Page 6 of The Bodyguard

So what’s my problem with Savannah Sinclair?

Nothing personal. I don’t know her, and I don’t watch her chick-flick movies.

I took on this BHS role understanding I’d be leading the division and occasionally doing some high-profile bodyguard work. Meaning the client was potentially a target. Think politician or high-value businessman like an oil tycoon traveling in the United States.

But I told Josh and Aidan I preferred not to protect women. They knew I had my reasons, and we left it at that.

An A-list actress with screaming fans and all the llama drama of Hollywood? No fucking thanks.

Then I read that she’s a diva which, sure, is probably untrue, but there’s a high possibility that it’s not.

She’s twenty-eight. Five foot six, long dark hair and big green eyes. And disgustingly beautiful.

I’ll be fighting off men and screaming girls.

Yah.

Give me a terrorist cell in Iraq any day.

I don’t mean that.

Probably.

So Savannah Sinclair is a guest and doesn’t yet know who I am. I could tell by the way she watched me while she tongue-fucked that damn grape.

Christ, my cock shot up in my pants before I realized who she was, and it’s not like three hundred people were staring at me as part of the wedding party or anything.

Is that the sort of shit she does regularly?

Am I going to have to deal with a seductress?

Great.

It looks like there’s something going on with her co-star, too. He had his hands all over her. She was coughing for god’s sakes. Not having a heart attack.

I tug down my white vest and head through the sea of people taking in the Black Hawke Security crew around the perimeter.

Marshall, a former Texan Green Beret, steps out of the tree line.

“You’re not working, Ryder. Get lost,” he says.

Smart ass.

“Just need a break.” I slide my hands into the pockets of my pants and watch the last of the guests sit down at their tables.

There is a wall of trees—or rather trees in planter boxes—separating us, and I do just that. Draw in a deep breath.

“Can’t believe some of the celebrities here today,” Marshall says, gripping the sides of his black BHS vest and rocking on his heels. “Nick Marciano and Savannah fucking Sinclair. Damn, she’s hot.”

See.

This is the shit I’ll have to deal with.

“Keep your dick in your pants.” I roll my eyes and glance around. “And your eyes and ears open.”

“Stop working and go have fun.” He slaps me on the shoulder. “We’ve got this.”

Of course he does.

---