Guarding the Quarterback (Champions of the Heart #1) (5 page)

“For a moment you had me fooled.”

“You’re not the only one who can give an Oscar-worthy performance.” I wished it had been an act. My protectiveness must have been some deeply ingrained male DNA, like a fight-or-flight response to danger. Alexa triggered something primal in me, deeper than my normal drive to have wild sex.

She drove the speed limit, adhering to the traffic laws. The ride back to the city was uneventful except for the constant pinging of texts, which I knew were from my teammates. I put the phone on silent so I could decompress from the day of drills, and oh yeah, from having a gun pointed in my face.

At my apartment I obediently waited inside by the door while she went room to room like an episode of
Law and Order.
That nagging wrongness of letting a female protect me returned. I was the one who should check for intruders. Kill spiders, and shit like that.

“All clear.”

I headed for the fridge and took out a prepared meal, popping it in the microwave. “Hungry?” I called out.

“I just ordered a pizza.”

I poked my head out. “A little thing like you is going to eat a whole pizza?”

“No, I’ll save some for breakfast. I like it cold.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“So is humping every vagina over eighteen.”

“I love it when you talk dirty.”

I carried a plate filled with grilled chicken and vegetables past my unused dining room and plopped my tired body onto the leather couch. Before digging in, I switched on the state-of-the-art smart TV and downloaded some game film to review. I never showed up to a game unprepared, watching and analyzing hours of footage the team prepared at my request. I knew the other team’s defense inside and out. It gave me the edge over the other quarterbacks in the league that failed to realize the importance of knowing your enemy. Talent only got you so far in the pros.

Behind me Alexa paced, driving me a little nuts. She was a ball of energy that couldn’t be contained, always seeming to be in motion.

“Why don’t you grab us a couple of beers, baby doll?”

I felt her stop at the back my head. “Excuse me? I’m not your maid.”

Risking certain death, I turned my head to gaze up at her with a confused expression. “But you are my girlfriend,” I joked.

She put her hands on her hips. “Of all the sexist—”

The buzz of intercom saved me from a rant on how I was a male pig. It was my own fault for giving her plenty of ammunition. I couldn’t understand my need to provoke her or the satisfaction it gave me to see her cheeks flush with anger.

I bent my head back and saw Alexa at the door, gun in hand, peering through the peephole. Seemingly satisfied that the pizza-delivery guy was not a serial killer, she put the gun in the waistband of her skirt, opened the door and paid the man.

She dropped the box on my clean coffee table, threw open the lid, grabbed a slice, and folded it like a true New Yorker.

“I do have plates.” I said as she took a bite.

“Yeah, but then I’d have to clean it up,” she mumbled with her mouth half full.

She had a point. I hadn’t had pizza in months and the aroma wafted in the air, more seductive than any perfume.

Fuck it.
“Can I have a slice?”

“If you go get us some beers.”

The little minx had what only could be described as a cat-who-just-ate-the-canary grin. And damn if I didn’t want to forgo the pizza and take a bite out of her instead.

By the time I got back with the beers and some plates, she’d taken off her blazer and the gun rested on the end table. I didn’t know whom I liked more, the fake Alexa, dressed to kill, or the real Alexa, who downed a beer like a guy and would tell me to fuck off in an instant.

Alexa nodded to the screen. “You’re playing the Seattle Steelheads on Sunday?”

“Yeah.” We talked football, and I was surprised to find out she knew more than the basics.

“Any inside tips for my Fantasy Football team?”

“That would be unethical.” Not that I would complain if Alexa turned unethical all over me with her smoking body. “Who did you draft as your quarterback?”

She hesitated. “McQueen.”

Playing for the NY Cougars, he was my enemy on the field. It hurt that I wasn’t her choice, even if McQueen did win the championship last year. But did the jealousy I feel go deeper than that?

“He’s a pussy.” I took a swig of beer.

“All quarterbacks are pussies,” she teased.

Her throaty laughter had me thinking of her pussy. With her gun inches away, I decided it was safer to concentrate on the screen. I winced when Dawson, the Steelheads’ defensive back, pummeled the quarterback from the Washington Warriors into the ground so hard that it left an impression in the muddy field.

