It was a refreshing change, to be sure.
“So tell me, Ms. Mackenzie, is my penthouse in bad shape security-wise?”
She glanced around the bedroom, her face serious, her gaze going everywhere. She eyed the mahogany, king-size bed and the cream-colored, down-filled duvet, the black-and-white photographs on the wall; she glanced at his dresser with his wallet lying open on top of it, loose change from his pockets scattered all around.
“There’s always room for improvement,” she replied, still in that disinterested tone. She moved to the door, wiggled the doorknob and tried the lock.
“You’re being vague, now. Are you going to transform me, or not?”
She turned around to touch and inspect the doorjamb. “I don’t transform people.”
“No, but you said you were going to break me of some bad habits. I think I might enjoy that.”
She gave him an unimpressed look. “Like leaving your keys places. If you leave the toilet seat up, that’s your problem.”
He followed her out to the kitchen. She glanced quickly at the stainless steel appliances, the butcher’s block in the center and the white custom cabinetry.
He would’ve given his eyeteeth to know what she was thinking. He could see the wheels turning in her head as she sized up his penthouse before she decided if she wanted to take this case.
“Do you have any hired help?” she asked.
“Yeah, I have a housekeeper who comes in every morning through the week.”
She walked down the hall and returned to the foyer, then faced him. She was petite, but there was a strength in her that she emitted like perfume. He wondered what kind of personal life she led. He glanced down at her hands. No wedding ring.
Some deep male instinct in him rejoiced.
“First of all, whether we work together or not,” she said, “I would recommend updating your alarm system. The one you have is at least fifteen years old. It’s a dinosaur.”
“Done.”
“And you need to use the system. Half the people who have them installed can’t be bothered punching in the codes, so they leave them inactive.”
Donovan smiled. “I’m guilty of that, I’m afraid.”
“I figured you were.” She moved to the front door to gaze out the peephole. “Are you looking for round-the-clock management and surveillance, Dr. Knight, or just improvements to your home security?”
“I think Mark had a round-the-clock bodyguard in mind.”
She faced him. “I asked what you wanted, Dr. Knight.”
He thought about the baseball bat under his bed, and how he’d stared at the ceiling for six hours last night, then fallen asleep on his lunch hour today.
Then he thought about what his twenty-four-hour-a-day bodyguard would look like in a nightie. If she wore one. Negligee maybe? He could picture her in a red one….
“I think round-the-clock management might be beneficial—at least for the short term.”
She nodded, then quietly returned to the living room. Touching a long slender finger to the book he was reading that lay open on the coffee table, she raised her eyebrows as she gazed over the page. “Triathlons.”
“You look surprised.”
She shrugged. “I was expecting it to be about art history or something.” She moved across the room and knelt on the white sofa, to pull the ivory-colored shears back to examine the windows.
Donovan watched her reflection in the clean, dark panes. She flicked a latch.
As she reached up to try a higher latch, her jacket lifted and pulled tight around her shoulder blades, and he could see that she had a shapely behind, trim and firm beneath her loose, wool dress pants. He found himself wondering what kind of panties she wore. He suspected they’d be white. Probably cotton. Maybe silk.
“I’m not much interested in art history,” he said distractedly, watching her return to her feet and smooth out her clothes.
She ignored him, and that intrigued him even more. He caught a perfumy whiff of her dark, shoulder-length hair as she strode by him.
A few minutes later, they were back in the foyer and she was reaching into her breast pocket for a business card. She gazed directly into his eyes. “You are definitely in need of help.”
She handed him the card, and turned to the door.
He glanced down at the card, then followed her out to the elevator. “Wait a second. Does this mean you’re taking the job?”
She pushed the button. “Yes.”
“But…when will you start?”
The elevator dinged and the doors opened. She stepped inside. “Right away.”
“But how do we do this? If you’re going to be my bodyguard, shouldn’t you be staying here? Where are you going?”
As she pushed the down button inside the elevator, a tiny infectious grin sneaked across her lips. “I liked the look of those feathery pillows in your guest room, Dr. Knight, so if you must know, I’m going to get my toothbrush and jammies.”
The doors closed in front of Donovan’s face.
He stood in the vestibule holding her card, feeling transfixed and suddenly exuberant, and totally surprised by the fact that his cool, reserved bodyguard actually had a sense of humor.
Things were definitely going to get interesting around here.
Two
Jocelyn grabbed hold of the brass handrail in the elevator, then tipped her head back and tapped it three times, hard against the oak-paneled wall.
What in God’s name had possessed her to say such a stupid, suggestive thing? She was a professional, dammit, and she had a well-deserved reputation for objective, serious behavior and an almost masculine demeanor that demanded respect from the world of executive protection. She never smiled at clients. Not unless they made a joke and etiquette required it. Never was she the one to make the joke. And certainly not a sexual one!
She reached the bottom floor and stepped off the elevator into the lobby. The uniformed gentleman at the security desk nodded at her as she passed by.
A few minutes later, she was walking down the dark street to where her car was parked, debating whether or not she should have taken this job. She didn’t approve of rich, snobby doctors—especially gorgeous ones who wore tuxedos and went to the opera and ballet just to add polish to their appearance, and expected every female within spitting distance to dissolve into a puddle of infatuation at their feet.
It was all so pretentious, and she hated that kind of thing. She had her reasons, of course. And okay, maybe they were personal, but what had happened in her life happened, and she’d experienced firsthand the kind of shallow pomposity people like Dr. Knight were capable of.
Besides her father—who had left his own, personal imprint on her as a woman—she’d experienced the social-climbing doctor type. The type who went to medical school just to get a summer home on Rhode Island, a yacht moored at the most prestigious club and a Mercedes parked in a three-car garage.
A Mercedes. All through medical school, Tom had talked about getting one. He’d lovingly referred to his future purchase as “The Merc.”
Jocelyn pushed those memories aside and pulled out her cell phone. She called her assistant,