Chapter Three

C arson walked over to the long leather sofa and held out a hand.

Tilting her face up, Layne gave him a flat stare. "Um…use your words, Carson. What would you like?"

"Your phone. And less attitude." At one time he would have called Layne a piece of art. Now he'd call her a piece of work.

When she extracted the device from her jeans, she had to lean back against the cushion and give a little hip thrust.

He gritted his teeth. His patience was on a short leash, something that never happened on any of the security jobs—and he dealt with celebrities and rich types often.

But Layne…he wanted to toss her over his knee and teach her a lesson.

Fuck. Now he was hard.

She was sitting at eye level with his fly. And far too damn observant.

"The phone, Layne."

"Here you go," she sang out in her sweetest voice while slapping the device into his hand hard enough to sting.

He curled his fingers around it. "Thanks. I'm likeable too, you know."

She gave a small snort.

Stalking across the room, as far away from her as was prudent, he tried to ignore the fact that the phone was warm from being next to her body. "I'm going to do a quick sweep of the house."

"The police already did that."

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "I do it better."

After performing a sweep of the house, he returned to the living room where Layne sat curled up in the corner of the sofa. Looking as beautiful as she did way back when.

He had work to do, starting with checking her phone.

As general protocol, he carried a laptop with him on jobs. He set it up on the antique desk and plugged her phone into it. When her photos came up, he braced himself for what he may see.

She claimed to have no relationship attachments, but everyone lied.

One of the folders had a passcode lock.

"Layne."

She looked up with forced nonchalance. "Yes?"

"Come over here. I need you to unlock this folder in your phone."

After a beat of hesitation, she stood and crossed the room to the desk.

He held up the phone and took a shot of her face for ID.

She made a swipe for the phone. "What are you doing ? That's a violation of my privacy! I didn't grant you permission to go through every photo in my phone!"

"The minute you made that call to my agency, you did."

"Exactly what do you need access to?"

Photos began to pop up on the screen.

With a cry, she threw herself between him and the laptop.

He pushed out a sigh. "Look, I already explained why I need to see every single photo so I can try to find who is stalking you."

She gulped at the word.

Damn, he didn't mean to scare her. His job was to calm the client. She had him so rattled that he wasn't doing his job right.

"Layne, trust me. I know what I'm doing. I'm going to keep you safe and find this guy who's scaring you."

Some of the color had leeched from her face, making him feel worse.

"Please let me help you." He pitched his voice lower in a way he heard Oaks do with upset clients.

She nodded and slowly peeled herself away from the laptop screen, scooting out of the way.

Damn. It worked. He had to tell Oaks that he wasn't crazy after all.

When he focused on the photos, he almost swallowed his tongue.

"Are you sure you have to look at those?"

"You'd be surprised where people pop up. A beach seems like a great spot. Don't worry. I'll keep these from my brothers. I'll put them in a special folder where they won't see them."

He pulled up one of her holding a fruit drink with an umbrella, a warm smile on her face. Her skin glowed under the sun's rays. Sand and droplets of water clung to body parts.

The black triangles of her bikini barely covered her nipples.

She issued a low groan. "Those aren't beach photos, Carson. Those are my boobs."

Yes, yes, they were. In stunning clarity too.

Quickly, he flipped to another photo of the palm trees of the Waikiki landscape. Not that he'd ever been there, but he'd seen pictures.

Her brows were pinched. "Let's talk about that contract with Black Heart Security now. How do I pay you? Do you accept a credit card? Money transfer?"

He waved a hand. "We'll work it out later."

Her phone rang with the tinkle of a reed flute. She snatched up the device and silenced it.

Seconds later, it rang again.

He avoided looking at her. "You can talk to your boyfriend in front of me."

She issued a sound in the back of her throat. "I told you I don't have a boyfriend. It's my father."

He cocked a brow. "Let me handle this."

He took the phone from her and brought it to his ear. "Hello, Mr. London. This is Carson Malone."

Leaning back in the seat, he trained his gaze on Layne's face. Her eyes flickered with agitation but also interest as her father started to chat with him.

"My family is doing fine. Yes, we're all at the Wyoming ranch now. We sold out in Texas."

Layne made slicing motions with her hands. "Don't tell him about the stalker!" she hissed.

He gave her the faintest of nods while chatting about the latest season of fly fishing in the region. "My brother, Oaks, and I went out every Saturday we could. Caught our limit each day. Yup. You'll have to make it here next spring."

Layne started pacing, whipping back and forth. Every time she rotated, Carson took notes on her ass. Size—big enough for his hands. Shape—perfectly round.

When she whirled again, the tumble of dark hair over her shoulder and her breasts that were front and center in those beach pics had him aching hard again.

She came to an abrupt stop and whipped out her hand for the phone.

"Here's Layne."

She yanked the phone out of his hand. "Dad? Yes, I did place the call to Santorini. Yes, we discussed the estate. I haven't heard from him in two days. Of course I'm answering emails and texts."

At mention of the texts, her stare slid to Carson. "I'll call you later, okay?"

After she ended the call, Carson started toward the front door. Layne rushed after him, moving faster to account for his long strides. She caught up to him in the foyer.

