Guarding His Body Read online

  The main dining area was further along the huge tinted glass wall, and they were shown to a table with a lovely view of the city and provided with menus and a wine list.

  “What’s it like in France?” she asked, looking over at him. “Do you live in Paris?”

  “I have houses in Paris, Nice, Cannes and Grenoble,” he replied easily, scanning the menu.

  “Really?”

  He knew what she was thinking just by the tone of her voice. She was wondering how an assistant—albeit an assistant to a very wealthy man—could afford so many properties. Once more he had put his giant foot straight into it.

  “Well, Mr. Aubrac owns them,” he added quickly. “But he lets me use them when I’m vacationing.”

  “I see.” But she still looked sceptical.

  “Do you see anything you like?” he asked, indicating the menu with his hand. He hoped to distract her with the question and, thankfully, it worked. She looked down and shook her head with a small laugh.

  “It all sounds so good. I’m not sure what to choose.”

  “Choose whatever you would normally not eat,” he told her, watching her face. “Think of tonight as a special evening.”

  She smiled happily at that, the curve slowly forming on her lips, and he sat back, content. This was what having dinner with a beautiful woman was all about. Charm, grace, the ability to provide the other person with something out of the ordinary, whether it was a meal at an expensive restaurant, or coaxing a tender smile from a reluctant woman. She bent her head to look again at the menu and they passed the minutes in companionable silence.

  Yves surreptitiously scanned the restaurant when he was done making his choices. This was a much quieter place than what he was normally used to. Back in Europe, friends and business acquaintances often interrupted his dining out, strolling over with casual greetings, or sending a bottle of something—usually vintage and sparkling—to his table. And, up till now, he had enjoyed the banter and nods of acknowledgement that flashed across crowded rooms of people. But here was a different world. The tables were further apart, the room less filled, and he didn’t recognise any other person in the world. Maybe it was also subconscious relief from being away from Alexandrov’s pernicious presence, but Yves couldn’t ever remember feeling so relaxed before and so appreciative of his privacy.

  The waiter came over to get their order, and Yves resented even this interruption. For tonight, he wanted Helen all to himself.

  “Bodyguard duties are unusual for a woman,” he commented, after they had ordered and the waiter discreetly slipped away.

  As if on cue, he saw the prickles come out again.

  “I’m just making an observation,” he added, attempting to mollify her. It worked, to a degree. The sharp spikes retracted somewhat, but Yves thought he could still see their metaphoric points glinting in the subdued restaurant lighting.

  She smiled wryly. “You’re right. I suppose I’m being a little sensitive.”

  “What made you go into such a line of work?”

  “It’s actually a sideline,” she admitted candidly. That was something else he liked about her—her open and refreshing honesty. A marked contrast to you, eh Yves, a sly part of him commented, but he brushed the thought aside. He had reasons for what he did, and valid ones at that. It didn’t compare.

  “I began training in martial arts more as something to do. I heard Ryan Greenwood was the best, so I became one of his students. Later, I graduated to instructor. And then I saw an opportunity to do some good with it.”

  “Such as?” he prompted.

  “Conducting workshops and seminars for women who want to learn how to protect themselves. I’ve also held series of classes for various companies in Queensland. The owners usually tell me they see positive results from such courses—more energy, more self-esteem—and I get the opportunity to boost people’s interests, get them interested in something physical, and improve their self-confidence.”

  “So you’re not usually a bodyguard?” Why did he ever think she was only just one thing? Her quick mind was enough to show him that there were many facets to Helen Collier.

  “It’s nice work,” she said hurriedly. “But it’s like icing on the cake, really. Like my private students.”

  “You give one-on-one instruction?”

  “Of course. It can be tiring, but it’s also rewarding being able to focus on just one person.”

  “Just women?” He tried to sound casual, but there must have been something—just the hint of bite—in his voice, because she looked at him sharply.

  “No, not necessarily. I have both male and female private students.”

  “Indeed. How interesting.”

  But, inside, Yves’ gut clenched. He imagined those slim, enticing curves as close to someone else as they’d been to him—alors, was it only this morning? Was she like that with her male students, stepping through a physical dance almost as intimate as sex? He remembered her distinctly keeping close to him as he fell to the floor, her face sometimes mere inches from his. He thought of her highly-tuned sense of awareness in being able to do this, and wanted that awareness, that strength, in bed with him—above him, below him, holding and squeezing. Yves imagined touching her smooth skin, encouraging those strong fingers to dig into his flesh, feeling those sleek muscles tense as she threw her head back and yelled for release.

  And, just then, their first course arrived. Yves unclenched the death grip he held on the napkin in his lap, and smiled politely at Helen, across the table.

  “Oh, I don’t think I should drink anything,” she protested, when the sommelier approached them with the bottle of Chablis he had ordered.

  “I thought we agreed. One evening of peace, before the real work begins.”

  He saw the wavering doubt in her mind and was pleased when she gave in. He knew it was because of him. Because she wanted to let down her guard with him. It was good to know that this fever that gripped him was mutual.

