BODYGUARD - Part One (The BODYGUARD Series, Book 1) (5 page)

I stare across the street at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. I've never been inside and can't believe this is happening. A long, red carpet stretches out from the hotel entrance, and there are barriers to hold back the fans. There are about a hundred people waiting to see her, Erin Best, singer, TV star, and celebrity. She's a hot item. She's also very beautiful. At twenty-six years of age, she has the looks and body of a sixteen-year-old gymnast. I wish!

He comes out of the lobby and walks toward me. He is beautiful, wearing a crisp, tailored suit, fresh, snow-white linen shirt, and a tie. His shoes are polished black, showing the best, most expensive leather. I'm wearing my LBD. It's my best dress, and I know I'm about to be outclassed, but it's all I have. The five-inch black patent heels are Jimmy Choo, so I hope people notice my feet before the dress.

He kisses me. I close my eyes and see a shower of sparks. I know the gawkers must wonder about this handsome hunk, and the girl he made a beeline for. Necks crane when he walks me inside. I feel excited and nervous. I am two people, celebrity and trespasser.

He senses my tension and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. "We're good, don't worry. Nearly there."

Inside the lobby, it's like a dream. I can't believe I'm here after Jamie reveals a part of his life to me. This is his world, his career as a bodyguard, and tonight is a typical night. He introduces me to Dave Chisholm and Carl Brasher, two hunky guys. Not quite as handsome as Jamie, but passable, very passable.

They are the other bodyguards hired to protect singing sensation Erin Best. She's giving a press conference in this shrine to luxury and wealth. I’m almost overawed; marble floors, polished brass, and acres of expensive hardwoods. The lobby is inhabited by staff in chic well-tailored uniforms, and then there are the guests. Most of the women are wearing designer dresses that would set me back almost a year's wages. There’s a strong, fragrant odor of expensive French perfume. The atmosphere is no less powerful, rich, heady, and intoxicating.

He leads me into the coffee bar. "I have time before she arrives, what would you like me to order?"

"Cappuccino, please."

He signals for the waitress. She is in a short, black fitted skirt, low heels, and a fitted white shirt. It looks like thick, Egyptian cotton. Cool and elegant.

Two cappuccinos arrive. I lick the froth and then take a sip.

His is untouched. He is staring at me. "I have to tell you."

I almost blurt, 'You're married,' but I keep my mouth shut and instead raise my eyebrows. Sophisticated, cool. Inside, my heart is thumping like a bass drum.

"It's about Emily." My stomach feels like lead. Did it have to be Emily? Stick thin, high fashion Emily. Little Miss Perfect, with nails to match.

"You're right," he continues, "There is a connection. But it's not what you think."

It sounds a lot like what I think. All that time we were having sex. I gave him what he wanted, sucked his cock, and when he wanted me, I was there. I am angry, but I do not go ballistic. I can't, not after those times when he had his hard shaft rammed into me, and we hit the peak of bliss.

I come down again with my skin tingling. It is an unearthly feeling, exquisite, sensitive, and I could almost have another orgasm just by Jamie touching me. There, anywhere. I am drowning in the smell of him, inflamed by the heat of his firm, muscled body. Every cell in my body cries out for more, and I think he's telling me it's over. I feel the tears pricking at my eyes, but I hold them back.

"It's not your friend Emily."

This time I don't bite back my response. "You're seeing two Emilys? Wonderful."

It is his turn to elevate his eyebrows. "Two? No, just the one."

"That's a relief."

He puts his hand on mine, and I snatch it away.

"Emily was married to a guy in my SEAL unit, Jess Tanner. We grew up next door to each other, Emmie and me. We were close. She was the first girl I kissed, back in third grade. Even our parents were good friends, and over the years we've kept up. I even introduced her to Jess."

Emmie! How cute. Emily sounds bad enough. Emmie is intimate. Dangerous.

"When we lost Jess inside Afghanistan, she had a miscarriage. She fell apart. Drink, debt, stuff like that."

I gather by 'lost him' he means the man died in action. "I'm sorry."

