’re telling me,” he muttered. He’d priced replacements, and these would be waving for the foreseeable future, no matter how much wind whistled through the panes.

  She ran her hands over one sill. “The woodwork is beautiful.” Then she glanced down and gasped. “And look at these random-width pine floors.” She glanced up at him, eyes glowing, noticing his staring. “What?”

  “Don’t tell me—the Sullivans recruited you to their unholy alliance. Either that or you’re blind and can’t see all the stains and scarring.”

  A white smile sparkled as she flicked away his negative comments. “Nothing a little elbow grease can’t fix.”

  He made an elaborate show of perusing his elbows. “The grease done dried up, Miz Scarlett.”

  Annabelle laughed. “Okay, so there’s a lot of work here, but still…Sean, this will be a showstopper when you’re done. Aren’t you proud of yourself for how you’ve rescued this lovely lady?”

  Wow. All he saw, most of the time, was what was still in desperate need of repair. “Thank you.” He studied her for longer than he should have, then caught himself. “Okay, one room down. Don’t assume you’ve seen the worst, but you’re in for it now. No stopping until we’re done. You’ll just have to buck up.” He proffered an arm. “Madame, shall we continue the tour?”

  “Oh, please, kind sir.” She dropped into a playful curtsy, then slipped her small hand into the crook of his elbow.

  The dining room, straight across the hall behind another set of sliding doors, sent her into another swoon. He had to admit that under the influence of her admiration, even he saw the place differently.

  “A buffet here, against this wall, and a big oak table centered on an area rug…” Annabelle had deserted him for the room, tapping one finger on that lush lower lip that he wanted another taste of. “A big mirror over the buffet would give you another view of the—what?”

  “I think I’m jealous of my house.”

  One delicate eyebrow arched. A slow smile curved her lips. “You could show me your bedroom.”

  It was all he could do not to growl like some caveman and grab her.

  She hesitated, as though she felt awkward. Annabelle Quinn, famous movie star, awkward?

  There was nothing he could do but wait. No way was he pushing her into anything, yet she’d already expressed enough self-doubt that he knew he could hurt her by rejecting her.

  He didn’t know what the hell to do.

  Apparently she decided, though, as she sauntered toward him. “We do have some unfinished business, don’t we?” Her fingers walked up his chest, and she rose to her tiptoes against him, her body soft and sweet and enough to make a man lose his mind.

  “You are killing me,” he said.

  “I really, really don’t want to do that.” When her hands slid into his hair and her mouth brushed over his, he was most of the way to gone.

  He fought his way back to the surface. “Annabelle, um, are you sure…”

  She hesitated again. Lifted uncertain blue eyes to his. “You’re not?”

  “No, that’s not it. I just—”

  “If you don’t want…” Hurt crept in, trapping him between a rock and hard place.

  “Oh, honey, I very much want.” Though his soul was surely damned. He gathered her in and returned the kiss.

  If she trusts you, Lowe might, too. That kind of access is everything.

  Damn it, Doc, how the hell am I supposed to do this?

  “Sean, stop worrying. We’re both adults.”

  “But you’re—”

  “If you say I’m Annabelle Quinn, I won’t be responsible for my actions.” She smiled up at him, then sobered. “And if you’re worried about my bruised heart, well, that’s really nice and just tells me you’re as good a man as I thought.” She trailed her forefinger down his chest. “You also have this very hot body. I’m told there are those who think the same of me.”

  He raised his hand as though he was voting.

  She chuckled. “I like you, and back at the pool, I thought we were both very interested in each other. Was I wrong?”

  Everything was so much more complicated than that, but there was no possible way for him to explain that, so he went with the straight answer. “Absolutely not.”

  “So maybe we could just spend a little time enjoying ourselves and not thinking?” Her sideways glance was full of mischief.

  “Thinking is overrated.” Which was God’s honest truth.

  She smiled and tightened her arms around his neck.

  Then kissed his socks off.

  He scooped her up in his arms and headed for the stairs. She focused on driving him out of his mind.

  When he stumbled crossing the entryway, he leaned his head away from the temptation she presented, even though his libido whimpered for him to give in. “You have to stop that,” he ordered as she nibbled her way over his jaw. “I’m only going to give you another hour. Or two.” He tried to focus on negotiating the stairs.

  Then she slicked her tongue down his neck.

  “Okay, okay, a week, but that’s my final offer.”

  She chuckled softly, blowing warm air across his skin.

  Sweet heaven above, his eyes all but rolled back in his head.

  With grim determination and more than a few missteps that had his heart doing double-time in fear they’d wind up in a heap below, he somehow made it up both flights. Why in the hell had the master bedroom been put all the way at the back?

  Annabelle’s hand slid inside the collar of his shirt and her fingers walked their way across his bare skin.

