Killian (Dance with the Devil 3)

by Carole Mortimer

  He shrugged those wide, and still very naked, shoulders. “Maybe, if I wasn’t your bodyguard.”

  Was the answer to the dilemma of being half in love with her bodyguard for years really as simple as that? Did it basically come down to a clash between his work ethic and her attraction to Killian in turn creating a need in her to get a reaction out of him in any way she could?

  She swallowed before answering. “Then yes, I would accept.”

  Something, a barely-there emotion, flared in those deep green eyes before it was quickly masked. “Good to know.”

  “Is it?” She watched intently as his muscles flexed when he bent to pick up his trousers before pulling them on and refastening them. He put on his shirt next, but he left it unfastened, leaving his hair-roughened chest still visible.

  “Yeah,” he confirmed huskily.

  She drew in a shaky breath. “Killian—”

  “Not now, Natalia.” He stepped forward to gently caress her hair away from her temple, his fingertips soft against her skin. He was also standing close enough Natalia could feel the heat of his body seeping into hers. “I’m sorry I spanked you.”

  Natalia wasn’t sure she was, not if it had ultimately led to this revealing conversation. In a hotel bathroom, of all places. But Killian had definitely admitted that if he weren’t her bodyguard, he would invite her out to dinner.

  Those smacks on her bottom had also aroused her more than she’d ever been before. Her nipples still tingled, and between her thighs felt slick with her lubricating cream.

  She gazed up at him. “I’m sure if I wasn’t me and you weren’t you, it might have been an arousing experience for both of us.”

  The last of Killian’s tension left him as he chuckled. “I’ve never felt the need or inclination to spank a woman before tonight.”

  “Yay for me. That makes me a first for you in something.” She could celebrate that, even if it pained her to think of him with another woman.

  A frown appeared between his eyes as Natalia did her best to withstand his searching gaze.

  She feigned a yawn. “I’m feeling very tired all of a sudden, so I think I’ll take a quick bath, then go to bed. Alone.” She stood on tiptoe so that she could kiss him on the cheek. “Good night, Killian.”

  Killian recognized a dismissal when he heard one. Even if it came with a kiss on his cheek.

  Which, along with everything else that had happened since they returned to the hotel tonight, was another step over the line of client and bodyguard.

  Which he could think about later. Right now, Natalia was looking at him expectantly as she waited for him to vacate her bathroom.

  Something he now felt a deep reluctance to do.

  But he couldn’t do this now, not when he was still responsible for Natalia’s safety. Maybe later, once he’d been replaced as her bodyguard, he could think about making that invitation to take her out to dinner…

  Who was he kidding!

  No longer being Natalia’s bodyguard still didn’t put her in Killian’s league. Desiring her was something Killian could do little about, but deciding to do anything about it and expecting a positive outcome would be sheer stupidity on his part.

  This was real life, not a movie, and Natalia would still be the daughter of the powerful billionaire Mafia capo dei capi in the morning, just as Killian would still be the son of a man who had only been a lowly foot soldier with the Irish Mob. A man who, more often than not, had also been snowed under with gambling debts he couldn’t pay and a young son he’d neglected in favor of both those pursuits.

  Under those circumstances, Killian and Natalia would normally never have even met.

  “Good night, Natalia.” He took a step back from the temptation of the woman looking up at him so trustingly, knowing she wouldn’t still be looking at him that way if she knew some of the fantasies he’d had about her.

  Raw and earthy fantasies where Killian took and claimed Natalia in every way possible: her mouth, her pussy, her arse.

  Dear God, how would it feel to lick and taste her between those delicious arse cheeks before his cock breached that hole and he buried himself inside her tight heat? Was Natalia still a virgin there? The innocence he sometimes glimpsed in her, the occasional shocked gasps she gave at hearing a risqué comment, before it was quickly masked by an affected air of dismissal, said there was a possibility she was.

  Her pleasure a few minutes ago at learning she was the first woman he’d ever spanked was no match for the primal possessiveness he now felt at the idea of being the first to give her anal pleasure.

  He’d never done that with any other woman before either, but this woman, and only this woman, brought out the fecking caveman in him, along with a need to possess and own every inch of her.

  He looked down at the half-crescent marks on his wrist where Natalia’s nails had drawn blood earlier. The savagery of the act implied there was a cavewoman inside her too.

  Killian knew instinctively they would be beautiful together. That their lovemaking would be an epic give and take like no other for either of them, before or after.

  And then they would have to say goodbye.

  Because Killian was no longer capable of being the emotionally removed bodyguard and Natalia could no longer trust him to be that for her either.

  He was fucked if he did and equally as fucked if he didn’t.

  “Killian?”

  He roused himself from his thoughts long enough to offer her a weary smile. “Get some sleep,” he encouraged. “After all, you have a dinner date with your dashing middle-aged French count tomorrow.”

  Her wince looked pained. “It isn’t that sort of dinner.”

  “Then what sort is it?”

  Natalia wished she could share the answer to that with Killian, but she still felt an uncertainty and intense vulnerability in regard to the outcome of her dinner with Henri.

