Protecting His Brat Read online

  Chapter Two

  Moving in never took me long. This job put my bedroom next to the girl’s, for both safety and convenience, and I unpacked my regular clothes and a few belongings in the span of about five minutes.

  “Where’s all your stuff?” Miss Kincaid asked from the doorway, lingering on the other side of the threshold as though needing permission to enter my lair. She was wearing another pair of khaki pants and another sweater. Was it some sort of uniform? That would make two of us, when my uniforms came in.

  Guard dog. Dutiful daughter.

  In the soft morning light, she looked even more shy than she had yesterday. Hell, she was gorgeous. I kept catching myself staring.

  “This is everything I need.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh. No pictures or books or anything? No collections?”

  Collections? I was tempted to make a joke about forgetting my unicorn figurines back at my last job, but then realized she might have a real collection of them. She seemed the type—dreamy, sweet.

  “No. I don’t collect things.”

  “Not even like…weapons or something?”

  “I have a set of knives I like to keep sharp, but I wouldn’t really call that a collection.”

  She smiled as if I were joking.

  I folded the last of my usual suits onto a hanger, then slid a few pairs of jeans into a drawer.

  “You own jeans?”

  “Don’t most people?”

  She shrugged. “I guess. I’ve never owned any.”

  Such a funny little thing. She was lurking around like a curious kid, even though she was an adult. Her life seemed pretty dull, which would make my job easier.

  “Are you still okay to go shopping with me today?”

  I met her gaze, and after a moment she looked down, her long lashes fanning her cheeks.

  Was she submissive?

  Shit, no. Don’t think about her like that.

  I gave a mental slap to my dominance, which had sat up to take notice.

  She couldn’t mean anything by reacting to me the way she was. It was just instinctual because she was shy, or because I was huge and ugly. A pretty little thing like her would date pretty boys with money, not go lusting after the help. Besides, even if she was interested in living dangerously, I was too much of a professional to shit where I ate.

  “You’re the boss, Miss Kincaid. You give the orders.”

  A blush stained her freckled cheeks.

  What exactly are you thinking about, little miss?

  She glanced shyly up at me then retreated to her room. “I’ll get my bag.”

  Bright and early. Apparently she didn’t believe in wasting the day.

  From the looks of her bedroom, Miss Kincaid was completely repressed. It was filled with girlish things—a doll house, stuffed animals, shelves upon shelves of tame, classic novels. She also dressed like her mother had picked out her clothes to deflect attention away from her lovely face, mane of red curls, and nice figure.

  If her possessions were a reflection of her true thoughts, it would make my job exponentially easier, but it was pretty fucking sad for the kid. It was hard to untangle what parts of her were her personality, the manners she’d been taught, and what was from being completely browbeaten by her overbearing mother.

  “I hope you’re not looking for an exciting position. Despite what I said yesterday, I spend a lot of time in my room reading and doing crochet,” she admitted, casting yet another timid look in my direction.

  “Nothing wrong with having solitary pastimes, Miss.”

  She flashed a quick smile that lit her face.

  Rich, demure, and pretty. Poor thing. Her mother would probably land her a major dickwad of a husband, and she would have no way to stand up to him either.

  It was wrong.

  Hell, I barely knew her, and my instinctual protectiveness was already rearing its head.

  “Please, call me Deen, Mr. Köhler. Everyone does.”

  I inclined my head to acknowledge the invitation, but had no intention of accepting it. Calling an employer by their first name was unprofessional and blurred boundaries.

  She opened her closet door and withdrew a handbag, and I was surprised to see a Ministry poster tacked to the inside of the door. Interesting.

  “You listen to Ministry?”

  She turned her big blue eyes to me, and she gave me a pained smile. “Mother thinks they’re a religious band.”

  I chuckled. “What else do you listen to?”

  “I can’t get my hands on many things around here. Mother has to approve of any purchases I make.” She bit her lip, as though embarrassed to admit it. “I have a few CDs hidden in my closet, but I have to be careful.”