“Ouch,” said Alexa. “I guess you quarterbacks are tougher than you look.”

Having her around wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I actually enjoyed her company. I enjoyed it too much. Most of the conversations I’d had with women in the last couple of years had gone like this:
My place or yours?
followed by
Oh, yes, Dean, yes. Oh God, yes
. Or some variation of that.

Tired from the day of practice, the carbs from the pizza, and the buzz of the beer, my eyes started to close. “I’m calling it a night. There are blankets in the hall closet.”

“Thanks.”

I got up and headed for the hallway, then turned around. Alexa had already inspected the apartment, but I still asked. “Sure you don’t want to check for monsters under the bed?”

“The only monster in your room is—”

“In my pants,” I finished her sentence.

Shaking her head, she tossed a throw pillow at me. “Down boy.”

Easier said than done, but I behaved and went to bed alone and aching.

Alexa

W
ho was the
woman staring back from Dean’s guest bathroom mirror? It wasn’t me, it couldn’t be. But it was. In a little over a week I’d devolved from a woman who didn’t wear makeup to one who knew the pros and cons of powder versus liquid foundation. I wasn’t certain if I liked my reflection, but I knew I didn’t like the way it made me feel. Like a woman. Vulnerable. And that was not in my job description.

Joffrey had gone a little overboard with the makeup, but he had insisted that tonight’s venue called for drama. The cat-eyed look included false eyelashes, which felt like little spiders on my eyelids. He had styled my hair in messy waves so I wouldn’t have to fuss with it during the evening, he said. Like I ever fussed with my hair.

He’d had me try on a little black dress at first, and I did mean little—short and one size too small, clinging to every curve like it had been poured onto my skin. I had struggled out of it, claiming there was no way I could conceal a gun, which was true, but it had more to do with me being uncomfortable displaying my body to the whole world.

Now, clothed in a blush-colored V-neck sweater dress with bronze sequins sprinkled through the fabric, I looked like a rocker princess. The hem was still short, but the fit was loose enough to allow for the gun-concealment compression midriff tank I wore underneath.

In three-inch wedge-heeled brown leather sandals, I could barely feel myself walk. How was I supposed to feel the gas pedal? The shoes matched the thick belt cinched at my waist, and according to Joffrey, style won over safety every time.

I didn’t agree. In an act of fashion defiance, I changed into the leather cowboy booties I’d packed when I moved in with Dean.

I fisted my hand, pleased with the large bronze flower ring on my finger. The jewelry was more dangerous than a set of brass knuckles, though I was sure that was not what Joffrey had in mind when he’d selected the ring. I slid my gun into the sewn in holster via the V neck of the dress and then I practiced drawing. The bell sleeves could trip me up, so I drew a few more times.

Satisfied that I would not have a wardrobe malfunction, I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. Martini Madness was the hottest club in New York City, and if that wasn’t enough to make me break out in hives, then the charity event, bringing in every celebrity in town, would. Not only was this a logistical nightmare for a bodyguard, I had to look and act like I belonged in that world, to fit in with the “it” crowd. And I never fit in.

Except, Joffrey had worked his magic like my own personal fairy godmother.

I took one last look in the mirror. “You can do this,” I said to my reflection.

Enough dawdling. My date—correction, my
assignment
—waited in the living room. I opened the door, but halted when I heard Joffrey and Dean’s voice drifting down the hall.

I smiled, picturing Joffrey fussing with Dean’s tie as if we were off to the senior prom instead of a nightclub. To Dean’s credit, he hadn’t blinked an eye when Joffrey, in all his glory, had swept into the apartment to help me get ready. I’d been afraid the macho athlete would hurt Joffrey’s feelings with an off-color remark. Dean took the chaos in his apartment in stride.

Now I heard whispering. In stealth mode, I crept closer.

“I see how you look at Alexa. She’s my dearest friend. If you hurt her—”

“Understood.” Dean cut him off, not laughing at Joffrey’s pretense of toughness or questioning what he meant by how Dean “looked at” me.

I wished he would ask because I would like to know.

“How long have you been friends?” asked Dean instead.

