A sleek private jet sat on the tarmac with a red carpet leading up to the steps. Snake eyed the ridiculous sight and snorted. He’d rather be climbing into a Chinook helicopter, preparing for a jump into an active war zone than be standing here on this private airstrip outside of Miami.
He tugged at the collar of his pale pink button-down shirt, irritated as hell he had to wear it, as well as the fucking loud-as-shit tie and a goddamn sport jacket. He rolled his shoulders. Together, the shirt and jacket felt like a straitjacket. They, along with the slacks, had been tailored for his body—as in, a fucking tailor had measured his inseam, asked him which leg did he prefer his dick to point toward, and had hummed a constant “mmm-mm-mm” as he’d gotten up in Snake’s personal space with his tape measure and his frisky fingers to make sure of a tight fit.
Now, he felt like a jackass in the white suit with the loudest tie he’d ever worn in freaking pink and blue. He thought the point of a personal protection job was to be inconspicuous, understated, hovering at the edges—at least that was how his old friend, Owen Cormier, former Delta Force and now with the Omega Team had explained it. As soon as he’d signed the contract, he’d gotten the call from his client’s stylist—stylist!—ordering him to head to Miami for a “wardrobe makeover.” Of course, he’d immediately placed a call back to his erstwhile buddy Owen, who’d proceeded to laugh uproariously, and then sent him a link to his client’s Instagram account, which had explained a lot of things.
Oh, hell no. He’d tried to quit, saying, “This is not what I signed up for. There’s no way Charter Group knows. They’d never have loaned me out for this shit.”
“Snake, I know you’re a little testy. But other than the threads, this’ll be an easy job. A cakewalk. All you have to do is hover around your client, act as though you adore her, and that’s it. The ruse will put you in close to her inner circle, which allows you to keep her safe. And hey, did I mention you’ll be flying with her to a private island? I have guys who’d give their left nut for such a cushy assignment.”
Snake growled. He hadn’t even met the woman, but after she’d insisted he jump through all these hoops, he could only imagine how bad things might get once they were alone.
“Thought snakes hissed…” Another chuckle sounded. Then, Click.
After Owen had hung up, he’d conveniently remained out of the office, so Snake couldn’t continue talking his way of it this assignment. Look how well that turned out. Now, here he was. Standing outside a hangar at a private airport, waiting for his client. Didn’t help that the white-hot heat reflecting off the black tarmac, unfiltered by a single cloud in the sky, made him sweat in his ridiculous “threads.”
So, maybe he was bellyaching. Maybe whining a little inside. He’d suck it up, like he had any time he’d been given an assignment he thought below his pay grade or particular talents. He wasn’t proud. Well, not too proud to do grunt work, anyway. But, seriously? His tie had freaking flamingoes on it! Who cared that the blue matched the color of his eyes, or so the stylist had said.
Sucking in a deep breath, Snake squeezed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He could do this. The job was just four days. Then he’d catch a real break, his first vacation in a year. His anger was just a by-product of the fact he needed time to unwind and get his last assignment in Iraq out of his mind. Maybe spending time on a luxury island would distract him enough he’d let go of the edginess that had become a permanent feature of his personality. During the last few weeks, even the guys on his team had suggested he get downtime, get laid, get stinking drunk—whatever was needed to get him back to normal. Always known for his sense of humor and practical jokes, he’d lost the ability to laugh.
And again, guilt ate at him over the fact he no longer found humor in the simple things. Who the hell laughed after seeing his buddy’s limb torn off by a roadside bomb? Snake had been tossed like a ragdoll but landed on his feet. Both feet. Payback hadn’t been so lucky. Still in rehab, he was rethinking his career options.
After another deep breath, he checked his loaned Tag Heuer watch, and then he stiffened. A black limo turned the corner, coming into view. Seconds later, it drew to a halt beside him.
The driver exited, rounding the vehicle without giving him so much as a nod, and opened the door.
Long, tanned legs entered his view. No surprise there. She’d taken plenty of pictures of her legs—bared in a tiny string bikini, while getting waxed, or stretched to advantage alongside her athlete-boyfriend’s muscular legs.
Not until the driver moved back and she stepped out on silly, spike-heeled sandals did he get the full impact of her beauty as she gracefully flung back her thick, tawny-gold tresses. Snake’s breath caught. Her selfies hadn’t done her justice. Unlike in her photos, she wore no makeup other than a hint of blush and a smear of pink, but her features didn’t need them. Large green eyes framed by dark brown brows and lashes, a light smattering of golden freckles across her nose and cheeks. Creamy-colored skin. Holy fuck, that plump pink mouth…
Snake gave himself an internal shake. No admiring the client. She was bat-shit crazy and vain to the bone. And she had a boyfriend who might be strong enough to kick his ass.
So, why was he accompanying her on this vacation instead of “Hammer Hands”?
