Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Damien
“I’ve gotta admit, man. It was a surprise to hear you’d taken this job.”
The personal protection industry in a tiny island nation with a low crime rate, admittedly, isn’t large. There are only a handful of people who do, or have done, the same job as me, and Stelland’s heavily intermingled elite class means we run into one another a lot.
Kingsley MacLeod—more commonly known as “Mac”—who has handled both personal and professional security for the Duke of Fairborne for years, is someone I’ve come across a lot.
If I’d stopped to think about anything other than Blair Porter for the past month, I would have assumed he’d be here tonight, ensuring I’m adequately covering his boss’s engagement party.
Unfortunately, foresight is apparently a bit beyond me presently, and my office, which I’d once thought an excessively large space for just myself, is starting to feel crowded.
Along with Mac, there are a handful of Porter’s NPS—National Protective Service—officers, and a few other miscellaneous bodyguards and personnel milling around.
Leaning past Mac to turn on the last in a row of monitors, I offer my colleague a noncommittal grunt. “Needed a change.”
To accommodate the great number of guests who will soon be arriving at Thornhurst, I’ve spent the better part of the past week setting up a temporary system of security cameras throughout the downstairs of the house.
The familiar rooms are now displayed on the ten monitors set up before me, each of them alternating between differently angled views of the room to which it’s been assigned.
Humming in acknowledgement of my lie, Mac’s lips curve in a thoughtful frown as he leans in, studying a view of the downstairs back hallway, where a server is hurrying over the plush runner, laden with a tray of champagne flutes.
“Heard you had some trouble here a few weeks back. A break-in?”
I bristle, instantly annoyed that word of the incident had made it so far. “Their system was about two decades out of date. It’s been a process, getting things properly shored up.”
Mac holds up both hands. “Hey, I’m not saying it was your fault, Mallory. Porter is a piece of work; you’ve probably had shit coming at you daily.”
“It’s harder when you aren’t kept informed,” I admit quietly, casting him a dark, significant look.
While I ordinarily wouldn’t divulge issues with an employer to a colleague, my tolerance for Lord Porter—which was already rapidly waning—took a sharp dive toward pure loathing after learning about Blair’s learning disability.
Having his NPS officers go over my head to coordinate with the police about the break-in, while leaving the man on the ground in the dark, raises serious red flags. Something is going on, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to tolerate being treated like a fucking security guard.
Mac’s unsurprised expression only serves to intensify my suspicions.
The office is busy, with members of Porter’s NPS team coming and going, but nobody is paying attention as Mac edges closer to me, lowering his voice. “As a friend, I’d advise you to unmake this little career change, if at all possible.”
“Yeah?” I question. “Why’s that?”
Mac goes quiet, and I get the sense he’s trying to decide whether I can still be trusted, given my new employment status. I glance over, offering him a weary smile. “It’s a job, Mac. Just a job. My contract is up the day after the election.”
It’s mostly the truth, but lately, I’ve felt myself becoming increasingly invested in the situation. While it’s obvious I’ll never get the transparency necessary to adequately do my job, it’s not the possibility of my professional reputation being tarnished by association that has me worried.
It’s Blair.
How is it possible that in under two months, she’s gone from my own personal nightmare to my primary concern?
Mac’s lips flatten into a grim line, and he glances over his shoulder to ensure we won’t be overheard.
Apparently satisfied, he turns back, letting out a heavy sigh.
“Between you and me, the duke isn’t happy.
He was getting pressure from his mother and grandmother to settle down, have a couple heirs, you know the deal with these people.
Alba Porter is hot, knows how to handle herself in society, is young enough to have a few kids, and comes with a trust fund that will make the Fairbornes one of the richest families in the country.
Then, her brother offered his firm a massive contract…
well, needless to say, it was a no-brainer. ”
“But?” I raise my eyebrows expectantly.
Mac scoffs, shaking his head. “But you know as well as I do that skeletons don’t stay in the closet when someone steps into the national spotlight.
Men like Porter”—he inclines his head toward the main house, expression twisting—“think that having enough money, or enough power, makes them untouchable. Now, the skeletons are starting to come calling, and the duke isn’t pleased to find himself stuck on a ship full of ’em. ”
I swallow, falling silent as I let this information sink in, reconciling it with what I already know. “Porter is being blackmailed.”
