She gives me a wan smile, then tilts her head. “Why did you leave the Secret Service? Clearly, you enjoyed it. And you were really good at it. You seemed to treat your previous career the same way I do mine… putting it at the top of your life’s priority list.”
I nod, smiling as I remember how easy it was to make the decision to give that job up. “I realized I’d reached all my goals in that line of work.”
Barrett snorts. “You mean saving my uncle’s life?”
I laugh. “Yeah… that was sort of the pinnacle of my career.”
She inclines her head, her smile slipping just a little. “Well… thank you for making sure I’m safe. Despite being annoying, I do appreciate it.”
“You’re quite welcome,” I reply before retreating a few steps, intending to leave her in peace. Just as I start to turn away, a thought hits me. “What are you going to do once you reach your goals?”
Her attention had already gone to her computer, but she gives me her regard without hesitation. She shrugs, lips curling slightly in amusement. “Get a haircut, maybe.”
Fuck, I hope not. That messy bunch of blond locks is amazing just as it is.
“Or maybe take a vacation,” she murmurs, her eyes going slightly dreamy. “Can’t remember the last time I did that.”
It should be somewhere tropical. I bet she’d look fucking fantastic in a bikini.
Her eyes refocus, and I get a sheepish smile. “Probably just get another work goal. Some new area of research. A different mystery to solve.”
Yeah… from what little I know about Barrett, it’s obvious she needs that in her life. Vacations and haircuts aside, she genuinely loves what she does. Apparently, she’s damn good at her job if she has people wanting her intellect enough to kidnap her.
But my vow to her was real… no one will get her on my watch.
CHAPTER 5
Barrett
The minute I push my front door open while simultaneously throwing an arm over my shoulder in a wave to the two Jameson men who escorted me home from work, I’m met by Cruce.
A too-damn-attractive Cruce who’s wearing a tuxedo way too well. Eyes widening, I freeze, idly wondering how long I can stare before it becomes truly awkward.
He grins in amusement, taking my briefcase and purse from my clutches before pointing up the staircase. “Go get ready. Now.”
My shoulders hunch, my nose scrunches, and I can’t help the low whine. “Do I have to?”
“Yes, you have to,” he replies firmly.
After gripping my elbow, he deposits my stuff on the foyer table before marching me right up the stairs, not giving me time to lag. “We have to leave in twenty minutes. Whatever you have to do to make yourself presentable in that time frame, get it done.”
“Bossy,” I mutter as he gently but firmly propels me into my room. He winks as he steps backward, pulling the door shut.
Rolling my eyes, I scan my room, taking in the gown Cruce must have pulled from my closet. I have quite a few since I’ve attended numerous presidential functions and research fundraisers over the years. Even accepted scientific awards that required a fancy dress a time or two.
I have to admit the gown he chose is a favorite of mine. Fit at the torso, it’s a pale peach color with flowing layers of chiffon. Strapless with a deep cut at the top to reveal a hint of cleavage, it’s elegant while still having sex appeal. As I examine it, I’m a little ashamed that my inner girly girl wants to come out and play. Cruce had even laid out a pair of high-heeled strappy gold sandals to go with it.
“Fine,” I mutter. Heading to the master bath, I start stripping my clothes off as I go. “Let’s do this.”
I twist the shower handle to hot. While it heats, I critically assess the unfortunate mess of my hair. If I’m going to do justice to my makeup, I’m not going to have time to shampoo and style this catastrophe.
When I pull the bobby pin from the top, my long bangs flop over to the side with a weird crimp in the middle. I yank the ponytail holder out, the rest of my hair falling to hang lankly just above my shoulders.
“Just great,” I gripe to the mirror, eyeballing the can of dry shampoo that will be my best friend after my shower.
While I am not looking forward to this event and would much rather get some work done, I can’t imagine attending with Cruce will be all that bad. I mean, he’s certainly not hard on the eyes. Besides, since he moved into my house, I’ve realized I actually like talking to him.