He nods. "Yeah, it's the risk we take when we sign up. I felt responsible at the time. I still do. It was because of me they got together. She can't make out alone. She started seeing a doctor, and she's improving, but the medical insurance doesn't cover it all. So I help her out. She has a new job, well, gone back to her old job. I hope she'll be back on her feet before long."

That explains the cab driving, for the extra money. His words suggest it's not a long-term arrangement, like an affair.

"What does she do?"

"She's started as a physical therapist in a local hospital. A couple of days a week, while she straightens herself out."

A warning light switches on in my brain. "Where does she live?"

"Here, in New York City."

It's the way he mentions her name. It’s something more than a helping hand to a childhood friend in need. "Do you date?"

A hesitation. He's not going to answer, but then it comes. "Uh, I take her out from time to time. Not what you'd call a date, I guess."

Really? "When was the last time?"

"A week ago, the night before I ran into you in my cab. But Tiff, we're just two good friends, nothing more."

It always is 'two good friends.' You don't ever see two enemies on a date.

"Do you love her, Jamie?"

He looks startled. There is another long pause. "Well, er, she, er, said she wanted us to hook up."

Is she some kind of a fish? Now I know there is something there. Something more than a kind word and a goodbye peck at the front door. I want to ask if they fuck, but it’s not polite.

"Why date me if you're seeing her?"

Translation. 'Why do you need my body when you have hers?'

He manages a weak smile. "When I saw you that night in my cab, I knew you were my number one." His smile becomes a helpless shrug, "I feel it inside. It's hard to explain."

That's a relief. I'm the one. Does that mean Emmie is number two?

"What about Emily? Have you told her about me?"

After a pause, I hear him say, "No."

We sit in silence for a couple of minutes. I can't help it. I have to know. I brush a stray strand of hair from my face and finger my necklace. "You sleep with her?"

He doesn't answer, but he gives a tiny shake of the head. Does that mean, no, he doesn't sleep with her? Or no, he won't answer my question?

"I still don't get it, Jamie. What do you want? You take me home, you fuck me, and all the time you're seeing someone else. You love her, I guess. At least, you have strong feelings for her."

Another shake of the head, "It's so hard. Tiffany, I don't want to lose you. I mean that. Like I said, the moment I saw you, there was never anyone else."

I feel a little better, except for Emmie. My emotions are all over the place, guilt, confusion, hurt, anger, and much more. It's hard to feel bad about a wonderful guy like Jamie. It's also hard to be threatened by two Emilys, very hard. I don't ask him about Emily at the nail bar. He could have a thing about girls named Emily. I imagine some men are like that. Emmie. Ugh.

He checks his watch. "I have to go. Stay and watch, see the kind of work I do. I'll arrange for a cab home for you when we're done."

"Sure."

The word comes out kind of cool, but that's the way I feel. Cool. We finish our coffee, and he shows me to a position just inside the main entrance. I'm two feet away from the red carpet. He moves outside, and the two other bodyguards join him. A limo pulls up at the curb, and the crowd starts to cheer. At first, it is a low hum, but inside a minute, it becomes a cheer. Minutes later, she is within touching distance of me. Erin Best. They say TV celebs are not so pretty in real life. Not so thin, not so young. They're wrong! Erin is an icon of beauty. Her skin has a youthful glow. Her hair shines like it's been sprayed with varnish, and her nails, wow! Emily could learn a lesson or two for her nail concession, but I'm not thinking about Emily.

Erin’s dress fits her like a body stocking and plunges down at the back almost to the cleft between her cheeks. It's fitted, but it isn't. By some magic of the designer and the rich fabric, it flows as much as it fits. Spiky stilettos peep from under the hem, and I look up to see her jewelry. It's big, expensive, and I imagine the price tag would pay the rent for a year on an apartment overlooking Central Park. If I make it sound brash, it's not. She is the pinnacle of style and good taste.

She nods to the media people as she walks past, and then she hesitates for a moment. She's spotted me, and for a brief moment treats me to the full force of her electric gaze. I am entranced. She noticed me. Me, Tiffany Durham, juice queen at the local gym! Would-be singer. At least, once upon a time! A long, long time ago!

I return the smile, and she sweeps away. Jamie is close behind with his fellow bodyguards. He is obviously in charge, his gaze sweeping every which way. Looking for threats. A stalker or kidnapper could be anywhere. He hinted at some kind of a kidnap threat, so it is serious. No psycho will get past him. I know my man.

