Alpha Bodyguard Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Also by Luke Steel

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Dirty in Charge

  Alpha Bodyguard

  Luke Steel

  Contents

  Copyright

  Also by Luke Steel

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  Dirty in Charge

  Also by Luke Steel

  Copyright © 2017 by Luke Steel

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Also by Luke Steel

  Hard Boss

  Hungry Boss

  Dirty in Charge

  Wicked Billionaire

  Filthy in a Suit

  Single Dad Boss

  Last Hookup

  1

  My ass starts to go numb on the wooden park bench. The breeze on the back of my neck is chilly, but the setting sun warms my face. It’s a gorgeous day, the air crisp with distant snow and the scent of wealth. I’ve been waiting nearly an hour for this client. Properly speaking, the studio is my client. Sally Swanson, starlet on the rise, is just the job. I stretch my legs out in front of me, wishing I could ease my tight muscles. My long legs weren’t made to fit in economy seats on airplanes, but it was get here yesterday or lose the gig. The emailed contract included a pixelated copy of a boiler-plate headshot, and I checked out some movie stills online, mostly independent and small budget stuff. Would I recognize her without makeup? Not sure.

  My position affords a broad view of the winding trail around the park, and I scan the runners. Several points on the trail are blind, which leaves me antsy. Ms. Swanson has picked up more than your average social media stalker, it seems, because the wanker got hold of her private number for some up close harassment, and then vandalized her trailer.

  The trailer was what spooked the studio. Tight schedule, big budget, and finicky talent. They want Swanson undistracted, the agency said. Something about a multi-film franchise. Can’t blame them. Casting a next-to-nobody in a film bigger than her whole career is a fucking big chance to take, and a stalker on location screws over the whole crew.

  One of these skinny women in leggings is bound to be my gig. She’s making me wait, as they do, and it’s pissing me off. This job’ll be a pain in my ass. A blonde walks toward me with a coffee in one hand, cell in the other, and a chihuahua wearing a spiked collar trotting in front of her. That looks about right. Giant sunglasses cover half her face, so it could easily be her, but she passes without looking my way.

  Could be the one settled conspicuously in the middle of the green space, lounging on a yoga mat with a cigarette and an iPhone. She’s got a white cap pulled low on her head, as lesser starlets do when they’re pretend-incognito, secretly hoping someone will take their picture for InTouch magazine. Shit. My eyes move faster, roaming in circuits around the park. Who let this girl wander around the park by herself? You have to take this shit seriously.

  My phone shrills in my jacket pocket.

  “Yeah?” A skeevy man in a parka much too heavy for the weather approaches the yoga mat woman, and I tense.

  “Quinn, this is Ronette. Is Sally with you yet?” The film’s executive producer has been calling every twenty minutes.

  “No, Ronette. I’m here at the park, but Ms. Swanson hasn’t showed yet. Is this cause for concern?” Skeevy parka dude keeps walking, and yoga lady never even noticed him.

  Ronette gives this raspy, veteran smoker’s laugh. “Hell, no. I should have warned you she’d probably be late. Sally is the worst kind of independent. Doesn’t think she needs help from anyone. I think she’d lose a limb before she asked for directions to the damn hospital. She keeps to herself anyway, and specifically objected to having someone follow her around.”

  “That right? She doesn’t have a—what’re they calling it—a squad? A PA or anything?”

  “Not Sally,” Ronette says with a laugh. “She’s a squad of one. Listen, text me when she shows up. When you two get back to the set, I’ll meet you to go over our current security and the shooting schedule, and to introduce you to the cast and crew.”

  “Right, then.”

  I disconnect the call, dreading the gig more than ever. It’s bloody hard to protect someone who doesn’t want you there. But I’m surprised, too. She’d be the first starlet I’ve met who didn’t relish the added attention and importance of a hulking bodyguard in their entourage.

  I lean forward to rest my forearms on my thighs, as if that will make this bench more comfortable. More runners have joined the track, and I catalog them as I wait for my reluctant starlet to show. A runner in black emerges from behind some shrubs on the far side of the path. She’s been around a few times, and I’ve noticed her every time. She’s wearing a black cap, long-sleeved black runner’s top, and black leggings, and she’s dead focused on the run. No headphones. Her thighs are slim, but the curve of toned muscle is unmistakable under the stretchy fabric. For the last three laps at least, she’s been maintaining what has to be a brutal pace.

  I shift on the bench again. It’d feel good to stretch out and push my body like that, running out the stiffness in my muscles. I fuckin’ hate it when people waste my time. She’s on the end curve of the trail now, winding around toward me. If I weren’t on the clock, I could just fall in beside her, take a chance with that one. I can picture us, running until our legs give out, and then I’d take her back to my place—a hotel, the closest thing I have to a place—and shower before getting sweaty another way.

