Necessary Risk (Bodyguard) (16 page)

“Think so. It was all pretty civil.”

“There’s something about that guy I don’t like,” said Zack. “Every time I see him on TV, he seems so fake.”

“He does,” said Ian. “Something disingenuous about that bloke. No one’s that perfect.”

“That was Antonio’s take too,” said Sean, nodding in agreement.

Carter tipped his head toward the kitchen. “Does she think he could be involved?”

Sean took a sip of his beer and shook his head. “No.”

“Oh, man,” said Zack, his eyes glued to the TV. “Check out the ring girl. Damn.”

They all watched in appreciative silence as a petite, stacked blonde walked around the caged octagon, holding a placard above her head.

Sierra came back into the living room, a couple of bottles of beer in her hands. And there was that tug in his chest again. That damn
need
he couldn’t seem to shake. She avoided looking his way as she came in, handing a bottle each to Carter and Ian.

She pulled her phone out of her back pocket and froze. “What the hell?” She stood near the edge of the room, staring at her phone. Sean was on his feet immediately.

“What is it?”

She passed him her phone and paced away, her hands on her hips. One single text message, once again from an unknown, private number. Probably another damn burner.

We can always find you. You can change your number. You can hide behind security. But as long as you’re working for Choices, you’re not safe.

He followed Sierra into the kitchen and watched her slam things around as he forwarded the text message and its details to Antonio. Sean had spoken to him earlier that day, and he’d sent a patrol officer to come pick up the package. The police were now checking it for fingerprints and other evidence. So far Sacrosanct had been smart, covering its tracks thoroughly.

“How did they get my new number?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have it changed again.”

“What’s going on?” asked Carter from behind him, and he turned to find the entire team standing in the entryway to the kitchen.

“Another text message,” said Sean, passing Sierra’s phone over for the guys to look at.

“Bastards,” said Ian, shaking his head.

“Yeah, well, those bastards are gonna have to get through all of us first,” said Carter, crossing his tree-trunk arms over his chest.

“And like hell we’re gonna let that happen,” added Jamie, nodding emphatically.

Zack and Ian nodded too, and Sean stepped toward Sierra. “We’ve got you. I forwarded the text to Antonio so he can add it to the evidence. In the meantime we’re going to keep doing what we’re doing.” He took another step closer, hating the guarded way she watched him. “You
are
safe. I promise. And I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

Something softened in her expression, some of the wariness in her green eyes receding, and then she pressed her hands to her face, her shoulders starting to shake.

Oh, shit. The guys all looked at each other with panicked expressions.

“I’m not crying because I’m scared,” she said from underneath her hands after several seconds, hiccupping out a few sobs. “I’m just overwhelmed. With everything.” She sniffled and rubbed her hands over her face, smearing her mascara. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Ian, stepping forward and laying a hand on Sierra’s shoulder. “Anyone would feel overwhelmed. It’s only natural. You’re handling it beautifully, lass. Truly.”

She started to cry harder.

Jamie socked Ian on the arm. “Good job, Mac.”

Sean couldn’t take any more of Sierra’s crying. Each tremble of her shoulders slammed into him, and he jerked his head toward the living room, silently asking his team to leave. They did, looking both worried and relieved.

“Shhh,” he whispered, stroking a hand over her hair. She lowered her hands, her eyes raw and tired. Something passed between them, and even though she hadn’t said anything, he knew what they both needed.

“Come here.” He pulled her into his arms, and she didn’t fight. He cradled her head against his chest, stroking a hand up and down her small back, not saying a word. Not trusting himself to.

He held her until her soft, shaking sobs subsided. Sacrosanct was going to fucking pay for this.

After a few minutes, she pulled back and laughed quietly. “I cried on you.” She wiped at the small wet spot on his T-shirt in the center of his chest. She was so small that she didn’t even reach his shoulder, and that made him want to shelter her even more.

“It’s OK. I can handle a few tears.”

She patted his chest and moved out of his arms. “Thanks.” He saw the wall go back up, and she retreated to the bathroom, wiping her eyes as she went.

He knew he shouldn’t, but he desperately wanted to knock that wall down.

Chapter 12

S
ierra dipped her roller into the tray of light-sage paint, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes with the back of one hand. She climbed up onto the small stepladder and rolled the paint onto the wall, wondering how many coats it would take before the bright-red “baby killer” didn’t show through. Carter had kindly helped her put on a coat of primer that afternoon, and now that it was dry, she was starting in on the first coat of fresh paint. She’d finally gotten permission from the police this morning to paint over the vandalism, and although she’d originally been planning to hire painters, she’d decided to do it herself. If she was basically housebound, she might as well take on a project. She’d spent the day reading the script and pacing around her house like a crazy person. Sometime around four she’d convinced Carter to take her to the store to get paint and supplies.

And painting would give her time to think. To try to sort through everything. Sacrosanct. Choices. Her unnerving attraction to Sean, and the snarl of emotions that brought with it.

She’d never been so unquestionably drawn to someone before, and that had to mean something. But he kept pushing her away. And yes, she understood his need to stay professional. But she also got the distinct impression that there was more to it than that. Maybe he was using the whole “keep things professional” thing as an excuse. Maybe he’d found something lacking or undesirable in her.

And yet he’d
wanted
to kiss her. He’d comforted her. Been kind to her. Was obviously attracted to her, if the massive erection she’d felt the other day was any indication. So maybe it was just about professionalism.

