“Damn it to hell, Rory …”
She stepped up nice and close. She smelled of that perfume she always wore, of roses and oranges and a hint of some dark spice. He’d always liked her scent. But now, tonight, it seduced him, made his head spin. She pulled her hand back.
Walker felt the loss of her touch as a blow, sharp and cruel.
But then she tipped up her sweet mouth to him.
It was the best offer he’d had in a very long time. And yet it felt all wrong. “I’m supposed to be looking out for you, not stealing kisses at bedtime.”
She took a soft, slow breath. “Because you’re my bodyguard.”
“That’s right.”
“Didn’t I try to warn you that being my bodyguard was not a good idea?”
Oranges. Spice. What would she taste like on his tongue? She really was killing him. “Uh, yeah. I believe that you did.”
“You should have listened to me.”
“Maybe so. Too late now, though.”
* * *
The Bravo Royales: When it comes to love, Bravos rule!
A Bravo Christmas Wedding
Christine Rimmer
CHRISTINE RIMMER came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been everything from an actress to a salesclerk to a waitress. Now that she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job—she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine is grateful not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves who loves her right back, and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day. She lives with her family in Oregon. Visit Christine at www.christinerimmer.com.
MILLS & BOON
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For my readers. I’m wishing you a beautiful, richly blessed holiday season.
Contents
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Strings had been pulled.
Aurora Bravo-Calabretti, Princess of Montedoro, knew this because Walker McKellan was waiting for her right there on the tarmac when the private jet her mother had insisted Rory use taxied in for a landing at the Denver airport.
Irritation at the sight of him—and at her mother, too—had her chewing her lower lip. God forbid she should be allowed to get off a plane and walk all the way to customs without some big, strong man watching over her, making sure she got there safely.
Tall and lean, wearing old jeans, battered boots and a heavy shearling coat, Walker had his arms folded across his broad chest, and he was leaning against his camo-green SUV. In the thin winter sunlight, he looked so American—a rancher fresh off the range, or maybe a mountain man taking a short break from wrestling grizzlies and taming bobcats. As frustrated as she was with the situation, Rory couldn’t resist whipping out her trusty Nikon D700 and snapping several shots of him through a passenger window.
Walker was a great guy. Rory adored him. He’d been a very good friend to her over the seven-plus years she’d been visiting Colorado on a regular basis. People should not take advantage of their very good friends. Rory would never have done such a thing by choice.
But her mother, who usually had the sense to mind her
