Читать книгу The Royal Mess - MaryJanice Davidson - Страница 19

Chapter 8

Gulping the last of her coffee, Nicole swung into the driveway of the Outer Banks Co. She was surprised to see a strange car beside her boss’s and the other guides’. She nearly always beat the clients in. Who’d bother showing up at 6:30 A.M. if they didn’t have to?

She hopped out of her truck, locked it, then crossed the damp lawn, enjoying the spring sunshine. Winter had a pretty good grip every year, but it always eased up, and she was always surprised when it happened. It was finally jacket weather, which meant in hot Great Plains states like North Dakota it was shorts weather.

Spirits high, Nicole bounded up the steps and into her boss’s office.

And groaned.

“We meet again, Nicole,” the bodyguard told her. He was decked out for fishing—old jeans, faded flannel shirt, work boots. His curly black hair was rumpled, as if he’d spent the time waiting for her running his fingers through it. She wanted to run her fingers through it, to see if the texture was as silky as it looked.

No, she did not.

“Nicole, this is Jeffrey Rodinov—”

“We’ve met,” she said shortly.

“Who works at the Sitka Palace,” her boss, Mike Freeborg, continued excitedly. A Minnesotan who had moved to Juneau fourteen years ago, Mike looked quite a bit like his Norwegian forebearers: large, broad-shouldered, blond hair, green eyes. The other guides called him The Viking. And although he looked fierce, he had the temperament of a pampered kitten. “And he asked for you personally.”

Nicole groaned again.

“You okay?”

“No.”

“Diarrhea?”

“I wish.”

“Oh.” Mike shrugged his massive shoulders. “Well, anyway, show him a good time.”

“I will not.” She felt her face getting hot, which made her mad, which made her redder.

Oblivious, Mike continued. “Fill the boat—not that you’re taking the boat—so he goes back to the palace and tells them all about our little outfit here.”

“I quit,” Nicole said.

“You can’t quit,” her boss yawned, showing his back fillings. Nicole quit three or four times a month. “Sandra Dee’s coming back next month and she also asked for you personally. That was a five-hundred-dollar tip, right?”

“Then I’m on vacation effective this minute.”

“Ha! We both know you have no life at all. This job is your vacation.”

She cursed his perfect estimation of her character.

“Now get going.”

Nicole glared at the bodyguard, who smiled back. “Prepare for a day in the darkest depths of hell,” she informed him.

“Oh, I’m prepared,” he replied. “I’m bristling with weapons and pepper spray, not to mention my rape whistle.” Courteously, he opened the door for her. “After you, Nicole.”