Like someone spilling their guts to a tabloid gossip columnist, Joffrey divulged how I stuck up for him in school, fighting his fights and my own until the bullies went on to easier targets.

“But don’t let that fool you. I’ve since taken self-defense classes and I’m not afraid to return the favor.”

I decided it was time to join the fray. Stepping into the living room, my heart stopped and my libido started. The black-on-black suit was tailored to Dean’s perfect body. How could he be so sexy with clothes on? It wasn’t fair. He was fiddling with the cufflinks when he raised his gaze, his eyes heating like whiskey set on fire, and I burned along with him. A wicked smile appeared on his face, as if he were Satan come to claim my soul and along with it, my heart.

“See that, right there. That’s the look I’m talking about. Like you’re the wolf and Alexa is Little Red Riding Hood.”

Before I could scold Joffrey, Dean laughed. “Yeah, except she carries a gun in her basket.”

“And don’t you forget it,” said Joffrey, pointing a finger at Dean. Then he crooked his digit at me. “And you, little missy, don’t think I didn’t notice you changed shoes. Where do you think you’re going—a hoedown? Come with me.”

I followed him into the guest bathroom and waited until he closed the door.

I folded my arms. “What happened between yesterday and now? Then you wanted me to throw myself at him, and now you’re acting like my overprotective brother.”

“Because after I saw how you looked at him, I realized it would be more than a roll in the hay for you.”

“You need your eyes checked, Joffrey.” There was no way I was mooning over Dean with anything other than lust. He was a client. An assignment. And if Dean wanted me, he wanted this version of me, not the woman he’d met in his boss’ office. I needed to remember that. Thankfully Joffrey forgot all about my cowboy booties.

I was mulling Joffrey’s claim as I drove to the club, when Dean broke the uncomfortable silence.

“I didn’t get the chance to say, but you look delicious.”

Being a star quarterback, Dean Walker had his pick of beautiful women. Where did I fall on his scale? I hated myself for wondering. Hated that I didn’t know how to react to his compliment. On the outside I might look different, but I was still the same me on the inside.

Awkward and unsure, I said, “I bet you say that to all your bodyguards.”

His deep laughter rumbled through my body.

“Certainly not to Oslo and Williams.”

I laughed too, stopping just before I snorted. It was a terrible habit I was trying to break. I rarely laughed and when I did, the sound of it surprised me, causing me to snort.

I pulled up behind the line of cars, limos, and SUVs waiting for the valet. A sea of celebrities flooded into Martini Madness. I was hesitant to give up my keys. Not having the means of a quick escape concerned me, but I had no choice. I pushed the on button to my earpiece and spoke with my team, who confirmed everything was in place in case we needed a fast exit. I immediately switched off the transmission. Clients didn’t like having their conversations overheard.

To Dean, this club scene was just another day in the life of a professional football player, but to a girl who sat on the social-life sidelines, it was a bit overwhelming. He was my first celebrity client. Posing as a nanny, I’d protected children of billionaires, and as a sort of Girl Friday, I protected women leaders. Undercover work was my specialty. My diminutive size let me fade into the background. Pre-makeover, I would have stuck out like a sore thumb in this crowd.

Thanks to Joffrey’s expertise, I wouldn’t appear to be a fish out of water, even if I was swimming in doubt on the inside.

But I wasn’t there to stargaze. Entering the club, I located the exits and noted where the bouncers were stationed. I made eye contact with two of Ian’s Security’s employees. Once I received nods of assurance, I relaxed.

Dean tried to position himself in front of me to bull his way through the crowd, but I couldn’t let that happen.

“Alexa?” Jude Hastings, an ice hockey player with the Brooklyn Brawlers, blonde, blue-eyed, and built, greeted me with a hug.

I’d had a small crush on him in college. I should’ve melted into his embrace, except all I felt was Dean’s body stiffening behind me. Jude pulled away, his hands lingering on my arms. He’d never looked at me like the way he was looking at me now.

“I almost didn’t recognize you.”

He shouldn’t have recognized me at all. While I did tutor him in college, I’d done so wearing sweats, no makeup, and my hair swept up in a ponytail.

We made small talk for a minute until Dean cleared his throat and introduced himself. “Hi, I’m the boyfriend.”