Sleeping with the Playboy (2 page)

“Donovan,” he repeated more forcefully. “Do you have a problem with first names?”

She stopped her note taking and looked directly at him. Perfection. His face was completely flawless. And damn her eyes for noticing.
Again.
“I don't have any problem with first names, Dr. Knight. Do you have a problem with
last
names?”

He watched her for a moment, then the tension in his face broke, and he smiled—the most sensual, sexy, flirtatious smile she'd ever seen in her life. His eyes flashed and he exuded an almost tangible charisma.

A hot current tingled through Jocelyn's veins. She clenched her jaw and worked hard to throttle the vexing sensation. What was wrong with her tonight? She was a professional. A damn good one.

He took another sip of wine.

Jocelyn turned her attention to Donovan's partner, because she couldn't bear another second of those olive-green eyes moving over her in that disarming way, studying her. She was not an open book, nor did she wish to feel like one. Neither did she appreciate her hormones behaving like she was back in high school. She had thought life experience had taught her to be stronger than that.

“Dr. Reeves, do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Dr. Knight?”

He shook his head. “Could be anyone. Donovan has a lot of…female acquaintances.”

Jocelyn nodded, getting the picture. “Perhaps the man was a jealous lover or a husband of one of Dr. Knight's ‘acquaintances.'” She turned back to Donovan. “Have you had any threats or meetings with anyone like that?”

“Hey, wait a second here. I don't have
that
many acquaintances, and certainly not ones with husbands, jealous or otherwise. Mark, you're making me out to be some kind of sex addict.”

“No, not at all,” Dr. Reeves replied, holding up his hands. “I just want to make sure we have all the bases covered.”

Jocelyn interrupted and spoke in a professional, detached voice. “I'm not judging you, Dr. Knight. To tell you the truth, I don't really care if you're a sex addict or a gigolo or a Chippendales model on the weekends for that matter. I just want to know who would want to break into your home, and how I can prevent it from happening again. Now, I would appreciate it if you would just answer my questions
honestly and stop worrying about what I think of you.”

He set down his wineglass. Looking almost amused, he inclined his head at her. “I truly believe you
don't
care, Ms. Mackenzie, and that, oddly enough, is what makes me want to hire you.”

What did he mean by that?

He glanced at his friend. “You chose well, Mark. Even if I didn't ask for your help.”

“I knew you'd see the light,” Dr. Reeves replied.

Donovan stood. “I'd like you to start right away, Ms. Mackenzie. Tonight as a matter of fact.”

Jocelyn raised her eyebrow at him again. “When I start—
if
I start—Dr. Knight, is entirely up to me. I'll take a look around and ask some more questions first, then, and only then, will I consider taking your case. So you might as well sit back down and think back to every woman you've been with in the past six months. Then we'll talk about a retainer.”

Dr. Knight smiled again, and quite agreeably sat down.

 

She was the rudest, coldest, least friendly woman he had encountered since he'd finished medical school ten years ago. And she was completely irresistible.

After Mark left, Donovan followed Jocelyn into his bedroom while she examined the door that led out onto the rooftop terrace. She tried to stick a finger into the gap between the door and the frame.

“This needs to be reinforced. It should be less than one-sixteenth of an inch, or a pry bar could be slipped in and the door worked open. And you could
use some more floodlights on your terrace.” She tapped the glass. “Is this shatterproof?”

He nodded, and listened attentively to all her comments and suggestions, all the while thinking about how long it had been since a woman had spoken to him with such disinterest.

Because of his profession and his wealth—a good deal of which was inherited from his parents—women pasted on exaggerated smiles and laughed a little too long at his jokes. They generally dressed to kill, showing off cleavage and wearing spiky heels and glittery lipstick when they were in his company. The women in his life were predictable. They always had that “Maybe I can be the future Mrs. Dr. Knight” look in their eyes. Over the past few years, that kind of social life had begun to grow tiresome.

Jocelyn Mackenzie was different, though. She wore a plain brown suit with flat shoes, and practically no makeup. Not that she needed any. Her face had a natural beauty with healthy, rosy cheeks, full, moist lips and huge dark eyes a man could lose himself in.