  Her lean body pounds down the trail. I lean back and widen my knees to ease the tension in my pants. For fuck’s sake. I’m good at this job, but it’s hell on a man’s sex life. I might as well be military again. I’m on the clock 24/7 when I’m on, and I haven’t had more than a week between jobs in longer than I can remember. I don’t regret the work I’ve put into building my reputation, but I miss women. No—I miss having a woman. Someone who could be with me for the long haul. My last relationship just didn’t survive my career, and I can’t blame her. A lot of the guys in my trade pay for the girlfriend experience and let that be enough, but that’s never been my style.

  I stare down at my hands before watching that runner gets my dick so hard that passersby take me for some park bench perv. It’s a lonely life sometimes, and that suits me fine most of the time. But right now? Right now I’m horny as hell.

  Black running shoes with neon yellow laces step into my field of vision.

  "Are you my man?" a breathy female voice demands.

  I jerk my eyes up to flawless beauty. Even without makeup, the sharp angles of her face create dramatic shadows that make her look classic, sculpted in honey-colored marble. A scowl gathers in two delicate creases between her long, arched eyebrows. Dark, intense eyes glare at me from under a black cap. A few strands of mahogany-brown hair cling to her neck, worked loose from the ponytail hanging down her back. Oh yes, love. I could definitely be your man.

  “Sorry?” I relax my face into an easy smile to hide my filthy thoughts.

  "Are you Quinn Buckley, the bodyguard the studio hired to babysit me?”

  You’ve got to be shittin’ me. I upgrade the warning label on this job from pain in my ass to shitshow,
thanks to my libido and those leggings. I’d have never pegged this one as the starlet in need of hired muscle.

  “Aye, that’ll be me.” I stand and offer a hand, autopilot engaged. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Swanson.”

  She takes my hand and props the other on her hip. Her posture is a challenge: shoulders thrown back, chin jutting forward, feet planted widely. My hand dwarfs hers. My callused palm slides over her smooth one. A snapshot of my earlier fantasy flashes in front of me. If her hand is this soft, I can only imagine her more tender flesh. The way it would feel on mine. I drop her hand before my hard-on becomes obvious.

  “Thanks for meeting me here.” She jerks her head toward the parking lot, so I grab my duffel and I fall into step beside her. “I needed to get away from the shoot for a minute.”

  I make a non-committal sound. Clients want to hear their own voices, not mine.

  “And I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Time always gets away from me when I’m running. Listen, Quinn, I know you have a job to do. I think this is complete bullshit, but I’m not going to make it harder than it has to be for you. Promise.”

  “Much appreciated, Ms. Swanson.” I chuckle and glance over to gauge whether she’s being sarcastic.

  “I’m serious,” she says. “This should be a really easy job for you. I’m here to work, so I won’t be taking in the night scene or anything. Work, eat, sleep, repeat.” She digs a key out of some hidden pocket on her leggings and beeps open a sleek Lincoln.

  “And yet, here you are, out here running—by yourself. Not even a driver. Doesn’t seem like you’re taking it seriously.” I slide into a plush leather seat and fumble for the button to slide the seat back. My knees slowly unfold.

  “I already told you. I think it’s bullshit, but I know who signs my check. Having a driver makes me feel like a child. I’d much rather be the one with the keys.”

  “Can’t blame you there, but I don’t meet many actresses who take that view. It’s usually the more the merrier.” My expectations about this job just got flipped, so I’m probing, trying to figure out what to expect from her.

  She throws the car into reverse. “And?”

  “And nothing. Just noticing. Part of my job.” I grin at her, but she’s focused on the road. Doesn’t even notice.

  “Yeah, well. Starlet isn’t the job title I want. I’m an actor.”

  “I never called—”

  “Sure, but you were thinking it. It’s fine, everyone does at this stage. It’s on me to change it.”

  We fall silent, and I pull out my phone to text Ronette belatedly. Once my attention goes to my phone, she settles back into her seat and relaxes her grip on the wheel. I keep my head down, but cut my eyes over to look her over more closely.

  Her confident posture even on the twisty road says she enjoys driving, enjoys being behind the wheel. It always strikes me as so American, this whole master of the road vibe. She’s not wearing a bit of makeup, and she’s still gorgeous. Her eyelashes are long and dark enough to make her hazel eyes almost eerily bright. Her flawless skin hints at maybe Mediterranean ancestry, the kind of brown an entire bronzer industry is built around mimicking. She takes off her cap, tosses it into the backseat, and runs her fingers through the thick, dark ponytail that falls over one shoulder.

  I start to feel warm. I shift my weight and realize it’s because her heated leather seat is about to set my ass on fire. Definitely that, and not because of the sensual way she purses her full lips at a hairpin curve or the delicious-looking line of her chin as it swoops back to that tender spot behind the ear.

  My hand hovers over the dash. “Ah—which one turns off the seat warmer?”

  My Rs roll harder than normal, my childhood brogue breaking free in my moment of discomfort. It’s truly unfortunate that I spent a good ten minutes admiring Ms. Swanson’s athletic body before she introduced herself. All the things I imagined doing to her are burned into my brain.

  Without answering, she stabs at a button, and the warmth immediately lessens. Right, now focus on the job.

  “Ms. Swanson, what can you tell me about the harassment—how long it’s been going on, for example, and what are the major incidents?”