Mac taps the side of his nose with his index finger.
“Not confirming or denying anything. Just tread carefully, that’s all I’m saying.
The man’s a crooked piece of shit with a whole lot of money.
” He can’t say more, though, because three more members of the NPS are filing into the office, looking around for the man in charge.
I’m not at all happy that this dubious distinction belongs to me.
Edgy and restless, I answer their question, fighting the impulse to look back at the cameras all the while.
Guests are flowing into the estate, and I’m itching to ensure Blair doesn’t spend the evening flirting with the single, wealthy, age-appropriate men her mother undoubtedly invited specifically to meet her.
Going over there earlier today wasn’t the plan, nor was the round of teasing that my balls still haven’t recovered from.
Even this morning, I was resolved to let her do what she wanted.
It was for the best, after all. In no universe can I be the man who gives Blair everything she wants, and after all I’ve done, it would be selfish to stand in the way of her finding happiness.
As the party grew nearer, however, I felt my conviction weakening.
She might have been tired of forcing me to admit my attraction to her, but I… I was fucking exhausted, and it all came crumbling down when I glimpsed her heading downstairs in one of the security monitors.
There isn’t a doubt in my mind that she knew exactly what she was doing with that fucking dress, but in that moment, I didn’t care.
I still don’t.
After I’ve helped—what feels like—every member of support staff do their jobs, the party is well underway, and I’m itching to return to the monitors.
“Give me a moment,” I tell the latest swarm of NPS officers to enter the office, all of whom seem more keen on talking shop and sniffing out any useful connections I may have in the palace than doing their jobs.
Rubbing a twinged nerve in my neck, I edge through the crowded room, making my way back to the wall of screens. There are discreetly dressed guards on hand in the house, ready to step in if anyone wanders off somewhere they shouldn’t, and three men already on surveillance duty.
I’m not here because I’m concerned about a drunk head of state wandering into Lady Porter’s dressing room, however.
My eyes roam over the crowd, searching for a familiar head of light red hair, and feeling increasingly unsettled as my first scan comes up empty. Then, just as I’m beginning a second scan of the room, I see her.
Chest burning, I lean in, discreetly watching as she enters the ballroom behind Alba and James.
I hadn’t noticed earlier, but she’s done something with her hair that I haven’t seen before.
The strawberry strands have been twisted into two braids and knotted at the base of her neck, with only a few strands falling loose to frame her features.
The dress she’s wearing—the ignition point for this entire situation—looks as incredible as I remember.
Diamond studs glitter on each of her ears, and as she reaches up to tuck a wayward curl behind one, the camera quality is good enough for me to notice she’s had her nails painted gold to match.
A man in a dark suit moves past her, temporarily obscuring my view, and I don’t think I breathe until she is in sight again.
The temporary cameras I set up may be discreet, but they’re thorough.
There is hardly a single inch of the house left uncovered, and my eyes jump from screen to screen, inhaling and exhaling in slow, shallow breaths that burn my lungs.
There are other guests, ones I really should be more focused on, and yet their existence seems like a foggy, insubstantial reality compared to the one, wholly real thing in the center of the party’s ecosystem.
Blair.
Amidst a room of well-dressed, important people, she seems to radiate a magnetic sort of energy.
As the night goes on, it doesn’t matter how many times I attempt to look away, returning my focus to my job, I find my eyes drawn back to her again and again. Even as my chest feels like it might cave in on itself when I do.
It hurts. Looking at her actually physically hurts.
So why the fuck can’t I stop?
Blood rushes in my ears as one of the trussed-up, blond-haired dipshits—obviously one of the men her mother thought to invite—approaches her, a glass of wine held loosely in one hand, grinning like he’s already confident in the outcome of this exchange.
I watch, barely breathing, as he leans in to speak in her ear.
He’s young, maybe early thirties, and annoyingly not hideous.
Blair listens, but when the blond dipshit leans away, I see her step back. Her mouth moves, speaking words I wish I could hear. Then, she’s turning, slipping back into the crowd.
Blond dipshit frowns, disappointed, and moves on.
My chest feels as though it might burst open as, for the first time tonight, I feel myself start to relax.