Her Bodyguard

Her wine, she realized, recognizing the label. Her heart was still stampeding, but fright was giving way rapidly to rage. How dared he simply walk in like this? “Wh-what d’you think you’re doing here?”

The cork popped softly. He poured the bardolino into two glasses.

“Well?” she demanded, throwing her sweater on the couch and stalking toward him. The creep had kept a key to her apartment—that much was obvious!

He lifted the glasses, began to walk toward her—and stopped, his eyes dropping to her legs.

Which were bare below her nylon gym shorts. As were her arms, since she wore a sleeveless T-shirt. She swerved toward the sweater she’d abandoned too hastily, then stopped herself. Show no fear. With the thought, a twinge of alarm skated along her nerve endings. He was very large and already he’d proven he didn’t respect normal boundaries.

“I thought your first day at Woodwind was a little... rough and you deserved a drink.” Trace handed her a glass.

“Of my own wine?” If she dashed her drink in his eyes, would that slow him down enough? The distance to her door was twelve steps at least, and then she’d have to throw the dead bolt. Remembering the speed with which he’d crossed the office that morning, she abandoned the notion as soon as it formed.

“I’ll do better next time,” he assured her.

There won’t be a next time, buddy! Was he that vain that he thought he could simply barge into a woman’s apartment and be welcome? That with one smoldering look she’d fall into bed with him? Granted, no woman could deny his appeal, but still...

And what about Lara? God, she’d forgotten Lara! Trace wasn’t just a sexy lout; he was Lara’s lout. Too angry to speak, she took a gulp of the wine. And rattled as she was, she tipped the glass too far.

A drop dribbled past her bottom lip and fell. “Damn!” On the slope of her breast, a blood-red spot stained the white cotton.

She looked up to find his eyes aimed at her heart, his pupils gone wide and black as gun bores. His eyes lifted to hers, then slowly one of his dark eyebrows rose in a question. Well?

As she imagined his lips on her breast, his hands clamped on her waist, the pressure of his mouth bending her backward, a wave of raw heat washed through her. A tingling awareness spread from the back of her shaky knees and climbed. It didn’t matter that he was a vain and faithless brute—in his mind he was kissing her breast and in her mind she was responding helplessly. She turned away—felt his eyes caressing her hips and spun back again. “Get out!”

She stalked past him to the sink. Found a dishcloth and dabbed furiously at the spot. A useless effort, of course.

He came to lean on the counter beside her, so close she could feel the heat of his big body. Stood sipping wine and watching. “Seltzer?” he suggested huskily at last. “That’s what my sisters always use.”

Sisters, seltzer and spot removal. The sheer domesticity of the images banished fear. And there were rules at play here, even if she didn’t understand them. Trace wanted her, that was clear enough, but he wouldn’t use his size to take what he wanted—he’d have done so by now.

He expects me to give of my own free will? Oh, he was unspeakably vain! She threw down the dishcloth and wheeled. “I said, get out.”

He tipped his dark head in mocking acquiescence, then said, “May I finish my wine first?”

May I. Her sense of control grew with the question, and after a moment of icy silence, she nodded. She wanted him out—meant to have him out—but she didn’t need to make an enemy. Because faithless or not, Trace was Lara’s lover. She’d seen who won the battle over Lara’s car this afternoon. Trace had the clout at Woodwind. He could persuade Lara to fire her, if he really wanted to; of that she was certain now. So I walk a tightrope here.

He took another savoring sip. She watched his strong brown throat move as he swallowed. Another sip. He had a beautiful mouth, though very masculine. She could see why a woman might want him hanging around. Why he’d expect a woman to want him. Did Lara know he was unfaithful? Or was that simply an accepted part of the celebrity life-style? Maybe Lara didn’t care. Not everyone valued fidelity as Gillian did.

“You know, you’ve been worrying me,” he said softly, rousing her from her trance.

“Oh?” Her ever-ready sense of guilt came alive. She didn’t want to worry anyone at Woodwind. She’d come here to be the fly on the wall. To silently see all, then fly away. Bluff it out, she told herself. She lifted his empty glass from his fingers and set it emphatically on the counter, then tipped her head at the door and moved purposefully toward it.

He pushed off the counter and padded alongside her with the loose-limbed grace of a sleepy tiger. “I’ve decided that someone who...” He paused and let the silence stretch.

“Who...?” she prompted evenly. He’d noticed some discrepancy on her résumé? Or maybe—Reaching the door, she flipped the dead bolt and opened the door wide. Stood waiting for him to take the hint and go.

He moved one step into the doorway, then swung back, much too close to her. His hand rose slowly.