Not that I have a lot of time to do so, but we’ve set up a pattern where conversation is a natural by-product. For example, after I finish my morning run—which he joins me on, of course, but talking while running is impossible—he makes breakfast while I shower. He then forces me to take ten minutes to sit and eat something nutritious like eggs or oatmeal and fruit.
During that time, we talk.
It’s the same at dinner, as he’s pretty much strong-armed me into coming home at a reasonable time. His logic is if I stay at work until ten or eleven PM like I normally do, I’m making it hard on the guys assigned to watch me during the day. His reasonable point I’ll get the same work done at the house makes too much sense to ignore.
I don’t argue because, frankly, the only reason I stay at work so late is I get lost in what I’m doing. I’ll lose hours of time to my research and work without realizing how late it’s gotten.
So now, Cruce calls every evening around six to tell me to pack up and head out. I do as I’m told, because I don’t want the guys watching me to suffer, and head to my house where Cruce has dinner waiting.
And we talk some more.
Over the last few days, I’ve learned a lot about him. He comes from a law enforcement family—his dad, brother, and sister are cops with the Chicago Police Department near where he grew up. He has another sister, too, but she—gasp—decided to become an interior designer.
Every day at breakfast and dinner, he regales me with stories about his family or his work in the Secret Service. He took the job with Jameson because he’s in search of the next big career adventure, and he seems to love Pittsburgh.
Through some subtle digging, which probably wasn’t subtle at all, I also learned he’s not married, nor has he ever been in a committed relationship. That’s something he and I have in common. Our distinct lack of relationships come from being too committed to our work.
I’d like to say I regaled him with interesting tales in return, but, sadly, my life is so boring I was able to summarize it while he poached my eggs yesterday.
After I’d gone through my educational accomplishments, which I’d reached at an incredibly early age, he asked, “But what do you do for fun?”
I had to really think about it, but I’d been too embarrassed to admit sex was my go-to “fun activity”. Not dating. Not vacations. Not parties with other friends. If I got an itch, I scratched it physically.
Nothing sordid, of course. I usually maintained a friends-with-benefits relationship with someone likeminded whose main focus was also school and performing at an elevated level. It had always been mutually beneficial to use sex as an outlet.
Oh… I’d once smoked weed, but I hadn’t liked it because it made me feel so out of control and paranoid.
I kept that bit from Cruce, too. I didn’t think it made me seem cool or exciting. Instead, it felt a little pathetic.
My shower is quick, and I manage to nick myself just above my ankle while shaving. I slap a piece of toilet paper over it, then work on my hair and makeup. There’s a knock on the bathroom door. Cruce’s warning of, “Five minutes, Barrett,” kicks me into high gear. Silently, I pray I don’t come out resembling a clown.
After liberally spraying my roots with dry shampoo, I brush out my tangled hair. It ends up not looking bad at all, the various layers sticking out at oddly fashionable angles.
Except my bangs.
They’re still crimped in the middle, and I can’t get them to lay straight.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, r
ummaging in a drawer to find a jeweled barrette. I sweep my bangs back, shove the barrette in, and don’t give myself a second look.
It’s time to get dressed and I have no one I’m trying to impress.
I slide on a pair of nude lace panties before pulling the peach concoction over my head. The dress floats over my body. It’s a little tight in the chest since it was designed to maximize cleavage and keep the fabric securely in place. Perching on the edge of the bed, I slip my heels on.
When Cruce knocks on my door, I call, “It’s open.”
Rising from my bed, I turn toward my full-length mirror in the corner of my room to make sure all my bits are tucked in the right places.
“Not bad,” I murmur as I take myself in. Cruce’s reflection shows him standing behind me, his hands clasped in front of himself.
In the mirror, I catch him running his eyes down the length of me. When I turn to face him, his eyes flash with appreciation, although they linger just a moment too long on the barrette in my hair.
