In Bed with the Bodyguard (4 page)

“I'm fine. Go back to sleep.”

“No.” She hopped off the bed, taking her pillow with her.

“Arianna,
I
won't be able to sleep knowing I kicked a beautiful woman out of bed in her own apartment.”

He'd called her beautiful. She shouldn't let his words warm her insides, but still, his compliment brought a smile to her lips. “Oh, I know. We can share the bed.” She turned back and crawled under the covers, her stomach jumping at the thought of Lance in her bed. Not that anything was going to happen. Well, nothing much. She wouldn't be completely opposed to a little snuggle or if their feet brushed against each other.

“Hell no.” His refusal came way too quickly for her liking.

“Why not? Will your girlfriend be jealous? It'll be purely platonic. Bring some of those blankets over here and roll them down the center of the bed. Problem solved.”

“I don't have a girlfriend, but I…”

“Tempted? I promise to keep my hands off you,” she said, smiling that he didn't have a girlfriend and knowing she'd have to sleep on her hands and have at least ten blankets dividing them to keep from rolling into his welcoming masculine heat. She'd already revised her opinion that he was a jerk. Lance was proving to be way more superhero than jerk. His willingness to stay and protect her went a long way toward softening her resistance to him.

“Will it shut you up?” He stood up from the couch. Each of his footsteps coming closer mimicked the pounding of her heartbeat.

“Yep.” She scooted close to the edge of the bed and lay back down. When his weight sank one side of the mattress, she rolled, then scooted back to the side. His warmth seeped through, offering her a comfort she hadn't felt in the ten months since her nightmare began. It would be so easy to inch closer, and let her hands wander over his body, but she reminded herself he'd bolt if she got bold. He'd made it clear he was fighting the attraction between them. Silly man. Why not take what she was offering? Then she froze and wondered what exactly she was offering. She was off relationships and Lance wasn't a one-night stand kind of guy. Looked like she'd be sharing a bed with a man and not having sex—a first.

It seemed she'd just shut her eyes when the sun blasted through her windows, waking her up. She sat up with a jolt and heard a noise coming from the bathroom. Sounded like someone was in her…shower? What kind of criminal broke in to shower in someone's home? Then it all came flooding back. Her dad, the gallery vandal, the sexy man who'd spent the night in her bed. She nearly laughed. Never had a man ever slept over and nothing happened, not even a good-night kiss. What a waste. Lance was hot, and he was in
her
shower. Naked. She should probably go see if he needed shampoo or his back scrubbed. It was the charitable thing to do.

Before she could act on her impulse, the shower stopped and silence fell as Lance stepped out of the bathroom, a white towel wrapped low on his hips. His tousled hair fell in all directions, dripping water down his muscular chest only lightly dusted with light brown hair. He had a full six-pack of abs that spoke to his dedication to staying in shape for his job, and he had those totally sexy hip lines going on.

Ari swallowed hard as he offered her a small, uneven smile.

“Morning. I was hoping to be dressed by the time you woke up. I'll grab my clothes and head back in there to change.”

“Don't bother on my account.” Her lust amped up at his appearance, and made her voice take on a throaty, breathy quality. She hoped he'd attribute it to the early morning.

She swallowed again at the quelling look he shot her.

“Don't do that,” Lance said. “I'm a professional, and I have no intention of hooking up because I happened to spend the night in your apartment.”

Ouch. Toss a bucket of ice on her arousal. She couldn't remember the last time a male had resisted her flirtatious advances. Not that she should advance anywhere near Lance, no matter how good he looked wrapped only in white terry cloth.

“I wasn't going for a hookup,” she said in her sternest voice. “I
meant
that I see you strictly in the bodyguard sense and not in
that
way.”
Liar, liar Donna Karan pants on fire.

There. Let him refute that or make her feel like an airheaded flirt. She reached over to her nightstand and grabbed her cell phone, pretending to check for messages. Like anyone had called her between one a.m. and eight a.m.

“So I could drop my towel, and you wouldn't even look?” he asked, but his lips quirked and there was a laugh hidden in his words.