  Later, Yves could have described few things about their meal—that the foie gras was a little overcooked for his liking, but the seafood main course was superb. The hours sped away in a way they never had before. He and Helen spoke on a range of issues, from running businesses to history snippets about Australia. He surprised himself by telling her a little about Grenoble and what he liked about that small plateau city, high in the mountains, and was impressed by how much she wanted to learn about everything that touched on his life. They laughed and talked through dessert then through a liqueur with coffee, and it was almost midnight when they finally paused and noticed they were the only couple left in the restaurant.

  Yves felt like a teenager again as a quick laugh escaped his lips. He had noticed little else but the lively young woman in front of him. Grabbing Helen by the hand, he paid their bill and they left, catching a taxi from the front of the hotel for the brief ride back to Heritage House.

  Their good cheer left them suddenly at the door to her suite. One minute, they were smiling, and walking together with good-natured ease. The next, a thick tension descended upon them. Yves gazed down into Helen’s blue-grey eyes, and the breath caught in his throat. It was like he was drowning in a lagoon of clear water, unable to tell exactly how deeply under he was. And not caring.

  With rough hands, he hauled her up hard to his body. That he caught her by surprise was good. She was in the middle of a startled gasp, and he took advantage of it by capturing her lips with his. He didn’t tease or tantalise but made sure she knew exactly what he was thinking, what he was fantasising. He sought out her tongue in the soft, moist interior of her mouth, flicking at it, promising pleasure, letting her know that he was well-versed in the curves and hollows of a woman’s body and that she would be safe in his arms.

  He pulled away momentarily, to nip gently at her lower lip then nuzzle her neck, breathing in the fresh, floral scent of her, then kissed her again. He felt the momentary hesitation in her movements—he swore he could feel her heart beating nex
t to his—then her hands moved upwards, clutching his hair and deepening the embrace.

  She was so warm, so welcoming, and Yves felt himself harden. They were so close, he knew she couldn’t help but feel his arousal against her hips. His left hand travelled down her body, over her waist and the rows of rough beads. When he reached the hem, he hitched his hand underneath, and stroked upwards, her skin smooth and sensuous after the texture of her dress. He cupped her backside and pulled her closer, and she moaned silently into his mouth, swaying her hips so they pressed against him in a primal rhythm.

  “We should go inside your suite,” he whispered hoarsely after reluctantly releasing her lips. He looked down and was gratified by the stunned, dark arousal in her eyes and the swollen plumpness of her lips. He savoured the look on her face. Dieu, if this is how she looked now, already flushed and wanton, how would she look after a night of love-making? His body, his groin, his mouth, ached to find out.

  “I...” She looked up at him, dazed.

  She didn’t have to say a word, he could read it in her eyes. We shouldn’t be doing this. We both have our jobs to do. This is unprofessional.

  Yves didn’t give a damn. And he was going to make sure Helen didn’t either. Without giving her time to say one word more, he swung her into his arms and elbowed his way into her suite.

  They didn’t make it to the bedroom. The living room was lit by one soft lamp, throwing the furniture into sumptuous and enticing relief, and Yves was too impatient to disregard the sudden images that filled his head. Putting Helen on her feet, he kissed her while throwing off his clothes. His jacket and shirt fell into an untidy heap on the floor. Shucking his shoes, he kicked the pile out of the way, his lips still locked on Helen’s. They parted, reluctantly, while she unzipped her dress and lifted it over her head, revealing an expanse of smooth, creamy skin.

  “I don’t think we need this,” Yves murmured, unhooking her bra and gently pulling the clear, thin straps down her arms. It went the same way as his clothes. His hands replaced the lingerie, cupping her breasts and running his thumbs over the soft flesh.

  “Exquisite.” He pulled her against his chest and slid his hands around to her back, following the graceful contour of her body down to her panties. Even the conservative cut of her underwear couldn’t stop the blaze of desire that enveloped him. As he pushed his hips against her groin, one hand grabbed at the stretchy material, gently pulling on it. The pressure made her panties contract, falling into the crack between her legs, throwing her backside into bare relief. Slowly, Yves followed the line made by the lingerie, a finger boldly pressing against her. It moved further, until he felt moisture against his fingertips. Flicking the flimsy cotton to one side, he pushed his finger into her as she moaned against his chest.

  “You like that?” he asked softly.

  “Yes,” was the muffled response.

  He withdrew his finger and dragged her down to the carpeted floor, pushing her so her back rested against the plump leather of the sofa. Her head was thrown back, her eyes closed in anticipation of ecstasy. Her legs, still encased in her strappy shoes, splayed open in front of him.

  Yves quickly discarded the rest of his clothing, letting his erection bob freely against his abdomen. He felt coiled and leashed inside with an urge to bury himself in Helen, but he resisted. Pinning her arms to the sofa, he bent down between her legs and licked at her pussy through her panties. The texture was of soft-thick cotton, but salty and arousing with Helen’s own juices. She bucked against him. Using his teeth, he moved the elastic to one side, and thrust his tongue inside her, sucking on her wetness before flicking her erect clitoris. Helen moaned loudly and spread her legs even further apart, the dim light highlighting the line of her thigh muscles as she exposed herself to him.

