thought, and fast. ‘I’m good at what I do, Moreau, and what happened or didn’t happen here earlier has nothing to do with that. Morgan and I are both consenting adults and we have an understanding.’
James looked at Morgan. ‘Which is...?’
Noah remained silent. Hey, this was her brother—if she wanted to explain, she could.
‘Well?’
‘This has nothing to do with you, big bro,’ Morgan stated, lifting her chin.
‘You’re my baby sister!’
‘But I’m not a baby! I can have sex if I want!’
Both James and Noah winced. Noah scratched his forehead and was grateful that his brothers didn’t require him to monitor their social life, because this was the social equivalent of a kick to the groin.
Time to end this conversation, he thought.
‘Moving on,’ he said briskly, ‘and back to the subject at hand. Call Amanda Cope from CFT and ask her who her best bodyguard was—ever. I guarantee she’ll say me. She hates me, but she’s inherently honest. You want and need the best person out there guarding your sister. I’m it and I’m already in place.’ It wouldn’t hurt to sweeten the pot. ‘I’ll also give you a fifteen per cent discount on my personal protection fees because I’m doing an analysis on the security for your ball.’
‘I don’t want you as my bodyguard,’ Morgan said.
‘Tough,’ Noah shot back.
James ignored her and held Noah’s stare for thirty seconds before pulling his mobile out of his pocket and scrolling through his contacts. He was actually going to call Amanda! This could go badly wrong, Noah thought as James greeted her.
Morgan gripped his wrist and her nails dug into his skin. Even though they were sharp, he still felt heat and lust and attraction rocket up his arm. If he got this right, then acting as her bodyguard was going to be a casual stroll through hell....with a hard-on.
‘Noah! Listen to me. I don’t want this...you!’ Morgan hissed.
Noah gently pulled her fingers off him and held her hand in his. ‘Shh, I’m trying to listen.’
‘I’m going to kill you,’ Morgan threatened.
‘Later...’
James was speaking. ‘I don’t need to know why he left, or what you think Auterlochie are doing wrong in the market place, Amanda; this has nothing to do with the rest of your guards or my personal security detail. It’s one guy, looking after my sister. I just need to know whether he’s good or not.’
When James’s frown lifted from a trench to a furrow Noah knew that she had been her customary honest self.
‘The best agent you ever had? Well, then...’ James disconnected and slapped his mobile into the palm of his hand. He glared at Noah. ‘Fifteen per cent discount on both jobs because you started off by annoying me.’
Ouch.
‘Deal,’ Noah agreed.
‘And keep your hands off my sister,’ James growled.
‘Basic bodyguarding,’ Noah agreed, and he knew that James wasn’t sure whether he was messing with him or not. James still looked like a thundercloud so he looked him in the eye. ‘I will be completely professional when it comes to Morgan, James. You have my word.’
Besides, her safety depended on it... He couldn’t look out for danger if he was eyeing her rack. Or her butt. Or imagining those legs around his hips...
And, although it was a lot less easy to admit, he was grateful for the order to keep his hands off Morgan. She was the type of woman he normally avoided. One of the few women who had caught his interest on more than a physical level. She intrigued him—mentally, emotionally. There was more to her than being the Moreau heiress, the reluctant NYC socialite. And that scared the hell out of him. Besides, he was consumed by his business. He didn’t have the time or the energy to give to a woman.
James’s shoulders dropped as the tension seeped out of him. Noah knew that James considered his and Morgan’s relationship now to be defined, bound by the two contracts he would sign with MI. But to Noah it was written in blood—because he’d given James his word. No agreement written on paper trumped that.
Noah held out his hand and James reluctantly took it. ‘Anything happens to Morgan you’re a dead man,’ James told him.
‘Anything happens to Morgan I will be a dead man—because that’s the only way they’ll get to her.’
James’s face lightened with appreciation and Noah thought that he might, maybe, be back on relatively solid ground with the brother and boss.
‘Do either of you care what I want or think?’ Morgan demanded, her hands on her hips.
Noah shook his head and looked at James. ‘Uh...no.’
Noah ducked the glass that she sent flying towards his head and winced when the crystal shattered on the expensive tiles. Maybe he should curb the off-the-cuff honest answers. Good thing she had the aim of a one-eyed toddler or that might have hurt.
And, more importantly, it was a waste of a very fine dram.
Wasn’t there a song about yesterday and troubles seeming so far away? Morgan wondered as she stomped back into her bedroom, kicking her door closed behind her. Yesterday’s biggest problems had been how to re-set Mrs Killain’s fabulous teardrop diamond earrings into a more contemporary, cleaner setting, whether or not to attend the opening night of the Ballet Belle’s new production, and who to take to Merri’s wedding.
In one day she’d been slapped with an additional job, an old almost-lover, the attempted kidnapping of her mother, and a new bodyguard whom she wanted to jump.
Bats! On a freaking broomstick!
Right. First things first. Think it through... Her mum’s almost-kidnapping. No, don’t think of the ‘what ifs’. Push the emotion away...
Her mum was only superficially hurt, and by now both her parents were in the family jet on their way to a safe place. The house in the Cayman Islands was a well-kept secret and James would have arranged for additional guards for them. Her parents were out of harm’s way. That was good news.
Right: problem two. With her mum out of town, someone had to get cracking on organising the Moreau Charity Ball, and it looked as if she was now that someone. How was she going to manage to do that and keep her dyslexia under wraps? The last thing she wanted was to see pitying looks on the faces of Moreau staff...or from anyone else. Unfortunately a lot of people still equated dyslexia with stupidity, and she couldn’t just go around announcing, I’m dyslexic, but my IQ is one hundred and forty-eight.
No, her dyslexia was her issue to deal with, and she didn’t require sympathy, pity, or for anyone to make allowances for her. She’d just insist on short reports and plough through