Was
he joking? She moved her gaze back to the phone in case he was serious. If she even caught a glimpse of what was hidden under that towel, she couldn't be held responsible for her actions. “Huh? I'm busy over here.” She kept feigning phone action with her head down, pressing icons until she got to the camera feature. If Lance was dropping the towel, she was documenting it.

But to her deep disappointment, he grabbed his clothes and headed back into the bathroom. She took advantage of his absence to check her breath against her cupped hand then pick out her own clothes for the day, which was never an easy process. Some people collected books or stamps. Ari collected clothes. Lucky for her, her trust fund could support her habit. Not that she was a designer snob—who cared if an outfit came from Gucci or the Gap? Cute was cute.

“I'm finished with the bathroom, if you need it,” Lance said, exiting and heading over to her desk. “Mind if I check my email? I can use my phone, but typing long responses on it sucks.”

“No, go ahead.”

“Any password to get on?”

“No.”

“You should change that,” he said, sounding every inch the security agent. “I bet you have the same password for your email and a lot of your online accounts.”

“Of course not,” she lied. “And I
should
do a lot of things, but I lead a charmed life. No viruses yet.” She could almost feel the derision at her carefree attitude boiling off him. Just because he chose to lead a life fighting the threat of militants, hackers, and crazies didn't mean she had to live to his standards.

“What are you doing over there, anyway?” he asked.

Ari continued to stand in front of the loft wall she'd converted into closet space. A metal hanging rack spanned the length of an entire wall, every inch covered in hangers. “I'm picking an outfit. Fashion is more than mere clothing.” She selected a honey-colored trench coat dress and a chunky turquoise necklace. A perfect undercover theme for a day spent in an agent's presence.

“Huh? Do I even want to know?” he asked.

“Probably not. Do what you need to do online, and I'll be ready to drive you to your apartment soon.”

A while later she stepped out of the bathroom and slid her feet into strappy heels.

“Took you long enough,” Lance said from the couch. “The
Today
show is already at the cooking segment.”

Ari glanced at the screen, then shrugged. “Did you have someplace you needed to be?”

Lance stood. “No, but half your morning was wasted getting dressed.”

She pirouetted in front of him. “You call this ‘wasted'? Stop whining. There's a method to my madness. By starting out now, we won't sit in the morning rush hour traffic.”

Lance bit his tongue in an effort not to shout at her or drool; both were tempting. He felt madness coming on, but whether it was because he'd sat on a couch all morning watching Matt Lauer or because of the woman circling in front of him, he couldn't say.

“Fine, it wasn't wasted, because you look fabulous.” Her wide responding smile was worth conceding the compliment. So much for maintaining professionalism.

No, her morning efforts weren't wasted, but he'd thought she was beautiful sleeping in bed beside him this morning, wearing a faded tank top and no makeup. Though the finished product was pretty spectacular. Her funky coat/dress thingy buttoned to just below her breasts, showing enough cleavage to get him salivating.

His measured steps followed the clack of her heels down the stairs to the alley in back of her gallery, where her Mini Cooper convertible was parked.

“Thanks for turning off the lights. I always forget.” She turned to smile at him.

“No problem. I'm doing my part to stop global warming.”

“Well, this little darling is my solution,” she said, caressing the black cloth roof of the car in a way he wanted to be touched by her.

“Cute toy car,” he said, folding his tall body into the bucket seat.

“Isn't it?” She obviously loved the thing. “If you want to drive your car here, I can park to the right so you have room.”

“Thanks, but I don't have a car.”

“What?” She looked shocked by his admission; she nearly backed into her neighbor's recycling bins. “How can you not have a car? You live in Virginia.”

She said “Virginia” as though it were Mars. “What's wrong with Virginia?” he asked, ready to do battle for his beloved commonwealth.

“Nothing. It's not Georgetown.”

He snorted. “I don't get what's appealing about crowds of college and high-school kids invading your neighborhood every weekend. And parking is a bitch.”