Under the big chandelier comprised of crystals, the worry lines around her eyes were accentuated. "Are you leaving?"

At the wisp of fear in her voice, he swung back to her. Damn his heart for flexing.

"No, Layne. I'm just getting my bag from my vehicle."

She raked her fingers through her hair. "Why do you need your bag?"

"Private security means I'm not leaving."

* * * * *

Not only was Carson staying in the house, but he took the room right next to Layne's. As if she wasn't uncomfortable enough.

Every noise in the ranch seemed amplified to her snapping senses. With him going to sleep in the next room, she was a thousand times more aware of every noise she made too. She never snored, but what if she did tonight?

Unable to sit still, she got out of bed and moved to the window. Since she came to Wyoming for love of the views, she never closed her curtains. She loved waking with the sun on her face and enjoyed falling asleep by the glow of the moon. Now she looked at the window with a jaded eye.

Someone had trespassed on their land and snapped a photo of her most private space. This would never happen in her Manhattan condo. Let the stalker just try getting to the thirtieth floor.

Edging up to the window, she peeked out into the night. When her gaze fell over a darkened figure of a man, a scream jammed in her throat. Her hand flew to her chest, and she breathed hard and fast.

Then the man turned.

It was Carson.

She didn't know whether to scream in frustration or wilt with relief. Was it usual for a bodyguard to hang out under his client's window? His lips moved, and she realized he was talking on the phone.

She darted out of his line of sight. She'd close the curtains later, after she was certain he was in the guest room and not able to see her.

Oh, what was she doing ? This was her home. Her life. She wasn't about to hide from anybody, least of all her old—what had he called their relationship? A fling.

She grabbed a plaid throw blanket off her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. She was going outside and forcing Carson to answer her questions. She deserved to know every step he planned to take to ensure she was safe and that her home was secure.

At the front door, she slipped her feet into a pair of shoes and stepped outside.

"What the hell are you doing?" Carson's deep voice made her jump.

She tucked the blanket closer around her body. "I could ask the same of you!"

"I'm securing the perimeter."

"Well…did you find anything?"

He stepped up to the porch steps. The yellow glow of the light slanted across his cowboy hat, casting his face in shadow. "I didn't see any footprints, but it's been a dry season. The ground's hard."

She swallowed around the sharp lump of fear in her throat.

"You didn't answer my question. What the hell are you doing outside?"

"I saw you lurking under my window. I wasn't aware that I'm supposed to be a prisoner inside my home."

He stared at her for several long heartbeats. Then he mounted the three stairs to the wide porch. When he advanced on her, her instinct was to back away. But she stood her ground, tipping her head to meet his gaze.

"That's my fault, Layne. I haven't explained the rules to you."

She blinked at him, a little stunned. Her perception was that this new, harder Carson would never take the blame.

He twitched his head toward the door. "Come inside and we'll talk."

"When did you get so damn bossy?"

He leveled his stare on her, causing her breath to hitch in her lungs. "When did you get so—"

He broke off. She waited.

"Just come inside. Please . And I'll explain how everything's going to work."

When she stepped around him and entered the house, a wave of manly energy seemed to wash over her. In response, her stupid skin prickled .

Then he totally ruined any past connection that surged into her memory by opening his mouth.

"Sit down."

"I'm going to sit down, but it's not because you ordered me to in that tone of voice."

His chest bulged in a deep inhalation, as if he wasn't just gathering air into his lungs but patience into his soul.

She sank to the sofa in her favorite corner.

He took the leather armchair across from her. Having a heavy oak coffee table between them didn't dull the effect of his presence. She was far too aware of how good he looked. How comforting his lap always was when she'd curl up there.

He hooked his boot over his knee in a testosterone-filled pose and looked at her. "The rules are simple. You don't go outside unless you're with me. If you get a phone call, I tell you whether or not to answer it."

She held up a palm. "Speaking of phone calls, you were pretty friendly on the phone with my father."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Judging by the look on his face, Carson was clueless about how her father felt. One time, her father refused to allow her to go out with Carson to the drive-in movies in the next town. When she accused her father of disliking him, he said, "I like Carson fine. I just don't like Carson for you."

She let the moment pass. "You haven't talked for a number of years. I just thought it was odd how easily you discussed fly fishing."

He shrugged, bulky shoulders heaving like twin mountain peaks.

"I receive a lot of phone calls. By the time I get the go-ahead from you to answer it, the call will have already gone to voicemail."

"I don't see the problem."

She sighed. "I don't like playing phone tag with my clients. Showing interest in them is an important part of our relationship."

She didn't mean to use that word. Relationship. The thing they no longer had.

Nor did she mean to look directly into Carson's eyes when she said it.

The flat look he gave her in response made her glance away.

"I know how these wealthy types are. Wealth makes them oblivious to reality. They have self-importance."

She sighed. He wasn't wrong. But plenty of people with wealth were great people.

"I'll be making that trip to Germany in two weeks. How is that going to fit into…this situation?" She swept out a hand, indicating the pair of them.

"I can't answer that now, Layne. Right now, my only priority is keeping you out of the hands of your stalker."