SHEIKH'S SURPRISE BABY: A Sheikh Romance (60 page)

"Because your case is so unusual," the marshal mused, tapping the back end of his pen against the desk, "I have no choice but to propose an unusual solution."

The meeting had started not even five minutes ago, but April already wished that it was over. Sitting in the closet sized office of a U.S. Marshal was not how she wanted to spend her Friday.

"Unusual as in I don't need to be assigned a new identity and I am free to go home? Or unusual as in things are about to get a lot more complicated for me than they have to be?"

The marshal looked at her from across the desk in exasperation.

"Whatever perceived complications you face are set in place for your own safety. We take gang activity very seriously, Ms. Cosden. That's why we're going to break from our usual procedures and set you up with more than just a new identity."

A leathery hand sank down upon one of the manila folders on the marshal's desk, and he pushed it towards her. April noticed her name inscribed on the tab. Without hesitation she centered it in front of her and opened it up to sort through the papers within. Two distinct stacks were grouped together with paper clips. The first collection detailed the name and history of a woman named Tristan Webber, but it was the second that drew April's attention.

"Byron Black," she murmured, eyes tracing over the bolded name in the top left corner before turning to the passport sized image clipped to the top right. A man glared up at her, his dark brown hair kept short along the sides and just long enough at the crown to tease up so that it looked messy and windblown. A pronounced brow shaded his eyes, which seemed to pierce through the photograph and right through her. His jaw was strong and broad, lined with unkempt stubble. Based on his head shot, April assumed that this man was one of the people who wanted her dead.

"Is this the gang leader?" she asked. He seemed young to be a crime boss, somewhere in his early thirties. "Why is he in my file?"

The marshal shook his head slowly.

"No, Mr. Black is—"

Before he could finish the sentence, the door swung open. April turned in her chair to face the disruption only to find herself pinned by the dark, scrutinizing gaze she'd seen in the photograph. Byron Black dominated the doorway, a black full face helmet tucked under his arm. He wore a thick leather jacket, and the grey t-shirt beneath it stretched across his pecs. A worn pair of dark jeans clung to him in all the right ways, but April was sure that he was the kind of man who didn't care about how he dressed. He just happened to look good naturally, his body filling out his clothes just right.

She swallowed. There was no denying that he was attractive.

"Mr. Black is what?" he asked. The voice rumbled like gravel, dark and deep.

"Here, evidently," the marshal sighed. "Ms.
Webber
, meet Mr. Black. Your assigned security and new boyfriend."

April whipped around in her chair to face the marshal in full.

"My
what
?"

"Yeah," Byron commented dryly from the doorway, "nice to meet you too,
Webber
."

April's blood boiled. Whoever this Byron guy was, he had a lot of nerve to burst into the office unannounced and then mouth off at her shock.

"In order to protect you and to add authenticity to your new identity, we've made arrangements with Mr. Black that Tristan Webber will be his live-in girlfriend. As long as you confirm with us that he is actively guarding you and playing the role of significant other while under the public eye, he will be compensated."

Was he serious? April studied the marshal's face and saw no sign of humor. If they were going for authenticity, why would a man as attractive as Byron settle for a girl like her? April didn't think she was hideous, but she knew she was a little too curvy to be considered conventionally attractive. It didn't matter that she had a sweet face and great hair, or that her fashion sense was on point; men that looked like Byron didn't dig curvy chicks.

"And now that the introductions are out of the way," Byron said flatly, "can I take my
girlfriend
and get out of here, please? I've got a lot going on this afternoon."

The marshal's lips grew thin as he stared at Byron from across the room. There was tension between them, and April wondered why someone as serious and professional as a U.S. marshal would hire someone like Byron Black to look after her. Out of all the men and women enlisted in the army and the police force, surely there were better bodyguards.

But here Byron was, helmet under his arm, ready to take her away.

April slipped her file from the table and stood, turning towards the hunk of a man blocking the door. It didn't matter how attractive he was — his attitude was ugly. Who did he think he was?