  “Or…what?”

  She shrugged. “Or she’ll lecture me and have a maid throw them out.”

  I had to stifle a laugh. Wasn’t this girl too old for that kind of high-handed…parenting? “How old are you, Miss Kincaid?” I asked, knowing the answer, but wanting her to hear herself say it.

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Old enough to choose your own music.”

  She nodded. “One would think.”

  Her small act of rebellion was cute but sad.

  “I had this whole plan to act cool around you, but I don’t think I could have pulled it off for long. My room is a dead giveaway.”

  “You don’t need to impress me, Miss Kincaid.”

  “I don’t impress anyone, I’m afraid.” Her quiet laugh was bleak.

  She closed the door to her closet, then leaned against it, leaving me to wonder what else she hid about herself in there.

  We made our way down to a waiting car.

  “Do you always use a driver?” I asked, shifting the concealed carry holster of my gun as I settled into the seat. The knife strapped to my calf was annoying after two years of using a boot sheath, but Ms. Kincaid had been clear that she wanted me in dress clothes rather than anything casual. Apparently it wouldn’t do for me to be mistaken for a friend or family member.

  “Of course not. I keep my driver’s license right next to my motorcycle and my porn.”

  I arched a brow, and she burst out laughing, her face even redder than her hair.

  “Sorry. I have no idea what possessed me to say that, but your expression was priceless.” She grimaced ruefully. “Yes, I always use a driver. I don’t know how to drive, Mr. Köhler.”

  “Not interested in learning?”

  “Not allowed.”

  The shop where the driver deposited us was expensive and understated, and from what I could see through the glass, it only had a few gowns on display.

  She grabbed my elbow to slow my path across the sidewalk to the door, then let go again as though the brief contact through my suit jacket had scalded her.

  “I need you to tell me honestly if things look terrible. I think my mother calls ahead to limit my choices, and I don’t think the women here give me their real opinions.”

  “I’m not exactly fashion-forward, Miss Kincaid.”

  “I can tell you’re used to money. You’ve been to fundraisers before?”

  “I have.”

  “Then try to tell me what makes me look too young, if you can. I want to look appropriate at functions. I’m tired of being asked what I plan to do when I grow up.”

  “What do you plan to do when you grow up?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Ha.”

  “I apologize. That was inappropriate.”

  “Don’t apologize. That was funny.”

  I held the door open for her, and we entered the shop. We were greeted by a middle-aged woman in a pencil skirt, whose hair was in such a severe bun she might be using the hairdo in lieu of a facelift.

  “Miss Kincaid.” The saleswoman’s voice was sleek and obsequious. “So pleased to see you again. So it’s a garden party this time?”

  “Yes, Diana. A fundraiser for the ballet school.” Miss Kincaid glanced around at the selection of dresses on display. �
��I’m guessing something tea-length?”

  “Either above the knee or ankle length seems to be the current trend. Hats are optional this season.” Diana’s smile didn’t reach her disdainful gaze.

  “You have a selection for me?”

  “Yes, as long as you haven’t been eating too much chocolate.”

  They both fake laughed. I gritted my teeth. This was very different than guarding a seven-year-old boy and his nanny, which had been my last assignment.

  To avoid having to listen to the ensuing conversation about current fashions, I focused on keeping an eye on the doors and watching for cars or people slowing in the street. It would be easy enough for a sniper to take her out in this shop, but the reports I’d read indicated abduction was the main concern. They seemed to want her as a hostage rather than dead. There were hints at revenge and human trafficking. It seemed like although Kincaid’s business interests were legal, they still made for some unsavory bed partners.

  I followed the women into the back, checked the fitting room, then stood outside the fitting room door, wondering if I should have gone in with them. What if the saleswoman was in on a plot?