One perfectly plucked eyebrow arched as she locked her gaze with his, then she let her glance slip slowly downward. By the time he was feeling really cheap, she turned and walked toward the private jet sitting in the middle of the tarmac.
Snake was blowing out a deep breath when she raised her hand and snapped her fingers, never once looking backward.
No, she did not. He squared his shoulders.
She might be a knockout, but he wasn’t a doormat. The sooner she figured that out, the better. He had a job to do. He’d do his best to keep her safe. He just needed to figure out why she needed protecting. The details Owen had given him were sketchy, and he’d been too busy looking for ways to turn down the gig to pay much attention to what precisely he was here to do.
Well, no better time than now. He bent to grab the handle of the loaned prissy leather case, which was packed with more clothing the stylist had deemed fit for the weekend, and rolled it toward the red carpet.
Cat watched her bodyguard wheel his suitcase toward the steps. Again, she studied his tall, sturdy frame. He was a little slim for her liking, but what was there was definitely well-muscled. She’d been told he was an ex-SEAL who dabbled in MMA fighting in his downtime. Seemed perfect. Too bad he didn’t look happy to be here.
Not that his happiness mattered. No, he’d be well paid for his efforts. Would likely spend hours on Virgil’s beach or his yacht, playing the happy boy-toy she’d dressed him up to be. No use advertising the fact she’d brought along hired muscle.
The clothing made her grin. She’d told Lyle to dress him like one of Harper’s boyfriends. Her sometimes bestie would be attending the weekend event, too. Cat bet Harper’s current paid companion wasn’t built like a sleek freight train. Her escort would likely be doughy to the touch. She’d have to make sure Harper didn’t try to scoop the sexy SEAL away. Although watching Snake trying to escape Harper’s avid gaze and greedy fingertips would be funny.
Having a little fun would be nice after the past three months she’d spent as a virtual prisoner inside her Manhattan apartment.
A commotion sounded at the plane’s entry, and Cat eased back and to the side in her seat to watch as the flight attendant tried to take her SEAL’s bag. He gave her a frown, but the woman didn’t cringe a bit. The no-nonsense brunette pasted on a fake smile and kept her hand outstretched, until the moment the man conceded the battle and released the handle.
She wondered if he fought over everything, and whether stubbornness was one of his strengths. She considered the trait a strength rather than a flaw. Determination was the one aspect of her own DNA she’d inherited from her dad, aside from his blond hair and tall build, that she didn’t regret. Sticking to a well-engineered plan, despite setbacks and lean times, had led to her current success.
Her father’s stubbornness had led to a five-year stint in federal prison. Mike Mikkelson had cheated on his taxes to ensure he controlled the cash he’d earned to fund his last great business deal. When the project had failed, he’d been unable to file the amended return that would have saved him from a merciless IRS auditor. He was scheduled to be released later that year. No doubt, he’d be hitting her up to provide capital for him to begin recouping his losses. He might even insist on taking the reins of her fledgling clothing and accessories company.
Fat chance. Short of murdering her, he’d never get his hands on what she’d built. She’d sold her soul and her anonymity to be where she was. Solvent. Independent. She paid her mother’s bills but had set her a reasonable spending budget. If her dad could convince her mom to let him move in, that was up to Mom, but Cat wasn’t allocating her mom a cent more. She’d have to choose between her shopping sprees and her husband. Cat was pretty sure which way her mom would decide. Alice Mikkelson liked her lifestyle and her friends more than she liked the husband who’d ignored her throughout their society marriage.
Cat never understood why her mother hadn’t divorced him long ago, but the example the two of them set stiffened her personal resolve. She’d marry for love, not a bank account. And she’d never rely on a man to provide her the things she needed.
Finding someone who wasn’t threatened by an independent and successful woman proved a challenge. She’d dated inside her social circle, but her childhood friends were a vapid, self-serving lot. Then she’d met Reggie.
She pushed up the window shade to glance outside. What a mistake that he had been. She’d mistaken physical strength for strength of character. As far as she was concerned, the heavyweight boxer was a narcissist, who’d been coddled worse than her vacuous friends—by trainees, managers, and promoters from a young age. When Reggie didn’t get what he wanted, he threw outrageous temper tantrums. The number of hotel franchises that had banned him for life after he’d trashed his suites was growing.
Cat curled her fingers into fists. Although he’d only swatted her the one time, she’d never forget the force behind the open palm that had jerked back her head and cracked her skull against her apartment’s thick oak door. All because she’d refused to host his entourage for a week. Scheduled to attend a celebrity horse show in Virginia, she hadn’t like the idea of giving Reggie a key to help himself to her house and her things. His posse was filled with hangers-on who liked to stuff swag under their coats at red-carpet events.
No way would she let them loose inside her place where the artwork and her jewelry would be open season to their sticky fingers.