She shouldn’t have come on to him. It had been a mistake to open herself up like that, especially a second time, and it hadn’t been fair to him after he’d told her he couldn’t get involved with a client. Keeping her distance was the right thing to do. The respectful thing.

The safe thing.

So why was keeping her distance so hard? Why, if it
was
the right thing, did it feel wrong?

She rolled the paint as high on the wall as she could, stretching up onto her toes, grunting in frustration when she found she couldn’t quite reach the seam where the wall met the taped-off crown molding that ran along the ceiling. She tried again, gripping the roller’s handle a bit lower and stretching as much as she could. The stepladder wobbled, and she flailed her arms, trying to regain her balance, but it was no use. She let out a high-pitched “Eep!” as she braced herself for impact.

It didn’t come.

Strong arms slid around her waist, and her back bumped against a wide, solid chest. A familiar scent washed over her, a crisp, woody aftershave, a hint of clean cotton, and something subtle and masculine, and she knew Sean had caught her.

“Easy there.” Sean’s voice rasped against her ear as he set her down safely on the ground.

She set her roller back in the tray and stepped away, needing a little distance. She glanced at him over her shoulder, raising one eyebrow. “Taking this protector thing to a whole nother level, aren’t you?”

He saluted with two fingers. “Just doing my job, miss.”

She ducked her head, trying to hide the smile tugging at her lips. He looked around, his hands on his hips. “Did you do this all by yourself?” he asked, surveying the large sideboard that had been pushed up against the dining room table in the center of the room. Drop cloths covered the furniture and the hardwood floor, protecting everything from paint splatter.

“Carter helped me move the furniture. He took me to get paint too.”

“You didn’t want to hire painters?”

“I needed something to do, and I really wanted this gone,” she said, waving a hand at the shadowy remains of the “baby killer” message. She picked up her bottle of beer from where she’d set it on the floor and took a sip.

“You want a hand?”

“Are you asking because you’re hoping I’ll offer you beer?”

He laughed, and her stomach flipped over on itself. He was so gorgeous when he laughed like that, brown eyes crinkling, white teeth flashing. “I’m asking because I’d rather you not break your neck up on that ladder. And yes, I’m hoping you’ll offer me beer.”

“Well, I have lots of beer, and I’m not going to turn down an extra set of hands. Consider yourself hired.”

“Let me go change. Be right back.” He turned to leave, but she stopped him with a question.

“Were you standing there, watching me paint?”

He turned around and leaned against the doorway, his tie loose, a playful smile on his face. “I don’t know. Do you watch me swim every morning?”

Her face flamed and she spun around, reaching for the roller again. She thought she’d been sneaky, but apparently not.

“It is
my
pool,” she muttered, smearing her roller with fresh paint. Sean just laughed, the deep, rich sound washing over her like warm water. He left to go change, and she streaked paint across the wall in a wide W shape.

She had no idea if she was supposed to be happy, embarrassed, or turned on. She seemed to be in a constantly fluctuating state of all three around Sean.

She painted alone for several minutes with only the stereo for company, Jason Mraz floating through the speakers. When Sean reappeared, he’d changed into a worn gray Lakers T-shirt and navy blue sweatpants. He’d helped himself to a beer from the fridge, and he held something else in his other hand.

Her script. She’d been paging through it in the kitchen earlier, sitting at the island and reading it, trying not to let herself get excited about it.

“What are you doing with that?” she asked, loving the way the cotton of his T-shirt strained across his biceps as he moved.

Before Sean could answer, Ian poked his head into the dining room, a look of surprise flickering across his face at the sight of his boss in sweats, helping her paint. He surveyed them with a raised eyebrow before clearing his throat. He clearly felt as though he were intruding on something, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Oh, you’re back. How’d your meetings go?”

“Fine. I’ll send out an update tomorrow.”

Ian nodded curtly and left, returning to whatever he’d been doing before. He was on duty tonight, which was why Sean was free to help her paint.

“I was flipping through it,” he said, answering her question. “When’s your audition?” He set the script down on the covered dining room table and picked up a fresh roller, running it through the paint tray.

She shook her head as she ran her own roller over the wall. “I don’t think I’m going to audition, actually. Do you want the stepladder?” She glanced over at him, ready to scoot the ladder toward him. “Or not.” He was easily able to reach the top of the wall. He wasn’t even standing on his toes, just reaching one long, chiseled arm up and back down again, the muscles in his arm bunching and flexing as he moved. “Just how tall are you?”

“Six-five,” he answered as he rolled paint smoothly onto the wall. “How come you’re not going to do the audition?”

“You mean besides the fact that I already kind of have a lot going on?”

“Yeah. Besides that.”

She shrugged, and the sleeve of her old, loose T-shirt slipped down over her shoulder. Sean’s gaze slid to her exposed skin, and instead of hoisting it back into place, she left it. “I don’t really act much anymore. My focus is on Choices. Especially right now, with the grant application.”

“And?”

“And what?”

He took a sip of his beer and studied her, one eyebrow arched. Goddammit, he was hot. How was it possible for a man to be so bone-meltingly hot? “I get the feeling there’s more to it.”

She sighed and coated her roller in fresh paint. “Acting…I don’t know. That whole industry, it…it didn’t bring out the best in me. I didn’t like who I was when I was deep into it. Sometimes I think I miss it, but then I remember how toxic it all was. How you can’t trust anyone. If you want to survive, you have to assume everyone’s out to screw you over, and then be eternally grateful when they don’t.” She’d learned from a young age that giving your trust to someone was a risky proposition at best, and it usually blew up in your face, leaving you alone, unemployed, and feeling like a complete fool.