  The lock snicked open, and Miss Kincaid tiptoed out, barefoot, head down. The dress she wore looked expensive, but resembled a washed-out floral bag.

  “No.” The word came out of me before I had a chance to reconsider it.

  She looked up at me, brows raised. “No?”

  From behind her, Diana huffed. “This designer is setting trends in the city. Very appropriate for a garden party.”

  “This looks like the bag the dress came in,” I countered, not sure why I was arguing with a saleswoman, but not liking that she was bullying the girl into wearing something she so obviously didn’t like. “You should try the next one, Miss Kincaid.”

  A small smile hovered around her bow lips, and she gave an almost imperceptible nod before she turned and walked past Diana back into the fitting room. Diana shot me a malevolent glare, but I didn’t really give a shit. Someone needed to help her stand up to the bullies in her life, and I didn’t care much if I got fired. There were always other contracts.

  The next dress was also floral, but slightly more fitted. It covered most of her skin from neck to elbow to ankle.

  I gave a one-shouldered shrug. It showed off her figure somewhat, but it was nothing special. “That’s going to be too hot for the forecast.”

  “Fashion isn’t about comfort,” Diana grumbled.

  There was a rack of dresses in the waiting area where I sat, and I pointed at a sort of subdued blue one three from the back. “That looks like it would fit her.”

  “It’s—a bit more daring than your mother would approve of,” Diana told her. Despite that dire warning, Miss Kincaid flashed me a grin and snatched the dress off the rack, then headed back into the fitting room, Diana following behind, but not before she cast me a baleful look.

  When she came out again, there was a slight bounce in her step, and her shy grin said she knew she looked good. She did. I shifted in discomfort, trying not to check her out, but the layers of sheer fabric clung to her breasts, and skimmed over her slender curves in ways that made me want to drag her back into the fitting room and unwrap her like a present.

  Our gazes connected, and I tried to feign disinterest, but whatever Miss Kincaid saw made her say, “I’ll take this one.”

  “But Miss Kincaid—that style is difficult to pull off, and the neckline…”

  “She looks beautiful,” I countered, wondering what this bitch’s problem was. I only realized what I’d said when Miss Kincaid turned scarlet.

  Go ahead and throw that right out there, Blue.

  At least I hadn’t said she was hot, which was what I was thinking.

  “Well yes, but Miss Kincaid doesn’t make bold clothing choices. She prefers to”—she gestured vaguely—“blend.”

  “Would you prefer to blend, or do you want to try standing out a bit? This dress isn’t outrageous, but you won’t fade into the background.”

  “This one.” A secret smile tugged at her generous mouth.

  Damn it.

  This girl was going to be nothing but trouble if I didn’t get my reactions to her under control. I also needed to watch for danger, not play therapist.

  Miss Kinkaid chose shoes to go with the dress, then stood quietly as their seamstress did alterations that didn’t change a thing from what I could see.

  The sun was high by the time we left the shop.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “No, Miss.”

  She sighed. “I really wish you’d call me Deen. When you call me ‘Miss’ I feel so conspicuous—although I guess being followed around by someone in a suit kind of gives things away.”

  “Even if I wasn’t in a suit, do you honestly think I’d pass for a friend? Besides, Jake wore a suit.”

  “People used to assume he was my father. You’re closer to my age. I was hoping we could pretend we were friends most of the time.”

  “That’s not what your mother wants.”

  “What about what I want?” Her gaze drifted down the street, and I turned to see what had caught her attention. From the look of longing on her face, I was guessing either the bookstore or craft store.

  “The bookstore, Miss Kincaid?”

  Her brows rose. “Could we go browse? Just for a minute?”

  “We can stay until your next obligation pulls you away. I’m at your disposal.”

  She bit her lip. “We won’t stay long. I’m only window shopping, so don’t get upset when I leave empty-handed, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned and led the way down the street, dodging around pedestrian traffic like a kid who’d spotted a candy store.

  Stifling a laugh, I bolted after her, people dodging out of my way, expressions concerned.

