Page 24

CHAPTER 24

Birdie

Morning light stabs into my throbbing skull like a thousand tiny daggers. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying in vain to block out the brightness assaulting me. A wave of nausea rolls over me. A foul taste settles dry on my tongue, and fractured memories from last night flood my brain.

Dread fissures inside me. I kissed my bodyguard, and he rejected me. I ruined everything between me and the only person in my corner. How could I be so stupid? I can’t afford to lose Tristan, not when my enraged husband is determined to force me back into our violent marriage and there’s a stalker killing in my name to make me his.

Cracking one eye open, I take in my room. Yes, this is my bedroom, but why are the curtains open? I never leave them o—

“Morning. Coffee?”

I bolt upright when I see Tristan’s face. He’s standing on the other side of the room next to the terrace, holding my coffee cup. I drag the sheets to cover myself, hyperaware I’m in silk pajamas with no bra—and my hair must look like a bird’s nest that has been through a tornado, hurricane and locust swarm all at once. “What are you doing here?”

“Hi, I’m Tristan Morra, your live-in security detail, aka your bodyguard.”

Just like that every ounce of guilt I’ve felt for my foolish impulses crumbles into ash before turning into fury. “I know who you are. I neither have amnesia nor appreciate sarcasm that early in the day. What are you doing in my room, while I’m sleeping?”

“Rounds,” he says as if stating the obvious. “The house and its rooms are checked every hour around the clock. Exceptions follow the client’s slumber habits, but normally they’re checked on after eight hours from the time of going to bed or four hours if they’re taking a nap. It’s in the—”

“Job description. I get it.”

“I was gonna say the contracts. Monarca protocol is explained in full in them.” He smirks.

God help me, sometimes I want to kill Tristan myself. “It wouldn’t hurt to knock, though.”

“I did.” He saunters toward me, like he owns the place. “How is the hand?”

The pain in my palm throbs out of nowhere at the mention. “It’s nothing.”

He hands me the coffee. “Drink it with the pills I left you on the nightstand. Trust me, you need them.”

“For my hand?”

“And the hangover.” Here it is, the reminder of my shame glinting in his gaze. Is he going to talk about the kiss or is he just going to spark back the guilt and watch me burn with it?

What the fuck was I thinking, getting drunk and kissing my bodyguard on the first day of the job?

When I don’t take the cup right away, he puts it next to the Tylenol. The scent of deodorant and his sweat fills my nostrils as he leans in. He’s not wearing his regular dress shirts and pants. A black t-shirt clings to his torso, the sweat showing the definition of the rippling muscles underneath, and workout shorts that compliment it.

I hate how good-looking he is, how he smells of intoxicating masculinity when he seems to have just finished working out, and I hate the way it’s drawing me in and halting any professionalism I have in me. I look away to avoid any impropriety I might end up in. “You need a shower.”

“Next thing on my to-do list. What do you like for breakfast?”

It looks like I’m wrong about how he’s going to behave. He’s ignoring what happened last night and is back to being not only professional but also friendly. “That’s not in the job description or the contracts.”

“No, but I’m setting a new rule. Any phone or online purchases will be placed through the team’s monitored phones and computers. That way we’ll find out if they’re intercepted or compromised. And if that doesn’t work, all orders will be picked up on site by the team. No more deliveries.”

I let that sink in as the fog of sleep lifts off. “Wait a second, Gia placed the call yesterday. Are you saying her phone is bugged?”

“I already checked. It was clean. That means the stalker used his time in your house and the valuable information he must have gathered through the cameras to know your habits, like the restaurants you like to order your food from. Then he found a way to track the restaurant calls. As soon as he got a hit, he swooped in.”

This is disturbing on so many levels.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get him,” he reassures me with his usual conviction. “I’ll go hit the shower. Let me know what you’re having for breakfast.”

He bestows me with the sight of his behind, and I ogle him like a horny virgin who hasn’t seen a man before. Well, despite marrying two men who are physically very attractive and in great shape, I haven’t seen a man’s ass so delicious like Tristan’s. Stop it. What the hell is wrong with you? Be grateful the man is still here after what you’ve done and don’t you dare ruin things any further.

“Tristan, about last night… I’m sorry for…” For being completely unprofessional and for violating his trust. Not only is he my bodyguard and former student, but he clearly said he didn’t like to be touched, and I kissed him with no regard to his boundaries. I don’t know what made me think he wouldn’t mind. Perhaps it was the way he carried me or the way I thought he looked at me. Still, I had no right to do it. The way he reacted was past rejection, extreme even. Touching him messed him up in a way I didn’t expect or understand. I should have respected his limits.

“You were distraught and got heavily intoxicated. You hurt your hand, and I patched you up. Then you went to sleep. There’s nothing to apologize for.” He slides out of the door. “See you downstairs.”