And back to her and us. “Let me see,” I say softly.
“You want to see?”
“Yes. I want to see.”
“All right,” she says, giving me a shy, sexy smile as she reaches for her zipper, “My design, by the way,” as she pulls it down. “I should market it as easy access to your handgun.”
“Or to other things,” I murmur, as she reveals her ample cleavage, a black lacy bra, and the gun, all of which has my cock thickening and my gaze lifting to hers. “I’m not sure what I’m going to think about the most today. This moment or the one where you were naked and holding a semi-automatic rifle in your hands.”
She zips herself back up. “I can’t believe I was holding that gun while I was naked.”
“Just know I’ll be a happy man every time I think about it today,” I tease, tilting my head toward the hallway, amazed at the flush of her cheeks that I catch before she turns and heads to the door. Somehow, some way, Alvarez took her body, but she’s managed to deny him her soul.
“Let’s assume there’s a camera to go with the recording device Les installed last night,” I say, joining her at the door, and flipping the lock. “I want you to drop your purse to force us to linger at the door. That will make our conversation we want them to hear seem natural.”
“And what is that conversation supposed to be?”
“Be snappy with me,” I say. “Act irritated that I’m around.”
She shakes her head. “No. That’s doesn’t fit me. I never do that, even with Juan.”
“All right then. We’ll stick with me being cold and you being uncomfortable. Just follow my lead and let’s ride the elevator down that has cameras and continue the same tone.”
“Got it,” she confirms, and I open the door.
Myla immediately exits the room, dropping her purse, which manages to open and spill the contents to the floor. “Oh my God,” she murmurs, squatting down to start collecting her items. Instead of helping her, I shut the door, and step closer to her, towering over her, and watching her efforts.
“These kinds of delays and mistakes, are dangerous,” I say. “It allows someone time to grab you.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” she says, sounding flustered, and glancing up at me. “Do you have to hover?”
“It’s my job to hover,” I reply dryly.
“It’s making me nervous,” she says, popping to her feet and shoving her purse to her shoulder. “What is it exactly that you’re protecting me from?”
“As I keep telling you. Everything and everyone that isn’t me.”
“Can I have my briefcase? I want to look at my sketches.”
“And I want your hands free in case you need to use them to protect yourself.”
“My hands? I can put the briefcase on my shoulder.”
“Not and hold the sketchpad. We need to move along.”
She glowers at me and turns on her heel, beginning the walk to the elevator, smartly holding her character, her steps a bit too fast, her body language stiff and uncomfortable. “Behind me,” I instruct, when we step into the elevator. “Always behind me. I’m in front to take any fire that comes before you would.”
“What fire?” she asks, as the doors close. “Who wants to shoot me?”
“It’s not my job to name names,” I say. “It’s just my job to ensure no one hurts you.”
She says nothing else, remaining where she stands, her acting skills a testament to how she’s survived. The game is as second nature to her as it is for me to step forward first when the elevator doors open to the garage, and immediately know something isn’t right. An instant later, my gaze lands hard on Juan, looking shorter than usual, because he’s leaning on my fucking Mustang, just asking to get hurt. I reach for Myla, my hand closing around her arm, as I pull her to my side. “Why is he here?” she murmurs, as we start forward.
“Trying to get his balls ripped out,” I say, not releasing her until we’re at the car, and I’m standing a foot in front of Juan. “Get in the car, Myla,” I instruct, clicking the locks open.
“That won’t be necessary,” Juan counters. “She and I need to talk. I’ll drive her to work.”
She stops walking. I keep my eyes on him, and repeat, “Get in the car, Myla,” and this time, she does exactly what I say, moving to the passenger door.
“She’s going with me,” Juan says. “You work for me. Myla! Come back.”
“I work for Alvarez,” I say, as the car door slams with Myla inside the Mustang. “You’re just the messenger, and you should know: my car is my baby. Lean on it again, and I’ll have to defend its honor.”
“You’re very protective of her,” he says. “Maybe too much so.”
“I paid a hundred thousand dollars for that car. You’re damn straight I’m protective of her.”
“I mean Myla and you know it.”
“I was hired to protect her or die. I’m not getting my balls cut off over you, but right now you should know I’m thinking about where to hang yours.” I walk to the driver’s side of the car.