Romance In Paradise: Flirting with the Forbidden / Hot Island Nights / From Fling to Forever

Maybe him. Off the twenty-first-floor balcony!

Noah reached out, snagged the waistband of her pants and pulled her to a stop. ‘Cool your jets, Morgan, and take a breath.’

‘Let. Me. Go,’ Morgan muttered through clenched teeth.

‘No,’ Noah’s said.

His fingers were warm against the bare skin of her lower back. She cursed the tremors of attraction that radiated up her spine.

Noah kept his fingers bunched in her pants and moved round so that he was standing, far too close, in front of her. ‘Talk.’

More orders? ‘Bite me,’ she said again

‘Stop being a duchess and talk to me. Why are you so annoyed that I am guarding you?’

Morgan folded her arms across her chest to form a barrier between their bodies and glared up at him. ‘You didn’t want to listen to me when I spoke earlier—why should I bother talking to you now?’

Noah winced. ‘Okay, maybe we were a bit heavy-handed.’

‘Maybe?’

‘Don’t push it,’ Noah snapped back. ‘I wanted to be the one to guard you and I was damned if you were going to talk James out of it.’

Morgan glared at him. ‘Because I’m a way to get in with James for you to get more MI business.’

Noah’s eyes darkened with fury. ‘Stuff the MI business. I did it because no one will protect you as well as I will. Being kidnapped is not a walk down Madison Avenue, Duchess!’

‘Uh...’

Noah shoved his hand into his hair and tugged. ‘God, you live in this protected little world, kidnapping threats or not. You have no idea what happens to rich people who are ’napped. You want me to go into details?’

Morgan, her temper rapidly subsiding, shook her head.

‘So sue me for wanting to keep you safe above wanting to have sex with you!’ Noah roared, twin flags of temper staining his cheeks.

He stepped back from her and she could see that he was trying to control his temper. So he had one? Why did that reassure her rather than scare her?

Morgan tipped her head. ‘You don’t like losing control, do you?’

He lifted a finger and pointed it at her. ‘You...you...nobody spikes my temper like you!’

‘Ditto,’ Morgan replied quietly as green eyes clashed with blue. After a tense, drawn-out silence, Morgan raised her shoulders and spoke again. ‘Are you finished yelling at me?’

Noah released a long breath and slapped his hands across his chest. ‘Maybe.’

‘Okay, then.’ Morgan pushed her hair back behind her ears. ‘So, I’ll go and clean up the broken glass.’

Noah nodded. ‘I need to go downstairs for five minutes to pick up my bag and laptop.’

‘Well, at least I have a spare bedroom this time.’

Noah rubbed his forehead. ‘Does it have an inter-leading door that can stay open?’

Morgan shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Then we sleep with the doors open.’

‘That’s not necessary. We have two doormen, and this is one of the most secure buildings in the city.’

‘The doors stay open.’ Noah walked to the door and when he reached it turned to face her. ‘I can’t allow myself to be distracted by you, Morgan. Your safety depends on it. So help me out, okay? No propositions, no flirting, no walking around naked.’

There was that arrogance again, and she hated the fact that it turned her on. Determined to show him that he didn’t affect her, in any way, she lifted her nose in the air. ‘I’ll try and restrain myself.’

‘You do that, Duchess.’

* * *

Noah stood on the balcony in the bright sunshine and looked down into the leafy greenness of Central Park, idly noticing that the park was full of early-morning joggers, cyclists, walkers. Whoever would have thought that Noah Fraser, that angry boy from Glasgow, would be standing here looking at one of the best views in the city. Certainly not him. If he ignored the fact that Morgan was a kidnapping target and he couldn’t touch her now, it was one of those stunning spring days.

Spoilt, unfortunately, by his father’s voice whining in his ear...on and on and on.

Noah had been sixteen when he’d lost his mother and taken over the care of his paralysed and violently angry father and his two brothers, six and four years old. And if Michael had been a mean bastard on two legs then he’d become even worse on none.

Noah had cooked, cleaned and cared for his siblings while Michael had cursed God and cursed them. By keeping Michael’s attention directed on him, he’d managed to shield the kids from the worst of his verbal and—when he had the opportunity—physical abuse.

Noah had adored those little monsters, and it had nearly killed him when Social Services had moved them into the care of his aunt—his mother’s sister. It had been the right thing for them—Michael could have scarred a psychopath—but he’d felt as if his heart had been torn out of his ribcage. Aunt Mary had offered to take him in too, but someone had had to look after Michael; his mam would have turned in her grave if he’d been left on his own.

‘You might be poor, Noah, but poor men can act with honour too.’

‘What is honour exactly, Mam?’

‘It’s taking responsibility and keeping your word. Seeking the truth and acting with integrity. Doing the right thing whether people are looking or not. Being better than your circumstances.’

Those words, part of a discussion they’d had a couple of months before her death, had defined the rest of his life.

It was because of those words that he’d endured three years of being belittled, insulted, punched when he was within range, before he’d cracked. It had been the most terrifying moment of his life when he’d come back to himself and realised he was holding...

Don’t think about it. Don’t remember. Put it back into the cage you keep it in.

He seldom relived the full memory of that horrible day, but every day he recalled how close he’d come to the edge after losing control. The consequences of which would have been far-reaching and...dismal. Catastrophic.

The very next day he’d joined the army—the best decision of his life. Yeah, it had been tough at first, but he’d got three square meals every day and, while he’d been shouted at all the time, he’d realised that it wasn’t personal. He’d tolerated it at first and then he’d loved it; it had become, in a way, an inadequate substitution for the family he’d lost.

He’d moved around in the Forces, eventually ending up in the SAS.

Before leaving for Catterick, for his initial training, he’d arranged for a local care-giver to provide Michael with the help he needed: cooking, cleaning and, he’d hoped, occasional bathing. The cost of his care had come out of his meagre army salary, but it had been a small price to pay for his freedom.

He was still paying.