Chapter 1 #2
Then I shower, trim my beard, and put on clean tactical pants and a fitted black henley instead of the dirty range gear I'd been wearing. Because I'm a professional, not because a woman who looks like that is about to walk through my gate.
That's what I tell myself.
At exactly fourteen hundred hours, I'm standing by the main entrance when the black armored SUV rolls up the access road. Warren Park arranged the transport from Reno. Tinted windows, run-flat tires, reinforced chassis. Solid vehicle.
The SUV stops. The driver steps out first. Then the rear passenger door opens, and a pair of expensive heels hits the gravel.
The photo didn't do her justice. Not even close.
Alexandra Morrison unfolds from the backseat like she's stepping onto a stage.
Tall for a woman. Five-nine, maybe more in those heels.
Platinum blonde hair catching the mountain sun, not a strand out of place.
Navy suit tailored so precisely it could've been painted on, and beneath it, curves that the corporate headshot had no business hiding.
Long legs, narrow waist, full hips. A body that doesn't apologize for itself, carried with the posture of a woman who knows exactly what she looks like and uses it as armor.
Her eyes find me immediately. Pale blue. Assessing. Dismissive inside of half a second.
I'm thirty-three years old. I've been shot at, blown up, dropped from helicopters, and pulled half-dead soldiers out of burning wreckage. My hands are steady in every situation I've ever faced.
They are not steady now.
She walks toward me with the kind of stride that says she's already calculated how long this interaction should take and allocated exactly that much time for it. Her driver follows with two rolling suitcases. Louis Vuitton.
I step forward and extend my hand. "Ms. Morrison. I'm Hayes Donovan, your lead protective operator for the duration of your stay. Welcome to Guardian Peak."
Her handshake is firm, brief, and absolutely devoid of warmth.
Up close, her skin is flawless. She smells like something expensive and cold.
Jasmine, maybe. Something underneath it that's warmer.
Her eyes sweep over me from boots to face in under two seconds, and whatever she finds doesn't impress her.
"Mr. Donovan." Her voice is controlled, low, the kind of voice that commands boardrooms and operating theaters. "I believe I made my position on this assignment clear to your employer."
"You did."
One perfect eyebrow rises. "And yet here you are."
I smile. "And yet here I am." I gesture toward the path leading to the guest cabins. "If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your quarters and walk you through our security protocols."
She doesn't move. Those blue eyes stay locked on mine, and I can see her running calculations.
My age. My build. My face that looks younger than my years because apparently God thought that was funny.
She's measuring me against whatever template she has for the word "bodyguard" and I'm coming up short.
"How old are you, Mr. Donovan?"
"Thirty-three."
"And how many years of protective detail experience do you have?"
"Twelve years of combat operations including high-value target extraction, personnel recovery, and executive protection in active war zones.
" I keep my voice easy. Conversational. Like I'm not reciting a resume to a woman who could buy this entire mountain.
"I've also completed advanced courses in threat assessment, close-quarters protection, and evasive driving.
My medical training means I can keep you alive if you're injured, and my rescue background means I can get you out of any terrain on earth if the situation requires it. "
Her expression doesn't change. Not one muscle.
"Impressive credentials," she says, and the word 'impressive' has never sounded less impressed. "I specifically requested someone with more seasoning."
"You requested someone older," I correct gently. "Those aren't the same thing."
Something flickers behind those eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or irritation that I read the actual email instead of the diplomatic version.
"Ms. Morrison." I take a half step closer.
Not aggressive. Just enough to close the distance between polite and personal.
Close enough that I can see the faint freckle beneath her left ear and the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes that she probably hates and I find unreasonably attractive.
"I understand you're used to getting exactly what you want.
That's fine. But right now, what you want and what you need are two different things.
What you need is the best operator available, and that's me.
I'm going to protect you whether you like me or not. "
Her chin lifts. The afternoon sun catches her jaw, the line of her throat, the subtle pulse point just below her ear. I track it without meaning to. Her pupils dilate by a fraction, and I know she noticed me looking.
The silence between us lasts three full seconds. Long enough to mean something.
"Fine," she says. Clipped. Final. "Show me to my cabin, Mr. Donovan. And do try to keep up."
She walks past me without waiting for a response, heels clicking on the gravel path like she knows exactly where she's going even though she's never set foot on this property before.
I watch her walk away. The tailored navy suit. The squared shoulders. The absolute refusal to look back and check if I'm following.
Challenge accepted, sweetheart.