Sleeping with the Playboy (3 page)

“Hi, Donovan, it's Eleanor. I had a great time last week. Just wondering how you're doing. Give me a call.”
Beep.

“Donovan, where were you the other night? I missed you, baby. Oh, it's Christine.”
Beep.

“Hi, gorgeous. Where've you been? Call me when you get a chance. I have tickets to
Die Tageszeiten
on Saturday night, and no one to go with.”
Beep.

There was one message from Mark, then four more like the first—more women sounding desperate and needy, wondering why Donovan hadn't returned their calls.

Pitying those poor women, Jocelyn shook her head and slid back into security specialist mode. She returned to her computer to note the names of the women, and decided to ask Dr. Knight about them in the morning.

 

At 4:45 a.m., the baby monitor that Jocelyn had positioned by the front door woke her instantly. She heard the sound of a key in the lock. She sat up and grabbed her gun.

Slipping out of bed without making a sound, she glided out of the room and made her way down the hall. A woman was sneaking in, quietly closing the door while she made an effort to be quiet. Before she had a chance to turn around, Jocelyn was behind her with the gun pointed at her head. “Hold it!”

The woman screamed and jumped.

“Put your hands on your head!” Jocelyn ordered.

Dr. Knight's bedroom door flew open and he came hurling out. Jocelyn kept her eyes on the intruder. “Get back in your room, Dr. Knight.”

“No, no, it's okay!” he said. “This is my housekeeper!”

Only then did Jocelyn feel her own heart racing and the searing sensation of adrenaline coursing through her veins. She lowered her weapon. “I thought you said she came in the morning! It's 4:45 a.m.”

“She likes to start early.”

Jocelyn's shoulders went slack. “You could've told me! What was I supposed to think when someone sneaks into your penthouse at this hour?”

Dr. Knight moved toward the woman at the door. “I do apologize, Mrs. Meinhard. I'm so sorry. This
is Jocelyn Mackenzie. She's a security specialist. I hired her last night. Jocelyn, this is Brunhilde Meinhard.”

Shakily, the older woman turned around. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun on top of her head. Her glasses were large with clear, plastic rims—the old-fashioned kind from the eighties.

Jocelyn, feeling guilty for frightening the poor woman, held out her hand and gave her an apologetic smile. “Hi.”

With trembling fingers and a limp, fishlike grip, Mrs. Meinhard shook Jocelyn's hand.

Suddenly uncomfortable in her skintight tank top and pajama bottoms, Jocelyn nodded politely and pointed toward her bedroom. “Well, now that I'm up, I'll go get dressed.”

Neither Dr. Knight nor Mrs. Meinhard said a word. Jocelyn turned away from them.

In her bare feet, she padded down the hall, and to her chagrin, all she could think about was one thing: Her client wore pajama bottoms to bed. And Lord, what a chest.

She was in deep trouble.

A
n hour later, showered and dressed, Jocelyn walked out of her room with her gun holstered under her arm, her blazer buttoned over it. She went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, and met Mrs. Meinhard who had already taken care of that and was now polishing the brass knobs on the white cabinetry.

“Good morning, again,” Jocelyn said.

Mrs. Meinhard regarded her coolly. “Morning.”

Jocelyn poured herself a cup of coffee and watched the housekeeper scrub the hardware. “Look, I'm sorry for what happened earlier. I didn't mean to frighten you, but Dr. Knight hired me to do a job, and that's what I was doing.”

Saying nothing, the woman continued to scrub.

“I guess you weren't here when the attack happened,” Jocelyn continued, taking a sip of coffee, “but is there anything you noticed that was out of
place when you came in the next morning? Anything out of the ordinary that you might not have told the police?”

The woman straightened and folded her cloth. She spoke with a thick, German accent. “I tell police everything.”

“I don't doubt that, ma'am, I'm just asking if there might be something you didn't think of before.”

“No. There is nothing. You work for police?”

Jocelyn carefully studied the woman's face. “No, I'm a private Executive Protection Professional. E.P.P. for short.”

Mrs. Meinhard nodded, but Jocelyn suspected she wasn't completely sure what that meant.

Jocelyn fired out some more questions. “Can you tell me anything about the people who visit Dr. Knight? What about friends or family? Do any of them have keys?”

She shook her head. “Dr. Knight has no family—at least, none that come here.”

“No brothers or sisters?”

“I don't know.”

Jocelyn cleared her throat. How could a housekeeper, who worked in someone's home everyday for four years, not know if her employer had brothers or sisters? Then again, besides one framed picture of a young couple and a baby, there were no photographs of people anywhere, only landscapes and seascapes and old farm houses. Maybe Dr. Knight was at work most of the time when Mrs. Meinhard was here, and she was gone home when he entertained.

Still, it was strange.

