Her Three Protectors [The Hot Millionaires #3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

The Hot Millionaires #3

Her Three Protectors

Porcha Ballantine’s husband is dead, and now the killers are out to get her.

On the run and desperate, Porcha turns to an old friend for help. When he dispatches three hunks with attitude to help her, she instinctively trusts them. As Troy Anderson, Adam Cole, and Beck Easton slowly unravel Porcha’s problems, they also tackle the subject of her sexuality and invite her to play with them. After three years of marriage to a man who controlled her every waking moment, she’s more than ready for some fun.

When Porcha is snatched by the bad guys, the action moves to Miami as her protectors do whatever they must to find her. They grapple with drug dealers, diamond smugglers, and the dregs of the underworld, putting their lives on the line for the woman they love. It’s taken them years to find her and they’re damned if they’ll let her go…

Genre:
Contemporary, Ménage a Trois/Quatre
Length:
60,406 words
 

The Hot Millionaires #3

Zara Chase

MENAGE EVERLASTING

Siren Publishing, Inc.

www.SirenPublishing.com

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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

IMPRINT: Ménage Everlasting

HER THREE PROTECTORS

E-book ISBN:
978-1-61926-877-7

First E-book Publication: July 2012

Cover design by Les Byerley

All art and logo copyright © 2012 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED:
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All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

PUBLISHER

Siren Publishing, Inc.

www.SirenPublishing.com

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Her Three Protectors
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HER THREE PROTECTORS

The Hot Millionaires #3

ZARA CHASE

Copyright © 2012

“Yes, who is it?”

Porcha pushed the button on the video entry phone, a simple task made difficult because her fingers shook so badly.

“You’re expecting us.”

Us?
Porcha’s heart crashed against her rib cage. She peered at the three figures filling the small screen, hyperventilating as panic and confusion clouded her brain. Tension and lack of sleep made it difficult to think straight. Was this for real, or could it be a clever trap? One man. She’d asked Georgio to send one man. Why would he think she needed three?

“Georgio sent us. The name’s Anderson.”

The speaker was at least six two, with the swarthy complexion of a South American and black hair tied back in a ponytail. As though sensing her scrutinizing him, he removed his shades and revealed intelligent dark eyes that flashed with annoyance. Clearly, he didn’t appreciate being kept waiting. Too bad! Porcha wasn’t about to let anyone in until she was absolutely sure they were who they said they were.

The designer stubble peppering Anderson’s jaw did little to disguise his film-star looks. His aquiline features, strong jaw, and deep vertical lines in a forehead currently knotted with impatience hinted at both competence and tough resourcefulness. If he really was Georgio’s man, she’d expect nothing less.

What the hell…her life was on the line, and she was wasting precious time ogling a fit-looking man. His appearance didn’t mean diddly-squat. The people out to get her might have chosen a handsome man to lull her into a false sense of security, and she’d almost fallen for it. Porcha grabbed her iPad and pulled up the picture Georgio had e-mailed of the man he was sending. They
looked
one and the same, although the picture didn’t do him justice.

“We’re kinda conspicuous out here, Ms. Ballantine.”

“I…I was only expecting one of you.”

The man calling himself Anderson hitched impossibly broad shoulders. “Georgio told us all to come. We’re just obeying orders.”

Yes, but whose orders?
“I’m not sure.”

“Look, open the door. If you’re worried, I’ll come up on my own. Or call Georgio and get confirmation that he sent us all.” Anderson glanced over his shoulder, as though he disliked hanging about in broad daylight in such a public place. “We’ll wait, but not all day.”

Porcha went with her instincts. Something about Anderson’s expression made her feel inclined to trust him, and Porcha didn’t trust easily. Just as well, or she’d have been dead by now. She hesitated for a fraction longer, came to a decision, and pushed the button to open the street door.

“Penthouse B,” she said abruptly.

It would take a few minutes for the elevator to whisk them up, so Porcha made the most of the delay and sprang into action. She inserted coloured contact lenses that changed her eyes from their distinctive emerald green to a dull, forgettable gray and then covered them with thick horn-rimmed glasses containing clear lenses. Pushing her chestnut hair into a containing net, she hastily fitted on a long blonde wig and pulled a loose shirt over her tall frame, hoping it would disguise her curves. No matter what else she did to change her identity, she’d discovered with almost-fatal consequences that her assets tended to make her stand out.

Porcha had practised her transformation technique many times before and now had it down to a fine art. She checked her watch and nodded with grim satisfaction. Seventy-five seconds. Not bad.

Her hearing was acute, but there were no telltale signs of the elevator arriving yet. The doors squeaked when they opened on this floor. Porcha had made sure of that by wedging a small lump of metal in the place where they folded back—large enough to make the scrape a warning, not so big that it stopped them from opening.

She reached for her purse and extracted her S&W revolver, comforted by the feel of the grip that fitted in her hand just perfectly. Porcha hadn’t had to shoot to kill, not yet, but she knew how. She’d spent hours on the range—Sal had insisted on that—and she’d had enough close shaves recently to know that she could fire at another human being without hesitation if that person was firing at her. No question about it. Her survival instincts overrode the feminine squeamishness she could no longer afford to indulge.

A sound reached her ears, and she froze behind the door, training the revolver at its centre. Boots on the stairs—three sets of them, by the sound of it. It couldn’t be Georgio’s men. They couldn’t possibly have run up twelve flights of stairs in less time than it would have taken the elevator to get here.

Could they?

She tensed when the feet came to a halt outside her door and the bell rang.

“Ms. Ballantine, it’s Anderson.”
What the hell?
“Check your e-mail. I just asked Georgio to send you confirmation that we’re the good guys, here at his bidding.” She thought she heard him growl something rude before adding, “Seems he forgot to mention that part.”

“Just a minute.”

She grabbed her iPad, accessed her e-mail, and, sure enough, Georgio’s confirmation blinked back at her.

“Didn’t tell you I was sending you a round-the-clock bodyguard because I knew you’d say you didn’t need it. You do! You can trust these guys, babe. They’re the best I have, and they won’t let you down. Sal would have wanted you to make use of them.”

Damn right she wouldn’t have asked for them, but Georgio knew the mention of Sal’s name would engender complete capitulation on her part. Her training went too deep for it to be any other way.
Damn it, Georgio shouldn’t have done this!
The more people who knew where and who she was, the less chance she had of coming out of this alive.

She heard the murmur of voices coming from the other side of her door, which was the last thing she needed. None of her neighbours knew she was here, but these guys could ruin everything if she didn’t get them off that landing. They weren’t exactly inconspicuous, but she got the impression that they
were
loyal to Georgio and would camp out on her doorstep until she opened the door, or until Georgio called them off.

She put her gun away, shot back the bolts and dead bolt, and opened the door, instinctively shielding her body with it as she ushered them in. A faint sigh of appreciation slipped past her lips as they filed past her. In spite of everything, she still appeared to possess the capacity to admire a decent male body—or rather, three of them. The spacious room seemed to shrink as they moved into it, hardly making a sound and not the slightest bit out of breath following their long jog up the stairs.

Porcha appraised her unlikely saviours as they in turn assessed her. Anderson’s above-average looks when viewed through an entry phone were nothing compared to the real deal. Standing slightly in front of the other two, legs apart as though ready to move at a moment’s notice, he regarded her with a combination of interest and irritation at being mucked about. She sensed power, ruthlessness, and determination in his psyche—attributes that she could put to good use if she decided to keep him around.