by Loki Renard
The Brat, the Bodyguard, and the Bounty Hunter
By
Loki Renard
Copyright © 2014 by Stormy Night Publications and Loki Renard
Copyright © 2014 by Stormy Night Publications and Loki Renard
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.
www.StormyNightPublications.com
Renard, Loki
The Brat, the Bodyguard, and the Bounty Hunter
Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson
Images by The Killion Group and Bigstock/Incomible
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.
Chapter One
“This is my daughter, Fiona.”
A rotund man with thinning hair and all the affectations of privilege and riches handed a glossy picture to someone who was for all intents and purposes his polar opposite.
Tom Waters was the man the rich and powerful called when they wanted something handled discreetly and effectively. He was tall where Lord Fayrefield was short. He was hard instead of paunchy and soft, with a rigid body forged from a lifetime of hard military service. He wasn’t in the military anymore, however. He’d been a free agent for ten years, a mercenary, a bounty hunter, a jack of all martial trades—and a handsome one at that. The hard lines of his square chin, straight nose and wide jaw were all in masculine balance, topped by thick blond hair which managed to have a wave even though it was cut relatively short. He used his thick, strong fingers to push a stray couple of strands out of his cobalt eyes as he perused the picture.
The young woman depicted was prettier than a speckled puppy in a red wagon, and much more impeccably groomed. She had a slightly haughty expression on her face, though it could simply have been a product of her aristocratic bone structure. High cheekbones and wide, doe like eyes suggested both sophistication and innocence in equal amounts. She had masses of curling white-blonde hair which reminded him of a pageant queen, though in her case it seemed to be natural. Her eyes were quite curious, one green, one blue. A case of heterochromia—and a cute one at that.
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-four,” Lord Fayrefield droned. “Old enough to be married and settled with a brood of her own, but she won’t have that. Fiona thinks she is above common decency. She’s been running away since she was fourteen, you know.”
Tom was not surprised. Even he was starting to feel stifled and he’d only been in the house fifteen minutes. Fayrefield Manor was a grossly oversized building, built after the fashion of an English manor house, but in the middle of rural Massachusetts. Lord Fayrefield’s office was rich in mahogany and leather, a large space that felt small.
“You’d like me to retrieve Miss Fayrefield?” Tom quirked a sandy brow at his potential client.
“I would,” Lord Fayrefield said. “She has duties to uphold.”
“What you’re asking for is a kidnapping,” Tom said. “Kidnapping’s not in my line of work.”
Lord Fayrefield’s eyes became shifty. “I was informed that you were the man to contact to deal with difficult situations.”
“Your daughter is 24 years old. Independent. I can’t go drag her home to daddy without a good reason.”
Lord Fayrefield’s lips thinned. He clearly did not like explaining himself. “My daughter is wanted by the police. If I do not find her first, she will end up being charged with numerous tax related crimes. I have lawyers, very good lawyers, but they are ineffective without Fiona.”
“There are warrants out for her arrest?”
“Several,” Lord Fayrefield asserted. “Fiona has never had much regard for my rules, or for anyone else’s.”
That was slightly different. Tom asked to see the warrants and was presented with a file as thick as his thumb. There were dozens of warrants and citations in it, some for small matters like public intoxication, others for more serious crimes, like tax evasion.
“She has the IRS on her? They don’t tend to play. I’m surprised they haven’t caught up with her already.”
“Fiona is not a high priority at this point. She’s a small part of a wider case. If we have the opportunity to take her in and bail her out, she need never see the inside of a court room. If she insists on running away and ignoring my instructions, she may very well end up taking responsibility for these charges.”
Tom didn’t trust the man one bit, but he had the money and the paperwork held up.
“Is there anything else I need to know?”
“Fiona has a personal bodyguard in her employ. He has done an excellent job of keeping her out of the way, though I do not imagine a man of your skill set will find him difficult to best.”
Another photograph was passed over and Tom found himself looking into the oddly familiar face of a younger man wearing the uniform of the Marines. Clean shaven, narrow faced and determined, he stared out of the picture with an intelligent granite gaze.
“Harris Kingsley. Ex-military, as you can see.”
“Doesn’t seem the type to abet a criminal.”
“He is doing the job he was employed to do. She retained his services after deciding to go on the run. It is possible that he is not entirely aware of her legal situation. The challenge lies in getting close enough to him to tell him. Fiona has intercepted all attempts at communication thus far. My daughter is not a stupid woman. She can be very cunning when she needs to be,” Lord Fayrefield sighed.
A wily target protected by a couple hundred pounds of highly trained muscle. It wasn’t Tom’s usual job, but he was warming up to it.
Chapter Two
“Fiona…” Harris called his client’s name without much hope of a reply.