"Remember," the marshal bade her, "you must report to us weekly to let us know he's holding up his end of the contract. As I said, it's not often at all that we have an arrangement like this made, but as your case is so sensitive..."

"I got it," April said. Byron had turned and stepped into the hall, starting to head towards the lobby. "He makes sure I'm safe, I make sure he makes sure I'm safe. Nothing could possibly go wrong with that setup." Unnecessary complications was right. How was she supposed to stay safe when she had to be mindful of policing her new ‘boyfriend’ bodyguard?

The marshal said nothing, but April could feel him silently seething behind her. Rather than linger, she slipped out into the hall and followed Byron towards the lobby. As she did he turned his head to look back at her.

"Catch." He pitched the helmet back to her in a high arc, and April caught it with ease. "You ever ride a motorcycle before?"

"No," April replied. Why anyone would want to risk their lives on one of those deathtraps was beyond her.

"Well, I hope you learn fast." There was playful snark in Byron's tone. He hitched a dark brow, turned his head to face straight, and stepped out into the lobby.

April turned the helmet in her hands, dumbstruck. The Witness Protection Program was all about assigning new identities to the people it protected, but never had she thought that she'd face changes so drastic.

"Can't we just take a cab?" she asked, jogging to catch up with him. Byron walked fast, and even a moment's hesitation had distanced him from her.

"My girlfriend," Byron said, "my rules. We ride, and if you don't stop complaining about it, I won't hesitate to pull out all the stops."

How rude. April bristled and scowled, but continued to follow. Byron didn't seem like the type who'd cater to her, and if she didn't keep up she was sure he'd leave her behind. The click of her heels against the polished tile increased their tempo, and soon she stood outside in the late afternoon sun by a stunning piece of machinery.

Byron's bike was chrome plated and unmarred by even a single fingerprint. Beneath the sun it glistened, and April wondered how something so bright could be street legal. Unlike some of the bikes she'd seen, this one looked skeletal. All of the inner workings, gleaming just as brightly as the exterior did, were uncovered. April didn't know much about bikes, but she knew enough to recognize that what she was about to ride upon was expensive, and likely custom made.

"Helmet on," Byron instructed. He swung his leg over the motorcycle and sat comfortably in the seat, looking her over with his dark eyes.

"What about you?" April asked. "Where's your helmet?" As she asked she secured the helmet over her head. The visor was spotless and the interior smelled brand new, like he'd stopped to buy it on his way over.

"Don't need one — I don't crash. But I can see you falling off. I'm supposed to protect those brains of yours, not see them scattered across the asphalt. Now get on." He patted the seat extension behind him, jerking his head in its direction.

"I've got a lot to get done today, and we're wasting daylight."

The motorcycle. The leather jacket. The attitude. As April struggled to mount the bike she realized why Byron rubbed her the wrong way. He was exactly like Eric. And in the end, she'd had Eric put in jail. It was part of what had gotten her into this whole mess in the first place. That and her idiot brother, Ryan, also behind bars by her doing. What was the marshal thinking, assigning her to a man like this?

The engine revved to life, and the flawless machinery beneath them vibrated as power coursed through it. April wrapped her arms around Byron's waist for safety, and he laughed.

"The helmet's looking more and more like a good idea," he jabbed. "Hold on tight; I'm not going to go easy on you just because it's your first time."

"You bastard," April gasped as the bike lurched back and then shot through the parking lot. The helmet she wore muffled most of what she'd said, and the speed they moved at obscured the rest. She clutched tighter. Riding a motorcycle was probably the craziest thing she'd ever done, and if she had her way it would be the last crazy thing she'd ever do. Between the arrest and her new bad boy bodyguard, April had enough excitement to last the rest of her life.

