Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
“ S mile,” Damian muttered, as the limo driver—a former Navy SEAL—approached the gates of his sprawling estate on the outskirts of San Francisco. He scowled at the swarm of reporters who’d gathered outside the property, buzzing with excitement over the news of his surprise nuptials.
“It’s not every day one of San Francisco’s most eligible bachelors gets married,” Thorn said, glancing across at him. He wasn’t sure if she was mocking him or not. It was hard to tell with her, there was always this edge of hostility to her voice. Either way, it didn’t make him feel any better.
He hated the term “eligible bachelor.” Bachelor he could handle, but eligible made him feel like an item of clothing being inspected and tried on by an enthusiastic shopper. Besides, he still wasn’t convinced all this was really necessary. It felt like overkill—although, when he thought about the men whose entire criminal enterprises were at risk due to his software update, he suppressed a shiver. Maybe it was.
The fake wedding ceremony, otherwise known as the official briefing, had been held at a downtown hotel, after which a carefully worded press release had been sent out over the wires. He had to hand it to Blackthorn Security, they were a slick organization.
The internet had exploded with rumors, conjecture and wild guesses as to who crypto billionaire Damian Clayton’s mystery bride was. The radio stations had picked up the story, whipping up a frenzy of curiosity. Poor Christine was mentioned as a possible candidate, but she would know by now that it wasn’t her.
He regretted hurting her, but he’d tried to warn her, to let her down easy. It was for her own good, too. Once he took her out of the picture, anyone targeting him would know she wasn’t the way to get to him.
The conversation hadn’t gone well.
“I’ll be working from home for the next two weeks, until the conference.”
“Really?” She’d actually lit up at the prospect. “Should I come over to your place and work from there?”
“No. That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Oh? Why not?” The disappointment etched in her face was enough to make him cringe. How would she feel she found out he was getting married—just not to her?
To be fair, they’d only had a casual fling a couple of months back, but he knew she hoped for more, and if he were totally honest with himself, he’d been keeping her hopes up just a little, for those nights when the loneliness set in, and he needed somebody to hold. To hold him. But that wasn’t fair on her. He didn’t have feelings for her, not like that. Sure, she was attractive, and they had a good time, but there was no spark. She didn’t make his blood pump, not like Rebecca had.
His scowl deepened. Why the hell had he thought about her? His ex-wife had been out of the picture for years.
“I—I can’t tell you why,” he’d said, feeling like a prize prick . “It’ll be announced tomorrow.”
She’d paled.
“There’s nothing wrong, is there? You’re not sick or anything?”
She cared. That only made it worse.
“It’s for security purposes. That’s all I can say at this point.”
Hopefully, that would be enough. He couldn’t tell her any more than that without risking the truth coming out. It had to look real in order for it to work.
His bride’s name, along with a carefully curated wedding photo, would be released tomorrow, once they’d had a chance to get them taken. It wasn’t Rose’s real name, of course. Or her nickname, Thorn, which he thought appropriate. It was a carefully constructed legend, with all the online history and social media accounts one would expect.
Damian had offered the gardens at his mansion for the “official” photographs since they were expansive, naturally beautiful, and backed onto open fields, which in turn were surrounded by bushes and tall trees. The property was easier to secure than a hotel or wedding venue, and the vastness meant it was difficult for the press to spy on them.
His new bride smiled and waved through the bullet-proof glass at the reporters camped outside the gates. He had to admire her poise. Her strawberry blonde hair was piled up in a messy bun with tendrils kissing her cheekbones, softening her features, and exposing the delicate curve of her neck. Her skin was dewy and smooth, and the make-up around her green eyes made them glow like emeralds. She radiated joy. Hell, if he didn’t know better, he’d think she was indeed a blushing bride.
Then again, she was a seasoned undercover operator, trained to convince the world she was someone else. She took his arm and smiled lovingly up at him as a photographer stuck a lens against the glass.
Damn, she was good.
He wondered fleetingly how many times had she been in similar position, pretending to be in love with a man in order to fulfill her mission or complete the op? The thought disturbed him, even though it shouldn’t.
After the earlier briefing, he’d swapped his work attire for the dress suit he’d brought with him and his personal protection office—it was hard to think of her as that—had changed into a wedding gown. Rented, he’d assumed, or maybe she kept it in the closet for just such occasions. Either way, it fitted her like a glove.
When she’d walked into that hotel suite, he wasn’t the only man at a loss for words. She looked fucking incredible, like a model in a bridal magazine. The dress was an elegant, silk creation with a plunging backline and made him want to run his hand over her smooth, bare skin.
The thin straps clinging to her toned shoulders were asking to be slipped off, and he could picture the slinky fabric that clung to her curvy figure falling to the floor. When she walked, the dress swished around her legs, and every now and then he caught a glimpse of a silver strap and coral toenails.
