Page 10 of The Forbidden Billionaire
It’s the first time I’ve been a close protection officer. I’m not sure I would have taken on the role, but Marcus was desperate, worried, and convincing, and in the end I agreed mainly as a favor to him. Part of me regrets it. But I’m not a quitter, and it’s clear to me that this girl needs me, even though she’s convinced she doesn’t.
She might be determined to rebel, but I’m just as determined to keep her safe.
It’s my job. It has nothing to do with the growing sense of responsibility I feel toward her.
Or the fact that I’m beginning to suspect she’s not at all who I thought she was.
Chapter Three
Aurelia
I sulk for a good five minutes.
Then I realize I’m playing into the hands of his image of me as a spoiled brat, and it makes me glower even more.
What a load of nonsense this is. Acting as if I’m the Prime Minister or some other important dignitary. Talk about a jobsworth.
“Have you done this before?” I ask curtly.
“Driven a Range Rover?”
“No. Been a bodyguard.”
“I prefer the term close protection officer.”
“Why? Because it sounds more officious?”
He throws me a glare. “Because it sounds less like the subject of a Hollywood movie. And no, I haven’t.”
“No wonder you’re throwing yourself into the role. You think you’re James Bond, don’t you? Double-oh-pain-in-the-arse?”
He inhales, then exhales slowly, possibly calming himself. “Just doing my job, ma’am.” He’s gone all stiff and professional again.
“Are you carrying a firearm?” I ask, curious in spite of myself.
“No, ma’am. Carrying a firearm for personal security is illegal in New Zealand.”
“So how do you expect to save me if I’m attacked? Do you intend to use your sparkling wit as a weapon?”
He stops at a set of traffic lights and has a swig of his coffee. “My plan is to avoid any dangerous interactions.”
“You mean run in the opposite direction?”
“Absolutely. That’s bodyguarding one-oh-one.”
I watch him glance in his rear mirror and check his wing mirrors before he pulls away. He did the same in the car park and the coffee shop. He’s really throwing himself into this.
What a knob.
Except he isn’t, not really. I look out of the window, frowning. He doesn’t strike me as a guy who’s watched too many episodes ofBodyguardor the movie with Kevin Costner. Even the fact that he prefers the term close protection officer suggests he’s taking this seriously. I know what Marcus is like; for some reason he has a bee in his pretty bonnet about me needing protection. It’s not Luke’s fault. He’s just doing his job to the best of his ability. I shouldn’t mock him for it.
I don’t have any intention of stopping, though. I’m having far too much fun. And driving him nuts is a sure-fire way to get him to quit so I can be left alone.
Studying him as he drives, I take time to note every detail about him. The way the army buzz cut he must once have sported has grown into a short fade. The smoothness of his jaw. He doesn’t have any gray, and is probably the same age as Marcus—twenty-eight, maybe twenty-nine today. His eyes are dark brown, almost black, and they give me the shivers when he looks at me.
As I spend a lot of time around the men in my family, I know a lot about men’s clothing, and little details about his dark-gray suit suggest it’s a few years old. It’s a tad loose on his large frame; no doubt he bought it before he came out of the army for a wedding or something, and he’s lost weight since he left. It’s not tight fitting like Caesar’s and Marcus’s Italian cut suits, and it doesn’t have a waistcoat, or any interesting design details. It’s probably off the peg.
His white shirt is clean and ironed, though. His blue-and-white-striped tie bears a Windsor knot, and his shoes arepolished. That says more about his military background than anything else.
