Chapter 1

Chapter One

LILY

Eight Years Later

L ondon Heathrow had been grey and drizzly, but arriving at JFK, it was bright and crisp, and my hotel, the Waldorf Astoria, is every bit as fancy and wonderful as its reputation.

I’m not due downstairs in the ballroom on the main floor– where I’m joining the charity gala dinner– for another forty-five minutes, but I want to get the lie of the land before I meet Winston Radstock III in the bar. Thank fuck for double espresso, which I’ve been mainlining since I woke up. My body clock is wrecked, despite the comfort of the million-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets on the sleep-a-family-of-five bed. The Astoria is the full five stars, which I’m certainly not complaining about.

The lift opens into a large foyer, which I’d had a preview of earlier when I sneaked in to make an unscheduled delivery. The walls are lined with white leather benches, and urns of blousy flower arrangements are everywhere, the scent of lilies puffing additional pungency into the heavily fragranced area. I eye a couple of people queuing to walk through security a few metres away.

Following the crowd, I approach the brunette holding a clipboard. She’s petite and absolutely dwarfed by the man-mountain security guard standing next to her. Both are wearing earpieces. I smile to myself knowing full well the devices are window dressing– an accessory to make them look the part.

The brunette gives me a welcoming smile, which tells me I’m right on the money when it comes to my appearance. I’m not vain, but I know that with my blonde hair (thank you, Viking ancestors) styled into long loose waves, very pre-Raphaelite, the sexy dress and the smoky eyeshadow and sultry red lipstick I’m wearing, I’ve nailed the ‘armed and drop-dead gorgeous’ part of my assignment.

I tug at the halter neck of my show-stopping scarlet-silk dress, which does great things for my small boobs but leaves nothing to the imagination. At least its thigh-length slit means I can move quickly, if I have to. And though my matching red heels aren’t exactly conducive to setting any world records, close protection means close protection.

‘Hi, your name?’

I smile back and lean over her clipboard. ‘There.’ I point.

Her eyes go a little wide but then she regroups quickly. I’m used to my name drawing attention, today it’s a deliberate part of the strategy.

‘Oh, you’re Mr Radstock’s guest.’ She gives me a speculative look. ‘Go right in.’

She ushers me in through the double doors to the art-deco ballroom, which is pure glitz, with an enormous ice sculpture at its centre and misty-white balloons strung up in long elaborate helix strings around the walls. In the adjacent room, I glimpse dozens of round tables adorned with crisp tablecloths, gleaming silverware and expensive crystal glasses– with guests in formal evening gowns and smart tuxes. This is definitely a thousand-dollars-a-table affair.

There’s still half an hour before I meet Winston– who owns an American football team, the Austin Armadillos– in the bar area. According to my boss, Winston’s been having some issues with death threats to someone in his team, posing significant danger. I’ve been hired to provide close protection, though I’m not yet sure for whom, as Winston insists it’s on a need-to-know basis. I would argue that I need to know, but as he’s a close friend of my boss, I’ve been overruled.

I snag a glass of Veuve Clicquot and weave my way through the rapidly filling room. I don’t know a soul but it doesn’t bother me. I’m too busy getting the measure of everyone. Shifty-eyed man with his wife– he’s clearly worried that his mistress, who’s standing with her back to him, is going to come over and cause some trouble. Then there’s the bored wife trying to stem her fury while her husband is scrolling through his phone, ignoring her, despite her frequent nudges. Handsome young guy is trying to work out who he can approach to score some ‘recreational uplift’. Young couple, newlyish weds are simply enjoying being part of the scene. I’m betting from the width of his shoulders and both of their na?ve, wide-eyed stares, that he’s a recent draft to the team. They’re cute and so sweetly in love, it’s a novelty. In my line of work, you don’t always see the best in people but I can’t help smiling at their obvious delight and pride at being here.

And that, right there, is exactly why being sentimental is a mistake.

I’m hit, and hit hard as a man barrels into me. Worse still, to add to my humiliation, flashbulbs illuminate in quick succession capturing the spill on camera.

While I’m trying to gather my well and truly scattered wits lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, a large hand appears in my peripheral vision, offering to help me up. Lordy, he is big… muscular thighs barely contained by his very expensive suit. My eyes track up past a determined, chiselled jaw. His mouth is sexy-sulky, and the crooked nose adds a certain something, but it’s the eyes: blue and blazing, first with apology, then anger?—

‘I’m so sorr— Lily?’

What the—? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck and fuck some more. Of all the people in all the world to bump into, it just had to be him.

Tate Donaghue. Of course.

‘Tate,’ I squeak, like an overgrown guinea pig looking up at him. Oh my. My mouth dries, the transformation from boy to man is… Holy hell… he’s even more gorgeous. But there’s also something harder and more dangerous about him. He exudes testosterone through every pore.

My eyes widen and it takes every bit of my willpower not to smooth my hand up his chest, cup his neck and pull him in for a kiss.

A slow, not very friendly, smile crosses Tate’s face. I feel like I’ve just come face to face with a hungry tiger, and with my hormones misbehaving so badly, I’m not sure I’ve got it in me to run.

‘Lily. What the fuck are you doing here?’