The Bodyguard's Betrayal

Chapter Twelve

Gabe

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Control.

It's what I live for, the one thing that's kept everything running smoothly. Now, I'm beginning to lose it—because of her.

My hand grips my whiskey glass, fighting the urge to down the shot despite my no-drinking-on-the-job rule. This is my punishment for making a deal with the devil. Watching the woman I simultaneously hate and want to fuck be groped by some wealthy movie star.

Taking a deep breath, I scan the club again, squinting through the flashing strobe lights, ignoring the topless cocktail waitress passing by. I've been to the Red Lace Club once before with a client and hated it then too. It's every wealthy businessman's wet dream, filled with loud house music, more drugs than you can imagine, and topless cocktail girls tossing out the occasional free shot. The fact that this asshole brought her here on their first date says a lot about his intentions for tonight. I'm on high alert.

Satisfied there's no one approaching their alcove, I look over my shoulder again, if only to get another glimpse of her in that dress. Her attention is elsewhere, focused on something in her hand. A flicker of uncertainty crosses her eyes. She raises something small to her lips with a deliberate slowness.

Fuck.

Don't do it, Piccola.

Her eyes dart to mine as the pill nears her mouth. She hasn't given the signal that she wants me to intervene, but I don't care. Before the pill can reach her lips, I'm out of my seat and towering over them, driven by the sudden urge to protect her.

"Mr. Loretto," she says, glancing briefly at Jude, who eyes me with disdain. But his attention is off Evangeline, allowing her to lower her hand with visible relief in her eyes. "Is everything alright?"

It's not exactly protocol for a bodyguard to intrude on his client's date, and Jude Henry's the type to complain to GSS if he perceives me as a threat, so I tread carefully. "Your mother is on the phone," I say, reaching into my pocket and holding it out. "She couldn't reach you on yours."

A hint of a smile touches her lips as she turns to Jude, feigning disappointment. "I'm sorry, Jude. My mother is overly protective these days. I'll be right back." She stands, smoothing her hands down the side of her dress, subtly drawing his gaze, before she follows me through the club to a quieter hallway.

"Why didn't you do the signal?" I growl, pulling her close to me. The house music is almost as loud out here as it is in there. I raise my voice, making sure she can hear me. "You're supposed to let me know if you're in trouble."

There's an undercurrent of anger in my voice, directed more at myself than at her. I should have been more vigilant, noticed sooner that she was uncomfortable, signal or not. Instead, I was thinking about her dress.

"I thought if I did the signal, you'd take it too seriously and haul me out of here over your shoulder," she says, her eyes narrowing. "You have a tendency to do that."

My jaw clenches at the thought of her legs wrapped over my shoulder. "Don't tempt me," I say, gripping her wrist firmer, feeling its warmth and fragility under my touch. We've barely been here thirty minutes, and I've already had my fill of watching him eye fuck her. "How much longer are you going to pretend to be interested in him?"

"I'm not pretending," she says, tilting her head. "I like him."

A faint smirk crosses my lips as I lean closer, gently tucking a strand of her hair back before whispering near her ear, "You're a terrible actress, Piccola."