She didn't give him that flirtatious look, either, batting her lashes at him. Hell, she barely even noticed him. She was more interested in the nooks and crannies of his penthouse where there were flaws in the security, and figuring out how best to fix those flaws. She didn't want to impress him. She didn't care if she pissed him off.

It was a refreshing change, to be sure.

“So tell me, Ms. Mackenzie, is my penthouse in bad shape security-wise?”

She glanced around the bedroom, her face serious, her gaze going everywhere. She eyed the mahogany,
king-size bed and the cream-colored, down-filled duvet, the black-and-white photographs on the wall; she glanced at his dresser with his wallet lying open on top of it, loose change from his pockets scattered all around.

“There's always room for improvement,” she replied, still in that disinterested tone. She moved to the door, wiggled the doorknob and tried the lock.

“You're being vague, now. Are you going to transform me, or not?”

She turned around to touch and inspect the doorjamb. “I don't transform people.”

“No, but you said you were going to break me of some bad habits. I think I might enjoy that.”

She gave him an unimpressed look. “Like leaving your keys places. If you leave the toilet seat up, that's your problem.”

He followed her out to the kitchen. She glanced quickly at the stainless steel appliances, the butcher's block in the center and the white custom cabinetry.

He would've given his eyeteeth to know what she was thinking. He could see the wheels turning in her head as she sized up his penthouse before she decided if she wanted to take this case.

“Do you have any hired help?” she asked.

“Yeah, I have a housekeeper who comes in every morning through the week.”

She walked down the hall and returned to the foyer, then faced him. She was petite, but there was a strength in her that she emitted like perfume. He wondered what kind of personal life she led. He glanced down at her hands. No wedding ring.

Some deep male instinct in him rejoiced.

“First of all, whether we work together or not,”
she said, “I would recommend updating your alarm system. The one you have is at least fifteen years old. It's a dinosaur.”

“Done.”

“And you need to
use
the system. Half the people who have them installed can't be bothered punching in the codes, so they leave them inactive.”

Donovan smiled. “I'm guilty of that, I'm afraid.”

“I figured you were.” She moved to the front door to gaze out the peephole. “Are you looking for round-the-clock management and surveillance, Dr. Knight, or just improvements to your home security?”

“I think Mark had a round-the-clock bodyguard in mind.”

She faced him. “I asked what
you
wanted, Dr. Knight.”

He thought about the baseball bat under his bed, and how he'd stared at the ceiling for six hours last night, then fallen asleep on his lunch hour today.

Then he thought about what his twenty-four-hour-a-day bodyguard would look like in a nightie. If she wore one. Negligee maybe? He could picture her in a red one….

“I think round-the-clock management might be beneficial—at least for the short term.”

She nodded, then quietly returned to the living room. Touching a long slender finger to the book he was reading that lay open on the coffee table, she raised her eyebrows as she gazed over the page. “Triathlons.”

“You look surprised.”

She shrugged. “I was expecting it to be about art history or something.” She moved across the room
and knelt on the white sofa, to pull the ivory-colored shears back to examine the windows.

Donovan watched her reflection in the clean, dark panes. She flicked a latch.

As she reached up to try a higher latch, her jacket lifted and pulled tight around her shoulder blades, and he could see that she had a shapely behind, trim and firm beneath her loose, wool dress pants. He found himself wondering what kind of panties she wore. He suspected they'd be white. Probably cotton. Maybe silk.

“I'm not much interested in art history,” he said distractedly, watching her return to her feet and smooth out her clothes.

She ignored him, and that intrigued him even more. He caught a perfumy whiff of her dark, shoulder-length hair as she strode by him.

A few minutes later, they were back in the foyer and she was reaching into her breast pocket for a business card. She gazed directly into his eyes. “You are
definitely
in need of help.”

She handed him the card, and turned to the door.

He glanced down at the card, then followed her out to the elevator. “Wait a second. Does this mean you're taking the job?”

She pushed the button. “Yes.”