I've been holding my breath, and I let it out in a long, low, slow, silent whistle. For a second or two, the glitter fell on me like stardust. It's enough to make me go weak at the knees. I wait a few minutes, and he is back. Jamie.

"She's all safe, tucked away in her room. The presentation takes place in a half hour, so I have a little time. I called a cab to take you home. You want me to walk you out?"

"Yes, please."

He steers me back along the red carpet. The gawkers are still there, watching. Are they wondering who is this girl wearing a chain store black dress, and holding the arm of the gorgeous hunk in the tailored suit? I stare straight ahead and keep what is left of my composure.

We reach the end of the carpet, and he pulls me onto the sidewalk. His face leans down and his lips brush mine, a gossamer touch, reminding me of what we share in private. The remaining strength in my knees starts to fade, and I am thankful he puts his arm around me to stop me falling.

I am falling. Falling for a beautiful boy who's with someone else. I think of the stylish girl who happened to lock eyes with me. I could never be her. She is so poised, confident, and strong. The very idea of her freezing before an audience is crazy. Not like me. A pity, I love writing and singing songs, meaningful songs, about change. If one person listens, maybe something somewhere may change. The butterfly effect, the delicate insect flaps its colorful wings and a thousand miles away, a tidal wave hits the coast. That's what I hear.

I look up to his face as the cab draws up to the curb. "Jamie, thanks for showing me this. I don't..."

His finger touches my lips, and there is no Emmie, no childhood sweetheart stealing him away from me. There is just him. His kiss comes as a surprise, and the taste of his lips is an elixir, almost enough to drive the demons away, almost. He hands me into the cab and I leave, alone, but for the nagging worries gnawing at my brain. There is no doubt, tonight, I want him. When I crawl into my bed, I want his body to be there. I want his hands to touch me, to fondle me in my most intimate places. For his kiss to set me alight, and his shaft to impale me so I cannot escape. Not ever.

Emily is staring at her screen, studying some financial thing I wouldn't understand if she put it in a bun and served it with fries. She's working on her business plan. Emily intends to form a chain of nail bars. The idea is to be a millionaire by the time she's thirty. I think she'll get there. I'm still thinking about the night before. I don't know where I stand.

He says I'm number one, and that helps. I remember him talking about Emmie, and that doesn't help. I sense he found me on the rebound after his childhood sweetheart tells him she wants more. He needs a fuck, and so there I am, ready and eager. I am not his first kiss. I am just the understudy. I can appreciate he feels the need to protect her after everything she went through. They were close, long before she married Jess, very close, too close.

"What's a physical therapist?"

After a few moments, she looks up from her screen. "You planning a change of career, girl?"

I shake my head. "It's a friend of a friend, I was wondering."

Emily is not stupid. "She's with this guy you're fucking, right?"

"Sort of. Not quite."

"Not quite with him, or not quite fucking?"

"Well..."

"Hmm." She sounds like Sarah now. Why am I surrounded by friends who want to throw darts at my life? Tiny, almost invisible darts. More like hints. Words like 'hmm.' Calculated to throw a bucket of guilt over me, like cold water. What follows is not helpful.

"They manipulate people's bodies when they're sick. Help tone the muscles, loosen the joints, that kind of thing. They have to be very strong and very supple. I dated a physical therapist once. He was," her eyes glaze over, and she's left me. I know she's in a land of hot, steamy sex, where a hunky physical therapist is turning her body into a hot, erotic mush. He uses his strong hands to caress her, to touch, to play, and to invade. I picture his six-pack, glossy with sweat, the strong odor of healthy male sweat mixed with the powerful tang of urgent sex.

Is that what it's like with Jamie and Emmie? I'm already thinking of her with that stupid name. What does she look like when she’s naked? She's a physical therapist. This means she has a firm body, and she's slim. Strong muscles because of her job. Kind of a super fit athlete, complete with that lithe, confident grace that makes their body shape so desirable.

I should know. I see hundreds of gym members pounding the treadmills, pumping iron, cross trainers, rowing machines, anything to achieve the ideal physique. Why? I believe I know the answer, because it's sexy. She has to be sexy. I wish his childhood sweetheart would leave him alone.

