Page 11 of In Daddy's Custody

“But he didn’t protect you from the paparazzi?”

I almost smile at the criticism in his tone.

“No. I think he tipped them off. He was fu—” I catch myself just in time. I’m not sure if Mr. Asshole is going to make a distinction between me swearing at him, or just swearing around him in general, and I’m in no mood to find out. “He was useless.”

“Hmmm.” His frown deepens, and he pulls out his phone and types something into it quickly. “Good save, by the way.” He looks across at me and winks, and a flood of heat washes over me. As much as I dislike the man sitting beside me, his praise makes me feel good. I want more of it, but I hate myself for wanting more of it at the same time. I shouldn’t care about him. I shouldn’t care about what he thinks. I shouldn’t want his praise. But I do.

My head throbs and my emotions are all over the place. The food I insisted on eating before meeting with Richard doesn’t agree with me and the coffee I drank to swallow the painkillers, which have now worn off, tastes bitter in my mouth. I want to sleep. And then I want to wake up and find that this is all a dream, and my weekend plans haven’t been thwarted and I’m not really stuck in the back of the limo on the way to the airport to fly off tothe middle of nowhere with a sexy-as-sin brute I don’t much like, and who clearly doesn’t like me.

I lean back against the seat and close my eyes, trying to breathe deeply through my nose, trying to will away the nausea. Despite my best efforts, little whimpers escape my lips. I really do feel terrible. Getting on a plane for twelve hours is the last thing I want to do.

“Here,” Jaxon says, holding his closed fist out to me, and dropping a piece of wrapped candy and a couple of white capsules into my palm. In his other hand he holds a bottle of water. “Painkillers. And the lolly there is ginger. For the nausea.”

There’s that kindness again. I know he doesn’tactuallycare about me, but it’s nice that he’s pretending he does. It’s more than my previous bodyguards have ever done. It makes me feel slightly less horrible, that he’s trying to help me.

I want to smile to show my gratitude. I know I should. But I can’t. “Thanks,” I mumble, and that’s the best I can do. He nods in acknowledgement but doesn’t speak. Good. The last thing I want to do is make small talk with the man who has no qualms about putting me in my place with very barbaric methods.

The pills and ginger candy help. By the time the limo pulls up into the drop-off area of the airport, my head isn’t banging quite so much, and the nausea has eased.

Jaxon already has our luggage—my matching Louis Vuitton suitcases and his smart black one—on a cart by the time the chauffeur opens my door for me. I’m accustomed to waiting for my door to be opened. That way, security has time to clear the way for me. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. But maybe it’s just because I’m a diva and I like having my door opened for me.Whatever the reason, Jaxon is waiting for me, and he touches his forehead in a subtle salute to the chauffeur before leading the way into the terminal. There are people everywhere, and Jaxon deftly dodges them. He’s walking fast, but not so fast as to leave me behind. He’s constantly on alert; his body is taut, rigid with tension, and his eyes dart all around, watching for any threat. He’s ignoring me completely, but his vigilance, along with his sheer size, makes me feel safe.

I hate crowds. And there’s a huge group of people waiting to check in and get through customs to board the plane. Everywhere I look, there are throngs of travellers of all ages. And the noise! So much noise! People are talking loudly in different languages. It makes my head hurt. Out of the corner of my eye I see a camera, a flash. Jaxon sees it before I do, and he reacts by moving in front of me, shielding me with his body. He stands close to me, his shoulders touching mine, his huge form a wall of protection. He’s a physical barrier between me and the photographers. Effortlessly, he manoeuvres us through the crowd, hiding me, his huge hand in the small of my back guiding me, moving me to safety. Once we’re out of the way of the stalking paparazzi, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Finally. A bodyguard who actually knows what he’s doing.

Then reality hits me: I wouldn’t even be in this position if my previous bodyguard—Mr. Useless—had done his job properly. If he’d actually shielded me from the paparazzi like my father paid him to do, instead of leading me right through the middle of them, my less-than-flattering images wouldn’t be plastered all over the papers right now. Anger wells up within me and I grumble half under my breath, huffing in annoyance. Jaxon glares at me. I roll my eyes, slightly bitterly. Of course he justassumes I’m protesting my current situation. It wouldn’t occur to him to ask, would it?

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, little girl,” he growls quietly, directly into my ear, his voice so low that nobody else can hear. Fortunately.

“Or what?” I snarl, bitterness and annoyance welling up inside me. “You’ll spank me right here, in front of all these people?” I glare at him and he stares right back, unnerving me. I look down. I’m not brave enough to hold his gaze. Not when I know what he’s capable of doing. “You don’t even know why I was huffing,” I murmur.

He doesn’t answer with words, but instead fixes me with a stern stare that I know is meant as a silent warning to behave. His body language makes it clear that he doesn’t much care why I was huffing before; he just wants me to stop. I’m disinclined to obey. I don’t like being judged unfairly. Not when I behave appallingly enough to keep him perpetually grouchy anyway. He doesn’t need to find more things—things that aren’t even accurate—to get annoyed at me over.

“I was thinking that you’re good at your job,” I tell him, my voice low but clear. “If you had been my bodyguard before, my pictures wouldn’t be plastered all over the papers and I wouldn’t be in this situation. I was grumbling because I’m being sent away because my useless bodyguard saw fit to display me to the surrounding paparazzi. He didn’t shield me from them; he stepped back and got out of the way so they could get some good shots.”

He still doesn’t answer. So I continue my tirade. “I know you thought I was huffing about the crowd, but you’re wrong.”

The way he raises an eyebrow at me sends tingles down my spine. But he also smiles a little half-smile. His eyes crinkle up at the corners and the edges of his mouth twitch up a little into a tiny lopsided grin that lights up his whole face. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Does he approve? Disapprove?

“You wouldn’t be in the papers if you didn’t misbehave, either,Cocaine Jade,” he points out, amusement lacing his tone. I’m sure he quoted that particular headline deliberately. It was the one that disturbed me the most. He must know I was never Calamity Jane. Actually, I’m sure he knows I’ve been a wreck for years and haven’t acted in any roles at all for a long time, let alone something as well-known as that.

“Shut up,” I grumble, heat flooding my face. “Nobody asked you.”

I expect him to tell me off at that, but he doesn’t. Instead, he smirks.

“You involved me all by yourself,” he points out. “I figured you wanted my opinion.”

“Nope.” I shake my head. “I don’t. Not unless you’re agreeing with me.”

He winks. “I’ll agree with you when you’re right.”

He’s such an asshole.

I hate the way the wink makes him look devilishly sexy. I hate the sparkle in his dark eyes, the teasing tone in his voice. I hate the way my body responds to him. I hate the heat that’s spreading through me, the air that’s too thick to breathe.

“I am right! Everything I said was true!” My voice is louder than I want it to be. I’m trying to talk quietly, not much louderthan a whisper, but he’s irritating me. Even when he’s trying to joke around a bit, he manages to irritate me. The way my pussy clenches with desire irritates me the most.

“So was I,” he points out. “You’re not really a victim here, Jade. This intervention is warranted.”

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