‘Fine. Let’s get this over with. Where to now?’
‘The George Hotel is just round that corner.’ Her index finger points. ‘The barman there looks about twelve, but he makes the best French 75 in the city.’
If she hears the short sharp grind of my molars, she doesn’t acknowledge it. Slamming the driver’s door closed, I stalk around to the passenger side, scanning the streets for any potential threat, but it’s a lot quieter here than on George Street.
Victoria opens her own door. I offer my arm, hoping the material of the jacket is enough of a barrier to prevent that inconvenient electricity racing through my skin and straight to my dick again.
Firm fingers grip my arm as her feet meet the uneven paving. A ripple of goosebumps rip across her bare arm.
‘Do you want my jacket?’ My breath fogs before my face.
‘No, thanks. I’m not cold.’
My delinquent eyes stray to her chest. Twin nubs protrude beneath the flimsy material of her dress. Either she’s lying, or she’s horny.
It’s too much.
I’ve barely been here a day and I’m already fucked.
Ryan will have to get someone else.
I can’t do it.
My eyes betray me, flicking upwards to meet hers for a fraction of a second. Even the cold air smoulders between us. I promptly tear my gaze away before I do something really fucking stupid like kiss her.
She drops my arm and we fall into step, side by side, under the midnight sky. A group of four guys approach in the distance, shoving each other and yelling in thick, broad Scottish accents.
My hand instinctively reaches for Victoria’s back, and she leans closer into me as we pass by them.
Would they mistake us for a regular couple out on a Sunday night?
Harrison’s words pierce my daft romantic notion.
The way he’s hovering over you, I thought he was your father.
There’s ten years between us. I’m nowhere near old enough to be her father, but I am old enough to know better than to fantasise about the woman I’m paid to protect. Jesus, if Ryan had any inclination of what was flashing through my delinquent brain, he’d shoot me where I stand, and I wouldn’t blame him.
Unfortunately, fantasising about Victoria Sexton is something I’ve been doing for years. It’s a hard pattern to break, and even harder when she’s standing in front of me in an outfit like that one.
I read somewhere that it takes twenty-one days to break a habit. If I can just survive the first month, establish firm, professional boundaries, maybe I can get through this without losing my job, my cabin at the castle, and the family I’ve come to love.
The Gothic-looking exterior of the George Hotel does nothing to indicate its sheer magnificence inside. Thick navy carpet paves the way through the wide corridors to a spacious, double-height bar area.
The walls are panelled in a rich cherry wood extending from the chunky skirting all the way up to the elaborate coving. The bar itself is in the centre of the room, an oval wooden counter, varnished and gleaming beneath the chandelier above it.
One long built-in bench lines the room, its seat padded with thick cushioning stitched beneath taupe-coloured leather. Intermittently spaced circular tables separate one seating area from another.
Soft jazz music sounds over the hum of conversation.
Victoria wasn’t kidding. The barman looks twelve. His face lights up like a Christmas tree when he spots her. No wonder. She’s fucking stunning in that dress.
As she slips into the nearest free bench, he practically sprints over.
‘Good evening, madam.’ His fresh face stains crimson.
What, am I invisible? Admittedly, discretion’s part of the job, but not in this instance.
‘Can I get a French 75?’ Victoria crosses one long leg over the other, her dress hitching an inch, prompting the barman’s pupils to double in size.