After the slap, Reggie had been instantly solicitous. She’d held on to consciousness long enough to plead with him to leave for her to rest. No, she wasn’t calling the cops, she’d promised. No, she wouldn’t tell his publicist, who’d threatened to quit the last time he’d let loose his temper in a public way.
She’d waited then called her own taxi for the drive to her doctor’s office. The staff there was discreet, had arranged treatment, ex-rays and a safe place for her to rest and recuperate. After that, she’d had her assistant send Reggie a carefully worded email, informing him she’d no longer see him.
And yet, he’d remained persistent. Sending her flowers and apologies. Sending her kisses during TV interviews and Instagram love letters. During this weekend away, she was taking the next step of having her attorney use her medical records as the basis for a restraining order.
She no longer worried about the public humiliation of having a stalker boyfriend who’d roughed her up. Her health was more important. She needed him gone for good.
Which brought her back to her current companion.
Snake eyed the leather seats as he walked down the short aisle.
She pointed to the chair sitting opposite hers.
He slid downward into the butter-soft leather seat, and his fingers wrapped around the arms. His gaze nailed hers.
Her mouth twitched at his attitude. Most bodyguards were careful to paste on a neutral expression. This guy wore his irritation like a monk’s hair shirt. “Lyle does fabulous work,” she murmured, fighting against cracking a smile, because his dark eyebrows lowered into a fierce scowl. “He was very excited to work with you. Said you had a body to die for, and he’d gladly dress you again.”
“Sorry he’ll be disappointed,” Snake said, with a surly edge to his voice.
She pouted her lips. “This could turn into a very lucrative gig, if we work well together…” Cat hadn’t any plans past the long weekend, but she liked the fact his cheeks reddened and those crisp blue eyes narrowed. Tormenting him was fun. “We should talk about your…duties.”
He cleared his throat. “Owen at Omega said I was to hang around close.”
“Oh, you’ll be close. You’re to pretend to be my boyfriend, a paid escort.” She shrugged. “The practice is a thing among my set so no one will raise an eyebrow.” But he sure was. She allowed a smile, and her heart kicked up at the change in his expression.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, his breath hitched.
So, maybe he wasn’t as averse to her as he wanted to appear… Feeling more sure by the minute that she’d plucked the exact right man out of the line of photos Owen Cormier had sent, she raised a hand to signal to the attendant. “Would you like a drink?” she asked Snake. “I’d love to get this party started.” She ordered.
But he refused anything but bottle of water.
As she stirred her fingertip in the top of her drink, she studied him. His hair was dark brown and thick, with a hint of wave in the glossy strands. His eyes were a deep Mediterranean blue. His features were as chiseled as his body—an angular jaw, bladed cheekbones. My oh my, no hint of softness appeared in his face or body. He was utterly perfect.
She shifted in her seat and crossed her legs. No one would doubt she was attracted. “Paparazzi with telephoto lenses will likely be stationed offshore to catch those million-dollar shots. And you’ll be featured in my Instagrams.”
His jaw tightened as he shook his head.
She gave him a pointed stare. “Part of the gig, or didn’t you read the contract?”
He cleared his throat and leaned an elbow on the armrest. “Why is it necessary?”
Cat’s humor vanished. She glanced away for a moment and drew a deep, cleansing breath before meeting his hard gaze again. “My ex needs to know I’ve moved on.”
“Wouldn’t showing up with another guy at some fancy event be enough to get out the word?”
“Apparently not,” she said, her tone clipped. “While we’re on Pariah Island, my lawyers will serve him with a restraining order.”
He blinked, his fingers drumming on the armrest. “You’re talking about Reggie Parault, the boxer…?”
“Yes.”
His frown deepened. “You broke up with him?”
“Yes, about three weeks ago.”
His head shook. “But I’ve seen his Instagram account and his Facebook page. He’s still posting pictures of you.”
“Old photos. We were only together about three months, but a lot of photos exist. He’s dredging them up.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyone who follows my fashion feed will know they’re dated.”
He sat foreword in his seat. “Did he hurt you?”
A blush crept across her cheeks, and she hated the fact she’d let him see her vulnerability. “A slightly fractured skull,” she said, keeping her tone matter-of-fact while her grip tightened on her drink. “I’m healed. The brain bleed’s gone. So, this trip isn’t some publicity snit.”
“Are you expecting trouble this weekend?”
“No, but the event is my first public outing since…the incident. I want to be seen. I want you seen. Will you have problems with that?”
He sat silent for a moment, then… “I really have to wear this shit?” he said, gazing down at the tie he fingered.
To kill a grin, she pressed her lips together. “Some of it. If you’re at ease in your own skin, you can wear nothing at all,” she said, giving his body a long once-over. “No one will bat an eye. Virgil likes his guests to be…comfortable.”