Seduced by the Bodyguard (Forbidden Confessions Book 5) Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Epilogue

  Seducing the Innocent

  Seducing the Enemy

  Wicked as Sin

  About Shayla Black

  Other Books by Shayla Black

  SEDUCED BY THE BODYGUARD

  A Forbidden Confession novella

  Written by Shayla Black

  This book is an original publication by Shayla Black.

  Copyright 2020 Shelley Bradley LLC

  Cover Design by: Rachel Connolly

  Edited by: Amy Knupp of Blue Otter

  Proofread by: Fedora Chen

  Excerpt from Seducing the Innocent © 2019 by Shelley Bradley LLC

  Excerpt from Seducing the Enemy © 2020 by Shelley Bradley LLC

  Excerpt from Wicked as Sin © 2020 by Shelley Bradley LLC

  ISBN: 978-1-936596-72-0

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by an electronic or mechanical means—except for brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews—without express written permission.

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away, as it is illegal and an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  All rights reserved.

  Arlington, Texas

  July 4

  10 a.m.

  Sophie

  Today is already hotter than the underside of Hades, but it’s also Independence Day. My agent, David, insists that hometown-girl-made-good appearing in one of the biggest parades in Texas is a great grassroots way to spread the word about my new single and my upcoming album, so I said yes. Besides, I’ve traveled the globe for the better part of a dozen years. It’s awesome to spend a day near home, surrounded by the smell of smoking brisket and the sight of people waving Old Glory again.

  “Ten minutes,” David proclaims as he sticks his head into the little bathroom at the back of one of the shops at the top of the parade route.

  Of course he’s wearing a suit, despite the fact it’s a hundred degrees today. And he looks impeccable doing it. The man is a stickler.

  “Thanks.” I check my red lipstick in the dingy mirror.

  This is as good as it’s going to get. My sparkling red minidress is an attention-getting showstopper, but the Stars-and-Stripes stilettos really spur a double take. I feel a bit like USO Barbie…who suddenly decided to walk a street corner.

  Then again, it matches my new image. Gone is my squeaky-clean child-star persona. Now I’m an adult—and David never misses an opportunity to remind people that puberty hit me hard and fast by dressing me in things that cling to my ass and show off the fact I very definitely have boobs. It’s annoying…but I can’t argue with results. It’s working.

  I’m just not sure I care anymore.

  Another problem for another day.

  “I’m ready,” I tell him as I hide my liquid lipstick in my cleavage.

  When I look up from tucking the tube between my breasts, there’s a stranger standing beside David, watching my every move. I would feel ridiculous…if he hadn’t knocked the breath from me with a glance.

  Holy sex drive! He’s a man, for sure, but he’s also as gorgeous as a god. He’s unbelievably tall with shoulders almost as wide, and he has eyes as dark as midnight. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that hugs the bulges of his biceps and exposes tattooed sleeves down both arms. Black denim and black boots complete the look. He’s going to swelter in today’s heat…but he’s going to look damn fine doing it.

  “Hi,” I say stupidly.

  He nods. “Ms. Larsen.”

  David intervenes. “This is Rand Garrison, your security detail for the parade.”

  The name fits him—hard, blunt, almost brutal. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Same,” he murmurs.

  The word doesn’t seem like a mere pleasantry. In fact, I’m hard-pressed to believe this man would bother with silly things like decorum or etiquette. I’ve met his type before—very serious and convinced he’s one of the people who stand between order and chaos in this dangerous world.

  “Where’s Rob?” I ask about the guy who’s my usual security detail.

  “Tossing his cookies like he’s doing a reenactment of The Exorcist. So you’ll spend the day with Rand. Former Marine and most recently a Dallas SWAT captain. Any questions?”

  For a two-hour gig full of lip-synching? “No.”

  “Great.” David claps his hands together impatiently. “You look fetchingly patriotic. Shake what God gave you for Uncle Sam, and you’ll do great. I’ll be waiting for you at the end of the route with Graham.”

  Graham Normoth, the new British pop sensation with a velvety voice and sensitive face. Women all over the globe swoon and scream for him. Probably because they don’t know the minute he’s alone with a woman he suddenly grows six hands and a tongue like a Hoover.

  “He’s here?”

  “He flew in last night and wanted to surprise you, but jet lag and traffic and whatnot. He told me he can’t wait to see you after the parade.”

  “Oh, great.” I do my best to sound chipper, but I’m pretty sure David knows I’m not happy.

  Rand steps back and into the glow of overhead lights. He’s got a wide diagonal scar through his left eyebrow. The damage skipped over his eye, then sliced its way down his cheek, stopping just short of his mouth. I’m blinking and staring stupidly when he gestures me out of the doorway and into a deserted hall.

  David hangs back, watching as Rand settles a big hand as hot as a furnace at the naked small of my back, above the backless dress’s scooped edge, before he smiles.

  What are you up to?

