Mountain Bodyguard. Cassie Miles
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“I have a question for you. You had arranged to pick me up at five o’clock, in just a few hours, for a date. Doesn’t it seem weird for you to ring the doorbell and announce that you’re moving in with me?”
“A valid question.” He translated her concern: “You want to know if it’s unprofessional for me to agree to act as bodyguard for a woman I’m attracted to.”
“Are you?” She brightened.
“Attracted?” He regretted the use of that word. “You’re a good-looking woman. I’m a single man.”
“And you’re my bodyguard. If we’re dating, isn’t that a professional conflict?”
“I considered asking somebody else at TST to take this assignment.” For about three and a half seconds, he’d considered. “It’s not a problem. I can control my personal feelings. At five o’clock, I can quit being a bodyguard, and we’ll have our date. Or not.”
“How do you decide?”
“We’ll know,” he said.
Mountain Bodyguard
Cassie Miles
CASSIE MILES, a USA TODAY bestselling author, lives in Colorado. After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Mills & Boon Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.
To Khloe Adams and her brilliant advice.
And, as always, to Rick.
Contents
The hotel was a bodyguard’s nightmare. Mason Steele fidgeted beside French doors that opened onto a flagstone terrace. With extreme impatience, he watched while Admiral Edgar Prescott, tonight’s honoree, made his way through the stragglers who were toasting the crimson glow of a June sunset and finishing off their complementary glass of Colorado merlot.
Number one security problem: isolated mountain location. This seven-story structure was surrounded by national forest with only two viable access roads. Never mind that Aspen was less than forty minutes away, this site was remote. An attacker could assault the hotel, dash across the ninth green and vanish into the forest before Mason and his colleagues figured out where they were hit. To prevent such an ambush, his firm, TST Security, had stationed their own snipers on the roof.
This charity banquet was all hands on deck for TST. They were using five regulars and six part-timers, plus had a helicopter pilot on standby.
Security issue number two: though the styling of the hotel was meant to resemble a hunting lodge from the early 1900s, the interior of the banquet hall featured a wall of windows and another of French doors. The design was an open invitation to long-distance shooters.
Issue number three: the people. Too many had been invited. The circular tables reached almost to the walls, which meant a sure pileup if they had to evacuate quickly. The well-dressed guests had all passed through metal detectors, but that was no guarantee of safety in this era of plastic firearms. Potential weapons were everywhere. Prime rib was on the menu; steak knives were on the tables. The centerpieces blocked sight lines, and the tall Art Deco arrangements on either side of the dais were large enough to hide a couple of AK-47s.
As soon as the admiral stepped over the threshold from the terrace, Mason signaled to one of his men to round up the last few people that were outside and lock the French doors. As for himself, he took a position against the wall where he could watch the crowd. Most of them had settled into their assigned seats. Some had already been served. Others table hopped, chatted and chuckled and showed off photos on cell phones.
A woman in a sleeveless blue jumpsuit approached him. He’d been introduced to her before, had