Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 83167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“Squat down, I can’t see your face!” I yelled, still looking through the peephole.
The chest moved, and a thick, ropy throat came into view before I got a face.
Whoa.
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 from silver eyes under a protruding brow and over a large nose that was framed by cut cheekbones with cavernous cheeks and a jaw so perfectly angled, it could be used 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 again as 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 be attached 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 him the way he did.
He wasn’t “motherfucking huge.”
He was motherfucking huge.
I was average height.
But slender.
My sister had ass.
My job was physical. It wasn’t just the nightly dancing. It was the practice and constantly choreographing and adding new routines. I could probably eat a boatload, but I didn’t because I was too busy to eat, and when I did, I’d learned long ago what all the experts said was what an expert would know from studying it. Eating good food gave me more energy, made me sleep better and put me in a better mood (most of the time).
So unless the occasion was special, I put good food in my mouth 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.
And that had nothing to do with the gun worn openly on his hip.
It had to do with what that compression shirt barely contained, not to mention the carved protrusion of the muscles of his biceps exposed by the short sleeves, the sinewy, richly veined lengths of his forearms and the trunks of his long legs covered in dark gray commando pants.
He shut the door behind him, twisted at the waist and I heard the lock click.
He twisted back to me.
“Hey,” I forced out.
He dipped his chin.
“You’re Mo,” I stated unnecessarily.
“Yup,” he agreed.
“Okay, so…”
I stood there, barefoot, in my tight tank that had ridden up to gather around my middle and as such exposed an inch of flat belly over my low-slung faded jeans, and I didn’t know what to do.
He was looking me in the eye.
Right in the eye.
Not once did his gaze drift down.
Or up, to my hair.
I had great hair.
And great tits.
And, well, not to be conceited or anything, but considering a lot of folks came to watch me take my clothes off, it wasn’t lost on me I had a good body. But I already knew that because I just did.
I was struggling with dealing with a man who not only looked like this but was also as big as this and was there for the purpose he was there.
But it was worse because I had no clue how to deal with a man who looked me right in the eye and appeared to have no interest in anything beyond that.
Except for the fact I was no longer freaked out, and considering Smithie had phoned to tell me I now had a bodyguard, though he’d shared he’d explain why later, my freakout might have been mild, but I’d still been freaking.
Now, instead, I was battling the urge to climb him like a tree.
I contained the urge and asked, “How freaked out should I be that Smithie put you on me?”
“Hawk’ll get into that.”
Well, there you go.
Freakout returned.
I mean…
Hawk Delgado?
Smithie hadn’t mentioned Hawk Delgado.
Smithie had only mentioned I had a bodyguard, and ugly stuff had gone down at the club in the past. Ugly stuff that tore Smithie up. So I put it down to him being overcautious, something he was now on a normal basis.
Hawk Delgado was either reaching the extremes of overcautious or shit was serious.
And my guess was, Smithie didn’t tell me about Hawk because he was parceling out the bad news.
Shit.
“Right. Hawk,” I said. “Now how freaked out should I be that Smithie brought in a guy like Hawk Delgado for whatever is going on?”
This guy made no reply.
He just kept looking me in the eye.
“Mo—”
“Hawk’ll get into that,” he repeated.