Seeing her in the wedding gown had reminded him of his own wedding. Nine years ago on a private beach in the Caribbean. He’d been younger and full of hope for the future then. His wife-to-be had looked stunning in a similar white silk wedding gown, her glossy dark hair falling down her back. He still recalled the way she’d gazed at him, her eyes brimming with love, not unlike Thorn’s in the limo, except with Rebecca, it had been real.
He inhaled sharply as the memory stung. Her friends and family had watched as an unknown computer hacker married into one of America’s most nefarious crime families.
But it had all been lies. Every bit of it.
His and Rebecca’s relationship. Their marriage. His company’s backing by Alek’s organization. Nothing had been real. A fact he’d discovered the hard way when it had all come crashing down two days later.
He took a shuddering breath.
Fuck.
Even though this was a carefully planned operation, it brought it all back. Another scam marriage. Another fake bride. He shook his head, the weight of the past dragging him down.
“This must be the shortest engagement in history,” he muttered, as they passed through the gates. The wrought iron mechanism closed softly behind them, while two armed operatives faced the crowd outside to prevent anyone following them in.
Christine would probably resign, he thought and immediately felt guilty about his lack of remorse. Shit, why had he led her on? Why had he let her think there was a chance, when there wasn’t?
Just in case he got lonely. Horny?
He sighed. What kind of person did that?
The limo dropped them at the top of the driveway, outside the house. Just in case anyone was watching through a telephoto lens, he walked around and opened the car door for his bride.
“Welcome home, honey,” he said, earning himself a sharp look. Thorn definitely suited her. Maybe that’s why he got a kick out of baiting her. She was always so closed, so controlled that he found himself deliberately provoking her to see if he could get a reaction. So far she’d refused to rise at any of his remarks, which only made him push harder.
She kept her eyes peeled, surveying their surroundings as if she expected someone with a rocket launcher to jump out of the bushes and take aim. To be fair, he couldn’t rule that out, but considering the thousands of pounds of security he was paying for, it was unlikely.
Pat had talked him into installing an electric security fence around the perimeter complete with razor wire, remote sensors and infrared cameras. Amazingly, the security company had managed to install it overnight, and were nearly done. Anyone trying to get through or over it would automatically set them off, if they didn’t get fried first.
In addition, two armed guards were on patrol at any given time, not that he could see them, but he knew they were there, lurking in the shadows. There were two more at the main gate.
He stretched out his neck trying to ease the tension. All of this, it should make him feel more secure, but it only made him feel trapped.
“It’s just for ten days,” he murmured as the limo drove away, leaving them alone on the doorstep. Suddenly, he longed for the freedom of the open road. His Harley-Davidson was in the garage, but he only took it out on weekends. It was one of his favorite pastimes and one that he hadn’t been able to indulge in lately.
“The perimeter is secure,” he heard a tinny voice echo through Thorn’s earpiece. It was Hawk, the super-efficient former Navy SEAL who was in charge of the team monitoring the grounds. Anna, their logistics manager, who’d flown in only that morning, was in a surveillance van parked on the property watching the live feeds and monitoring any activity. They had installed several cameras on the grounds, covering the front entrance, the garage, and the patio doors at the back. No one could gain access without being seen.
Damian unlocked the front door.
“Let me go in first.” Thorn, Glock in hand, elbowed past him and stepped over the threshold. He let her go, raising his arms. Nothing subtle about this one.
She checked the entrance hall, then the rooms leading off it, including the living room and the kitchen, before returning to where he was standing. “It’s clear.”
Watching her search the rooms in a wedding dress, holding a gun, was strangely amusing, even though she was efficient, focused and obviously good at her job.
“Something funny?” She turned to him.
“The situation is a little odd, you gotta admit.”
She shrugged. “It’s work, nothing odd about that.”
Definitely prickly.
“Want a drink?” he asked, as they walked into the living room.
“I’m working.”
He shrugged. “Well, I need one. It’s been a hell of a day.” First the sham wedding and then hours in a security briefing.
She ignored him and checked the windows, closing the blinds. He poured himself a glass of wine and sat down on the sofa. “So how does this work?”
She hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“I mean what do we do now?”
“I make sure the property is secure, and that nobody can get to you. You relax and make like I’m not here.”
He gave a wry laugh. “Seriously?” A bodyguard was hard enough to ignore, but one in a wedding dress that looked like her… No way. “Why don’t you sit down? Take a load off.”
“No thanks.”
“There are people outside, this place has more security than the state penitentiary. We’re safe for now.”
She frowned. “It’s when you think you’re safe that something happens.”
He studied her. Stiff shouldered, neck taut, eyes peering through a crack in the blinds. “You sound like you’re talking from experience.”
