Triple-Duty Bodyguards: Chapter 8

I take a deep breath. “That’s an interesting fashion choice,” I say, to cover up the heat rising in my face.

I hear a zip being pulled. “It’s a nod to my new film.”

“Is it a reboot of Chicago?”

I can practically hear her glare. “It’s a murder mystery film set in a 20s speakeasy. I play a flapper. One of the patrons is mysteriously killed in a backroom, and we have to find the murderer before they strike again.”

“Hm. Is it you?” It’s probably her.

She gasps. “My, how on Earth could you accuse me of such a thing, you impetuous little dewdropper?” She purrs, dropping seamlessly into a 20’s southern accent. “Why, I was simply tucked away in the powder room, sharing a glass of giggle water with one of our fine gentlemen visitors.”

I smile despite myself. “Impressive.”

“They don’t pay me to stand around looking pretty.” There are sounds of fabric crumpling. “So, what happens now?” She asks, her voice muffled. I picture her with the dress over her head, and try to blink the image out of my mind. “You just follow me around until, what, exactly? The police aren’t going to help, so I don’t think the threat will just go away.”

“We’ve got people back at Angel HQ tracking X down. Since you have CCTV footage and a DNA sample, when we find the right guy, we can get him locked up. Then you’re free to go.”

“X?”

“Since it’s the name he’s apparently given himself, that’s what we’ll call him until we can prove his identity.”

She hums. “And how exactly are you going to find X?”

I examine the wallpaper. “We’ve got the Stalkers on the case. They’ll come back to us in a few days with a list of potential suspects. We’ll work from there.”

I hear her freeze. “Excuse me?”

“That’s probably a bad choice of words,” I admit. “The Stalkers are our cyber-analyst team. They’ll be trawling through all of your social media messages and comments, selecting profiles that seem suspicious, and then finding out as much as they can about the person behind the account. You’d be amazed at the information they can get. Address. National Insurance number. Bank details.”

“Huh. All legal?”

I don’t deign to answer that. There’s movement in the courtyard outside. I frown, leaning forward for a closer look. I can’t see anything out of the ordinary, but there’s a sick, uneasy feeling in my stomach. I scan the bushes, trying to work out what’s wrong with the picture.

“Matt,” Briar calls. “Can you give Michel his pin cushion?”

“Not a butler,” I remind her.

“No, but you have two free hands, which is more than both of us.”

Sighing, I straighten, turning to face her. When I catch sight of Briar in the silver dress, I freeze. It looks incredible on her, hugging her chest and hips. The sparkly tassels flow down her slight figure like she’s dripping in water, and the zipper is open, showing off her smooth, white back. Both she and Michel are holding it up, pinching the fabric where it needs to be pinned. I scan the workstation for the pincushion, handing it to the man.

“Ta,” he says. “Hold the sleeve here, please.”

“Seriously?”

“Unless you want your poor girl having a serious nip-slip, yes, I’m serious. My assistant called in sick today.”

Cursing internally, I hold the fabric where he directs me to, pinching it in place. Briar’s breath hitches slightly as the pad of my finger brushes her collarbone. Her skin is impossibly soft, like warm silk. Michel hums. “Here on the waist too, please.”

Wordlessly, I pinch another few inches of fabric. Briar’s trim, but I can still feel the soft curve between her waist and her hip. My hand itches to spread out and fit that curve in my palm.

Great.

Michel steps back and slides the pin cushion onto his wrist. “Excellent. Let’s get started, love.”

The next hour feels like some perverted form of torture. I hold scraps of silk to Briar’s hot skin as she breathes softly against me, her chest rising and falling very visibly under the low neckline. Michel has me touch her all over. Waist. Hip. Back. Shoulder. Every time she changes position, I get a whiff of her candy-scented perfume.

I can’t stop thinking about how I found her this morning; lying in bed, a toy inside of her, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. It was like stepping straight into a sex dream. I swallow, shifting my hips away from her as my pants tighten.

As he works, Michel natters on about celebrity gossip. “Let’s see. Mario Vasquez says you’re starting a smear campaign against him. Is it true that you called him a slimy pig?”

Briar shrugs. “It sounds like something I would say, doesn’t it?” She purses her lips. “Maybe I will start a smear campaign. I really do hate that guy.”

“Go for it, girl,” Michel enthuses. “Oh! And Lola Snow landed a deal with Sosex Fashion.”

“Gross.” Briar wrinkles her nose. “Sorry, how come I get called a stuck-up whore when I wear a pair of designer sunglasses, but no one has any issue when she promotes a brand everyone knows uses sweatshops? This is like, the third time she’s done this.” She hisses as Michel’s finger slips, and he pricks her with a pin.

“Sorry,” he apologises when I glare at him. “Call her out, babe.”

She pulls out her phone and starts tapping at the screen. I look over her shoulder. She’s drafting a tweet to the other actress.

My jaw tenses. I’m starting to get a sense of where her reputation comes from. “Is this what you do?” I ask. “Ruin other celebrities’ careers?”

She shrugs. “Everyone needs a hobby.”

“That’s shitty,” I say flatly.

She wheels on me. “Is it shitty, Matt? Is it more shitty than hundreds of eight-year-olds being shoved into dirty, damp rooms, sewing two-dollar t-shirts until their fingers bleed and they inevitably die from inhaling fabric fibres? Is my tweet the shitty part of this equation? Is—ow!”

Her whole body flinches as Michel pricks her with another pin. I look down and see blood spotting her pale skin.

“Watch what you’re doing!” I snap. “Stop fucking hurting her!”

“It was an accident!”

“Once is an accident. Twice means you’re being careless. If you can do your job without turning my client into a human pin-cushion, I suggest you start now.”

There’s an awkward silence. Michel gives a small nod, turning back to his work.

“Mattie. I didn’t know you cared,” Briar murmurs.

“It’s my job to stop you getting hurt,” I mutter.

She doesn’t respond, looking down. Her dark lashes stroke her cheek. A few more minutes pass, and then Michel finally pulls back with a flourish.

“There. Done!” He beams at Briar. “You just wriggle out of that, sweetheart, and we’ll start on your friend’s suit.” He runs his eyes over me assessingly. “I’m thinking blue. You’ll give me a hand with the pinning, won’t you, Briar? I think we’ll need to tailor something from scratch to get around that ass.”

“I’ll help,” she says, refusing to look at me. I swallow thickly. I need this girl’s hands all over my body like I need a hole in the damn head.

“Great,” I grit out. “Thanks so much.”