  The upstairs hallway took an hour to cross, he would swear.

  When he finally got them inside his bedroom, she lifted her head and began to look around.

  “No.” He tossed her on the mattress. “Don’t start talking to me about woodwork.”

  She giggled. Looked upward. “But the ceiling is—”

  He planted his arms on either side of her head, his body hovering over hers. “No ceiling. No floors. No glass.”

  A smile danced over those lips before she licked them, slow and sultry. “That’s okay. I like what I’m looking at better.” She began to unbutton his shirt, spreading the panels wide. “Much…much…better.” She began a provocative survey of his chest, stroking his pecs, drifting down his belly, tracing a lazy line along the waist of his pants…

  “Mercy,” he murmured.

  “No mercy here.” She challenged him with knowing eyes.

  He leaned back on his knees and grabbed her hands. “Uh-uh. My turn.” He spread her arms wide and took his time. “Your
beauty staggers me.”

  “Thanks.” Her tone said she’d heard that a million times.

  “But I’m more intrigued by what’s beneath this gorgeous exterior. I want to know the real you.”

  To his astonishment, the light in her dimmed.

  What had he said? Shouldn’t she be pleased that he wasn’t focused on her as a star?

  Maybe there’s something in me, some ingrained failing.

  She really thought her husband’s adultery was her fault? That it was due to some flaw in her? For a stunned second he said nothing. Could she possibly believe she was unlovable?

  Would anyone ever believe America’s Sweetheart, beloved by millions, didn’t understand that who she really was shone from her like a beacon? Was the reason everyone adored her?

  As his silence mounted, she yanked her arms down and began to roll to the edge of the bed.

  He stirred from his reverie and caught her up. Tucked her into his arms and cradled her. “Hey…talk to me.” He went with his gut and hoped to hell he wouldn’t make things worse, however astounding it was to think that he could. “Is this about you thinking you have some fatal flaw?” When she didn’t speak, he settled back against the footboard, holding her on his lap. “Because that’s just crazy.”

  She shoved from his arms. Scooted all the way across against the headboard, arms wrapped tightly around her middle. Her eyes blazed. “It’s not your concern. I don’t need any coddling.” She uncoiled and made her way to the edge of the mattress. “And I sure don’t need your pity. I am sick to death of people feeling sorry for me.” She shoved to her feet and prepared to leave.

  He lunged and caught her, turned her around not at all gently. “You honestly believe I think you’re pathetic? Were you not listening when I told you that I think you’re amazing? You’re funny and kind and damned normal for someone in your situation.” His voice vibrated with barely-contained fury, though it was directed squarely at himself, at the situation.

  “So why are you angry?”

  “I’m not.”

  One imperious eyebrow arched. “You are.” She paused. “Perhaps I should go.”

  He hated this. Despised knowing that he couldn’t have an honest conversation with her, that he had no choice but to continue to deceive her until VICTAF could get what it needed on Martin Lowe and be sure exactly how involved he was.

  And if she ever found out, his betrayal would make a lie of every reassurance he’d just uttered. Would make her only more convinced that no one could love her simply for who she was.

  This case could not be over soon enough.

  “The anger is for me. I’m supposed to be showing you a good time, and I’m blowing it.” He had little control over the situation he was in, but there were a few things he could do. One was to quit focusing on what he couldn’t change—and do something about what he could.

  He could salvage this day. At least he hoped so. He extended a hand. “If you’re willing to give me a second chance, may I show you the rest of the house?”

  After what seemed like a year, she put her hand in his. Met his gaze. “I’m the one who should apologize. I’m trying to put the past behind me, but I’m not there yet. And I’ve made things awkward when all you were trying to do was be nice.”

  God, could he feel any worse?

  “I think you’re managing a lousy situation with a lot of grace. Does anyone in your life understand the true cost of your success?”

  She cast him a grateful glance, if a cautious one. “It’s not exactly a hardship to make a lot of money doing something you love.”

  “Maybe not.” A predicament he’d likely never experience. “But it’s not that simple, either, is it?”

  “Nobody held a gun to my head and forced me to become famous. I asked for this.”

  “But nobody prepared you for it, either, did they?”

  She shook her head sadly.

  “I’d like to be your friend, Annabelle.” He hoped she could tell he meant it. “Not the actress but Annabelle from Nowhere, Tennessee.”

  “Elizabethton, I beg your pardon.” Her lips curved a little. “I’d like that, too.”

  He breathed an inner sigh of relief as the atmosphere between them lightened. He drew her through the doorway. Humor had eased her before; maybe it would again. “So if I let you ogle my clawfoot tub, what are my chances of getting you naked later?”

  Annabelle snickered as she preceded him down the hallway.

  But he was pretty sure he heard her say not bad.