Flustered, I start to reach up to touch it, but he says, “Don’t. It looks perfect.”
I blush, feeling the heat climbing up my chest to my cheeks, then clumsily move to my closet to grab a matching clutch.
“What’s that?” Cruce asks, and I follow his gaze downward. “Above your ankle?”
Kicking my leg out to the side to see, I blush even harder when I see the piece of toilet paper stuck to the small cut on my leg. “Shit,” I mutter as I squat to grab it. “Just cut myself in the shower.”
Ignoring Cruce’s snort of amusement, I rise and nab my purse. When I’m finally ready, he’s holding his arm out. “Shall we?”
I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow, shamelessly gripping onto the hard muscle there. If I have to spend an evening at a horribly boring State dinner, at least I’ll have a handsome, engaging man by my side.
♦
“So, when the chef brought my meal back for the third time still wrong, I knew I’d have to use the full force of my office to make a point,” the Polish ambassador to some country I’ve never heard of says.
I grip onto the edge of the table. Not for balance, but to restrain myself from picking up my salad fork and stabbing myself in the ear with it, just so I don’t have to listen to this anymore. I’m going to lodge an extremely cross complaint with Uncle Jon, letting him know in no uncertain terms that I’m never coming to another presidential event if this buffoon is the type of person I must force myself to politely converse with.
A light tap on my shoulder makes me lift my head and I find Cruce smiling down at me. He’d been off talking to my uncle’s press secretary, who’d also served with him during his term as vice president.
“Would you like to dance?” Cruce asks, holding his hand out palm up.
I consider the fork, decide a dance is a better option than stabbing myself, and place my hand in his. When he tugs me from my chair, I don’t spare a glance at the Polish ambassador, even though I’ll be leaving him all alone at the table. He’d managed to chase everyone else off, and I’d been the last one stuck listening to his pompous ramblings.
“I know your job is to save me from kidnappers,” I murmur as Cruce leads me to the parquet dance floor in the middle of the room. “But that was quite possibly the best save of your career.”
Chuckling, Cruce brings me in close. His free hand slides to rest on my lower back, and I bring mine to his shoulder. We start a passable job at a slow waltz. Because I’m not tall enough to see over his shoulder, I peek around Cruce’s broad chest, spotting my aunt and uncle smiling as they watch us.
I duck out of sight, hiding my own smile. They love me so much, and they constantly fret over how hard I work. But I’m no fool—I’d already recognized my uncle ordering me to attend as his way of trying to assure I have a social life, too.
“Think we can leave soon?” I ask Cruce hopefully. “I could get in a few hours of work tonight.”
Cruce’s smirk is chiding. “Can’t you just relax for one evening?”
I shake my head. “Nearly impossible.”
“Come on, Barrett,” he taunts with a laugh. “You’re amazingly gorgeous tonight, the music is great, and the champagne is flowing. Live it up a little.”
Gorgeous?
Amazingly gorgeous?
I blush again, feeling it all the way to the roots of my hair for some weird reason. Shyly, I drop my gaze. But Cruce isn’t letting me off that easy. Next thing I know, his fingertips are pressing under my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. It’s such an intimate touch that my face gets hotter, and I’m afraid he can feel it.
His head dips closer as he murmurs, “You can take one night off, Barrett. Okay?”
His blue eyes locked on mine are mesmerizing, not as icy as I once thought. Rather, they seem all-knowing—magically understanding something about me that even I haven’t quite figured out.
I’m hypersensitive to the weight of his hand on my back. The thought if I were to go to my tiptoes, I’d be close enough to kiss him flits through my mind.
Not that I would.
I mean… I’m his client. It would be totally inappropriate.
But damn… he’s so handsome and well built. And… he smells so good tonight.
Just how long has it been since I’ve had sex?
“Barrett?” Cruce says, and I shake my head to clear it.
I blink, smiling. “Yes?”
“Had a funny look on your face,” he almost whispers, expression concerned. “You okay?”