  I don’t have time to ask before Rand hustles me out of the little shop and guides me down the back of the parade route, flanking me as he escorts me to my waiting float, all while maintaining that hand on my bare skin. It’s all I can do not to shiver at his touch.

  “Do you know where I’m supposed to go?” I ask to cut the tension.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know the parade route?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did David arrange for you to ride the float with me?” It’s a genuine concern since I’ve had a few incidents over the years that rattled me.

  “Yes.”

  Clearly, he isn’t a talker.

  “Good. Anything else I should know?”

  “No.”

  Damn it, Rand is the most attractive man I’ve ever met—and he has zero interest in interacting with me. Between the people I meet in day-to-day business and the internet, I get propositioned a lot. I’m never interested. And now that I might be…he’s not. Just my luck.

  It doesn’t matter. After today, I’ll never see this guy again. I just need to perform for the couple of hours so I can get on with my life.

  “I’m sorry you have to bother with me today. I’m sure you have more important things to worry about.”

  The crowd thickens around us as more people finish the last-minute details for their floats and the accompanying performances. Rand turns watchful. Tense. He looks at everything and everyone with suspicion. “I don’t.”

  He’s on the job, and he takes work seriously. I get it. I remember when I felt that way about every gig, too… But he acts as if every m
inute could be life or death. Then again, in his world it is.

  “I appreciate you putting up with me in the crowd and this heat.”

  He doesn’t reply until we reach the float. Then he fits his hands around my waist as if I’m no bigger than a doll and lifts me onto it. “You making it to the end in one piece is thanks enough.”

  Suddenly, he’s beside me on the float, a red, white, and blue spectacular celebrating America’s past and future with a pair of flags and a stage between them. Once he hands me up to the platform, I’m surrounded by a troupe of dancers in patriotic costumes.

  Rand positions himself behind them, doing his best to blend into the background, but he still stands out.

  This dress leaves no room for my phone, and I can’t wear a watch with this getup, but from the crowd and the flurry of activity, I surmise it’s nearly time.

  Frowning, I glance around for the microphone prop that’s supposed to be waiting for me. Finally I spot it, then take the familiar shape in hand.

  A middle-aged woman dashes by then and looks up at me, clipboard in one hand, phone pressed to her ear with the other. “Thanks for joining us today, Ms. Larsen. It’s an honor. Are you ready?”

  “Thanks for inviting me. I am.”

  “Don’t forget, when you cross that intersection there”—she points—“your music will begin. You’ll sing for that block and part of the next, then your music will drop off. All you have to do after that is smile and wave until your float rounds the last corner.”

  I haven’t done a ton of parades, but I’ve played arenas all over the world. This should be a piece of cake. “I understand.”

  The woman stops looking harried long enough to smile at me. “Really, thanks for doing this. Our parade is always popular, but you coming back to your hometown today with us has probably tripled the crowds. We’re so excited!”

  “I’m happy to be here.” The good food, the community atmosphere, and the friendly people all remind me why I miss Texas.

  The organizer moves on, and the humid air stands absolutely still as I wait, wishing I could get my long hair off my shoulders and claw off at least half the makeup the stylist put on me less than an hour ago.

  It seems like forever before the parade begins and the floats in front of me lurch forward, crawling down the parade route. Then mine follows suit, dragging across the black asphalt. The heat is oppressive, shimmering off the road in waves under the pounding sun.

  I look down at Rand, standing silent and stoic, feet apart, hands at his sides. I feel the coiled tension coming off of him. There’s nothing restful about the man.

  It’s almost as if he’s expecting trouble.

  But I can’t ask because the crowd is too loud and we’re quickly approaching the intersection that will mark the beginning of my music piped through the overhead speakers. So I try to quell my worry, grip the microphone, smile for the thick crowd, and get ready to look like I’m giving the performance of my life.

  Everything is great as the float creeps through the intersection. The intro to my latest single cues up. My stomach tenses; it always does before a performance. Then I’m dancing my way through the opening bars of the song and enjoying the crowd’s enthusiasm.

  Until gunshots erupt and all hell breaks loose.

  Rand

  At the blast of the first gunshot, I grab Sophie Larsen and tug her off the platform before shielding her with my body. Around me, people scream. I draw my weapon. Pandemonium ensues as people run everywhere. Parents grab their children and dash away. Others, especially those less mobile, either drop to the pavement or scramble toward the nearest doorframe, looking for some semblance of protection.

  That’s all working in my periphery, but what I’m really aware of is finding the asshole with the gun—and the beautiful blonde behind me, breasts rising and falling at my back with every rapid breath she takes.

  “Are you hurt?” I shout over the noise.

  “No.”

  Her reply is faint, but I hear it. That’s enough for now.

  Another shot rings out, this time so close I can hear the bullet whiz past my temple. It’s not my first rodeo with this kind of shit, but if I don’t move, it might be my last. Still, I’m under no illusions. I’m not the target of whoever’s pulling the trigger. Since his first shot went way over my head, I know he’s aiming for Sophie Larsen.