No response.
“Thorn?”
“I’m just saying, you can’t afford to let your guard down.”
Damian took a sip of his wine, his gaze following her around the room. “How long were you with the CIA for?”
She turned sharply. “How’d you know about that?”
“Your boss told me.” He shrugged. “You don’t think I’m going to have some questions about the person guarding me?”
She gave a stiff nod. “Eight years, but I spent the last five in the Middle East.”
Yeah, Pat had said she’d been on some deep undercover mission. “Whereabouts?”
“Afghanistan.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “That must have been tough.”
She shrugged.
“Why’d you leave?”
A sigh. “Why all the questions?”
“Just making small talk. What else to you talk about with your bodyguard?”
“You don’t?”
“Not usually, no.”
He grinned. “I’ve never had a personal protection officer before.”
“You’re supposed to just go about your business and leave me to it.”
Sure, he could go to his study and work, but it felt wrong on their wedding night. How stupid did that sound? They weren’t really married, it was just a ruse to deter the men after him. Yet, it still felt rude to turn his back on the woman in her wedding gown standing in his lounge, no matter how much she wanted him to.
Besides, she intrigued him. A woman of secrets, even more than he had and that was saying something. “Why’d you leave the Agency?”
Another hard look. “I got shot.”
He sucked in a breath. “Oh, shit. I didn’t realize. Were you badly hurt?”
“No. Where’s the safe room?”
He’d had it constructed after he’d bought the house, complete with a reinforced steel door. In his line of business, it would be foolish not to. The room was designed to withstand almost any threat.
“Off the kitchen.”
“Show me.” She was distracting him from the conversation.
As they walked, he scanned her body for a bullet scar, but didn’t find one. Her shoulders were perfectly smooth and unmarred, as were her arms, although he could see the muscle definition. She was toned as hell, but that wasn’t a surprise. She’d have to be for her work. Her waist was synched in by the dress, accentuating her curves, before flowing to the floor. Tiny diamante or crystal studs caught the light as she moved.
“It’s under my left rib,” she said, without looking round.
“What is?”
“The bullet wound.”
He chuckled softly. “I wasn’t?—”
“Yes, you were.”
Fair enough.
“The safe room is down there.” He pointed to utility room on the far side of the kitchen. Thorn marched over and took a look around inside. He heard her descend the stairs to a purpose-built basement and open the heavy, metal door. A few moments later, she was back.
“Good. That’s where you go if anything happens,” she cautioned, turning back to look at him.
“I’m aware, but let’s hope that nothing is going to happen.”
“You can’t rely on that.”
“I don’t have to, I have you.”
She didn’t reply, simply walked past him and back to the living room. As she passed, he got a whiff of her perfume. Intense, but alluring. Like her.
Rose Wilde made a beautiful fake bride. That alabaster skin, wide green eyes, soft shimmering coral cheeks, and of course the soft locks of clipped-up strawberry blonde hair, just enough escaping to soften her prickly expression.
Thorn. Yep, he could see that.
But she was also a Rose, just very well protected.
“Where’d you get the dress,” he said, easing himself down onto the couch. “I’m assuming you didn’t just have it lying around at home?” He hadn’t seen a ring on her finger, but then an operative probably wouldn’t wear one, even if she was married.
“Nope.” She turned away, not looking at him.
Abrupt. Too abrupt.
“It fits you like it was made for you.”
She didn’t reply.
“It’s yours, isn’t it?”
She glared at him.
“Are you married?”
She heaved a sigh. “You ask too many questions, you know that?”
He shrugged. “I’m just trying to get to know you.”
“Well, don’t. This is not a friendship, it’s a job, and I can’t do it properly if you keep bugging me.”
He laughed. “Okay, I’ll stop bugging you, but I’m right, aren’t I? You are married.”
“Was.” She looked him straight in the eye. “He died.”
Damian clenched his jaw. “Fuck, sorry.”
Again.
He was always apologizing to her. Maybe he should just keep his trap shut, sit down and drink his wine and try to forget he was once “married” too, but now his life was on the line. Any moment a sniper’s bullet could find its mark and he’d die, along with his crypto update. Thorn was right about one thing, a lot of very dangerous men would pay a great deal of money to see that happen. They’d probably put the hit out on the dark web. How ironic would that be?
Except, he’d never been one to sit back and let others do the hard work.
“What can I do to help?”
She looked down at her dress. “Now that is the first sensible thing you’ve said all day. You can wait here, keep away from the windows, and stay put so I can get out of this dress.”
“I had wondered where you were keeping your weapon.”
She smirked. He liked the way her eyes lit up. It made a change from the scowling. “The same place I kept it when I broke into your office to kill you.”
He snorted.
“Don’t move.”
He reached for his wine glass. “I won’t.”