Page 7

DENVER

Sinclair’s apartment is decorated in pinks, golds, and creams. It’s delicate and feminine, and Monty has a dog bed shaped like a throne in the living area.

It has Sinclair’s personality stamped all over it.

I’ve been inside it before, but never for long.

That’s going to change now that I’m assigned to be with her every time she steps outside her front door.

I stand inside the open living space, mentally checking off all of the electronic devices. There aren’t any I haven’t already checked for bugs, so that’s one good piece of news.

The sound of the shower running echoes up the hallway as I pull out my phone and text Killian.

Me: SitRep.

Killian: Neil’s checked himself into the Lanceford. Doesn’t appear to be doing much at the moment except meeting up with one old buddy we already have a file on. Some guy he worked with years ago. Nothing that raises concerns.

Me: Good. Keep watching him.

Killian: Will do, Boss.

I pocket my phone. A situational report with nothing of concern should ease the tension in my shoulders, but it doesn’t.

Until we know why Elaina’s ex-lover is in New York and rule him out as the person who has been targeting Sinclair, we can’t afford to let our guard down.

It only takes one second for someone to make a move.

And if you don’t see it coming, the consequences can be devastating.

A door down the hallway opens and Sinclair walks into the room dressed in white sweatpants and a hoodie, a pair of sunglasses on top of her head. She’s carrying a large bag and drops it onto the floor.

“You could have sat down, you know? Or helped yourself to a snack or something. We’ll be at the show for hours.”

She rests a hand on a table as she pulls on a pair of sneakers.

“I’m good,” I reply, waiting until she’s finished before I pick her bag up.

“Suit yourself, but don’t say I didn’t warn you when you’re starving later.”

I follow Sinclair inside the venue of the runway show. There’s a security search area set up where bags are being checked and some people are getting patted down.

“It’s worse on the way out,” she whispers. “The designer had some pieces stolen and copied. Now he insists anyone with backstage access goes through this. But he’s a genius and his pieces are to die for, so we all put up with it.”

She steps forward and opens her bag, letting the security guy check inside. He nods and then beckons me forward.

“He’s with me,” Sinclair says. “He’s my bodyguard.”

The security guy studies me. “You carrying?”

“One,” I reply.

He jerks his chin, and I unbutton my jacket, pulling it aside so he can see the gun in a holster at my hip.

“You’ll need to check it into a locker.”

“Not going to happen,” I reply calmly.

Sinclair’s eyes dart between the two of us, then back to the gun. “Den?—”

“She doesn’t come in without me. I don’t come in without this.”

I hold the security guy’s eyes. Sinclair’s the most well-known model they have in the show today. There’s no way he’ll want to tell his boss that he’s the reason she doesn’t turn up.

“Go. Just keep it covered, yeah?”

I nod at him and place my hand on Sinclair’s lower back, steering her inside.

“You have a gun?” she hisses as we follow signs directing us to where the models are needed.

“Yes.”

Her eyes widen. I thought she would have known I carry one. Sullivan and Sterling are aware.

“You can trust me,” I tell her, not liking the way she’s chewing her lip like she’s anxious.

“You drive with your hand near it.”

It’s not a question, so I don’t respond.

“Denver?” she presses.

“It’s my job to protect you. I need to be able to do that without hesitation.”

“Oh my god,” she breathes. “You sound like Sullivan and my father.”

She doesn’t mean it as a compliment.

“I carry a gun, Sinclair. But you don’t need to be concerned about it, okay?”

She shakes her head with a small scoff. “Yeah, whatever you say.”

We head backstage, and I find a seat out of the way where I have a direct line of sight to Sinclair.

She's sitting, having her hair and makeup done.

Once finished, she walks over to her bag to change, removing the necklace she always wears.

As she tucks the necklace inside and zips up her bag, another model with long brunette hair approaches and starts chatting with her.

I’ve been sitting for two hours when everything starts moving faster, and more people cram into the area as it gets closer to the show’s start time. Sinclair’s changed into a white corset and panties set with stocking and suspender belt and a makeup woman is dusting powder over her cleavage.

A male model wearing a pair of the designer’s male underwear briefs and nothing else comes up behind Sinclair and hugs her from behind.

“Mikey!” she shrills with a giggle as she turns and kisses him on both cheeks.

Mikey, twenty-eight, from Wisconsin, dreamed of being a model since he was twelve, new face of the latest Michael Kors campaign, Sinclair’s friend of four years and three months. A guy I’ve given rides home to at Sinclair’s request, and he’s looked like he’s about to barf each time he’s seen me.

I do my research.

“You look amazing,” he gushes.

“So do you. Oh my god! Have you stuffed those?” She bursts into laughter at the bulge in his pants.

“Want to touch it and find out?” He wiggles his brows.

The weight of my gun presses into my hip as I fight the urge to go over there.

“No!” she shrieks with another laugh.

“Why don’t you go on a date with me after the show and find out instead?” Mikey grins.

I lean forward and crack my knuckles.

Sinclair shakes her head. “You’re terrible.”

“You love me,” he sings as he walks away, throwing a similar offer out to the next model who says hello to him.