  “We’ve got to move!” I grab her wrist with a curse, then hop off the float, singer in tow. To her credit, she manages to keep up and land on her feet, despite those ridiculously impractical, totally sexy heels. Even more impressive, she actually manages to run.

  Still, I’m twitchy. Maybe it’s the screaming. I know the suggestive music filled with Sophie’s smoky voice singing about sex isn’t settling me. Neither is the adrenaline. But the back of my neck starts to itch.

  The next shot is coming.

  Abruptly, I swerve into a nearby doorframe and jerk Sophie with me, again shielding her with my body as the next shot hits a window frame inches from us, splintering the wood. I jerk the doorknob to the right to try and dive inside. It’s locked.

  Fuck.

  I’m hyperaware that my back is vulnerable and that she’s pressed against me, looking up at me with those hypnotic eyes she’s so well known for, a placid shade somewhere between blue and gray. Only now, they look panicked. I see past the stage makeup and the false lashes to the terrified woman underneath.

  “Breathe.”

  She shakes her head. “We can’t stay here.”

  “No. C’mon.”

  I tug on her arm again and sprint down the sidewalk. Another shot whizzes through the narrow space between our shoulders. From the timing and position of the shots, I suspect there’s one shooter across the street, probably on an upper level or roof. And if I can’t hustle Sophie around the next corner before he fires again, at least one of us stands a good chance of being dead.

  Air burns my lungs as I sprint toward the corner of the big building on my right. Despite her sexy, ridiculously high-heeled shoes, Sophie keeps up. She’s got a death grip on my hand.

  Another bullet zings between us, this one near our hands. The screams of the spectators grow even more shrill. Sophie flinches. She’s unnerved. I don’t blame her. This isn’t exactly in her wheelhouse. Worse, we’ve still got fifteen feet before we reach any semblance of safety, and this asshole is going to get off another shot before we can make it. I’d love to turn and off him, but he’s probably a few hundred feet away. The shot isn’t impossible with my Glock, just unlikely. And in the time it would take me to find him, set, aim, and fire, he’d probably tag and bag me. And if something happens to me, what happens to Sophie?

  I’m not waiting around to find out.

  “Run!” I pick up speed and yank on her wrist.

  She stumbles in those ridiculous shoes. “Wait!”

  No time for that. I wrap my arm around her waist, lift her against my side, and haul ass for safety. Another bullet whizzes by, where Sophie stood just moments ago.

  Then we’re around the corner. We’re safe—for now. We can’t stay long, but we can regroup and strategize for a minute or two. Hopefully, it’s enough.

  I press my back to the wall, panting, and lower her to her feet in front of me before flipping our positions and blocking her from any other possible threat.

  “You okay?”

  More screaming fills the streets. Sirens roar close to the scene. She presses a hand to her chest, struggling to catch her breath. “I-I’m not hurt.”

  She doesn’t try to claim that she isn’t terrified out of her mind. I know she is.

  “Are you familiar with this area?”

  “Not really. I’m from DFW, but never spent much time in Arlington.”

  Damn. I’m not familiar with this chunk of the city, either.

  We’ve got to get out of this alley—and this fucking vicinity—fast. Then we need a safe location without anyone knowing where Sophie is hiding. Only then can I figure out who
wants her dead and why.

  I scan our surroundings and come up with an idea. “Take off your dress.”

  “What?” There’s a whole lot of hell no crossing her face.

  She probably thinks I’m propositioning her. To be honest, in a less dangerous situation, if she was willing, I’d be more than game. Sophie may have been a pretty girl who burst on the music scene when she was still in pigtails, but she’s a hella beautiful woman now. I certainly wouldn’t turn her down. But that’s not why I’m asking her to disrobe.

  “Your red spangly dress is a bright, shiny target to this shooter.”

  “Oh.” She frowns. “But I can’t run around naked.”

  As much as I might like the view, she’s right. Everyone has a camera on their cell phones these days, and she doesn’t need that kind of exposure. Hell, we’re lucky that everyone is too busy running for their lives to notice us tucked into this narrow alley.

  I yank my T-shirt from my waistband and tug it over my head, leaving my torso covered in a thin wifebeater. The T-shirt is damp with my sweat and it smells like me, but that’s all I’ve got to give her. “Put this on.”

  Sophie takes the shirt from my hand, her gaze glued to mine. “Where am I supposed to change?”

  But she knows the answer; I see it on her face.

  “I’ll block you.” After all, she’s tiny. I’m pretty big. We’ll make it work. “But we don’t have time for modesty.”

  She hesitates an instant, then drops one strap of her low, scoop-necked dress down her arm, followed by the other. As she does, one thing becomes obvious: Sophie Larsen isn’t wearing a bra.

  I start to sweat again, and this time it has nothing to do with heat or danger.