  For months now, years really, she’d been designing and making drawings of fashionable clothes. A month ago, after accidentally revealing that hobby to Henri following one too many glasses of champagne, he’d persuaded her to leave her portfolio with him so he could look at those designs after her father had unexpectedly requested she join him in London. Initially, she’d only intended being gone for a matter of days, but then her father had met Carla, and their wedding just a couple of weeks later had made her absence a month rather than a few days. Tomorrow night, over dinner, Henri would tell her if he thought she had any future in the fashion industry.

  Going to university had never been something Natalia had aimed for or wanted. Instead, from a very young age, she’d wanted to design her clothes. To that end, she’d honed her drawing skills while at school, solely with the intention of being able to sketch her own fashion designs.

  As she got older and her figure revealed itself as being fuller rather than reed thin no matter how much she tried to diet or visited the gym, the clothes she designed had become ones for women with that same curvaceous figure. Flattering and beautiful clothes those women could be proud to wear and be seen in.

  From a business point of view, with more and more women happy to take on a fuller figure, Natalia had decided there had never been a more perfect time to introduce her designs to the public. Exclusive designs, especially with the more curvaceous woman in mind.

  Her dinner with Henri tomorrow night would tell her whether or not she’d been wasting her time.

  She shrugged. “It’s just as an apology from Henri for not being able to join us this evening,” she dismissed, her gaze not quite meeting Killian’s.

  The tightening of his jaw told her he knew she was being evasive.

  No doubt he would draw his own conclusions as to why that was.

  Chapter Six

  Killian, much to the restaurant’s maître d'’s annoyance, sat alone at a table just inside the entrance of this exclusive French restaurant. Killian had ordered all the cutlery and wineglasses be removed and ordered only a bottle of sparkling water wit
h a tall glass. The Brunelli name, and slipping the man a hundred Euro note, had helped to smooth some of his ruffled feathers. But he had still made it obvious he didn’t appreciate having to seat some of his regular customers at another table merely to accommodate Killian, who wasn’t even eating, at one of the best tables in the restaurant.

  Killian didn’t give a shit. This table in the corner of the room was perfectly situated for him to be able to keep an eye on the comings and goings at the front door of the restaurant, as well as have a clear view down the hallway where the restrooms were.

  As usual, he had the backup of Luke standing guard outside the front of the restaurant and Evan at the back.

  To Killian’s annoyance, Henri Asselin had reserved a table in the middle of the room, where Natalia now sat alone and looking slightly vulnerable, despite trying to appear as if she wasn’t while she casually sipped from a glass of wine and waited for the count to arrive.

  The Frenchman was late.

  Arrogant bastard!

  No one should ever keep Natalia waiting. For anything. And yet this prissy-arsed French count appeared to think he could do exactly that. Killian would like to take the other man outside for five minutes and demonstrate just how much he disapproved of his tardiness.

  In the meantime, Natalia was looking more and more uncomfortable, her alone state, seated at a table set for two, making her the focus of curiosity from several of the other diners.

  That wasn’t necessarily completely due to her sitting alone. Natalia simply wasn’t a woman many overlooked, male or female. Tonight, she looked especially gorgeous in a dress Killian had never seen before. The royal-blue gown appeared demure from the front, with its high neckline and capped sleeves. Even its three-inches-above-the-knee-length was modest compared to the clothes Natalia usually wore. But the moment she’d taken her coat off when they arrived and turned to give it to the attendant, Killian had seen that the back of the gown was…well, the best way of describing it was missing. Apart from a one-inch bar of material stretched between her shoulder blades and attaching one side to the other. Otherwise, it clearly revealed the silkily smooth and bare length of Natalia’s back.

  Killian had glared at several of the male diners when Natalia arrived, and their gazes had lingered a little too long on all that exposed and creamy flesh.

  A glance at his watch showed him the count was now twenty minutes late, which Killian knew, in France, would be classed as being merely fashionably late. In the States, it was unacceptable behavior, and if someone had left Natalia this long in a New York restaurant, waiting for their arrival, then she would normally have left by now.

  Did that mean the handsome Frenchman meant more to her than the other men who flocked around her wherever she went?

  Killian’s mouth thinned at the thought of that being the case.

  Natalia was starting to fidget in earnest now as she picked up the porcelain salt pot and then put it down again. She then adjusted the single rose in a vase in the center of the table before shifting her wine and water glasses one inch to the right.

  If that arrogant fucker didn’t turn up soon, Killian was going to stand up and go and sit down at the table with her himself.

  Not that he thought for a moment she would welcome his company.

  There’d been a definite chill between the two of them earlier today when Natalia finally left her bedroom to leave for her dinner appointment. She’d had breakfast and lunch in her bedroom, so it was the first time they’d met again since the incident the previous night in her bathroom.

  The incident?

  Jesus, that made it sound like he had accidentally fallen out of his clothes, revealing his cock was hard and leaking. The fullness of his erection had seemed to visibly throb when, seconds later, he watched Natalia strip down to her lace underwear. After which, he had compounded the already incendiary situation by putting her over his knee and spanking her.

  There’d been nothing accidental about any of those things.

  No wonder Natalia had chosen to remain in her room all day today.