“But…when will you start?”

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. She stepped inside. “Right away.”

“But how do we do this? If you're going to be my bodyguard, shouldn't you be staying here? Where are you going?”

As she pushed the down button inside the elevator, a tiny infectious grin sneaked across her lips. “I liked
the look of those feathery pillows in your guest room, Dr. Knight, so if you must know, I'm going to get my toothbrush and jammies.”

The doors closed in front of Donovan's face.

He stood in the vestibule holding her card, feeling transfixed and suddenly exuberant, and totally surprised by the fact that his cool, reserved bodyguard actually had a sense of humor.

Things were definitely going to get interesting around here.

J
ocelyn grabbed hold of the brass handrail in the elevator, then tipped her head back and tapped it three times, hard against the oak-paneled wall.

What in God's name had possessed her to say such a stupid, suggestive thing? She was a professional, dammit, and she had a well-deserved reputation for objective, serious behavior and an almost masculine demeanor that demanded respect from the world of executive protection. She
never
smiled at clients. Not unless they made a joke and etiquette required it. Never was
she
the one to make the joke. And certainly not a sexual one!

She reached the bottom floor and stepped off the elevator into the lobby. The uniformed gentleman at the security desk nodded at her as she passed by.

A few minutes later, she was walking down the dark street to where her car was parked, debating
whether or not she should have taken this job. She didn't approve of rich, snobby doctors—especially gorgeous ones who wore tuxedos and went to the opera and ballet just to add polish to their appearance, and expected every female within spitting distance to dissolve into a puddle of infatuation at their feet.

It was all so pretentious, and she hated that kind of thing. She had her reasons, of course. And okay, maybe they were personal, but what had happened in her life
happened,
and she'd experienced firsthand the kind of shallow pomposity people like Dr. Knight were capable of.

Besides her father—who had left his own, personal imprint on her as a woman—she'd experienced the social-climbing doctor type. The type who went to medical school just to get a summer home on Rhode Island, a yacht moored at the most prestigious club and a Mercedes parked in a three-car garage.

A Mercedes. All through medical school, Tom had talked about getting one. He'd lovingly referred to his future purchase as “The Merc.”

Jocelyn pushed those memories aside and pulled out her cell phone. She called her assistant, Tess, to tell her she'd be taking the assignment. She then retrieved her overnight bag from the trunk of her 1987 Acura Legend, and headed back to Dr. Knight's high-rise, wondering if it wasn't too late to back out, and how she could go about doing that. Because, despite everything she'd just told herself about how much she hated pretentious men who wielded their wealth like swords dipped in liquid aphrodisiac, she had responded to the bold, sexy look in Dr. Knight's eyes. The sheer perfection of his face and the sensual
way he'd walked as he'd followed her around his penthouse, so relaxed and casual about everything, had made her feel uncomfortably hot beneath her starchy, cotton blouse. She'd had to work hard to keep her eyes to herself and concentrate on her job, and she wasn't used to distractions like that.

Perhaps she could tell him that her assistant had just called to inform her that her previous principal wanted her to return for another month.

But that would be lying, and she really hated people who lied.

Surely she could handle this.

Deciding to at least give Dr. Knight's case some time—it would be a hefty paycheck after all, and she wanted to cover her sister's university tuition—Jocelyn returned to his building and purposefully didn't stop at the security desk to check in. The guard didn't say a word. Sure, he might have already seen her come and go once, but that wasn't good enough for her. She pulled out her Palm Pilot and made note of it, then while she rode the elevator up, checked the red emergency phone, just to make sure it worked.

 

Donovan leaned back against the kitchen counter and took a sip of his beer. What had he been thinking, hiring a woman on the spot to move into his place and be his bodyguard? His bodyguard!

He should have given it more thought. He usually didn't make decisions on the spur of the moment, unless they were medical emergencies and circumstances demanded it. When it came to his personal life, he preferred to take three days to mull over a decision, just to make sure he wasn't acting impulsively.

Which in this case, he most certainly was.

