More Than Protect You (More Than Words #6.5) - Shayla Black Page 0,9
mucking up my arrangements, it’s a no from me.
I gesture to her. “You can answer it, but you can’t tell him where you are. The fewer people who know, the better.”
She presses her lips together before she takes the call. “Hi, Stephen. Are you home from the hospital? How are Skye and the baby? Is she still spotting?” After a brief pause, she interrupts. “No. Stop. I’m fine. Oliver is fine.” Another pause. “That didn’t happen.” And another. “I wasn’t going to call you in the middle of the night when I knew you and Skye were at the ER. Nia and I are big girls. We handled it.”
I don’t know what he’s saying to her, but I can hear his deep voice and seeming agitation across the room.
“No. I’m not coming to stay with you. I refuse to put either of you at risk. Skye doesn’t need more problems right now, especially ones she didn’t create. She needs you to focus on her and the baby. I’ve got a bodyguard named Tanner. I’m with him. I’ll be fine.” Her brother spits something less than calm through the phone, and she rolls her eyes. “Why? I don’t see what good that will do.”
Amanda listens, now pacing from one side of the small studio apartment to the other, seemingly gearing up to defend herself again. What the hell? Doesn’t he think Amanda has been through enough?
Her family shit is none of your business.
After all, they have wealth. I’ll bet they have the connections to go with it. I know how ruthlessly people like that operate. I can’t afford to get tangled up in their strife.
“Fine.” She pries the phone from her ear and presses the mute button. “He wants to talk to you.”
That, I didn’t expect.
Reluctantly, I hold out my hand, hoping he just has basic questions. “All right. Sit down. Relax. Water?”
The only other thing in Joe’s fridge is beer.
“No thanks.” She hands me the phone. “Just…he means well.”
If that’s true, why is she wringing her hands?
I unmute the phone. “Tanner Kirk here.”
“Who the fuck are you? Hours after she’s attacked, I finally find out. Someone should have called me. I’m her brother. I live on the island, but I’m finding out last? What the hell is going on?”
Yep, he’s pissed, but he’s obviously concerned, too. “I got a phone call a couple of hours ago from a mutual friend that your sister was the target of a gang bent on violence, and I agreed to help.” I don’t mention the intruder since I’m pretty sure nothing would keep him from coming if he knew. “I’ve done some bodyguarding in the past, and I’m a firearms instructor. I’ve agreed to teach Amanda how to shoot. I’ll be keeping her in a secure location. You can call her anytime you like, but I won’t disclose to anyone where we’re going.”
“I’m not sure who our supposed ‘mutual friend’ is, but I don’t know a damn thing about you, so no. You’re not keeping my sister’s location a secret from me. And you better not touch her, pal. She’s already been through a lot simply for the sin of losing her heart to the wrong asshole. She’s fragile and halfway broken. I’m warning you now… Don’t you dare fucking take advantage of her.”
Whoa. “I’m a professional, Mr. Lund. My job is to protect her body, not to ravish it or whatever.”
No matter how much I’d like to.
On the other side of the room, Amanda gapes, then storms back in my direction and sticks out her hand, lips pressed together mulishly.
“Your sister has something to say,” I drawl and hand the device back to her.
This ought to be entertaining.
“Knock it off, Stephen!” she hisses. “Tanner is trying to help me, and you’re being an ass.” She pauses to listen, then her eyes widen with fresh fury. “Stop acting like I can’t be trusted alone with a man. This is a very different situation than…well, you know.” Another breather where she’s presumably listening again. “What are you saying? That you think I spread my legs for every guy? One. That’s my ‘number.’ What’s yours, big brother?”
Is she saying she’s only ever had sex with Barclay Reed?
At Stephen’s reply, she grips the phone, jaw clenched. “Fine.” She looks my way. “How old are you?”
Why does it matter? “Thirty-eight.”
I’ll be thirty-nine in less than two months, but I doubt that factoid will make the conversation more productive.
“Thank you,” she says to me, then turns and speaks into