  Chapter Eleven

  The clawfoot tub was indeed gorgeous, especially in a room with bead board on the walls—however many coats of paint covered it—and a lovely stained glass window. With a crack, yes, but the deep purple, golden-throated irises and the white dove set a scene she could easily imagine stretching out in that tub to sigh over. To feel knotted muscles untangle inch by inch while steamy water soothed her skin and lapped at the curve of her breasts…as Sean slowly trailed his fingers up her legs and—

  “Does that smile mean you like it?”

  Annabelle whirled too quickly and overset herself.

  As he had been so many times before, Sean was there to steady her. Tenderly he stroked a lock of hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. His eyes were a smoky seduction, all by themselves. Idly she noticed a bump in the bridge of his nose and reached up to stroke it. “How did you break it?”

  “Brothers tend to fight.” But his gaze was zeroed in on her, too, though he held himself still. Let her choose what would happen next.

  She traced the line of his nose, the plane of one chiseled cheekbone. Curved a trail back over his jaw then, fingertip by fingertip, her hand walked toward his chin. She brushed the pads of three fingers over his skin, then stroked downward, skimming his Adam’s apple to land in the hollow of his throat.

  And this big, strong man…shivered.

  She returned her gaze to his for a long, somber moment. Words vanished into mist, but nerve endings thrummed with their nearness, with the desire that was a living presence between them.

  Annabelle lifted herself to her toes, but even as she brought her lips to that dip above his collarbone where she could see his pulse bump, she wondered if Sean realized that what attracted her far more than his beautiful exterior was his goodness.

  He played at boyish charm, at devil-may-care insouciance…but within this man, she thought, was someone who took his word seriously. Who would never cause harm if he could help it, who would think of others first.

  A protector. A champion. A hero, however he might protest.

  His looks would change over time. Age would have its way. But the man he seemed to be at his core…that was rock solid.

  She’d settled on her heels, but now she rose again to slip her fingers into the rich pelt of his hair. She pressed her body to his body and wondered if the uneven thudding she felt was his heart….or hers.

  Might be both.

  “I was going to show you the downstairs,” he murmured.

  “Later.”

  “Annabelle, maybe we should—”

  She nipped at his ear and felt his whole body quiver. “Don’t you want me, Sean?” she murmured. “Have I ruined it?”

  “Of course I want you, but—”

  She slid her tongue into the heat of his mouth.

  And Sean’s iron control broke. He gathered her closer and slanted his mouth to take more of her. Without ever lifting his lips from hers, he bent and scooped her up, then walked out the door. “Should I go somewhere else?” he asked as they neared his bedroom.

  A clean slate? she suspected he was suggesting.

  “Unh-uh,” she said against his mouth. “It’s a good bed. A big bed.” A massive, gorgeous four-poster in some golden wood, it looked like it could sleep six people.

  He smiled but didn’t stop kissing her. “Room to roll around.” He revolved and fell back on the mattress, still holding her. Then he proceeded to do just that—logroll them to t
he opposite corner, then back again.

  She was breathless with laughter by the time they stopped.

  Could he possibly understand the allure of his willingness to be foolish? In her world, appearance was everything, followed closely by an outsized sense of dignity, by the need to be taken seriously, to be respected…or, at a minimum, to be feared. Glamour might seem to be the game in Hollywood, but power was the real aphrodisiac, the gold standard by which everyone judged or was judged.

  Lying on his back, Sean spread his hands across her pelvis and lifted her into the air the way her father had done when she was a child. She held her body in a plank, astonished at his strength.

  Then he lowered her, inch by inch, her hair hanging down between them, a tangled black curtain sealing them off from the world…until her body was lined up on his, belly to belly, breast to chest…loins to loins.

  She didn’t even try to stem the urge to bring her softest spot against his hardest one.

  “Unh…” His was a heartfelt groan.

  It was all she could manage not to echo him. Instead, she planted her arms on either side of his chest and lifted until she straddled him, her skirt shifting upward, baring her thighs as she rubbed herself over him and wished for more.

  “Annabelle…” His plea was a harsh whisper, an urgent demand.

  “We’re attracted to each other, Sean. You make me happy, and you want me. I want you. Let’s don’t let it be more complicated than that.” She lifted her arms and caught up her hair as her body reveled in the feel of him. She lowered over him, undulating against his groin and ratcheting up the torment, teasing them both to a nearly unbearable degree. Through her lashes she watched him, hunger drawing his skin tight over his cheekbones. His fingers flexed at his sides, grasping thin air as though he longed to be grasping her flesh.

  But still he held back. Was strong enough, kind enough to let her set the pace.

  She let the moment spin out until within her, desire wound tighter and tighter, nearing the breaking point—

  At last she let her hair spill in all its glory. Slid her hands beneath his shirt, her nails dragging over his chest until his belly was bared, revealing golden muscles lightly dusted with hair.