“What do you care? You don't have a car.” She darted into traffic on 32nd Street with a boldness that put him to shame. Except he usually drove in a full motorcade with all roads cleared of traffic, not dozens of cars zipping by.

“I take the Metro to work and drive a government-issued car there. For days off, I have my Harley…Watch the road.” He grabbed the door handle bar instead of the wheel as his instincts screamed.

“You on a Harley. Now that I'd want to see. Do you wear leather? Chaps? Helmet? No helmet?”

He shook his head at her barrage of questions. “No on the leather. Yes to a helmet. Always.”

“Of course.”

“What does that mean?” His defensive hackles rose. Arianna managed to get under his skin faster than any woman in recent memory other than his mother. Except he didn't want to yank his mother on his lap and kiss the taunts off her lips. The thought had him shuddering.

“I meant you're a rule follower. You even turned it into your career.” She turned onto the Key Bridge, nearly hitting a biker.

“What's wrong with being a rule follower, not that I admit to being one? My parents would disagree with you, by the way. I never listened to any of the rules they laid down for me.”

“Strict parents, huh? Did you run off to the army right after high school? Trade one set of rules for another?” She glanced at him with a sideways grin.

“Something like that,” he said, thinking of his parents' high expectations. Standards that he'd rarely met. He hadn't even managed to go to the right Ivy League. Penn instead of Yale. “Turn off here. My apartment is on the right.”

Back at her gallery an hour later, Ari hung up with the glass company. “They'll be here tomorrow morning. They could've come today, but it would be a huge extra cost to get them out here on a Sunday.”

“Um-hm,” Lance said from a corner of the gallery. He'd changed from his worn jeans into chinos and a collared shirt. To look more professional, he'd claimed.

“So what now?” she asked. “Should we look for clues or dust for fingerprints?”

He put down his magazine with a picture of sweaty basketball players on the cover. “The police already did that, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do your thing. Go about your day as you normally would. By Monday, the security company I called should be able to start around-the-clock surveillance. For now I'll stay with you until Monday. My job is to fade into the background and protect you.”

“Fade into the background? Don't Secret Service agents usually wear dark suits, an earpiece, and stand like statues in front of the person they're protecting?”

“Under normal circumstances, yes, but I'm undercover today.”

“Okay then. I'll ignore you. Go about my day.” Yeah, that was going to happen when a sexy J.Crew model type was taking up way more than his allotted breathing room in her gallery. “Uh-oh.” Ari stared out the small window in the gallery door and took a hasty step back, then another, until she brushed Lance's arm with her elbow.

Without her big picture window, there'd been less warning.

“What? What's wrong?” Lance tossed the magazine aside and was in front of her in an instant.

“Follow my lead,” she said under her breath to Lance. His brow furrowed, but he kept silent. Thank God.

The gallery door flew open.

“Mr. Sorenson,” she said with a large false smile plastered on her face as she greeted the silver-haired, dapper man entering the gallery. “Have you come to look at the Ridley piece?”

“Arianna, I've told you to call me Peter. Good friends don't stand on formalities, do we?”

“No, of course not,” she said through clenched teeth, trying to avoid his hug and kiss, but only managing to avoid his lips touching her by millimeters. It was the same story every few weeks. Mr. Sorenson stopped into the gallery to flirt, pretend to look at paintings he'd probably never buy, and drop unsubtle hints about asking her out.

“Mr. Sorenson, may I introduce you to my boyfriend, Lance Brown. Lance, darling, this is Mr. Sorenson, one of my frequent gallery visitors. One of these days, I'll get to call him customer, right?”

Take that, Sorenson. Put up or shut up.
But the art world was a funny one, and you never knew. Someday Sorenson could walk in and drop a few grand on some pieces from her collection. Until that day, she'd flirt and fend off his advances.

She grabbed Lance's hand and pulled him into her side, then wrapped her am around him, rubbing her body against him. Might as well get something out of the sham, and the chance to feel Lance's strong abdominal muscles through the soft cotton of his shirt was a total bonus. How far could she go with this? Could she get in an ass grab?