Page 212 of Duty and Desire

I squared my shoulders and sat up straighter. “So…where do we start?”

CHAPTER 2

I’d had bodyguards before. But only for events like fashion week or a big shoot. Just for a limited amount of time. My contract with Ziggy, however, was open ended, dependent on the heart in the box situation. Once he’d grilled me about what the police were doing (investigating my entire life), my routine (I don’t really have one. It’s consumed by work), and my calendar for the next few days (I’d freed up time to finish unpacking and then back to work on my lingerie line), he drove me to the gym. There was one I used a couple of times in the apartment building, but I generally do better with some active encouragement and guidance.

Guess Ziggy approved of my Land Rover because he gave it another one of those almost-smiles. I, however, continued to receive the full professional cold front face. This was definitely going to take some getting used to.

“Who’s your shadow?” asked Kwana, my awesome trainer.

I paused mid-lunge, my breath coming hard and fast. “My bodyguard, Ziggy. You like him?”

“He’s pretty. Don’t stop, keep moving.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You don’t usually have one of them around. Have you been getting hassled or something?”

Kwana stood with her arms crossed, all lean muscles beneath brown skin. Since we were in an open area at the end of the main part of the gym, Ziggy waited over by the wall, just out of earshot. He stood with his arms loose at his side, his gaze constantly wandering a circuit from me—around the room, over to the exits, and back again. Always on alert.

“More a precaution than anything,” I said.

No matter how much I liked Kwana, no one outside my inner circle needed to know about the incident. The fewer people who found out about the gross cow heart and knife the better.

There’d been no further news from the police. Though it was never likely they’d track down a suspect and charge that person the next day.

Case closed, hooray!

I wish. It’d take them weeks to go through my correspondence. I shuddered at the thought. For years I’d received weird and smutty emails and messages from all sorts of people. Believe me, my collection of unasked for and unwanted dick pics was epic. Why random dudes thought I wanted to see their hairy little balls and pecker I have no idea. But it was all just part of putting yourself out there as a woman these days. Land on the cover of some magazines and it only gets worse.

And now some poor cops would have to wade through it, dick pics and all. Maybe in time they’d do a lineup of the usual suspects, and get them all to drop their trousers for a positive ID. Or some computer database would bring up a match based on the culprit’s short and curlies. I could just imagine the CSI episode now.

Kwana sniffed. “Fine. Don’t tell me. Move on to squats.”

“Lady, you’re mean.”

“You love it.”

“True.” I wiped the sweat off my face with the back of my hand and kept going. “I wouldn’t call him pretty exactly.”

“Masculine pretty,” amended Kwana. “It’s that angular jawline and cut yourself cheekbones. Gets me every time. Move faster. Come on, you’re not even trying.”

“My life hurts,” I whined, but did as told. The woman was going to kill me.

She lowered her voice, taking a step closer. “He’s looking at you.”

“Who, Ziggy? It’s his job to look at me.”

“No. I mean, his eyes were on your ass. Hell, they were glued to those globes.”

I snorted. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“I most certainly am not.”

A man in fluorescent workout gear approached from over by the dumbbells. Before I’d even finished registering him, Ziggy was there, putting himself between us. The guy held out a scrap of paper and pen, face a mixture of “c’mon, man” and “please.” Ziggy just shook his head.

“Can’t you see she’s busy here?” Kwana scowled. “Ask for an autograph later.”

“No autographs.” Ziggy’s tone was final. “Only at official engagements.”