She was still in bed, though it was two o’clock in the afternoon. The hotel boasted blackout curtains which allowed her to indulge her penchant for sleeping late. Harris didn’t hold with the habit himself, but he was forced to accommodate her schedule in order to be awake when she was. So far that had meant late nights and even later mornings.
“Fiona,” he said, stepping into her room. “Checkout is in half an hour.”
There was no response from the lump underneath the covers.
“Fiona.”
He could see the curve of her bottom rising under the sheet. Fiona had an incredible figure, full and voluptuous. Her waist was slim, but her hips flowed from it like flesh Niagaras, curving around and in toward strong thighs.
Baby had back, as the song went. Baby also had bosom and a gorgeous smile and eyes that sparkled with wit and mischief, and… well, the list could go on for some time. Harris had hardly believed his luck when he first met his client. Then he’d spent half a day in her company and he realized it wasn’t going to be anything like a cushy assignment.
For one, Fiona was antsy. She insisted that they move hotels every three days, cities every week. She claimed that she was the target of an organized crime syndicate and that she needed to keep on the move. Harris wasn’t sure he believed that, but she paid well and thus far there was no serious sign of trouble.
“Checkout, Fiona,” he said, reaching out to jiggle the bed. “Get up. We have a plane to catch. To Milan, remember?”
“Urgh.”
Finally, a sign of life. Harris waited for his mistress to rise, but it soon became apparent tha
t the groan had been something of a one-off event, in no way indicative of her intention to get up.
“Fiona!” His tone was getting sharper as his irritation grew. He had only been in Fiona Fayrefield’s employ for two weeks, but it already felt like two lifetimes. The bulk of his work came in the form of acting as nursemaid and bouncer to a socialite so spoiled she really had no idea that anyone else in the world existed. He shook the bed harder, just barely restraining the urge to slap her bottom.
“What!” The covers were pushed back and the grumpy, mascara covered face of his client appeared. “You’re fired!”
“Checkout is in twenty-five minutes. Your plane leaves in two hours. You need to get up now or you’ll miss it.” Harris ignored the part about being fired. He’d been fired several times a day for the past two weeks, in fact he’d lost count of the number of times he’d been fired. Fiona never seemed to remember that he was fired, sometimes she’d forget almost as soon as she’d said the words. It was like she had some sort of involuntary reflex when it came to firing people.
She rolled her eyes at him. “Is that all?”
“What do you mean ‘is that all?’ Get up.”
“For God’s sakes, Harris,” Fiona rolled over and smushed her face back into the once pristine hotel linens. “They can wait until I’m ready.”
“The plane won’t wait, Fiona. It’s not a charter. It’s a public flight.”
“It is?” She turned her head enough for him to see how her once painted lips dipped in the corners. “How disgusting.”
What’s disgusting is your attitude. He wanted to say it. Oh he wanted to say it and then he wanted to spank that round bottom of hers until she apologized and meant it. If there had ever been a woman who deserved a good thrashing, it was Fiona.
But she wasn’t a bad person, not underneath it all. Every now and then he saw flashes of something like sweetness and she was certainly smart enough, when she wasn’t being deliberately dense or self-centered.
“Are you going to get up? Or shall I let the maid in to make the bed around you?”
“What kind of a tone is that to use with your employer?”
Harris hated it when she referred to herself as his employer. Yes, it was technically true, but she was in no way in control of him, as her sneering use of the term suggested.
“We will be leaving in five minutes,” he said. “Get ready.”
He left the room to the sound of her outraged snort. There was nothing much to be gained from speaking with her further, either she’d get up and they’d make the flight, or they’d miss it and she could pay for another one. It was no skin off his nose.
Fifteen minutes later, Fiona appeared dressed in a short yellow tunic and dark leggings which were just sinful, wrapped around her bottom so tight that there wasn’t anything left to the imagination.
“I’m ready for Milan,” she announced in a tone that suggested she was about to do Milan a huge favor by going there.
He checked his watch. They might make it to the airport in time after all.
Harris drove to the airport. He always drove. Fiona liked to employ drivers, but they were unnecessary as far as Harris was concerned. Unnecessary and a potential security issue, given that they were rarely subject to extensive background checks and tended to be able to hide behind their peaked caps and ill-fitting suits.
Fortunately, Fiona flew first class, which meant that checking in was a non-issue. They could bypass the long lines of harassed looking travelers and go straight to the priority check in, and then to the first class lounge.
Unfortunately, the moment they got to the airport Fiona saw a coffee stall and decided she wanted a coffee. More than wanted. She insisted on it.
“Harris,” she said, poking him in the ribs. “Get one for me.”
That was how Fiona asked for things. No please. No thank you, just a blunt order, like he was a fleshy automaton at her disposal.
“No,” Harris said. “We need to check in.”
“Ugh!” Fiona exclaimed in disgust. “I’ll get it for myself then.”