Other than shamelessly wondering what it would be like to have sex with you, I’m totally fine.
“I’m good,” I say, which is a flat-out lie. But I step in just a bit closer, deciding I might as well enjoy dancing with this enigmatic man.
To my surprise, Cruce’s hold on me tightens just a bit, causing my breasts to brush against his chest. I suck in a breath, but I don’t read anything into it.
Nothing could ever come of it, anyway.
CHAPTER 6
Cruce
“Damn it, Barrett,” I growl as she heads out the front door. “Slow down a minute.”
But she’s gone, and a curse flies from my mouth as I finish lacing up my shoe.
Despite being out late last night for the State dinner, Barrett was up half an hour earlier than usual. Apparently, it doesn’t matter it’s Saturday and most people are enjoying a leisurely morning. To Barrett, it’s just another workday.
And it’s fine… I was already up, too, but I was surprised by the speed in which she completed her normal morning routine.
She always runs three miles, so I’d gotten dressed and ready for that. But I hadn’t expected her to forego her first cup of coffee while informing me she didn’t have time to waste on it.
“Going to that dinner last night was unproductive,” she’d told me just moments ago as she placed her earbuds in and tapped her music selection on her phone, which was attached to her arm with a running band. Her voice had risen when the music came on. “I’ve got so much I need to catch up on.”
Then she whirled around and jetted out of the kitchen before I finished my shoe.
I bolt after her even though she’s relatively safe seeing as there are two Jameson men stationed outside. Surprisingly, I find it amusing and endearingly cute that she’s even more serious about business this morning. It probably stems from her actually letting her metaphorical hair down last night.
She might want to deny it—even try to purge it by running head-first into her work as an escape, but Barrett had relaxed last night. I’ve never seen her that way. Quick to laugh—she’s got a great fucking laugh—and she’d been a pleasure to dance with. I’d been lucky enough to be her partner several times.
But it had been more fun just to talk to her in a loose, casual environment.
Once, when Barrett went off to the powder room, the president had even sidled up to me and slyly whispered, “You’re good for her, Cruce.” I’d stiffened, not liking the
implication in his words.
“Just doing my job, sir,” I’d replied, making sure my tone stayed flat and detached.
When he’d snickered, I felt like punching him for being so astute, but the idea of spending the rest of my life in prison had kept my fists clenched at my side. Clearly, Jonathan Alexander saw what I was feeling.
I’d been having a wonderful time with Barrett, which could only spell disaster.
While she’d woken up this morning ready to blaze new trails in her research, I’d opened my eyes and immediately wanted to put distance between us.
Of course, not the literal kind since I’m bound to my duty as her protector. I take the front porch steps two at a time, then make a sharp right to follow her normal route. She’s only half a block in front of me, her short blond ponytail bobbing as she sets her pace.
My legs are longer, though. By the time she reaches the first intersection, I’ve already caught up to her.
But I don’t run beside Barrett. I always hang back about five yards so I can keep an eye on our surroundings. Her residential neighborhood is quiet as expected on a Saturday morning—the usual bustle of an early weekday absent. A few people speed-walk toward the closest Metro station, cars creep slowly by, and a couple of early risers are getting in their runs. Today, there’s no wait time to cross at intersections, so we maintain a steady pace.
I’ve never had difficulty focusing on my job. Case in point… I shot a man dead without a moment’s hesitation because I was so attuned to Alexander’s safety I hadn’t thought twice about it. It’s why I’m so good at what I do.
Admittedly, though… it’s a bit of a struggle to keep my eyes off Barrett’s ass as she runs in front of me. Let’s face it… she has a phenomenal ass. Seeing the relaxed, fun side of her last night while she’d been so elegantly sexy in her dress, makes her delicious curves harder to ignore.
We make it three more blocks. Per her usual route, Barrett hangs a right which leads us into a small park. The winding path is bordered with cherry trees that dropped their blossoms several weeks ago.
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