Damn Mark for bringing up the Counseling Center. Mark knew Donovan too well—knew he wouldn't be able to say no after that. The Center was, after all, the most important thing in his life these days, and he wanted to see it through to the end. A security expert was definitely a sensible idea.

Sensible indeed. While his “expert” had been wandering around the penthouse poking her nose everywhere, all he'd been able to think about was what she would look like naked.

Unfortunately, that last bit weighed a little too heavily in the decision-making process. What could he say? He was a man, and the idea of sharing his penthouse with an attractive woman who didn't seem to
want
something from him was an appealing notion. It hadn't been entirely about her skill as a security expert, though she certainly seemed competent enough, and as much as he'd initially denied it to Mark, he did feel the need for hired protection.

To give himself credit, though, he supposed his decision was something his gut had played a part in. Somehow he'd sensed that Jocelyn Mackenzie was knowledgeable about security and more than capable, and for reasons he couldn't quite explain, he felt comfortable trusting her—which was a novel concept for Donovan.

The doorbell rang, and he carried his beer with him to answer it.

“That's the second time you did that,” Jocelyn said as soon as their eyes met.

“Did what?”

“You opened the door without using the optical viewer.”

“The peephole? I knew it was you.”

“How?”

“I knew you were coming right back.” He stepped aside to invite her in.

“I could have been anybody. And your security guard downstairs isn't a hundred percent reliable, by the way. I'll deal with that tomorrow, after a few more tests.”

“Tests? What kind of tests?”

“I'm just going to see how easy it is to get by.” With a large, black tote bag slung over her shoulder, she waited in the center of the foyer while Donovan closed the door.

“How do you
know
I didn't use the optical viewer?”

“I know. I heard your footsteps and there wasn't time. Lock that, will you?”

He stared at her a moment, then realized she was right. He hadn't locked his door, and if she hadn't mentioned it, he might not have realized it until he went to bed, when he made a point to routinely check locks.

Her intelligent gaze swept the penthouse again. “One of the first things I do is get a feel for the boundaries with new clients. Some people like their privacy and don't want me to disturb their things, or they want me to stay out of certain rooms. Other people want me anywhere and everywhere, attached to their hip so to speak. What about you, Dr. Knight? Any preferences? Any limits?”

He considered it. Attached at the hip sounded kind of interesting, though he could imagine some other places on her body where he might prefer to be attached.

“No, not really. Go ahead and snoop around, especially if you think it will help you do your job. You can go through my underwear drawer if it turns your crank.”

She glared at him, stone-sober. No giggles. No leaping on an opportunity.

This was new territory for sure.

“The guest room is down here,” he told her, leading the way down the hall, fully aware that she knew exactly where it was. “You know, I've never done this before and I'm not sure how to treat you. Like a guest, or an employee.”

“I'm neither. Mostly, treat me like I'm invisible. I'll take care of myself and try to stay out of your way as much as possible. We'll go over the contract tomorrow, and I can fill you in more on how I work. But it's late now, so…”

Donovan reached the door of the guest bedroom and held out his hand for her to enter first. As her tiny body brushed by his in the doorway, he breathed in the scent of her hair again. It smelled fruity, and the fragrance wafted by him and disappeared all too quickly, leaving him feeling a little parched, so to speak.

She glanced at the bottle of beer in his hand. “What happened to the red wine in the fancy crystal glass?”

“My mood changed. You want one?”

She moved all the way into the room and set her bag on the bed. “No, I never drink on duty. You like Canadian beer?”

He looked down at the label. God, she was observant. “Yeah.”

“Me, too. I didn't take you for a beer drinker,
though.” She unzipped her bag, pulled out a baby monitor and an alarm clock, which she set on the bedside table.

“That's two things then,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Two things that have surprised you about me. Triathlons and beer.”

She smiled noncommittally. “Yeah. Two things.” She pulled out a laptop and set it on the bed, then unraveled the cord and went looking for an outlet.

Donovan continued to stand in the doorway. “Can I get you anything? Towels? Something to eat? If you don't want a beer, there's orange juice and Perrier and Coke and…I think there's ginger ale—”

“I'm fine. If I want anything, I'll help myself if that's okay.”

