Page 1 of Escorting the Bodyguard (Hearts for Hire #4)

Gemma

The elevator descends with a smooth, expensive whisper, and I’m already thinking about a hot bath and a glass of wine when everything goes to shit.

Through the glass walls, I can see into the Gramercy Regent’s marble lobby as we approach the ground floor.

Crystal chandeliers cast ambient light over emerald velvet chairs and polished floors. It’s the kind of hushed elegance that makes people speak in whispers.

My kind of place, filled with my kind of clientele.

Which is why Tim Roberts sitting by the fireplace with a newspaper feels like a violation.

The elevator dings as we reach the lobby, and I take a breath.

Stay calm. Don’t react. Don’t let him know you’ve seen him.

I step out with the kind of confident stride that suggests I own the place, because that’s the job. Project control even when your world is tilting sideways.

My reflection in the lobby’s mirrored walls shows exactly what I want it to: copper hair sleek, lipstick perfect, teal silk dress hugging every generous curve like it was tailored for seduction. Which it was.

I look like a woman who’s just earned two thousand dollars making a tech executive from Austin feel like the most interesting man in the world for two hours, even though the sex was about as memorable as his conversation.

I look like I belong here.

What I don’t look like is a woman whose former client has been stalking her.

Tim hasn’t looked up from his newspaper, but I know that sandy hair, the aquiline nose, the way his mouth turns down at the corners.

He’s positioned himself with a clear view of the elevators, newspaper held at just the right angle to watch without seeming to.

Third time. Third fucking time in one week.

Monday, he’d been across the street from my apartment building, pretending to check his phone.

Wednesday, posted at the corner table in my favorite coffee shop, watching me over his laptop.

And now here, in a hotel I’d never brought him to, watching me leave another client’s room.

The coincidences are adding up to something that isn’t coincidental at all.

I keep walking across the lobby. Don’t react. Don’t let him see that I’ve noticed. That’s Avoiding Stalkers 101. They feed off your fear, your acknowledgment, your attention.

Tim had been my client exactly once, three months ago.

Polite enough during the appointment, but afterward he’d called the agency asking for my personal number.

When Madam Victoria explained that wasn’t how Elite Companions worked, he’d pushed.

Told her we’d shared a special connection, that he was sure I’d want to see him outside of work.

Asked if she could pass along his number so I could decide for myself.

Victoria had flagged his file. No future bookings.

I’d filed him under “problem client handled.”

Apparently, he’d filed me under something else entirely.

I make my way toward the exit and the black S-Class Mercedes waiting at the curb. Elite Companions never skimps on the details that matter. As I slide into the leather interior, I glance back through the hotel’s glass doors.

Tim is staring directly at me now, newspaper forgotten in his lap. Our eyes meet across the lobby, and something cold settles in my stomach. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t even blink. Just watches me with a focused intensity that makes my skin crawl.

Then, slowly, he smiles. Not shy or sheepish or even flirtatious. It’s the kind of smile that says he knows something I don’t. Like he’s already decided how this ends.

The second the car door closes behind me, my hand shakes on the clasp of my purse. Just once. Then I get it under control.

Through the tinted windows, I can still feel Tim’s gaze from the lobby, that cold stare following me even as the driver pulls away from the curb.

“Where to, Ms. Quinn?” The driver, James, glances at me in the rearview mirror, and I realize I’ve been sitting here in silence, staring at my hands.

“Home, please.” My voice is steady. Professional. Like the ground isn’t shifting beneath me.

I pull out my compact and reapply my lipstick. Not because I need to, but because it’s habit. Something to do with my hands while my mind races.

The red color is called Dangerous Liaison, which felt clever when I bought it. Now it just feels prophetic.

Focus, Gemma. Think.

Tim had seemed harmless. A little awkward, maybe. But this? This systematic watching, this careful positioning? This isn’t harmless anymore.

I close the compact with a sharp click and pull out my phone.

Victoria answers on the second ring. “How did it go, darling?”

“We have a problem.” I keep my voice low, even though the driver’s got jazz playing and probably isn’t listening anyway. “Tim Roberts. You remember him?”

A pause. Victoria Stone remembers everyone. It’s part of what makes her the best madam in Manhattan. “March client. Single session. He didn’t understand professional boundaries.”

“He’s been following me.”