  She was unexpectedly fast.

  I chased her, and had to fight to put a lid on the sexual aggression the chase triggered in me, forcing myself to scan the crowd for threats as I kept her in view. Miss Kincaid reached the bookstore door only a stride before I did, but had to wait as an elderly man exited before she could enter. As soon as we were in the building, I caught her by the wrist and pulled her toward the back.

  “Where are you taking me, Mr. Köhler?” Miss Kincaid asked in a small voice, even as she allowed me to squire her to a hallway that ended in double “employees only” doors.

  I stopped and dropped her wrist. Maybe I shouldn’t have grabbed her like that, but her bolting from me in public had been reckless.

  “Miss Kincaid,” I snapped, frowning down at her, “it’s my duty to keep you safe. Playing ‘catch me if you can’ stops being cute after the age of five.”

  She gave me a contrite twist of her lips. “I’m sorry. It’s just—I got my way with the dress, then you said we could come to the bookstore. I got carried away.”

  God—going to the bookstore was that exciting for her? If someone didn’t let her live a little, someday she was going to crack and do something completely wild, like enter the world of competitive jigsaw puzzling.

  She gazed up at me, her face softening as though she was waiting for a kiss. I was standing far too close. Her innocent veiled interest and submission to my dominance was like spun sugar. Instinctively, she seemed to know what I was, and yet had trouble looking away.

  Put your nose back in a book, Pippi. Stop looking at me like a kitten in heat.

  Hell.

  Nothing like being completely unprofessional from day one.

  If I started feeling like I couldn’t keep it in my pants, I’d have to resign. I was a decade older than she was, for fuck’s sake, not to mention her bodyguard.

  I grunted and gestured Miss Kincaid back toward the books. With a contrite, faintly disappointed look, she moved more slowly back toward the shelves, trailing her fingers over the book spines with a reverence that seemed to fall somewhere between spiritual and sexual.

  She lingered in classics, taking d
own selections from various authors I had read when I’d had time to read, once upon a time, then she moved into spirituality, self-help, true crime, then sci-fi, as she wound her way deeper into the store. She led me around in circles, occasionally glancing back at me, her expression difficult to decipher. I focused most of my attention on our surroundings, but also watched as she picked up one book, then another, her body language hinting at a guilt that had nothing to do with wasting my time.

  As repressed as she was, could it be possible that she was a shoplifter? With the restrictions her mother put on her spending, she might not have any other way of getting what she wanted. Maybe she’d do it for the thrill?

  One of her slender fingers stroked down the entire spine of a particular book, and when she darted a glance at me, I pretended not to be paying attention. She slipped the book off the shelf and flipped several pages into the book as she turned her back on me and began to read.

  Ah. Reading contraband, was she?

  Unable to resist, I reached over her shoulder and plucked the book out of her hand.

  “I…thought the cover looked interesting.”

  The entirely black cover was hardly as attention-grabbing to me as the fact that I knew damned well what the book was about.

  “Have you read this?” I asked, holding the book in front of her nose.

  “I might have read the beginning a few months ago,” she said guiltily, not meeting my gaze. “Jake went to get a coffee one time.”

  “So we’ve been walking around the store for almost an hour so I’d get bored enough to leave you alone—all so you could read erotica?”

  Her thin shoulders hunched.

  “This isn’t a regular romance novel,” I warned. It was a rough, graphic capture fantasy that had shocked one of my exes.

  She tried to take it back from me, but for some reason I didn’t let go. There was just something so attractively discordant about her red hair and unusually pink cheeks. Her life was so damned serious that she needed someone to tease her once in a while.

  “Put it back,” she mumbled, glancing around uneasily.

  I ignored her, browsing the titles for a few moments before grabbing a second, more consensual BDSM novel I’d read, as well as a vanilla erotic romance, then walked to the front of the store, Miss Kincaid trotting at my heels.