Chapter 2
Lochlan
My handler, Slate, sets his laptop down on the conference room table and sits while I stare over his shoulder. Images of a seafood bar with ice sculptures pop onto his small screen then jump to the back wall when he plugs in the projector.
“C’mon now, mate. You sure you don’t have any other work?” Guarding rich old birds is my least favorite pastime and Slate knows this.
“The food will be top notch. All you have to do is keep an eye on a pair of earrings.” If I didn’t know the bloke so well, I’d think he was serious.
“There’s filet mignon, New England clam chowder, and check this out.” He clicks through a slideshow filled with delicious image after image.
“That’s not fair, I haven’t eaten.” My stomach growls and for the first time, the job in Boston seems possible.
If only I didn’t have to pretend to be a fookin’ Englishman. “Why can’t I just be Lucky from down und-ah? You Yanks love me accent.”
“You want the job or not?”
Thinking, I wander to the window where below, a tugboat pushes a barge on the Hudson River. Shit. I could use the money and if I do well, maybe, I’ll ask for a raise. If this view is any indication, Patten Securities is moving up the food chain.
I remember when me and Slate had nothing more than a tent, a backpack, and a shitload of sand between us. It’s loyalty that makes up my mind, not the money and not the buffet. If my mate is asking, there must be a reason.
Decided, I sit and get down to business. “Nah, yeah. Fine. Tell me about the job. I got nothing else pressin’. I might as well go to Boston.”
He opens up a few more files and projects them onto the back wall. “You’re going to guard Ms. Calliope Bradford-Clarke at a Boston fundraiser.”
“What’s the charity? Saving children saddled with horrible first names?”
He grins and opens a Facebook page. “Are you going to let me continue or keep making bad jokes?”
“Hey, I’m listenin’. You want me to guard some old bird wearing a few mill’ in jewels. Is that about it?”
“Almost.” He clicks and I gasp as the headshot of an incredibly gorgeous woman projects onto the back wall.
Holy fook. Her big blue eyes stare straight out and grab my cock. She’s got this messy, blunt-cut, short blond hair. And her smile? You’d swear she was about to blow you. With no goo on her lips, cheeks, or eyelashes, I might call her a girl-next-door but that would be wrong, too. Bloody hell, she’s all woman.
While my pal chuckles at my discomfort, I swallow hard and tell my little brain to stand down. “Good one, eh?”
“Her mother, Penelope, is signing the check. Calliope is the one you’ll be guarding.”
I’m a bloomin’ bodyguard and a former Marine. Surely, I can resist some pretty sheila for one night. Leaning my butt against the windowsill, I try to appear uninterested as I cross my arms over my chest. “So, is she a model or what?”
“A college student, getting her doctorate at Massachusetts Institute of Technology.”
“Fook me.” Beautiful and intelligent? This assignment just got a lot harder along with my donga inside my jeans.
Slate grins like a dingo with roadkill. He stands, walks next to me and stares down at the tiny cars in New York City traffic.
Offhandedly, he says, “There’s one other small thing you need to know.”
“What? She married?”Bloody hell, I hope so.
“No. Last night, Calliope’s apartment was broken into, her state-of-the-art safe opened.”
“Did they get the earrings?” Some detective work could keep me out of trouble.
“No. She keeps them nearby in a safety deposit box.” Slate’s brows raise, waiting for me to get the implication.
“I hear you, mate. If someone was smart enough to know she had a wall safe, and smart enough to crack it open, seems to reason they’d be smart enough to know she stashed her earrings at the bank. Do you suppose it was a trial run and they’ll try again later?”
