My Bodyguard. Dana Marton

end of the couch. His movements weren’t as elegant as David’s. He was more soldierlike, watchful and alert, his dark gray eyes penetrating. There was effortless strength to everything he did, his posture, his gaze; it even came through in his voice. He was clearly used to giving orders, had grilled her for a good hour after the briefing he had received from Nick Tarasov and Brant Law.

      After spending most of the evening with him, skirting him warily in the small apartment, she hadn’t gotten a handle on him yet.

      He sat and kicked off his safari boots, then leaned back on the couch, rubbed a hand over his face as he looked around once again, his mouth set in a tight line of disapproval.

      David Moretti’s smooth and easygoing ways made her frazzled, but it took Reese’s brusque manner to get her really nervous. David had that benign, gentlemanly air about him. Reese didn’t.

      “You can have the bedroom if you want.” The words came out of her mouth without thought or intention.

      “Sofa’s fine.”

      “Is something wrong?” Now, why would she ask that? She should have just walked away. Her nerves made her mouth run.

      He watched her carefully for a long moment before he responded. “I spent the last four months in Uganda between two rebel factions, risking my team for a man who turned out to have been dead the whole time. We came back with seven gunshot injuries between the four of us.”

      Clearly, he didn’t want to be here. She wondered how Brant and Nick had managed to talk him into it. From the look on his face, he wasn’t going to be a lot of fun to be around.

      A single week, that was all. She could handle that standing on one foot. She’d been forced to put up with worse company in the past. The years she had spent at Brighton Federal Correctional Institute came to mind.

      “Okay, I’ll leave you to get some rest.” She backed toward her bedroom.

      “We don’t have much time. We’d better get to work,” he said, and when she looked at him blankly, added, “We are supposed to get to know each other.”

      What did he call the hour-long interrogation he’d put her through earlier in the kitchen? Or was he going to finally reveal more about himself? She drew a deep breath and walked back, sat gingerly in the armchair opposite him.

      “Nick Tarasov tells me you’re good with a gun,” he said with some undisguised doubt in his voice. “He seemed confident that you could handle yourself in a hand-to-hand tussle, too, in your own weight group.” He looked her over as if he was measuring her ounce by ounce and ended up with an expression that said she wasn’t quite up to snuff.

      She resisted the urge to pull herself taller. “I went through the training” was all she said.

      He raised a dark eyebrow. “So you think you can handle whatever comes your way?”

      “I’m not stupid.”

      The eyebrow went back down. There might have been a shadow of approval that crossed his face before he put forward his next question. “How long have we supposedly known each other?”

      “Three months.” That was how long she’d been out. Where had the time gone?

      “How much nudity are you comfortable with?” His gaze was sharp on her face, unflinching.

      The question brought her up short. What did that have to do with anything? And yet, after a second, she had to admit that the question was relevant. Cavanaugh thought Reese—pretending to be David—was her lover. She swallowed, her already frazzled nerves buzzing as if she were undergoing electroshock therapy. “Very little.”

      When you spent your teenage years on the streets, you strove to cover as much as possible, look as un-appealing as possible, as scary as possible. It had been part of her defense mechanism. She’d hidden behind the darkest of Goth looks, complete with chains and studded chokers, and complemented it all with a tongue and gaze as sharp as razors.

      Prison had taken away most of her props. Anita had been working on her to make her see the lack of necessity for the rest. She wasn’t quite there yet, but even Sam had to admit that she had mellowed. She was no longer frightened of everything, so in turn she no longer wanted to frighten anyone who so much as looked at her.

      The concept of nudity, however, especially in the same context with Reese, scared her. She searched for a cutting remark to disguise that fact.

      “We are going to a beach party,” he said dryly before she could come up with one.

      She had an image of topless cover models frolicking in the surf. Knowing Cavanaugh, it wasn’t impossible.

      “How far are you willing to go for this mission of yours?” Reese laid down the challenge.

      Putting it that way got her back up. “I’ll do what I have to.”

      “Good.” He nodded and extended his arm toward her. “Then come and sit on my lap.”

      It was the wrong thing to say. She was on her feet the next second. “Touch me and lose the hand.” The warning tore from her throat, hoarse and hard as a fist.

      He tilted his head and waited a beat. “For the next three days, we are supposed to pretend that we are madly in lust. How do you think we’ll pull that off when you look like you’re ready to jump out of your skin even with three feet between us?”

      She drew some air and let a couple of seconds tick by, straightened her back. Okay, so she’d overreacted. He wasn’t about to jump her. And he was right, once they got to Cavanaugh’s mansion, it would look suspicious if they never touched.

      She had to make herself get over it.

      She fisted then relaxed her hands, trying to swallow the memories in vain. She knew her face was getting whiter with every inch she moved toward him. Her muscles tensed. She stopped in front of him and fought to shrug off the temporary paralysis that clutched her.

      Stop it.

      This was stupid. He was Reese Moretti, the man who was going to keep her safe. He wasn’t Buck. He wasn’t like Buck at all.

      Pretend, she told herself. Pretend it doesn’t freak you out so bad that you can barely breathe.

      She looked into his face and could no longer find the disdain he’d shown since his arrival. He was watching her with a darkening expression.

      “Who was it?” he asked quietly, through clenched teeth.

      She could have pretended not to understand what he was asking, but she didn’t have the energy. All the starch had gone out of her, leaving her feeling weak.

      “My stepfather,” she said, and couldn’t stop the images in her head.

      Buck Cossner drank. When her mother wasn’t home, he drank a lot. And when he was drunk, he got mad. When he got mad, he hit her. Then he would feel bad and want to console her, no matter how hard she tried to tell him she was okay, no matter that she never cried. She’d been more afraid of his consoling than the beating. It’d always started with, I’m sorry, honey. Come sit on my lap.

      Chapter Two

      Reese stood, and she cringed, even though there was nothing threatening in his movements. If anything, he seemed an island of calm and strength. Even the bad-tempered look that she’d thought permanent was replaced by a softer expression.

      “Take it easy.”

      A part of her was staring at the transformation, at how handsome he was without the drawn-together brows and his mouth set in a flat, displeased line, how even the gray of his eyes changed. But the rest of her couldn’t help backing away a step. In a moment of conflicting emotions, instinct honed by years of bad experiences trumped everything. Goose bumps she couldn’t control rose on the bare skin of her arms.

      A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Is that why you ran away from home?” Then, when she