Necessary Risk (Bodyguard) (38 page)

W
aves lapped at the sandy shore, a light breeze stirring the dried palm leaves covering the
palapa
above them. Sierra sat back in her beach chair and adjusted her sunglasses, taking a deep breath and inhaling the scents of salt, coconut sunscreen, cigar smoke, and tropical flowers, all mingling together to create her new favorite smell: On the Beach in Mexico with the Sexiest Man Ever. Patent pending.

The month following the shooting had gone by in a blur, but life was good. Really good. Jack had confessed to his involvement with Sacrosanct, and his confession had had a domino effect on the entire organization, effectively shutting it down across the country, including the deceptive Pregnancy Support Centers. Choices had been awarded the grant, and the money would be put to good use.

Shortly after the shooting, she’d made the decision to go forward with the audition for
Bodies
, and to her complete shock, she’d won the role. The dog-eared script sat in her lap, pages fluttering in the ocean breeze, and rehearsals were due to start in a few weeks. Thankfully, the movie was scheduled to film in and around LA, which meant she wouldn’t have to leave Sean. After everything that had happened, she was taking a little break from Choices and was looking forward to acting again.

She’d moved in with Sean, who was still on medical leave for the next several weeks, and as soon as the arson investigation was finished, she planned on building a new house on her land. One for her and Sean.

He was recovering well from his surgery, and his doctor was pleased with how the wound was healing. He’d be in the sling for another month or two, and then he’d start his physical therapy. She knew the wound caused him pain, but in time he’d make a full recovery, and she didn’t have words for how grateful she was. They’d fallen into an easy, happy rhythm, cooking meals together, running errands, going on dates—to dinner, to a movie, on a drive up the coast—spending the evening together on the couch, reading or watching TV.

Oh, and the sex. Oh, good Lord, the sex. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Frankly, she was amazed she could walk.

Over the past few weeks, they’d had dinner with the guys from Virtus a couple of times, and even once with his father, who seemed to be making a genuine effort with Sean. She was proud that he was returning that effort, and he and his father seemed to be on much better footing than just a few weeks ago.

They’d had dinner with her friends a couple of times too, and Taylor had managed to tear herself away from Zack long enough to join them one night. Despite her assertions that they were only casual, Sierra had a feeling Taylor was falling for him. Hopefully, it would work out.

Since Sean was on leave and she was a few weeks away from rehearsals, they’d figured it was the perfect opportunity to take that trip to Mexico they’d talked about. Just as at home, they’d fallen into an easy, happy rhythm, walking on the beach, swimming, eating and drinking anything and everything they wanted.

Oh, and the sex. Oh, good Lord, the sex. It was pretty incredible what that man could do with only one arm.

She glanced over at him, his large frame casually sprawled out on the beach chair beside her. With a cigar between his lips, wearing nothing but aviator sunglasses and the same black swim trunks he’d worn the first day she’d seen him swimming in her pool, he looked like pure sex. He sat with his good arm propped behind his head, one leg bent with a tablet leaning against it. A faint sheen of sweat clung to his gorgeous bare chest, and she contemplated dragging him back to their suite. Again.

Yeah, life was very good.

The waiter came by and set down two margaritas on the table between their beach chairs, and they both sat up, Sean setting his cigar in the ashtray on the table. Condensation dripped down the sides of the plastic cups, and cool water dripped onto her bare stomach as she raised the cup to her lips. Sean pushed his sunglasses up on top of his head, and his eyes tracked the drop as it traced a cool path toward her bikini bottoms.

It still felt unreal sometimes that this man—this smart, brave, strong, loyal, incredibly sexy man—was hers.

She leaned forward and kissed him, knocking her cup lightly against his.

“To taking risks,” she said, biting her lip. His eyes darkened slightly, and he kissed her again, setting his cup down.

“And enjoying the payoff.” He tucked a strand of hair that had escaped from her braid behind her ear and kissed her again.

A surge of happiness charged through her, and her eyes stung for a second. “I love you,” she whispered against his mouth, and with surprising speed, he took her cup out of her hands, set it down, and curled his arm around her waist, hoisting them both up. He started toward the water, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, amazed at his strength, amazed at how perfectly she fit around him. He kissed a trail down her neck, and she felt the first cool drops of ocean water hit her feet, the sun blazing above them. The water sparkled around them, the faint strains of tropical music floating out to reach them, and she felt as though she were in a sun-drenched fairy tale.

“I love you too,” he said, just before he closed his mouth over hers in a searing kiss.

Life wasn’t just good; it was perfect.

Rock star Taylor Ross doesn’t need a babysitter, let alone some muscle-bound hunk, to stay focused on her music. But her new bodyguard Colt is a tall, gorgeous, mouth-watering distraction—and there’s no telling how hot things will get…

Please see the next page for
a preview of
 

Primal Instinct

T
aylor Ross drummed her fingers against the table, the red tablecloth absorbing the restless rhythm she tapped out. She blew out a breath and reached for her Jack and Coke, averting her eyes from the blinking light on her phone, which lay on the table in front of her. She took a sip of her drink and then ran her finger across the screen, frowning at the numerous text messages, e-mails, and Google Alerts all begging for her attention. She took another sip and, with a fingertip, flipped several pages of the notebook that lay open on the table in front of her, scowling at the scribbled and hastily scratched-out chord progressions and lyrics.

It was going to happen tonight. She could feel it. Almost taste it. The dry spell would end, and things would go back to normal. Tonight. What she needed shimmered around her, in front of her, and if she reached out her fingers, if she touched the gauzy inspiration floating in the air, she’d finally be able to write music again.

