Smithie described my new bodyguard as “motherfucking huge,bald and ugly.”
He got two things right.
The last was a matter of opinion.That fixed stare fromsilver eyes under a protruding brow and over a large nose that was framed bycut cheekbones with cavernous cheeks and a jaw so perfectly angled, it could beused in geometry class could be considered too brutish for some.
But not me.
This was going to be a problem.
“I’m opening up!”I bellowed, still staring at his face.
That face disappeared, and I got his throat and chest againas he straightened.
Yes, this was going to be a problem.
I unlocked and opened my door.
Then I immediately, and automatically, took a step back.
All right.
Whoa.
I could get a hint from the chest and what it might beattached to with what I’d seen of that throat, but this guy had to be six five,maybe taller.
And his height was only a part of why Smithie described himthe way he did.
He wasn’t “motherfucking huge.”
He wasmotherfucking huge.
I was average height.
But slender.
My sister had ass.
My job was physical.It wasn’t just the nightly dancing.Itwas the practice and constantly choreographing and adding new routines.I couldprobably eat a boatload, but I didn’t because I was too busy to eat, and when Idid, I’d learned long ago what all the experts said was what an expert wouldknow from studying it.Eating good food gave me more energy, made me sleepbetter and put me in a better mood (most of the time).
So unless the occasion was special, I put good food in mymouth and didn’t drink much outside water, flavored water, sparkling water,with the odd antioxidant vitamin drink thrown in.
So yeah, I was slender.
And two of me could make this guy.
Maybe three.
He moved forward.
I moved back.
His movements were unwieldy.Not clumsy—heavy and plodding.
It didn’t matter this guy was a bull in a china shop.
He’d terrify small children.
Hell, he’d terrify grown men.