Without stopping to look for traffic, Byron cut out onto the street and sped towards the highway. The wind whipped by them, and April quickly understood why he wore leather. Not only was it cold, but it stung. When they came to a stop at a traffic light just before the on ramp to the highway, she pressed her chest against his back and closed her eyes. Why would anyone choose this above a car? A safe, enclosed, normal car?

The light flashed green and they sped off once more, gaining speed as they cut onto the highway. Soon tracks of city whipped by them, exit after exit disappearing. When Byron made a sharp exit off of a ramp leading to the heart of the downtown core, April was surprised. She assumed they'd be heading to one of the run down urban housing districts, but instead it looked like they were heading to the heart of the commercial area.

Skyscrapers with more floors than April could imagine and towering buildings made of gleaming glass flashed by them. Every structure they passed gleamed in the sunlight, modern and chillingly beautiful. April had never had reason to come out to the commercial sector of her city, let alone this new one; she had worked a part time retail job and had been working on completing a university degree at night, but now that her life had been reassigned to her by the government, everything was different.

Byron's hand slipped across to press a discrete black button hidden near the throttle, and ahead a windowless building with a shuttered door that looked like a parking garage opened. With ease, hardly slowing, he turned the bike into it and followed the winding passage into the depths. There were two basement levels. The first, from what April could see, was near empty. Two cars sat on opposite ends of the landing, both of them polished to gleam as if they were new. The second level housed motorcycles. As they slowed and pulled into an empty spot, April tried to count. Twelve bikes excluding the one they were on filled the area, all spotless. Black and red and blue and chrome, the different marks and makes seemed endless. When the engine died, April tore off the helmet and shook her head free, eager to ask Byron where they were. Byron wasn't looking to answer any questions. He'd already dismounted from the bike and was heading across the garage to a door.

"Hey!"

Byron turned his head, but he did not stop walking.

"What?"

"You're supposed to be taking care of me," April called after him. She struggled to dismount, and when she did she had to run to catch up. "If you're not going to do your job, I'm going to tell them as much. Then you won't get paid."

Byron's face soured. He stopped and waited for her to join him, then gestured towards the door.

"We're taking the elevator up. I'm going to get you settled, and then I'm going to get to work. You'll be safe here."

"And where is here?" April asked. "Do you work security in the garage or something?"

A curt laugh was her answer. Byron shook his head and shouldered the door open. Two elevators waited there, and once April was through he moved over to the control panel. Instead of hail the elevator using the button, Byron took a key from his back pocket and turned it in the keyhole located over the up button.

"Um, maybe you're the elevator mechanic?" April hazarded. She'd never seen someone use a key on an elevator before, and she figured that only someone connected with their upkeep would have something like that on their person.

Byron shot her a glance, lifting one of his dark brows. His gaze pierced her, and April found the words stolen from her throat. There was something about Byron that was arresting, dominant and dangerous. Those very traits had helped Eric win her heart, and she'd be damned if she got caught up in something like that again. But Byron worked with the Witness Protection Program, her mind whispered to her, so he has to be different.

The doors of the elevator on the left opened, and Byron stepped in. The bottom panels were made of matte metal, April assumed for maintenance reasons, but the tops were made of soft padded leather. Buttons sunk into the fabric at even distances, forming diamond shapes. The control panel on the inside had no floor options, only an up and down button. As she entered Byron pressed on the up button, and after a brief pause the doors closed. Nothing seemed to happen.

"Are we not moving?" April asked. All of these questions made her feel juvenile, but Byron wasn't letting her know anything.

"We're moving," Byron replied coolly. "The elevator is smooth and well maintained. I like to keep it that way. Little pleasures like that make life worth experiencing."

What a strange thing to say. April crossed her arms and looked him over, feeling vulnerable. She considered herself an extrovert, but having her life entrusted to a stranger made her realize just how little she knew about this man. Even the men she'd loved had hidden facets of their life from her, so how was she supposed to trust a man she knew nothing about?

"I need to know you, so I'm going to tell you about me, and then you're going to tell me about you. My name is Ap—"