Bodyguard Rescue. Donna YoungЧитать онлайн книгу.
him. “Be careful, D’Amato, your arrogance is showing.” She jerked her head away and was immediately sorry when the movement made her light-headed. “You might’ve known me two years ago, but times change and so do people.”
“Yes, people change. Just not you.”
Another insult. Scottish pride stiffened her spine. “Don’t assume that because we were once—” She groped for the word, but her mind fumbled.
“Lovers?” He inserted, his voice dipping huskily.
“Close,” she corrected. At one time, the possessiveness in his voice would have liquefied her insides, now it raised her defenses. She tried to slide toward the end of the couch to put some distance between them, but her body suddenly felt denser than lead, making her movements cumbersome.
As he watched her retreat, amusement glinted in his eyes. “‘Close’ or not, I understand you. And you wouldn’t be caught dead in the wild unless you had no other choice.”
He sat down beside her, successfully pinning her between him and the arm of the couch. He gathered her close, ignoring the stiff resistance of her body.
“Let me help you.”
“Help me?” Awareness rippled through her as the warmth of his body seeped inside the quilt, increasing the lethargic haze that had settled over her. She shook her head to clear her mind, but the dizziness continued to assail her, muddling her thoughts.
“If I did need help—which I don’t—you would be the last person I would turn to.” She emphasized each word by trying to poke her finger into his chest.
He started to say something, then changed his mind. Abruptly he released his hold and leaned back into the cushions. “I’m not going to rehash the past with you. I admit I could have handled the situation a little better.”
“A little better?” She bumped him with her elbow and snorted. Not very ladylike, but she didn’t care. “Even King Kong treated his woman better.”
He responded in Italian, a habit he had when he was angry, but she ignored him. She was fluent in five languages, Italian being one, along with Spanish, Russian and two others she seemed to have forgotten for the moment. Even trying, she couldn’t focus on the translation—something about his knowing what’s best.
Her eyes burned with fatigue, and she rubbed them with the heels of her hands, releasing a long, audible breath. Lord, dealing with a hardheaded Italian left her even more drained—something she’d considered impossible. She wrestled with the fatigue, trying to maintain her train of thought while her head continued to swim.
“Look, Roman, you can do whatever you want,” she said, interrupting his tirade. She tugged the covers up to her chin, not quite ready to let go of their protection, and slumped toward the edge of the cushion. “Just do it away from me.” Checking first to see that the quilt sufficiently covered her legs, she struggled to stand up, praying her limbs wouldn’t give out.
“I’m going to bed.” She looked slowly around the cabin. Where in God’s name was it? She shut her eyes briefly trying to concentrate on her surroundings, but the fog grew thicker, enveloping her mind.
“Is something the matter, Doc?” The question sounded distant and muffled in her ears. She tried to face him, but couldn’t quite make it. Still, she could feel his gaze on her, intent while he watched her confusion.
“I can’t seem to remember where the bedroom is…” Her voice trailed off as her tongue grew thick, taking up most of her mouth. She tried moving it to the side.
“Upstairs.” Quiet amusement laced the word, but she barely noticed because the room blurred. Upstairs. She remembered now. Sleeping up in the loft would have left her vulnerable, that’s why she’d chosen to sleep on the sofa. She nodded, and the room began to sway. She grabbed for the couch in an effort to gain her balance, but that was a mistake. Her feet tangled with the quilt, causing her to fall back onto the cushions with a bounce.
Kate heard a soft, masculine chuckle over her head, but her eyelids refused to open so she could glare. He would just have to wait until morning. She could feel her body floating, snug and protected. It had been so long since she’d felt safe that she gave in to the exhaustion and leaned into her warm haven. A deep voice drifted over her, its tone gentle and comforting.
“Sweet dreams, babe.”
Chapter Three
Isla de El León (Island of the Lion), Gulf of Mexico.
Poised at the edge of the diving board, the ebony-haired beauty smiled up at Nigel Threader. Her classic features softened with feline pleasure before she sliced cleanly into the kidney-shaped pool. From the private balcony, he watched in fascination as the blue glow of the underwater lights cloaked her dancer’s body with ethereal radiance beneath the rippling water. Exquisite.
It was an illusion, of course, but nonetheless magnificent because it hid the imperfections he knew existed. Like a brilliant but flawed diamond.
Pity.
Marina Alexandrov’s pedigree as the prima ballerina of the Paris Ballet was above reproach. With Russian royalists for parents, her upbringing was exemplary, her social status assured. She reached the end of the pool, planted both hands on the edge of the tile and hauled herself upward in a cascade of water, her nude body arching gracefully in the night air.
He returned her seductive smile before walking back into his office. Yes, it certainly was a shame. Even her baser needs matched his. They could have shared a future together full of limitless possibilities.
Unfortunately, with her great beauty and ancestry came a lack of intellect. Marina was a woman of average intelligence, an intolerable flaw his employee had overlooked and which Nigel hadn’t discovered until it had been far too late. A disappointing situation indeed.
The man paid for his incompetence, of course. What little pleasure Nigel gleaned from the kill was still too small a compensation for the time he’d wasted on seducing Marina.
He frowned and felt the familiar stiffness pull at his right eye. Resisting the urge to touch the cause, he tugged at his sleeves instead, automatically running his fingers over the yellow diamond cufflinks as he entered his office. Naturally he would enjoy her tonight. After all, it would be their last evening together. Loose ends were untidy.
Sitting behind the massive, seventeenth-century ebony baroque desk, he reached for the bottle of cognac that sat at the corner. Nigel glanced at the label, pleased to see that Quamar had brought him his favorite French vintage, and then poured a healthy dose into the snifter.
A red light flashed across the room, drawing his attention to the bank of closed-circuit televisions on the opposite wall. He warmed the cognac, swirling the amber liquid against his palm. Their guest had arrived. Leaning back into his plush throne chair, he studied the silver Jaguar while it followed the winding curves of the sleekly paved drive to the villa.
The estate itself was more than fifty acres of enclosed land overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. The three-story villa, originally designed by a French architect, was built of adobe, mosaic tile and imported marble. A masterpiece of French-Mexican culture. As he watched, the car came to a halt in front of the wrought-iron gates set in the twelve-foot wall surrounding the villa.
He pushed a button under his desk activating the automatic gates and then swung around in the chair to press the intercom on his desk. “Quamar. Our guest has arrived, please escort him to my office.”
Several moments later the oak doors opened. Nigel glanced up from his glass when Quamar entered.
“Mr. Hiram Alcott, sir.”
Nigel nodded at the huge man who stepped aside to allow their guest through the doorway.
“You may stay, Quamar.” The bodyguard bowed but said nothing, closing the doors behind him.
“Has Pheonix reported in yet?” Nigel spared only a flickering glance