  He wanted to take it easy, wanted to stretch out the time and pleasure he was giving and receiving, but the sight of Helen, and the scent of her, drove him wild. Moving quickly, he positioned himself over her, bending to rub his face against her cheek so she could smell herself on him. She tried to say something, but her voice was thick and inarticulate. He paused only long enough to retrieve and rip open a small packet from his trouser pocket, sheathing himself then, using his hand, he guided himself into her, groaning at the hot, tight sensation that gripped his cock and massaged his length as he moved in and out, preparing herself for him before he drove into her fully.

  The fact that she wanted him, that she was so slick and wet already, made him harder. He increased the tempo, feeling her clench against him while her hands fluttered beneath his grip. Stretched wide, she gave herself to him, her breathing loud and hurried in the room, a higher counterpoint to his own rasps of pleasure. Yves thought of her, her feet arched and bound with thin leather straps, her wrists imprisoned by his fingers, her breasts and sex rubbing against him. She was moving now, her legs and body restless, her arms straining against him, as the first throes of orgasm took over her body. Yves increased his own tempo, watching her as the climax built in his own body, radiating out from his cock and making him clench his buttocks. Her lips glistened, her face was flushed. She opened startled eyes, almost black and unseeing, as the climax broke over her. Her spasms squeezed his already-sensitive organ, and he slammed into her, caught up in the waves, pouring himself into her as he shouted his release out loud. They remained slaves to convulsions out of their control, each trying to spin out the moment for as long as possible before they collapsed to the carpet together, breathing heavily and unable to speak for many minutes.

  Chapter Five

  Helen woke with an aching body and a feeling of uncommon lassitude. Startled, she looked over to the other side of the bed, but it was empty. Remembering what had happened last night, she groaned and flopped back onto the pillow.

  “How could I have been so stupid?” she muttered. As if once hadn’t been enough, she and Yves had managed to make it to the bedroom for their second time. And third. It embarrassed the hell out of Helen just remembering what they had done to each other’s bodies. Wantonly, she licked her lips, but the pressure of his cock in her mouth was long gone.

  Slowly, as if she was an old woman, she rose and walked to the bathroom. Her sex ached from the exercise she had put it through the previous night. She should feel sated, yet all she wanted to do was tumble into bed with Yves again and repeat every single thing they had done together the night before. If Helen didn’t know better, she’d think she was fast becoming addicted to Yves. That didn’t bode well for the next two weeks.

  It seemed Yves had made a deliberate effort to set her at her ease at the dinner, being a charming and teasing conversationalist. The food had matched the mood—delicious and enjoyable—and everything had gone well, courteous and above board, she thought…until they got to the door of her suite.

  Helen thought back to those moments and to the erotic adventure that had followed. She knew she didn’t have anyone else to blame for the impulse that had overtaken her. She’d wanted to kiss Yves and be kissed by him. She’d wanted to know what it felt like to be held by him, stroked by him. She’d wanted to throw all caution to the wind, lead him to the bedroom, discarding clothes as they went, and lose herself with him through all the hours of darkness. And she had. But in the cold light of day, her actions seemed nothing short of criminally irresponsible.

  For a start, he was associated with her client—a client Ryan had passed along to her because she needed the money. Getting involved with Yves Nerin would not only let down Guy Aubrac but could also damage Ryan’s reputation internationally. She couldn’t do that to someone she regarded as a friend and mentor.

  And there was Pete. Ryan had known about their tentative plans for the future, even though he kept his tone light and impersonal. Having trained both people, he’d watched them with an eagle eye of a senior instructor. How could he not have known that Helen and Pete had contemplated establishing themselves as a couple?

  Helen sank onto the bed with her shirt half undone and groaned.r />
  It didn’t make any sense. She and Pete had been perfectly suited. Helen wouldn’t have called it the passion of her life but, in her line of work, there was no such thing. With men who were either too intimidated by her, or used her and her profession as a way of proving their masculinity, she had long ago resigned herself to nothing more than a comfortable relationship, at best. And Pete had been comfortable. Being a fellow instructor, he hadn’t been scared of her or felt the need to dominate their fledgling romance. He’d never charged to the rescue, had been confident that Helen could sort out whatever situation she found herself in, and had understood the lack of consistency in her schedule. She’d never had to bother explaining herself to him in situations where she had to urgently backfill an evening class of eager students. Pete had understood her. That was what made this blazing attraction she felt for the Frenchman all the more difficult—Pete had been so understanding. And now he was dead and buried, and she was jumping in the sack with the arrogant assistant of her first high-powered, international client.

  She remembered the feel of Yves’ body against hers. This man wasn’t as patient as Pete had been. She could imagine Yves fighting through a crowd to reach the woman he loved, never mind that she might be capable of looking after herself. He would just consider it his duty to be there, helping protect her. Maybe that was part of what was so seductive about Yves Nerin, the knowledge that there was a support there for her if she ever needed it.

  If she ever held Yves’ interest. If he ever fell in love with someone like her.

  If.

  And here she was, creating fantasies out of thin air. In less than two weeks—two weeks!―both men would be out of her life, and she would be left to pick up pieces from her encounter with them, in addition to the guilt she felt over her betrayal of Pete’s memory.