She didn’t want to think about any of it—breaking up with Zack, the stupid video that had gone viral, or her inability to write. If her life was a sentence, the past few months had been a semicolon. An interruption, a pause, joining what happened before with what was to come. The past and the future linked by a tiny little wink in time. She was still waiting for the wink to end, so for tonight, all she wanted was to catch a buzz so that she could numb the pain, the doubt, and the loneliness that were always simmering just below the surface.

She rested her chin in her hand as she scanned the dim interior of the Rainbow, a favorite LA hangout for rockers, groupies, some locals, and the occasional tourist. Red vinyl booths lined the walls, which were covered with rock paraphernalia. Autographed pictures, gold records, vinyl albums, all encased in glass and staring down at her. She knew that if she wandered over the garishly carpeted floor to a corner near a window, she’d find a picture of herself and two assholes, all glaring moodily at the camera. She remembered autographing that picture. Hell, she remembered posing for that picture, full of the kind of cocky swagger only a twenty-two-year-old with a hit record can pull off.

How had ten years gone by so damn fast?

She glared up at the plants lining the ceiling, a row of lights shining from underneath them. Frustration rolled through her as her eyes landed once again on her phone. She was gripped by a sudden urge to hurl it across the room, but she forced herself to pick up her drink and drain it instead. She certainly wouldn’t be the first rock star to throw a tantrum at the Rainbow, but it wouldn’t accomplish anything. She’d only be embarrassed, and then get drunk, and then do something even more stupid. As usual.

She shook her head and forced herself to focus on the blank page in front of her. Her brain scrambled for an idea, a melody, a lyric, a hook,
anything
, but the harder she tried to pull a song out of her brain, the more she felt as if she were spinning her wheels in mud. Sweating and working and stressing and getting nowhere fast. Factor in the added pressure of the album being six months overdue, and real panic began to set in. If she couldn’t deliver this album, there was no question that the label would dump her, and she’d be out on her ass. And then what?

She sifted through the scraps of ideas littered throughout the notebook. She’d hoped maybe coming to the Rainbow and sitting where so many greats had sat would inspire her. As if sitting in a sticky vinyl booth would somehow miraculously move her to finally write a new song. Lips pursed, she shook her head again. She had nothing. Her brain spun emptily, filled with nothing but frustration and disappointment and fear.

Shoving the notebook aside, she scrolled through a series of texts from Jeremy Nichols, her manager, and then opened the Google Alerts, which were set to notify her if anything new was posted online about her. Given that just a few days ago she’d managed to get herself booted off a plane, there was lots to sort through.

Like pressing on a bruise, she pressed play on the video of her in-air meltdown. She’d already watched it several times; she couldn’t seem to stop watching it. It had all started because she’d been trying to get numb to everything she didn’t want to feel. Because when she felt good, whether it was a high from sex or from booze, she didn’t
hurt
so much. And God, she hurt. Several months ago she’d started casually dating bodyguard Zack De Luca, and much to her surprise, she’d fallen fast and hard for him. For the first time in years, she’d wanted something more than casual. But Zack hadn’t, and even though he hadn’t meant to, he’d broken her heart.

So, to numb the pain of walking away from Zack, she’d hooked up with the super-hot copilot. She’d been in the process of retreating to her first-class seat when a flight attendant—and the copilot’s ex-girlfriend, it turned out—had confronted her, calling her a dirty slut. Never one to back down from a fight, especially when drunk, Taylor had said some pretty filthy things to the flight attendant about her ex-boyfriend’s stellar performance, and just as the air marshal had come over to see what the commotion was about, the flight attendant had called her a white trash whore. So she’d slapped the flight attendant across the face, and the confrontation had devolved into flailing limbs and hair pulling. The air marshal had had to separate them, and she’d accidentally caught him in the throat with her elbow.

Not her finest moment.

She’d been escorted off the plane, and to her complete and utter humiliation, the video had gone viral almost immediately. She’d had to figure out a way home from Lincoln, Nebraska, which was where she’d been booted off her NYC-bound plane. Jeremy had been
pissed
when she’d told him she wouldn’t be able to meet with the label executives that night.

To console herself, she’d gone to a bar in Lincoln and gotten spectacularly wasted. Because what the hell else was there to do in Nebraska?

She shook her head and closed the video. Her pulse throbbed ominously in her temples, warning her of an oncoming headache. Everything was falling apart: her career, her love life, her reputation. And hell if she knew how to fix it.

A tall guy with a slim build approached her table, his phone in one hand, and the headache bloomed across her skull. His dark-brown hair was long on top and shaved close on the sides, his plain white T-shirt and jeans boring but clean. A surge of irritation pushed up through her chest, and she forced herself to take a breath. He was probably just a fan looking for a picture. She should be grateful she still had fans.

“Hi, um, Taylor? Taylor Ross?” His voice was higher than she would’ve expected.

“Yeah, hi,” she said, wanting to get this interaction over with.

“Can I, um, get a picture?” His eyes darted around the bar, oddly bright, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. He pushed his big horn-rimmed glasses back up his nose and made an awkward, fluttering gesture with his hand before shoving it in his pocket. She glanced around, trying to figure out what he was looking at.

She plastered a smile on her face that she hoped didn’t look as fake as it felt. “Sure.” Pressing her palms against the table, she stood from her booth.

He slipped his arm around her, and a slight chill shivered down her spine, making her shrink away from him a little. Raising his phone in front of them, he took the picture. Relieved, she started to move away from him, but his arm tightened around her. He smiled shyly.

“One more.” She held still for the picture and didn’t smile this time, hoping that if she appeased him he’d leave her alone. As soon as he’d clicked the button, she pulled away. He let her this time, his fingers trailing over her waist and leaving her feeling as though she’d been slimed. “Can I buy you a drink?”