  A muscle twitches in her jaw, but she waves a hand dismissively.

  “Honestly, this is so blown out of proportion. It’s probably some bored teenagers. If you knew where to look, someone Snapchatted it, I’m sure.”

  “Sorry to bear bad news, but your average vandals aren’t usually so specific in my experience. Spray painting bitch on your trailer sounds personal, not a harmless prank. And there are phone calls too, I understand. The studio is taking it seriously or I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Please. I can handle being called a bitch. I’m not scared of a pimply kid with a dollar-store can of spray paint and some basic hacking skills.” She shrugs and tips her head. “But either way, guess I’m stuck with you.”

  “Or I’m stuck with you.”

  She flicks her eyes at me, and finally, she laughs.

  My phone buzzes in my hand just as Sally slows and turns onto an even smaller road that winds between fields of tall grass and wildflowers. California evergreens tower around us, throwing us into shadow so deep it almost looks like it’s already night. Between the trunks, I glimpse the lighted windows of what looks like a massive estate house. The forest opens to a broad, neatly trimmed yard with a horseshoe-shaped drive. The house is a gray stone behemoth, trying hard to look like a cross between a Disney castle and a hunting lodge. It’s an odd marriage in places, but grand nonetheless. Behind the hulking building, the yard slopes down to a broad view of a placid lake.

  I look down and see a message from Ronette: She had to jet, but Sally can show me around. Security update tomorrow. Perfect.

  Sally pulls around to a small grass lot, twists to pull a bag out of the back seat, and hops out. I step out into the cool dusk. She looks like she’s about to take off, so I hold up my phone as she rounds the front of the car.

  “Ronette had to take care of something. Mind showing me around, then?”

  Her steps hitch, but her face stays bland. “Yeah, sure. I’ll give you the highlights.”

  I shoulder my duffel and wait for her to start walking. Instead, she points like a flight attendant to a cluster of smaller stone buildings a quarter-mile away and to our left.

  “That way are the guest cottages. Most of the crew and some of the cast are out there, but you’ll be in the main house.” She changes direction, waving her hands to a long, low building on our right. “The lap pool and gym are over there, which you should use if you want to swim, as the lake is off limits, here at least. Part of the set.”

  She pivots on the ball of her foot and starts toward the house. We pass through heavy wooden doors into a cavernous atrium.

  “Kitchen’s toward the back of the house. Meals served at seven, twelve, and seven, but basically, if you’re hungry, someone will make you something. Library on the other end, and a bunch of rooms filled with stuffed animal heads make up the rest of the floor.”

  I make a non-committal sound and follow her up the stairs.

  Dark wood lines the hallway on both sides, adding to the claustrophobic effect. Sally stops at a door and gestures to the next one.

  “This is my room, and the next one there’s yours. We’ll share a connecting bathroom. I suppose so you can run to my rescue if shady characters attack me in the night.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Swanson. I’ll see you for dinner downstairs, then?”

  "Or whenever,” she says vaguely. “Please call me Sally, though. Ms. Swanson makes me feel like I’m at the DMV or something.”

  “Right, then. Sally.”

  She tips her head and slips into her room.

  At my room, I let the door swing open and stick my head in before stepping inside. It’s smallish and simply furnished, which suits me. My duffel sort of sighs when I drop it on the bed, the duvet is so plush. I check the drawers in an upright chest of drawers, and lea
ve one out for my things.

  I unzip my duffel and pull out two tailored suits, basic separates to blend into any scene, a shaving kit and toiletries, and a couple of books. I line up the items on the bed, then hang the clothes in the closet. The paperback thriller I bought in New York, I toss back in the bag. But the cloth-bound volume of poems by William Butler Yeats, that goes on the bedside table.

  Listen, I don't care what they say, every man in my line of work has a secret superstition. Mine’s Yeats. My mum adores him, and it gives me a little piece of home to reread these poems from my childhood. But the real reason I keep this small volume with me is that it’s a promise to always go back. A talisman, like. I rub my fingertips over the embossed lettering and smile. Mum would give me hell for carrying around a lucky book. I miss her, the tough old bird. It’s been a bit since I went home last. It’d be good to see her. I stretch out on the bed, letting my muscles fully relax for maybe the first time all day. Or week.

  “Quinn?” Sally taps on the adjoining door from the other side.

  When I pull open the door, the hem of her bathrobe lifts in the breeze. My breath catches at the sight—her hair loose on her shoulders, bare calves sticking out below the robe.

  “Hey, I’m going be in for the night. I’ll take a bath while you’re downstairs for dinner so I’ll be out of your way. I’ll eat my dinner up here and then turn in. Early day tomorrow. You’re welcome to join the crew downstairs for dinner, but I generally don’t. I prefer eating alone, but no reason you should.”

  “What’s security like in the main building? I’d rather stay close.”

  She laughs so hard her shoulders shake. “This place was built with paranoid tycoons in mind. It’s a fortress, and the studio added extra night guards in addition to hiring you. I’ll lock my big heavy door and sleep like a baby. Besides, you’re the stranger with access to my room while I sleep. Should I be worried?”