Bodyguard Lockdown

chapter Seven



The dark sky softened slowly into the predawn light.

Booker stopped once, taking a few moments to get his bearings and search through the canvas sack attached to the horse’s saddle.

The man had left them nothing more than flat bread and cheese, a few containers of water and rifle ammunition.

Sandra slept against his chest, her eyes closed, her face settled into the curve of his neck.

From the moment he’d found out Trygg had taken her, he lived with fear. Fear he wouldn’t get to her in time. Fear he couldn’t protect her.

Fear that he’d fall in love with her again.

Without thought, Booker’s arm tightened around her.

The wind whipped around them, catching her hair, just enough for a few wisps to tickle his cheek.

Booker tapped the horse’s sides, picking up its gait.

Sandra shifted closer, her curves soft against his thighs, the tight muscles of his stomach.

His body strained against the intimacy, while the echoes of their earlier conversation went through his mind.

She insisted this was only about Trygg. He knew better.

His hand gripped the reins tighter. Anger was easier. If only she hadn’t stolen those cylinders, hadn’t made herself a target...Booker never would have met her.

She sighed, snuggled her backside between his thighs. Booker gritted his teeth.

The desire, the need, had been there from the beginning.

The first time they had talked, had touched.

The first time she’d smiled.

When he’d lost his wife, Booker mourned. Dark days of grief, anger—guilt.



It took falling in love with Sandra for him to understand.

He’d never loved Emily like this.

He’d been attracted to her. He loved her spirit, her craving for excitement. Life was her playground and she was the princess.

Once they were married, he’d expected her to slow down, to settle into the marriage. But when she didn’t, it caused problems. Her flirting. The partying.

Their fighting escalated until, tired of it, Booker stayed away from home more often, not wanting to deal with her tantrums.

If he’d paid more attention to her. If she hadn’t followed him to the base. But he’d been caught up in his military career. Trying to prove something, make something of himself, at the cost of his marriage.

Emily had come looking for him that day. To tell him she was pregnant.

And inhaled the CIRCADIAN.

Sandra’s head shifted back into the hollow of his shoulder, exposing the long line of her neck.

He’d watched Sandra for two years.

The woman who brought Trygg down.

Her habits. He’d bugged her phones, her apartment. She made a move, he followed.

She haunted him. His dreams, his nightmares. Emily’s red hair became a dark, rich black. Her blue eyes darkened to a deep mahogany brown.

Soon Emily’s features blurred into Sandra’s. Stayed Sandra’s.

She burrowed in, her breath warm against his skin. Slowly, without thought, Booker held the reins with one hand and slid his palm over her rib cage, just inches from her breast. He felt adolescent, copping a feel, so he forced his hand to stop.

“Sandra, wake up,” he whispered, hoarse with restraint.

Her eyes blinked open. Widened at the desire he didn’t hide from his features. The silent question that haunted his eyes.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Without a word, she shifted closer until her lips touched his.

Desire—held in check for far too long—broke free. With a groan, he pulled her closer. The rhythm of the horse set a sexy, heated tempo as their bodies bumped, pressed, bumped.

Booker dropped the reins, let the horse have his lead.

Suddenly, Sandra found herself lifted and turned so that her legs straddled his waist. The hard result of their kissing pressed against the apex of her thighs.

His hands slipped under her shirt, slid over her back; his fingers ran up her spine, then down, until each hand gripped a butt cheek and brought her in closer.

They both groaned.

His mouth found hers. His tongue was merciless as it stroked and burned inside her mouth.

Booker tapped the horse with his heels.

The horse stepped into a slow canter. Sandra gasped; her hands gripped his shoulders, felt the muscles flex beneath her palms.

Sandra lost all track of her surroundings. His hands grasped her hips, holding her tight against him while their bodies matched the horse’s gait.

Heat pitted in her stomach. Liquid fire flowed between her thighs.

“Booker,” she whispered. Her hands slipped behind his head, bringing his mouth to hers. Her fingers shoved the scarf aside, buried themselves in the thickest part of his hair.

His hand delved between her cheeks, felt the wet, soft center of her.

The sun broke free of the horizon. Sandra blinked into its harsh glare.

She pulled back, humiliated. “This won’t solve our problems.”

Booker shuddered and pulled away. “All right. We’ll play it your way,” Booker answered, his voice little more than gravel and glass shards.

“Now isn’t the time,” she said, straightening her shirt. “But our timing has always been off,” she acknowledged with a weak smile.

“We’re tired,” he reasoned, his eyes on the horizon, not her. “We only have a couple more hours before the sun gets too hot for us to continue.”

He jabbed a finger at the mountains in the distance. “We should hit the foothills right about the same time. If I have my bearings right, there is an oasis hidden in the crevices at the base.”

“Malaquo,” Sandra murmured, forcing herself not to rub the ache in her heart. “I know it pretty well.”

Unable to sit close to her, he set her forward and slid off. Deftly, he swung the reins over the horse’s head. “Time to give the horse a break.”

When Sandra shifted to slide off, he stopped her with a raised hand. “Stay. You don’t weigh enough to make a difference.”

“And it wouldn’t hurt for a little distance, right?” she observed, still smarting from the moment.

“The only distance I’m worried about right now is between us and Trygg’s hired guns. Whether they are Al Asheera or mercenaries,” Booker replied. “How much do you know about desert survival?”

“Enough to know we’re in serious trouble.”