Guard of Honor by Tracie Delaney
Chapter Five
Fuck. Me.
The photographs of Honor Reid included in the dossier of information Mack had studied on the flight over here in no way did her justice. Damn, she was a total stunner. Long, shapely legs, tits just the right size, an arse that would fill his hands perfectly. He’d estimate around five nine or five ten in height. Her auburn hair reminded him of the red embers of a dying fire, and her sculpted cheekbones gave her a noble air. Not to mention that fucking dimple in her left cheek that she’d flashed for her father’s benefit.
She needed a good fifteen pounds on her too-thin frame, and the eyes he’d originally marked as innocent weren’t any longer. They were hollow, haunted, all innocence stripped bare through what had happened to her. But fuck, the woman made him hard with one haughty stare.
Loris didn’t have a rule on bedding clients, but he didn’t encourage it, either. The appearance of a bodyguard in their lives was usually fleeting in the grand scheme of things. When the job was done, the next one awaited. A few of the guys were assigned on a longer-term basis, usually to politicians—until they got fired or resigned—and royalty. But most were hired for a specific purpose, an expiry date to the contract, and striking up any kind of relationship was usually counterproductive and always left behind one hell of a mess.
Besides, even if he was tempted to sample the goods and end his self-imposed dry spell, Honor Reid wasn’t the woman to do it with. Her eyes told a familiar story, one that Mack recognized all too well. The same hollow expression looked back at him every time he caught sight of himself in the mirror. One of the main reasons he’d left the beard he’d grown while in captivity was to avoid shaving. Taking a blade to his face without a mirror wasn’t a great idea, but he could trim a beard with a cursory glance and avoid reading the torment in his eyes. A man with as many demons as he had didn’t need to hook up with a woman whose anguish rivaled his.
Instead of pissing him off, her snarky attitude and obvious dislike of him had made him even more determined to destroy the walls she’d erected. At twenty-four, she had her whole life ahead of her. To live it in a self-imposed prison surrounded by security was no way for a beautiful, talented, feisty woman to spend her days.
When he’d read her file, he’d expected to find a shell of a woman, one who rocked herself to sleep at night and freaked out on the regular, and while he’d witnessed her panic when she’d assumed his arrival meant her father had received another kidnapping threat, she had far more strength than he’d given her credit for. He’d bet she wasn’t aware of the well of courage within her, either. All he had to do was find the key to her self-imposed prison and unlock the cage. And although he’d never admit it to Loris, now that he’d met his latest client, he was glad he’d accepted the assignment. Sparring with Honor wouldn’t only be fun, but it would also be a surefire way to show her that her abductor hadn’t stolen her soul. He might have dealt it a hammer blow, but she’d survived, and recovery was within her grasp.
The dossier had referenced the fact that the cops hadn’t identified the perp. By now, the case would have been scaled back, scarce resources allocated to more pressing issues. And given the passage of time, Mack doubted they’d ever find who’d taken Honor unless whoever it was decided to make a second kidnap attempt.
Not on my fucking watch.
He understood Honor’s fear of venturing beyond the four walls of her home while the person who had abducted her still roamed the streets. Hell, it was a dangerous world out there for most women, let alone one with a billionaire father and who’d already been snatched once. But locking herself inside this house wasn’t the answer.
Oakenfeld had given him a thorough tour of the house and a rundown of their usual routines, which consisted of very little. According to him, there really wasn’t much to do. No one came to the house. Honor never left. The only person here, other than the client and her security team, was a live-in housekeeper who, Oakenfeld had explained, had worked for the family for around three years and recently transferred at Alan Reid’s request to provide some female company for Honor as well as to help out around the house.
Mack groaned. This would be a tough gig. The boredom alone might kill him.
He grabbed his bag from just inside the front door, where Alan’s driver had left it earlier, and lugged it up the stairs. Oakenfeld had already pointed out his room, a larger-than-average space with cream walls and a yellow-and-blue rug. A king-sized bed was pushed up against one wall, a desk sat underneath the window, and a five-drawer dresser was butted up to another wall. The room also had a walk-in wardrobe and an en-suite bathroom.