Watching Fiona get something for herself was quite a curious experience. She approached the line of people at the coffee bar, ignored each of them as if they weren’t there, and started talking to the befuddled woman behind the counter about where the beans had been ground and if they were organic.
Harris kept a discreet distance, half-hoping someone might say something to remind Fiona she wasn’t the only person on the planet, half-hoping they wouldn’t. Cutting in line was one of Fiona’s many irritating traits, born of a lifestyle of unfettered privilege.
As it turned out, nobody said anything. Fiona got her coffee. At least they could make check in now, at least…
“I wanted skinny milk in my skinny latte!” Fiona’s shrill tone of displeasure cut through the announcements.
While Fiona made the barista’s life a misery, Harris looked around the airport terminal. He was feeling a familiar prickling in the back of his neck. They were being watched. Not in the usual, irritated/amused sort of way. In an intentional way. He could feel someone’s eyes on him, though a quick scan did not reveal anyone.
Fiona said there was a gang hit out on her. Twenty minutes in her presence had been enough to convince Harris that there were probably several people who wanted her dead.
But if there was a mob hit-man lurking around the place, he probably wasn’t armed. Not in the terminal. It wasn’t worth the prospect of being caught in a shootout with security. No. If someone was there to kill Fiona, he’d probably board the same plane, wait until they were in Milan and do it there. At least, that’s how Harris would do it.
“Come on,” he said, wrapping his hand around her arm. “We’re going to check in.”
To his surprise, Fiona didn’t argue. Maybe she sensed his urgency.
The initial check in went fairly smoothly. The agent accepted their tickets and passports without an issue and printed out a pair of boarding passes. Once that was done, Harris was eager to clear the main security checkpoint. He’d checked his weapons in his luggage, which meant he’d be unarmed until they got to Milan. Harris did not like being unarmed in public places any more than he’d like to be naked in the same. He also knew that the TSA checkpoint didn’t offer any real additional security. It mostly offered inconvenience and the appearance of security. But it did narrow down the number of people he had to keep an eye on. The main terminal was full of passengers and passenger related people milling about. Once they got through security and into the first class lounge, the number of people would reduce sharply—as would the number of potential assassins.
“Cut it out!” Fiona whined as he urged her toward the security checkpoint. “I can’t go through there yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I have to smoke my… cigarette.” She gave him an arch wink.
Harris’s heart sank. She didn’t mean cigarette. She meant weed. Surely nobody would be so stupid as to bring marijuana to an airport. Surely…
“Let’s go outside,” she said gaily, pulling him the precise opposite way to the direction he wanted to go, his hand still gripping her arm. Harris allowed himself to be dragged only because outside was a good idea if she had illicit substances on her person.
In the bracing air of a New York afternoon, he pulled Fiona close and did what he should have done two weeks earlier. He took charge.
“Toss anything you have in the garbage,” he ordered. “Do it quick.”
“I’m not going to toss it,” she laughed. “I’m going to smoke it.”
“You are not going to smoke a joint in front of an airport,” he hissed in her ear. “See those men with guns? They’ll arrest you. Now throw it out, we have to get through security.”
“Ugh,” Fiona grunted. “You’re such a downer.”
Harris’s hand was in motion before he even realized it. He didn’t know he was going to smack her bottom until his hand
was actually in contact with the round of her cheek, conforming to the tightly covered posterior. It was no gentle tap either, it was a hard, whacking slap that echoed up and down the pavement. It was the very least Fiona deserved, but it was a good start.
Fiona gasped and whirled about, her eyes filling with shocked tears. “You hit me!”
His heart was pounding, but he nodded curtly. “I did.”
“But…” she rubbed her bottom and opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words really came out. She looked as though she wanted to ask a question, but what could she possibly ask? ‘Why?’ was a foregone conclusion. He’d smacked her because she was refusing to ditch the weed. How he’d dared lay a hand on her? That was a better question. Harris had an answer for that too. He was at the end of his tether with the spoiled little madam. If she wanted to fire him for real, he was more than happy to accept that.
“Listen, Fiona,” he said grimly. “You’re used to people sucking up to you at every turn. I get that. But that’s not me, and it’s not how I work. So you can fire me if you like. You might make it to Milan, though I doubt you’ll get anywhere near the plane. Alternatively, you can keep me on and you can start listening and doing as you’re told, understand, young lady?”
Fiona stared at him wide-eyed while he lectured her, giving him the blank look of a woman who has never before come up against someone she couldn’t boss around.
Harris glanced at his watch. “You have two minutes to make this decision. If you want me to keep providing my services, you’ll dump the weed and adjust your attitude.”
Fiona stared on, apparently frozen. Had he broken her mind somehow? Was it really so inconceivable to her that someone might lay down the law for once?
“Sixty seconds,” he said. “What’s it going to be?”
Moving as if in a trance, Fiona reached into her handbag, took out a little white cylinder, scrunched it up and dropped it into the trash.
