Page 3 of Escorting the Bodyguard (Hearts for Hire #4)

Ford

For just a second, I catch something in Gemma’s expression.

Heat. Surprise.

Genuine interest that makes my pulse kick up before I can shut it down.

Her emerald eyes widen, and there’s a flush creeping across her pale skin, visible even through whatever makeup she’s wearing.

“Shall we go up to your room?”

Fuck. I realize how that sounded.

“I meant for a security sweep. Of your room. Protocol,” I clarify quickly.

She recovers with a sharp smile, raising an eyebrow. “And here I thought you were finally loosening up.”

Heat crawls down my neck, both from the misunderstanding and from the fact that I caught her initial reaction.

She felt it too.

And now she’s making sure I know she’s not embarrassed about it.

Focus on the job, I remind myself as we head toward the elevators. Not on the way she’s looking at me, like she can see right through the badge and the protocol.

Room 1047 is at the end of the hall, exactly as I’d requested. Fewer access points, better sight lines.

I take the key card from Gemma and open the door, stepping in first to clear the entry.

The room is what I expected: executive suite, king bed with pristine white linens, sitting area with marble-topped table, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. I move through it methodically, checking corners, vents, windows. Muscle memory from years of doing this exact thing.

But I can’t quite shake what just happened down in the bar.

She watches me from by the window, arms crossed, that knowing smile still playing at her lips like she’s holding onto a secret.

Her copper-red hair catches the city lights, and the way that turquoise dress hugs her lush curves makes it clear she’s never apologized for taking up space.

“You’re intense,” she says, tilting her head as I check the bathroom, her voice carrying that same teasing edge from before.

Most clients are reactive at this point. Panicked, apologetic, eager to prove they’re easy to work with. They hover and ask questions and generally get in the way while I get to work.

Not her. She doesn’t need my reassurance, doesn’t look to me to tell her she’s safe.

Part of me respects it. Part of me doesn’t know what to do with someone who doesn’t need saving.

She owns the suite like she paid for it herself, and there’s still that undercurrent of awareness crackling between us despite my attempt at professionalism. It’s distracting in a way I’m not used to, and I don’t like being off my game.

I finish checking the closet and move to the main window, testing the lock mechanism. As I lean to check the lower latch, my jacket pulls tight across my back—just enough to draw attention to the slight bulge beneath it.

“You old enough to carry that thing legally?” She nods toward my firearm, tone bone-dry.

“Twenty-seven,” I reply, still focused on the latch.

She snorts. “Huh.” A beat. “Guess the government really is handing out guns to children.”

I don’t rise to it. Let her think whatever she wants. As long as she listens when it counts.

I complete the sweep. Bathroom clear, bedroom clear, sitting area clear.

I turn back to find her at the mirror, reapplying lipstick that doesn’t need fixing. Her posture is perfect, her expression composed.

It’s too methodical to be vain. Too automatic to be for show. She’s not admiring her reflection, she’s fortifying it. Like someone who’s learned exactly how to look unshakeable.

I’ve seen that kind of armor before. Worn it, even.

That’s what unsettles me. It’s not just the beauty. It’s the familiarity.

“All clear,” I report, pulling my focus back to where it belongs. “No signs of tampering. I’ll be in the room next door for the night. Knock if you need anything.”

She caps the lipstick and turns to face me, eyebrow quirked again. “How reassuring,” she says.

“Was that sarcasm?”

“A little,” she admits. “You don’t seem like the pep talk type.”

“Good instincts. I’m more of the ‘don’t get murdered’ type.”

“So warm. So nurturing.”

The heat from downstairs is back, that same charge crackling between us, and I force myself to look away.

Her smile is perfectly polite now, but I catch the flicker of amusement underneath. “Well, thank you for the…thorough inspection.”

The emphasis she puts on thorough makes something twist low in my gut, but I nod once and head for the door.

I let myself out before I can overthink what any of this means.

My room is identical to hers. Same layout, same view, same sterile luxury. I drop my bag by the dresser and immediately check the adjoining door. Unlocked on both sides, as it should be.

But not soundproof.

I settle onto the bed, shoes still on, lying on top of the covers. Old habit—stay ready, stay distant, stay in control. My body knows how to do this, has done it hundreds of times in dozens of different locations.

My mind, not so much.

Through the thin walls, I hear her moving around. Water running in the bathroom. The soft sound of her voice as she makes a phone call. She laughs, low and relaxed and completely at odds with the polished composure she showed me.

It’s not a sound meant for me. But I listen anyway.

She talks for maybe twenty minutes, her voice a soft murmur I can’t quite make out. Then silence. More movement. The sound of the bed creaking as she settles in.

I lie there staring at the ceiling, more off-balance than I want to admit. My pulse only slows when the sounds from her room go quiet, but even then, my mind won’t settle.

I came here to do a job, I remind myself. Simple protection detail. Keep her safe until the threat is neutralized. That’s it.

So why does everything about her feel like the real danger?

I should be thinking about perimeter coverage. Access points. Not the shape of her voice when she laughed, or how steady she looked with fear simmering under the surface.

The truth is, she doesn’t feel like just another client. I already care. I shouldn’t.

I check my watch: 11:47 p.m. Then 12:23. Then 1:15.

At 2:30, I give up on sleep and move to the chair by the window, positioning myself where I can see both the street below and the adjoining door.

The city never really sleeps, but this late, the traffic is sparse. A few cabs, some late-night wanderers, nothing that sets off my internal alarm system.

Just after 4 a.m., I finally drift off.

The sharp knock on my door two hours later pulls me instantly alert, adrenaline flooding my system before I’m fully conscious. I’m on my feet and at the door in seconds, hand instinctively moving toward my weapon.

Through the peephole, I see Gemma.

She’s standing in the hallway holding a folded piece of paper. Despite the early hour, she looks ready for a photoshoot—silk robe perfectly arranged, hair styled, makeup flawless. At 6 a.m., most people look rumpled and half-awake. Not her.

I don’t say a word about it, but it sticks with me as I unlock the door.

“Someone slipped this under my door,” she says, extending the note. “Not quite the breakfast in bed I was hoping for.” Her voice is controlled, but there’s the faintest tremor underneath.

I take the paper, hyperaware of her proximity. There’s something spicy and subtle in her scent that makes me want to lean closer.

But then I unfold it and read:

You’re mine, Gemma.

You just don’t realize it yet. But you will. Soon.

Cold professional focus slams back into place as my eyes scan the paper.

The handwriting is neat, precise. Confident.

My jaw clenches as I process the implications. This guy got close enough to slip this under her door undetected, while I was right in the next room.

My pulse spikes. Not just from the risk, but from the realization: I should’ve stopped this. I didn’t.

And the worst part? That familiar voice in my head saying: You were supposed to be better this time.

I crumple the note in my fist. “Pack your bag,” I say, already scanning the hallway behind her. “We’re leaving. Now.”