The silence stretches long enough that I check to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. When Victoria speaks again, her voice has shifted into the clipped, efficient tone that means business.

“How many times?”

“Three that I’ve noticed. This week alone.

” I watch the city blur past the window.

Late-night pedestrians, neon reflections on wet pavement, the kind of urban anonymity I usually find comforting.

Tonight, it just feels like more places for a stalker to hide.

“He was at The Gramercy tonight. Watching me leave.”

“That’s a pattern,” Victoria says flatly. “We had a scare like this a few years ago with a different escort, similar escalation. We handled it fast, but it was a good reminder: once is random. Twice is coincidence. Three times means we take it seriously.”

A chill runs down my spine. I’ve never heard her this clipped, this cold.

“I’m pulling you off the schedule effective immediately.” No hesitation. No negotiation. “Go to The Bryant Hotel. Check in under the name Sarah Constable. Wait for my call.”

The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone for a beat, then lean forward. “The Bryant Hotel, please.”

The Bryant’s bar is all amber lighting and leather banquettes, designed to make everything look like a 1940s film noir .

Usually, I love the dramatic shadows, the way the low lighting makes everyone look mysterious and gorgeous. Tonight, it just feels like I’m hiding.

Which, technically, I am.

I’ve claimed a corner table with a clear view of the entrance and ordered a glass of wine that I’m nursing, trying to steady my nerves.

I pride myself on reading people, on staying three steps ahead of every situation. It’s how I’ve survived in this business. How I’ve thrived.

But Tim? I’d missed something. Something important.

I replay our session in my head, looking for red flags I might have ignored.

He’d been nervous at first, which wasn’t unusual. A lot of clients are, especially the ones who’ve never hired an escort before. We’d had dinner at a quiet restaurant in Midtown, talked about his work in finance, his recent divorce. Standard stuff.

The sex had been…fine. He’d seemed satisfied, and I’d given him no reason not to be. He’d asked if we could meet again, and I’d given him the standard response: contact the agency, they handle scheduling. He’d seemed disappointed but understanding.

Had he seemed understanding?

Looking back, maybe there’d been something in his eyes when I said goodbye. Something that lingered too long, looked too entitled. But the real red flags came later, in those phone calls Victoria told me about.

I’m lost in those uncomfortable memories when I glance up and catch a man across the bar looking directly at me.

Tall, broad-shouldered, dark blonde hair cut short but still long enough to run fingers through, expensive suit tailored to show off a body that clearly doesn’t spend all its time behind a desk.

But it’s his eyes that stop me cold. Pale gray, focused, unreadable.

Our gazes lock across the dimly-lit space, and something electric passes between us.

This isn’t the predatory watching I felt from Tim. This is something else entirely.

Heat, recognition, challenge. He doesn’t look away. Neither do I.

Then he starts walking toward my table.

I’m used to men approaching me. I have a dozen polite deflections ready on my tongue. But watching him move like he owns every room he enters, I can’t remember a single one. By the time he reaches my table, I’m almost speechless.

“Gemma Quinn.” The words roll off his tongue in a voice like aged whiskey. Smooth with just enough burn to make you pay attention.

I set down my wine glass. “I’m sorry, do we know each other?”

“I’m Ford Lawson. Victoria sent me.”

Oh.

Security. Of course.

Victoria doesn’t mess around when it comes to her girls’ safety. I study him more carefully. The way his eyes sweep the room in constant assessment, the way he positions himself to keep the entrance in his peripheral vision, the subtle bulge under his left shoulder that suggests he’s armed.

Professional. Military bearing. Probably ex-something impressive.

He’s also younger than I expected. Definitely younger than me.

I just turned thirty-six, which means I’m at the age where I get called “ma’am” at coffee shops and delete dating apps out of sheer self-preservation.

And he’s hot. Of course he’s hot. Because the universe loves a joke.

There’s something quietly commanding about his presence, like he’s used to being the most dangerous person in any room and doesn’t need to prove it.

I gesture to the empty chair across from me. “Please. Sit.”

He hesitates before taking the seat, and I catch a hint of his cologne. Something clean and woodsy that makes me think of expensive lodges and men who know how to use their hands.

Get it together, Gemma. The man is here to protect you, not seduce you.

Although, if I’m being honest, the two aren’t mutually exclusive.