I think about the reason she needs him, and who needs whom. Have I got it all wrong? Is it him who needs her? Something familiar from the old days, to chat about old times, maybe for sex, with Miss Super Athlete. For the hundredth time, I wonder why he wants me. What he said about me being number one, I'm not sure. It sounds kind of invented. Although it may be true, which would be nice. Or maybe not, which would suck.

How much does Emily knows about Jamie? I know they've met professionally, so they must have talked. I don't like to ask. I doubt anything she says will help. She's looking at me.

"What?"

"PTSD."

I stare at her for long moments. "Okay. Sure."

I wait for her to explain. "Post traumatic stress disorder. It's what soldiers get when they've been in battle."

"You think he's stressed? It's me that's stressed. Jamie doesn't have stress. He's tough. He has girls lusting after his body. I can't believe that's too stressful."

She gives a shake of her head. "It's not what I meant. Maybe he had bad experiences in the past, you know, in the SEALs. He could be trying to cushion it with someone who wasn't around at the time."

I'm no cushion. She's saying he's using me as a diversion, someone to salve a deep hurt while he stays focused on Emmie. What I don't get is this. If he wants a fuck, why not use her as his damn cushion?

If he's using me, I have an awful thought. I stare back at her. "You never..."

"Me?" she arches her carefully shaped eyebrows, "No."

Thank God, but she hasn't finished.

"But I would have."

My temperature soars. "You what?"

She grins. "Just kidding, Tiff. But he sure is a hunk. You need to pin this guy down."

She returns to her laptop. Her fingernails, painted with an intricate design, dance over the keyboard. Is she embarrassed? Is that why she's gone back to working? Does she have anything to be embarrassed about? It's painful to imagine her and Jamie in bed together. Painful because we're friends and colleagues, and she's so thin and elegant; I have enough on my plate with Emmie!

She looks up at me again. "Tiff, I want you to take a look at this. What do you think?"

She is showing me a spreadsheet, a business plan. At the end of the first twelve months, she shows little profit. After two years, she's in Tiffany diamonds and Marc Jacobs frocks. I am impressed with the big number at the end.

"It looks wonderful, is this possible?"

"It is," she says, sounding happier than I've ever known her, "After I open my tenth nail bar, I'll need a bodyguard to escort me home with the cash. Maybe I could hire..."

She stops because I glare at her. She locks her eyes back on the screen, and her dancing fingers restart the tapping. After a minute, she looks up briefly. "Give me a few moments, and I'll warm up some pizza. Or shall I call out for a delivery?"

I shrug. "Whatever."

We share a day off, and she sometimes invites me here to her apartment. It's a day to kick off the shoes and let our hair down. In the evening, we go to a club and ratchet up the action, booze, boys, and bebop. There's plenty of laughter, the wine flows like water, and I feel lucky to have such a close friend. Today, I'm not so sure.

She asks me to choose a topping, and I shrug. I don't care. She makes the choice for me and gives the guy the order. I am pondering my problem. Is he on the level, or does he just want a convenient fuck? He works in a world of wealth and glamour. Somehow this does not gel with the girl from the juice bar. Then again, I can give him as much as the next girl. More. I can give him something he'll never forget. Me!

The doorbell is a surprise, and Emily goes to answer it. She returns with the pizza, which I'd forgotten, and we pig out on the floor.

She taps at the keyboard with one hand, while the other hand pushes a small chunk of pizza into her mouth. I guess that's how people get rich. Eat and work at the same time. I eat a bit and leave the rest in the box. She is concerned.

"Hey, Tiff, you should finish that. It's delicious."

True, but I want to be thin like her. She is persuasive, and I pick up another slice. My box is soon empty, and I look at hers. Half the pizza is still there, and I point it out to her. She shrugs. "I don't want to get fat, do I?"

This is what it's like. My friends do not help me, and I have a rival I haven't even seen. I can picture her, all slender, smooth, and beautiful. Massaging his body, and her hands smell sweet with the odor of aromatic oils. She winds her willowy body around him, and I glance at Emily's leftover pizza. My self-esteem is down in my Nike trainers.