Mack tossed his bag onto the bed and unpacked, which took all of five minutes. Life in the Royal Marines had taught him how to travel light, and he couldn’t seem to shake the habit. He checked the time, put in a call to Loris, gave him a quick update, and promised to call again in a few days or earlier if he needed anything.
He doubted he would.
Easing the curtains to one side, he scanned the street. Honor’s house was set on a typical Manhattan road with rows of townhouses on either side of tree-lined pavements. Being set back from the main avenues meant it was fairly quiet. He had no idea how much a four-bedroom, three-story house in this part of Manhattan would cost, but he’d bet on a fair few million. He’d never been all that interested in money. To him, it brought more problems than it solved, as evidenced by what had happened to Honor. He wasn’t on the bones of his arse by any means—Loris was extremely generous to his team—but neither could he throw money around like confetti.
Bored, he trudged downstairs at the precise moment the front door opened. He drew his gun, pointing it directly in front of him.
“Jesus Christ!” Danvers’s arms came up beside his head, and he glowered at Mack. “You could have shot me, man.”
“Hardly.” Mack holstered his weapon, then checked his watch. “You’re early. Mr. Reid told me you weren’t due until six this evening.”
“I wasn’t.” Danvers removed his jacket and hung it on a hook by the door. “My appointment finished earlier than expected.” He jerked his chin at nothing in particular. “I’ll go tell William he can go home.”
Danvers strode down the hallway, Mack’s eyes on him until he rounded the corner and disappeared out of view. Mack’s remit was different from Danvers’s and the other guys’—not that they were aware—but he didn’t see the point of having two guards here around the clock. He’d suspected overkill before he’d arrived, but now, he was even more convinced. There simply wasn’t the need, especially as the house was alarmed and Honor never went anywhere. If she did, he’d understand the requirement for more than one guard—maybe—but as it was, it just meant there were two testosterone-fueled men rattling around the house with fuck all to do. He’d call Alan Reid in the morning and suggest a change of approach. Loris had said that Honor’s father was happy to leave the resourcing to Mack as long as his daughter’s safety wasn’t put at risk. His instincts told him he’d have a better chance of breaking through to Honor if it were only him and her. Oh, and the housekeeper, whom he still hadn’t met.
Right on cue, a woman in her early twenties came from the direction of the kitchen, a stack of folded-up clothes in her arms. She hard-stopped when she saw him, and smiled. He noticed it didn’t reach her eyes.
“You must be Mack.” She went to hold out her hand, then pulled it back when the tower of clothes almost toppled to the floor. Steadying the stack, she nodded. “Nice to meet you.”
Mack moved forward and lifted the laundry from her arms. “Where do you need this?”
“Oh.” She brushed a few bits of lint from her apron. “Um, upstairs if you don’t mind. That’s good of you.”
“Sure.”
He set off with Lizzie on his heels. His mother had raised him to be a gentleman, but that wasn’t his motivation to offer his assistance on this occasion. Helping the housekeeper gave him a chance to question her about Honor. The more he learned from different people about the prickly heiress, the quicker he could devise a strategy to help her, and ultimately help himself out of this joint and onto a more suitable assignment.
“How long have you worked for the Reids?”
“A little under three years.”
Mack paused at the top of the stairs and waited for directions. She pointed to the right, stopping outside the room across the hall from his.
“And do you like working here?”
“I do, yes.”
She held out her arms for the clothes. Mack handed them over.
“Thanks for your help.”
Nudging the door with her hip, she disappeared inside. Mack frowned. Not exactly chatty. Then again, he was a stranger, and her loyalty undoubtedly lay with Honor. He shrugged it off and returned downstairs. Force of habit had him checking the windows and doors and logging the cars on the street and taking note of passersby. Just in case.
This job is gonna finish me off.
It might only be day one, but he had to find a way to get this girl out of this house, for his sanity as much as her own. He’d originally planned on a steady-as-she-goes strategy, but that was before he’d met Honor. He’d witnessed the steel in her spine and an inner strength that was far more than the dossier—or his brief conversation with her father—had led him to believe she had. She could take a bit of tough love combined with calm reassurance, and he was going to be the one to give both to her.