  Killian had spent a restless and sleepless night, and by the time dawn broke, he knew he had no choice but to contact Leon and request he send one of the other Price men to take Killian’s place. For Natalia’s protection.

  His own reluctance to be parted from Natalia, to leaving someone else protecting her, was the only thing stopping Killian from having already made that call.

  Being angry at the tardiness of a self-absorbed French count was a good way of venting his anger and frustration.

  Five more minutes, and the two of them were out of here.

  There was a sudden flurry of movement near the entrance of the restaurant, accompanied by the joyful greeting of the maître d' who earlier had made his disapproval of Killian’s mere existence more than obvious. He was now greeting the newcomer so effusively, Killian thought the man’s snobby nose was going to scrape on the floor because he was bowing so low.

  Killian glowered at Count Henri Claude Julien Asshole—Asselin—notable French fashion designer, when the other man finally brought his titled arse into the restaurant.

  Despite the two men having met several times, the Frenchman didn’t acknowledge Killian’s presence. The other man’s attention was fixed completely on Natalia as she rose to accept his greeting with several kisses on each cheek.

  The first time Killian had seen the other man greet Natalia with such familiarity, he had almost marched over and grabbed the back of his tailored jacket to remove him from such close proximity to her.

  Killian had since learned that la bise, as these multiple kisses on the cheeks were called, was an accepted French greeting between family and friends.

  But that still didn’t mean he had to like it. Or the expression of uncharacteristically shy pleasure on Natalia’s face as she resumed her seat before the count moved to sit opposite her.

  For the next hour and a half, Natalia and the Frenchman appeared totally unaware of the other diners as they talked softly and intently together. Food was ordered but barely eaten, by Natalia, at least, and still the pair—Killian refused to call them a couple, even in his thoughts—seemed totally engrossed in each other to the exclusion of all else.

  The mood shifted between them when they reached the coffee stage of their meal. Their expressions had become more earnest, and one of the count’s hands reached out to lightly clasp Natalia’s as it rested on the tabletop.

  Killian repressed the growl that rose in his throat as he witnessed the intimacy, barely able to restrain himself from standing up to cross the room and tell the fecker to get his soft, manicured fingers off the woman Killian—

  His thoughts skidded to an abrupt halt.

  Because he couldn’t go there.

  Until he or Natalia did something to change the situation, she remained under his protection. He’d already put that protection under severe jeopardy with his behavior the previous night; he daren’t even think of what his own emotions were right now, let alone acknowledge them.

  He gave another low growl when the count stood to move around the table and pull Natalia’s chair back before she rose regally to her feet with the obvious intention of leaving. There followed another round of la bise before Natalia turned to walk through the busy restaurant.

  One glance at Natalia’s set and unsmiling features, the pallor of her cheek, and the feverish glitter in her eyes, revealed that she was upset. Not angry, but upset.

  Killian immediately let Evan and Luke know that Natalia was leaving the building.

  For a brief moment, Killian thought about delaying his own departure long enough to question the Frenchman as to why Natalie looked to be almost in tears. But he needed to stay close to her, not cause a scene by hitting the famous fashion designer in one of Paris’s most prestigious restaurants. Leon’s name would probably ensure Asselin didn’t press charges, but not before Natalia’s name had been dragged into the whole sorry mess.

  Killian settled for sho
oting the other man a narrow-eyed glare of warning before striding out to join Natalia.

  She didn’t look at him as they stepped outside or as he signaled for their car. Or when he held the back door open for her to get inside before he followed her and indicated for the driver to take them back to their hotel. Her expression remained set and unapproachable, but the glitter in her eyes seemed to have increased.

  Fuck, they really were tears.

  Killian knew from past experience that it took a lot to make Natalia cry.

  What the hell had that French fecker said to her to make her look as if she was going to burst into tears at any moment?

  Killian now regretted not giving in to the impulse he’d had in the restaurant a few minutes ago to punch the other man on his aristocratic nose, and to hell with whether or not it caused enough of a scene for Killian to find himself arrested and in a French cell.

  Natalia’s dream of one day becoming a world-renowned fashion designer was over.

  What was it Henri had said of her designs?

  Out of touch with today’s fashion.

  Lacking vision.

  Worst of all—amateurish.

  Along with the advice that the best thing for her to do was to “return to your gangster father in New York and take your pit bull of a bodyguard with you.”

  She’d been surprised by that remark, but Henri had quickly covered up his lapse with flowery comments of how beautiful she looked today.

  Natalia had barely listened to him anyway after he had said her designs were without the flair necessary for her to ever become a successful name in the world of fashion.

  The final humiliation had been Henri’s offer to have the portfolio of her designs delivered back to her hotel tomorrow, and to ask if perhaps she had any more recent designs, a sketchpad of them or similar, that he could look at and give his opinion. That perhaps they might have more promise than the drawings in her portfolio.

  Humiliation was one thing, pity was something else, and Natalia refused to tolerate it.

  Before leaving the restaurant, she’d lied and told Henri there was no sketchpad, and for him to also dispose of the designs in her portfolio. She saw little point in holding on to dozens of useless drawings that would only serve as a reminder of her failure.