“Sure.” He continued to stand there while she plugged in her computer at the desk.

After a moment, she approached him. “Look, you don't have to baby-sit me. It's my job to baby-sit
you.
I don't sleep much, so I'll be working late on some proposals for improvements to your alarm system, and making sure your place isn't bugged. I've got keen ears, and when I do sleep, I generally do it with one eye open, so you can relax and get a good night's sleep tonight, and not worry so much about being able to reach that baseball bat you've got stowed under your bed.”

Donovan slowly blinked. She'd noticed the bat, too. And she wanted him out of her hair. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had told him to go away, and certainly not in a bedroom doorway at this time of the night.

He never imagined rejection could feel so damn good. And so damn frustrating.

 

Sometime after three in the morning, wearing her tank top and plaid pajama bottoms, Jocelyn e-mailed her assistant, Tess. She gave her instructions to contact the two alarm system companies she trusted for quotes, and to arrange for Dr. Knight's locks to be changed first thing in the morning. She then shut off her computer and rubbed her burning eyes with the heels of her hands.

Dr. Knight seemed to prefer lamps that gave off dim, golden lighting. Relaxing and romantic, yes, but not very practical. She should have had the overhead light on, rather than staring at that bright screen in the semidarkness.

She rose from her chair to take her empty water glass back to the kitchen. After rinsing it out in the spotless, gleaming sink, she still didn't feel much like going to sleep, so she decided to look around the penthouse a bit more. She wandered leisurely around the kitchen.

Dr. Knight certainly had an impressive collection of cookbooks. He had an entire floor-to-ceiling bookcase full of them, and they covered everything from vegetarian cooking to Indian food to chocolate and poultry. Did he like to cook for himself? she wondered, imagining those hands of his stirring chocolate batter, cracking a delicate egg.

She could imagine those hands doing a lot of things—unbuttoning buttons, unzipping zippers, sliding beneath a waistband….

Something inside her tingled pleasurably as her mind meandered around that idea, but when she
caught herself veering off the path of professionalism again, she shut her eyes and shook her head. She spent the next few minutes forcing herself to think about the penthouse, instead of the man who inhabited it.

Jocelyn made her way out into the main hall and walked slowly in her bare feet, checking out the paintings on the walls. Most of them were contemporary landscapes, with plenty of seascapes as well. Closer to the front door, there were more framed black-and-white photographs of old abandoned, dilapidated farm houses.

She peeked into Dr. Knight's exercise room and flicked on the light. He had a treadmill, a life cycle and a weight bench, and again, everything was shiny and clean. There wasn't a hint of clutter anywhere. She wondered how anyone could be so perfect all the time.

Where did he keep his junk? Did he even have any?

She crossed the room to check the window latches, even though she had already checked them a couple of hours ago, then realized with some uneasiness that she was overcompensating for something: a personal rather than professional interest in poking around. She had questions about the man down the hall, sleeping soundly in his bed for what must be the first time in days.

An image of Dr. Knight stretched out on that huge bed, his muscular arms and legs sprawled out, his sun-bronzed body tangled in that thick, down duvet, burned suddenly in her brain. Her vision had him sleeping in jockeys, but perhaps he slept in boxers. Or maybe nothing at all.

Damn, she was doing it again. She willed herself to stop, and tried to remember her rule about not permitting herself to entertain any
personal
curiosities about her clients.

Not to mention the fact that Dr. Knight seemed like Tom in every way, and she had no business feeling curious about anyone who resembled her ex—people who derived their joy from living in lavish penthouses, wearing expensive tuxes and being spotted at the opera.

Then again, a few little things had made her wonder if there was more to Dr. Knight than what appeared on the surface. The beer thing had thrown her.

She came to the telephone near the front door, and noticed the high-tech answering machine beside it. Since he'd told her she could go through his underwear drawer if she wanted to, she decided to listen to his messages. One never knew where clues about stalkers could emerge.

She pressed play and reached for the volume control so she could keep the messages from waking her client. The machine clicked as it kicked in.