* * *
The following morning, Mack put in a call to Alan Reid. As Loris had indicated, Alan agreed to go with Mack’s suggestion to trim down on the security detail as long as Mack promised to recall them if he was in any way concerned for Honor’s safety, a requirement he readily agreed to.
Fifteen minutes later, he rounded the corner on yet another pointless patrol and came face-to-face with a furious Honor, her eyes blazing, cheeks a ruddy red that clashed with her fiery locks. She slammed her palms into his chest. He didn’t even flinch.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
He patted himself down and shot her a broad grin. “Think I’m Mack. At least, last time I checked.”
“You… you… asshole!”
“Thanks for the compliment, Red.”
The glare she gave him set his blood on fire. Angry women turned him on. It might not be a good idea to act on it, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the heat in his groin and the pleasure racing through his veins caused by the waves of incandescent rage pouring off the hot redhead.
“Red? Red! You arrogant bastard. Jeremy was my friend. My only fucking friend except for Lizzie. And you”—she slammed him in the pecs again—“you got him fired.”
He made a calming motion with his hands, although a snap of sympathy spread through his chest at the comment about Jeremy being one of her few friends. “Easy, Red. He isn’t fired. He’s reassigned.”
She ground her teeth so loud that the noise reached his ears. “It’s the same thing!”
Pivoting, she flounced off. He grabbed her arm, halting her escape. “Hold up.”
She wrenched her arm upward. “Take your goddamn hands off of me.”
He immediately released her, showing her his palms in a conciliatory fashion. “Easy, Red. Dial down the decibels and hear me out.”
Her hands went to her hips, the stance thrusting her chest out. Fuck, the woman’s got great tits.
“Don’t call me Red.”
He smirked. Given how much it irritated her, the chances of him dropping the nickname were somewhere between no and hell to the fucking no. Fury burned in this woman, and if him dubbing her Red allowed her to let it out, then he was all for it.
“Ugh. Forget it. You are such a jerk.”
“Stop,” he barked as she spun away.
Surprisingly, she obeyed, slowly swiveling in his direction. His eyes drifted to the top of the stairs, where Lizzie stood, her mouth hanging open, clearly enjoying the show. Mack stared pointedly at Lizzie. Blushing at being caught, she scuttled off and out of sight. Mack motioned for Honor to follow him to the living room, and in keeping with her sudden obedience, she complied with his request, perching on the edge of the same chair she’d been sitting in when he’d arrived with her father yesterday afternoon. He took the couch, lounging comfortably with his legs parted, and decided to share a sliver of the truth. Just enough to pique her curiosity and calm her the fuck down.
“You and I have something in common.”
She curled her lip in a derisive fashion. “Somehow I doubt that. But okay. I’ll play.” She flippantly gestured to him. “Go ahead.”
“We’re both survivors.”
Her brows nudged into a frown. “What do you mean?”
“A few years ago, I was on assignment in Syria, a secret mission for the British government. I’d been there a couple of days when ISIS took me. They held me in a windowless room that had mold growing on the walls and a filthy, concrete floor that crawled with bugs. They chained me to a radiator. For three months.” He refrained from giving her the gory details of what had happened on a daily basis during his time in confinement. That wasn’t the point of this conversation. “Eventually, I was rescued, and here I am.” He flashed a grin that he didn’t feel. “So you see, Jeremy might be your friend; Lizzie, too. But I’m the only one here who understands what the fuck you went through.”
During his brief speech, Honor sat there, hands folded in her lap, and listened intently. As he’d hoped, sharing his experience, albeit a tiny part of it, diverted her attention away from the loss of a slice of familiarity—namely, her bodyguards.
Her expression softened, morphing from open hostility to compassion.
“That must have been awful.”
He shrugged, having no intention of sharing further details. “I’m not the enemy, and while I might not be a friend, I get it. So can we call a truce?”
She blinked a few times, then smiled. It didn’t hold, but at least it was a start, and far better than the high-pitched yelling. Her temper was hot, but when it flirted with hysteria, the tone of her voice hitting the high notes was not.
“Okay.”
Rising gracefully to her feet, she left the room. Mack twisted and watched her go, an unfamiliar twinge tightening his chest. He shook it off and, with a grumbling stomach, went in search of food.