Читать книгу Sleeping With The Playboy - Julianne Maclean - Страница 9

Jocelyn 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.

“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.