Scotland for Christmas. Cathryn Parry
group of engineer friends. She couldn’t see what they were doing in his room, but she could smell the pizza and hear the adverts on his television set.
Sighing, she headed off to staunch the much bigger problem before it escalated, like the good future CEO she hoped she’d be.
She skipped out to the hallway that ran the length of the residence hall, hearing her neighbors before she saw them. They were four older graduate students who lived in the nearby suites, thirty-somethings, most of them midcareer, and they rented their miniapartments directly from the university. Usually the building was quiet, save for the occasional homeless person who set up camp in their lobby before being chased out by the superintendent.
She found her driver trapped beside the lift doors, being quizzed by Courtney and Philip, the two most vocal of the group who also happened to be journalists. Isabel groaned. Her driver—Jake—did indeed dress like an active U.S. Secret Service agent. She understood their confusion.
He had close-cropped hair. Dark sunglasses that screamed policeman! He wore a dark suit with a white collared shirt. At his waist, he definitely carried a gun.
For a split second, Isabel froze. She’d been around security agents for most of her life, but they were never her security agents. They usually belonged to someone else—her famous uncle John, or her cousin Malcolm, who was lately becoming equally famous for his new startup venture in Vermont, at least in business circles and the financial press.
But her? She’d never been assigned her own bodyguard before. Until now, apparently. And for the sake of the job she hoped for in the future, she had better show that she could handle it.
“Isabel,” Courtney asked her outright, “why is a Secret Service agent asking for you? Are you threatening the president?”
“Are you counterfeiting money in your room?” Philip asked, winking slyly.
It took Isabel a moment to realize that they were mostly joking. Secret Service agents did in fact investigate both presidential threats and counterfeit money schemes, though this man her uncle had hired was no doubt a former agent, not current.
She felt like shaking her head—why on earth would this Jake Ross telegraph who he was?—but she ran a hand through her hair and smiled at Mr. Ross as best she could.
“I only counterfeit on the weekends,” she said lightly to Philip. But he was still staring suspiciously at Mr. Ross, so she tried another tactic. She didn’t want her suite mates to know she needed a bodyguard, or security of any sort. “Actually, Jake and I are old friends.”
“Oh,” Philip said. “I see.” Courtney nodded as if she understood perfectly, too.
Exhaling, Isabel glanced to Jake and found him staring so hard at her that there were two pinched lines between his eyes.
She swallowed. “Jake,” she managed to say calmly. And then, because it needed to be done—she’d uttered her white lie and now it needed to be followed up—she hooked her arm around his. “Sorry I didn’t hear you—I had my headphones on. Come into my room. I’ve been waiting for you all day.”
Deeper lines appeared on his forehead, and he glanced at her hand—clutched around the thin, fine wool of his dark suit jacket—as if she’d shocked him.
Well, she’d shocked herself, too. She was definitely not in the habit of groping strange men. And really, it was his fault as well as hers. He shouldn’t be so obvious—he was a terrible actor.
She would have to explain to him that if he wanted to drive her and be her security agent, then he could not go around looking and acting like a paid bodyguard, no matter how true it might be.
She smiled harder and gently dug her fingers into his arm to spur him into movement.
His biceps tensed beneath her fingertips. She heard a slight intake of breath.
But luckily, her neighbors were looking at her reaction—silly and grinning—and not his.
“Isabel, I didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” a familiar voice said loudly behind her.
Isabel gritted her teeth, but smiled broadly at Charles, unfortunately the team lead on her group economics project. Charles was wearing his favorite Che Guevara T-shirt and a beard styled like his icon.
Jake glared at Charles and his shirt. If two people were ever polar opposites, it had to be these two.
“Let’s go, Jake.” Isabel tugged on his arm as she escorted him down the corridor and through the doors to her suite. Touching him so familiarly seemed strange, much too intimate and close. But her heart was beating so quickly, she didn’t pause to think. She just wanted him out of the way, out of the line of scrutiny.
This time, she managed to get him into her bedroom and safely behind a closed door.
Alone with him, she stepped back, catching her breath. Yes, Jake had probably been a real Secret Service agent at one point—that was all her uncle tended to hire—but there was something else about him, something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a low voice.
She swallowed, trying to calm her racing pulse. His expression was stone-faced. The dark sunglasses still covered his eyes, not giving her any hint as to his thoughts, but she had the impression of anger.
This just made her determined to change his mind. “I should ask the same of you,” she said lightly. “What I’m doing is behaving in a low-key manner. It’s what people in my family are required to do. Didn’t my uncle explain this?”
“Your uncle is John Sage?” he asked in a gruff voice. It was a wholly appealing voice. Strong. That was the first word she thought of. His arms were crossed over his chest. His lips were set. Kind of full, actually. He had a crease in his chin and lines on his forehead. His hair was cut so short as to be practically shaved off. It gave him a sexy, naked look. And she, with all her long hair—well, he was such a contrast to her.
“Yes, I’m Isabel Sage.” She snapped out of her distraction and gave him her winsome smile. People usually responded favorably to it.
He, however, did not. He just scowled harder at her. “We need to get going. Friday traffic is brutal.”
Brutal? Were people going to jump out at them with knives and swords drawn?
She laughed at the image, and then exhaled, letting her smile relax into a normal expression. It felt good, for a change.
“May I check your credentials, please, Mr. Ross?” she asked calmly. “If I’m to get in a car with you, then I need to be sure I’m safe.”
His expression stilled. Well, she didn’t move, either, because her request was perfectly valid. He reached into a front coat pocket and pulled out a badge for her.
It appeared he really did currently work for the U.S. Secret Service. She stared at the star on his badge, amazed.
“May I see your driver’s license as well, please?” she asked.
He seemed to stare her down. She felt a catch in her throat, but no, she had a stony business face she could give him, as well. She was a master at pretending—the more so since her stay in America.
“I always check credentials,” she murmured.
With a slight exhale, he reached for his wallet, removing a card, which he handed to her.
She took it. The plastic was still warm from being in his back pocket, close to his, well... She willed herself not to blush. He was a good-looking man, beneath all his gruffness. And anger, too—there was definitely an undercurrent of anger in there.
She glanced up at him from beneath her eyelashes, but he was looking away from her. Checking in all directions, like a working bodyguard.
She studied his identification card, which was a New York State driver’s license. Jacob Ross. New York City. A West