“What about friends? Does his partner, Dr.
Reeves, have a key? Or what about any girlfriends, past or present?”

Again, she shook her head. “No women. He goes out a lot, but there is no one.”

Jocelyn heard Dr. Knight's bedroom door open, and the sound of footsteps approaching. She expected to see him in his work clothes, but instead, he wore a tank and shorts.

Jocelyn felt a sharp tingling of awareness move through her. He looked nothing like he did last night in the tuxedo. In sneakers and a shirt that showed off his broad, muscular shoulders, he looked almost like a regular, everyday guy. Well, not too regular. Not with
that
body.

He passed through the kitchen, apparently on his way to the door. “Morning.”

Jocelyn set down her cup and followed him. “Wait a second, we were supposed to go over the contract this morning. Where are you going?”

“For a run.” He reached the marble foyer and pulled open a small cabinet drawer to retrieve a key in a shoe wallet and fasten it to his sneaker.

“Not without me you're not. Did you forget what you hired me for? I'm not here to guard your penthouse. I'm here to guard
you.
”

He stared at her for a long moment. “I was wondering how this was going to work…. Do you think you can keep up?”

She gave him a you've-got-to-be-kidding look.

“Of course you can. Sorry.” He glanced down at her loafers. “Even with those?”

She glanced down, too. “Yes, with these, but I'd rather not risk an injury. Wait here and I'll change.”

“You have running gear?” His voice gave away his surprise.

She flipped her hair over her shoulder as she headed to her room. “I have everything. We can discuss the contract while we run.”

 

Jocelyn placed the flat of her hands on the marble, vestibule wall, and leaned in for a calf stretch. She wore black, thigh-length Lycra shorts and a matching Y-back bra top. Her arms, shoulders and stomach were firmly toned, and just as Donovan had imagined last night as he'd watched her flicking window latches in that brown suit, she had a terrific, tight butt and long, suntanned legs to die for.

“Is there anything you
don't
do?” he asked.

She finished the stretch and bent into another one. “Cook.”

“No? I love to cook.”

“We'll get along well, then. You love to cook, and I love to eat what other people put in front of me.”

Her delivery was deadpan, but there was something there that suggested again that she did have a sense of humor, even if she wasn't obvious about it.

Donovan suspected there was a lot more to his bodyguard than what she showed the world. No one could be as indifferent as she seemed to be, every day of their life. This had to be her professional persona, and he found himself wondering quite acutely what she was like around her closest friends. He'd give anything to see her smile or laugh. Maybe he should make that his goal for the day.

Donovan continued to watch her. “Anything else you don't know how to do?”

She pulled her arm across her chest to stretch her triceps. “I don't know how to fix cars. It's on my to-do list.”

“Me, neither, but I can't say it's on mine.”

“No, you probably hire people to do that kind of menial work.”

Donovan grabbed onto his sneaker and lifted his foot for a thigh stretch. “Now, why do you say it like that? Like I'm a snob or something.”

“I never said that.”

“No, but you implied it with your tone, and it's not the first time.”

She said nothing. She just continued to stretch.

“You're not much of a talker, are you?”

“Like I said, I try to be invisible.”

“Invisible is one thing. Rude is another.”

“I wasn't being rude.”

“Yes, you were. I asked you a question, and you ignored me.”

She glanced at him only briefly. “I didn't ignore you. I just didn't reply to what wasn't a question in the first place. It was an observation on your part, and you're entitled to your opinions.”

Donovan stretched his hamstrings. “My opinions… God, I don't even remember what I said now. Do you always have this effect on men?”

Jocelyn ignored the last part of his question. She finished stretching and pressed the elevator button. “You said I implied you were a snob.”

He snickered at her deadpan tone again, as he gazed down at her dainty profile. She was looking up at the lighted numbers over the elevator doors.

“So, did you?” he asked.

“Did I what?”

“Imply that I was a snob? You can't argue that
that
wasn't a question.”

The elevator dinged, the brass doors opened and Jocelyn stepped inside. She held him back from entering, looked up at the ceiling, then motioned for him to follow. “If I implied it, I apologize. It's none of my business what kind of person you are.”

Donovan pressed the lobby button. “So you don't deny it. You think I'm a snob.”

Her mouth curved up in a half smile as she shook her head at him. It was a cute smile. A little on the devilish side, but cute. He'd like to see another one. A looser one. The kind of smile she'd have right after sex.

If she ever had sex. He imagined there'd be a few “walls of inhibition” that would have to come down first. Or be scaled.

He would enjoy that—scaling her walls.

“What does it matter what I think, Dr. Knight? I'm just your bodyguard.”

“It matters a great deal. We're going to be in close quarters over the next little while, and call me vain, but I can't stand the idea of a woman not liking me, especially when she doesn't even know me. And why can't you call me Donovan?”

