His Heated Caress - Celia Kyle Page 0,2

have one,” she said crisply, her eyes laser-focused on his—and not his dripping chest. “My apologies if this is a bad time, but I’m here on behalf of my boss, Charlie Volant. The recent kidnapping attempt at your son’s school prompted him to decide you and your son should have a bodyguard.”

Stark’s smile broadened as he crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, letting his muscles bulge impressively. “That’s nice of Charlie but totally unnecessary. Those guys were after Blaise’s best friend, Trystin, so really, we’ll be fine.”

He moved to close the door, but she stepped forward, blocking him. “We are aware of that, but Charlie is acting out of an abundance of caution for our highest-profile client.”

Stark frowned. Charlie Volant ran the most respected shifter security team on the West Coast. The dragons in his employ were above reproach and had already paid for themselves by retrieving a stolen videotape of Stark’s late wife. Maybe Charlie knew something, and he didn’t want to alarm Stark. Or maybe he was just being careful. Either way, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect Blaise. Since he couldn’t be with him every minute of the day, a bodyguard for the kid sounded reasonable.

“Fine,” he sighed. “When will he arrive?”

Wyntir raised an immaculate eyebrow at him. “Who?”

“The bodyguard, of course.”

Her eyes narrowed and her head titled to one side before she answered. “You’re looking at her, Mr. Bradford.”

Stark blinked and took her in again—the whole picture, from hair to nails to heels—and without thinking, he burst into laughter.

The look on Stark Bradford’s face was enough to make Wyntir’s stomach twist, but when he laughed at her, she wanted to throat-punch him. While it certainly wasn’t the first time she’d encountered such prejudice, for some reason this time cut her more deeply than the others.

“I’ll have you know that the last man who laughed at me had a very unpleasant night in the emergency room,” Wyntir hissed, ice dripping from her words.

Any split-second attraction she might have felt for the sexy, dripping-wet human had vanished into thin air. He was just like the rest of them. Typical. People—usually men—often had to be convinced of her bodyguarding prowess. They took one look at her starlet body and silver-screen face and decided she was a poser. A fake. Exaggerating her own skill set. Maybe her employment satisfied a diversity requirement, like someone had taken pity on the silly girl who wanted to be a rough-and-ready bodyguard with the big boys and given her a chance. To do what? Painstakingly work to earn the same respect her male counterparts received without question?

It was bullshit, top to bottom, but Wyntir could handle it. Wyntir could handle anything.

Including Stark Bradford.

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying hard to wipe the smile off his overly handsome face, “but Stark Bradford, action hero extraordinaire, can’t have a tiny little woman acting as his personal security. What would people think?”

Rolling her shoulders back, she gave him a withering glare. “I’m the best personal security specialist Wildridge Security has in its employment, precisely because morons never suspect they’re dealing with a real threat when they see me.”

To her great annoyance, he laughed again, albeit more good-naturedly this time. And what was worse, her nipples stiffened into peaks at the sound of his gentle chuckle and the charming glimmer in his sea-green eyes. Dammit. She could see why he was so successful in his career. Even though she wouldn’t admit it out loud, charisma and self-confidence oozed from his every pore. That was an attractive quality, to an extent. But judging from this first encounter, Wyntir had to assume his ego took up a little too much space.

“In that case, you might as well come on inside.” Stark invited her in with a flourish of his hand.

Immediately, she was confronted by the true net worth of her newest client. His home was beautifully and impeccably furnished in a sharp but eclectic taste. She could tell he put a fair amount of his own flavor into the style, which would have impressed her if she wasn’t so irritated with his sexist attitude. The long hallway he led her down was crammed with framed photos of Stark and his son, who wore the same mischievous, yet disarming, grin his father possessed. They entered the kitchen, where Blaise sat perched at the table in his swim trunks.

“You forgot your towel, Daddy,” the boy said, pointing to a fluffy white towel on the edge of the table.

“Thanks, sport,”