A woman approaches Sinclair and hands her a foil-wrapped bundle and she thanks them before walking over to me.

“Here.” She holds the bundle out to me. “It’s not going to kill you,” she says when I don’t move.

I take it from her and peel back the foil.

“Sullivan told me you liked turkey on wholewheat, so…”

“Thank you.” I hold the sandwich in one hand as I look at her.

Someone calls her, signaling she’s about to go on and she turns and walks away.

“When did he tell you that?” I call after her.

She glances at me over her shoulder with a hint of a smile. “When I asked him.”

People crowd her, fussing over her as they prepare her to walk the runway. I peel back the foil and take a large bite of the sandwich, my stomach growling in appreciation.

It’s the best fucking sandwich I’ve ever tasted.

“Hey, you’re with Sinclair, right?”

“That’s right,” I answer the model with long brunette hair.

I look away from her, my eyes moving back to find Sinclair on the runway.

I’ve moved to a position where I can see her from backstage.

She’s glowing beneath the bright runway lights as she walks it, a true professional.

You wouldn’t suspect she has the need for a full-time bodyguard due to threats against her.

She doesn’t look worried. Probably because she isn’t.

She should take it seriously, but even if she won’t, I will.

Anyone wanting to get to her will have to come through me first.

“She’s amazing, isn’t she?” the other model says.

I nod, still watching Sinclair.

I’ve been here for six hours while model after model in lingerie strut past for the show. None have that inexplainable something special about them that makes them shine the way Sinclair does.

The designer was backstage earlier, a guy in his thirties, buzzing with energy as he tutted and huffed, smoothing lace, and tweaking silk. He took one look at Sinclair and grinned without fixing a thing.

Camera lights flash faster than they have for any other model as Sinclair reaches the far end of the runway and does a slow twirl.

Jenson would give his right nut to be here watching all this. But it just puts me on edge. There are so many people around her all the time. Talking to her. Touching her. Obstacles in the way should I need to get to her quickly.

“I’m Theodora.”

The brunette holds out her hand as I glance her way. I take it, shaking politely. “Denver.”

“I know.” She gives me a coy smile. “You usually work with Sin’s father. I’ve seen you with him.”

I just nod.

“How are you finding being here?” She looks around the busy space. The show is almost over. Sinclair is modeling the final outfit, and the designer is now out, joining her on the runway, receiving huge applause.

“It’s fine.”

“Fine,” she repeats. “You must be bored waiting around for Sin for so long.”

Sinclair and the designer are walking back up the runway toward backstage. I turn toward Theodora to position myself to see the entry point where Sinclair will reappear backstage, just over the top of her head.

“It’s my job.”

“Do you clock off after the show ends?” She brushes her hair over her shoulder, exposing a sheer lace bra beneath. Her dark nipple is visible through it, and her smile widens when I notice.

“No. He’s mine tonight. And tomorrow. And the next day,” a familiar voice says.

Theodora spins as Sinclair walks over, dressed in a nude lace bustier and matching G-string.

“Sin,” Theodora says with a giggle, “you said you couldn’t wait to get rid of him. I thought I could help you out.”

Sinclair’s eyes meet mine briefly and I hold out a bottle of water to her. She takes it, her fingers brushing mine.

“Sorry, Theo. He’s with me all the time, he doesn’t have time to date.” She smiles sweetly, the same way she did when she asked me if I’d like to call her Sin like her friends do.

“Not forever though, right? See you around, Denver.” Theodora throws me a flirty wink before she turns and walks off.

“Can we go?” Sinclair asks, putting her hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn.

“Sure.”

She changes into her sweatpants and hoodie, and we walk out together, back through security. We’re back in my car before she speaks again.

“Theodora’s right. You can’t date while you’re my bodyguard. Hardly seems fair, does it? I mean, I can date if I want to.”

“Goes with the job,” I reply.

I reach out to start the engine, feeling her gaze on the side of my face.

“Denver?”

I pause with my hand on the ignition.

“Does it bother you?” she asks.

“No.”

I switch the engine on.

Sinclair reaches over and turns it off.

I turn to her with a gruff exhale. “I don’t need to date.”

“Don’t need to, or don’t want to?” She studies me and I fight the urge to tell her that she won’t like what she sees if she looks too deep.

“Both.”

“So you won’t date while you’re with me?”

“No.”

She purses her lips, glancing away and then back at me. “What else won’t you do?”

“What else ?”

She tilts her head, pulling her lower lip into her mouth. “Like, I dunno, maybe if you won’t date while we’re stuck together, then maybe that means you won’t flirt with other women, either? And you won’t carry anyone else’s bags, or open doors for them? You know, that kind of thing.”

She averts her eyes from mine as I study her.

“You want me to only do those things for you?”

She scoffs. “Not the flirting, my god, don’t get the wrong idea.”

“Noted. But the rest? You want me to?—”

“Only do those things for me,” she says, her eyes flicking to my face and away again just as fast.

“Anything else?”

She shakes her head. “That’s all for now, I guess?—”

“Done,” I answer without hesitation, then start the engine again.