“Because our relationship is a professional one, and keeping those lines firmly drawn is important in my line of work, especially when I'm required to inhabit people's homes.”

He nodded. “Ah, that makes sense. You could have said so last night, when the subject came up.”

“I hadn't decided whether or not I was going to take the job last night.”

The elevator reached the bottom floor, and they
crossed the lobby and passed through the large revolving doors. Once out on the street, they began to jog alongside each other.

“How'd you get the scar on your left shoulder?” she asked, never taking her eyes off what was ahead of her.

“You don't miss a thing, do you? I was in a car accident a year ago.”

“Your fault?”

“No, I was rammed by another driver who ran a red light. My door caved inward and broke my arm and a few ribs. The glass cut me up pretty bad, but it was all fixable. It took me a while to get back in shape, though. I used to compete in triathlons, but now I'm just in training.”

“You seem like an exercise nut.”

“I just like staying healthy.”

They jogged a block or two, then Jocelyn said, “Let's talk about the contract now, and what level of protection you want from me.”

Donovan settled into a comfortable pace, his breathing controlled. “Since you're going to be in my house anyway, we might as well go for the highest level.”

“It'll cost you.”

“Not a problem.”

They jogged down to the lights and crossed the street.

“First,” she said, “let's start with your penthouse. Do you want me to arrange every improvement possible? Or stick with just the alarm system? Either way, I'll need to see your deed to ascertain if there are any conditions of occupancy that might limit what we do.”

“I'll get you the deed right away, and if we can, let's go the whole nine yards. The only thing I ask is that you keep the improvements from standing out too much. I don't want my home to look like Fort Knox.”

“That can be arranged. I already put together some ideas last night with that in mind, since I figured cosmetics would be important to you.”

Donovan swerved around a spilled ice-cream cone on the sidewalk. “There you go again.”

“What do you mean, ‘there I go again'?” Her voice got a little haughty, and Donovan couldn't deny that he liked it. She was inching off that rock of indifference.

“The way you figured cosmetics would be important to me. Now you're implying that I'm shallow.”

She laughed out loud, and it was everything he had hoped it would be—throaty, from the heart and unbelievably sexy. “I implied no such thing!”

They crossed the street and headed toward Lincoln Park, their running shoes tapping the ground in perfect unison. Donovan had to admit he enjoyed needling her to open up a little, and he wasn't sure why. He never felt the urge to prod the women he usually dated and get to know more about what they were like deep down. It was usually the other way around.

She was quiet for a moment. “Can we get back to the contract now?”

They jogged onto the running track in the park, and passed other runners along the way. “Sure. You were talking about the penthouse.”

“Yes. I'll act as your contractor, hiring the appropriate experts to install a new alarm system, as well as to come in and make your doors and windows
more secure. As far as personal protection, I'll accompany you everywhere for a daily fee, which will be payable every thirty days.”

“Even to work?”

“You said you wanted the highest level of protection.”

“I do, but I'm a heart surgeon. You'll have to sit in the waiting room all day. You won't find that tiresome?”

“It's my job, Dr. Knight.”

“What about days off? Surely you'll need holidays.”

“I take holidays between jobs.”

“What if you get sick?”

“I have colleagues I trust with my life, and we spell each other off in emergencies like that.”

Donovan felt sweat cooling his back between his shoulder blades. Jocelyn had a healthy glow on her face, too, but she wasn't working too hard, not by a long shot. She was clearly in great shape. “I thought you worked alone.”

“I do, but I didn't always.”

“These colleagues…buddies from the Secret Service?”

“You got it. There are a number of us who work privately now. We contract each other out whenever we require team details.”

They jogged in silence along the water, in perfect sync with each other, enjoying the fresh, early morning air. For a long time neither of them said anything, until they came to the end of the park.

“Ready to turn back?” Jocelyn asked.

“Yeah, I usually go that way.” He pointed.

She stopped and bent forward, her hands on her
knees as she tried to talk through deep breaths. “Really? We should go a different way then, and run somewhere else tomorrow.”

He understood what she was getting at—it was a security thing—and nodded in the other direction. “That way through the park'll take a little longer, but we'll end up back where we started.”

“Great.” They began to run again, both of them covered in a shiny film of perspiration, but still keeping perfect pace. When they arrived back on Donovan's street, they walked for a bit to cool down before going inside. They passed by the security guard, who politely waved.

Jocelyn got on the elevator first, and like before, checked the ceiling before letting him get on.

“What are you checking for?” he asked, as he stepped inside.

“If the hatch is ajar, there could be someone up there.”

On the way up to his penthouse, Donovan was intensely aware of the silence between them, and had to stop himself from gazing down at her just for the sheer pleasure of it.

God, she smelled good. Like the outdoors and fresh, clean sweat. What he wouldn't give to touch her now. To rub his fingers along her slick, bare shoulder.