Hard Justice

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#uff2aa8e5-ec97-5de1-a331-cf4a6cef63ec)

WHEN THE DOORBELL RANG, Fallon Wade’s heart jumped into a beat so furious, it stole her breath. He was here. She wasn’t ready, would never be ready, but she hadn’t been given a choice.

Opening her bedroom door very quietly, she tiptoed to the staircase landing and peeked over.

Her father and mother stood before the man, in her line of vision. But it didn’t matter. He towered over them and it’d take a giant to block him. Holy smokes. He had to be at least six-five.

Muscles bulged everywhere. Like...seriously. Everywhere. Shoulders, biceps, chest, neck; he stood in a casual pose, if a brick wall could ever be casual.

Dark hair stuck up in a messy faux hawk. An untrimmed goatee mixed with beard shadow covered a hard, square jaw. And his nose...well, his nose looked as if it had been broken. At least once.

Or maybe multiple times.

Oddly none of that detracted from his extremely rugged good looks, but rather added a dangerous, sexy edge. He certainly looked more than capable of providing protection.

While her father, no doubt a little shell-shocked, prattled on about what was and wasn’t acceptable for his “precious daughter,” the man shifted his weight, crossed his arms and, with polite impatience, listened.

Until he glanced up at her.

It was a passing glance at first, as if he’d felt her scrutiny and was only mildly curious. But then those dark sinner’s eyes shot back and locked onto her.

Fallon couldn’t have been more flustered if he’d reached out and touched her.

Her father, realizing he’d lost his audience, jerked around to see her, too, and then her mother, as well.

Busted.

With all eyes on her, Fallon cleared her very dry throat and squeaked, “I’ll be down in a minute.” Escaping back into her room with alacrity, she closed the door and collapsed against it.

Hand to her thundering heart, she thought, potent.

Definitely macho.

And big. Oh, so big.

Not at all what she’d been expecting.

Okay, maybe having a protection detail wouldn’t be so bad after all. She had prepared to meet the usual Men in Black clone with the requisite suit, dark glasses and grim expression.

Instead, he wore sneakers, faded jeans and a graphic T-shirt with an open flannel for added warmth. If she hadn’t heard her father lecturing, she would have assumed him to be someone else.

Maybe a landscaper.

Or, given his cross demeanor, something more nefarious—like a burglar.

It took Fallon a few seconds more to get her feet moving, then she darted to the closet with new excitement. Shoot, even having a bodyguard would be an adventure when the bodyguard looked like him.

She stepped into her flat-heeled shoes, found a cardigan to pull on over her top and chose a scarf to drape around her neck. She didn’t particularly like the outfit, but no way would she make him wait while she went through her wardrobe.

After one last fluff of her brown hair and a quick swipe of gloss over her lips, Fallon squared her shoulders, filled her lungs with a fortifying breath for courage and ventured forth.

The second she stepped out, she heard his deep voice and paused to listen.

“No need to worry. I’ll cover her.”

Her father choked, turned it into a cough, and said with authority, “She is not to be alone. Not for a single second.”

“Promise I’ll stick real close.”

Alarmed, her father corrected, “But not too close.”

“Just close enough, then.”

“No one is to get too cozy with her either.”

“No cozy shenanigans,” he said. “Got it.”

“She’s naive and doesn’t understand that thugs—” here her father paused for effect, his narrowed gaze on the man “—might try to use her to get to her wealth.”

“Yeah? That’s happened before?”

“Well...no.” Her father harrumphed in that familiar way that showed his annoyance. “But it’s a very real concern.”

“Anyone know her itinerary?” the man asked.

“Even we don’t know it,” her mother explained.

“That’s good then. Not like anyone can plan to use her if they don’t know where she’ll be.” The bodyguard sounded accepting of all the rules. “Don’t sweat it.”

Fallon strangled on a breath. Dear God, he’d just told her mother not to “sweat it.” In her memory, no one had ever spoken to the refined Mrs. Rothschild Wade in such a way.

It was, Fallon decided, somewhat hilarious.

“I realize it all seems extreme,” her father said. “But Fallon is delicate.”