His to Defend (The Guard Book 2) Read online

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  All Rights Reserved

  His to Defend

  The Guard

  Book 2

  Copyright Em Petrova 2020

  Ebook Edition

  Electronic book publication 2020

  Cover Art by Bookin’ It Designs

  Photo by Sara Eirew Photographer

  All rights reserved. Any violation of this will be prosecuted by the law.

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  More in this series:

  His to Shelter

  His to Defend

  His to Protect

  His to Shield

  His to Fight For

  I will live by the code of conduct—but rules are meant to be broken.

  Lars Ivanov is a speed junkie, so stepping in to guard a famous race car driver should be a breeze. As a bonus, Lars arrives in time to rescue a beautiful French-American press agent from a bullet too. Guarding Lillian with his body is the easy part, but discovering who is out for her blood is another story. Personally, he thinks someone is just trying to shut the irritating woman up…though it would be a pity to destroy such beauty.

  Lillian Delphine is only trying to do her job, but someone is out for the blood of the famous racer she represents, and she’s in the line of fire. Now she’s got a big, grumpy-looking bodyguard claiming he’s trying to keep her safe. What he means is ordering her around. While he’s great at impersonating an impenetrable stone wall, she only sees an overbearing brute. But he does have very nice eyes. Occasionally, he makes her laugh. And he’s good at using that muscular body for more than blocking bullets.

  Who knew that shutting Lillian up is as easy as kissing her? However, Lars can’t stop there, and she’s got too much French blood not to respond with all the passion in Paris. But things are growing too complicated for a man who saves lives for a living, and if Lillian could ditch the muscle man blocking her every move, she would gladly take her chances with the men who want her dead. He’s infuriating, self-important and… Oh who is she kidding? The real dangers lie in losing her heart.

  His to DEFEND

  by

  Em Petrova

  Chapter One

  Lars lowered his vodka glass and gazed across the ballroom. New York City parties were such a bore, but every year the Anderson-Tates invited him to their bash. Every year he figured the cost to be higher than the previous, and by his guess they’d spent over a quarter million on this affair.

  The same dull people circulated through the room, decked out in silk and diamonds, clinging to people’s arms and giving fake promises to see each other soon.

  He stifled a yawn. He could think of a hell of a lot better places to be right now.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  The classic overused question drew his attention, and he prepared to tell the woman that she was barking up a dead tree. He had neither wealth nor a trust fund coming to him, though he stopped dead at the sight of a long, creamy thigh peeking through a high slit.

  He followed the line of bare flesh to where it cut off just short of her hipbone, up to a tiny waist and then a pair of luscious ten-thousand-dollar double D breasts.

  Getting to his feet, Lars extended a hand to invite her to sit. The dashing redhead offered him a soft smile and swept toward the chair he indicated. As she slipped into the seat, she gave him a peek down her plunging neckline.

  With a quirk of amusement at his lips, he settled across from the beauty. “What are you drinking?” he asked.

  Her blue eyes glowed. “Dry martini, darling.”

  He flagged down one of the servers, bearing silver salvers filled with various champagnes and pricey wines nobody truly enjoyed, and asked for a dry martini for the lady. The server executed a slight bow as he offered up the drink in a fragile glass. The woman curled her fingers around the stem, showing off her immaculate vixen-red nails.

  Satisfied that he’d done his duty by her, Lars settled back in his chair and lifted his vodka in a toast. “To a beautiful drinking companion.”

  She smiled again and flicked her stare over him with blatant interest only a woman like her could get away with. In this atmosphere, she could feel relatively safe flirting with any man. Except she didn’t know Lars or the terrible things he was capable of.

  They sipped their drinks, and then she set hers aside. “How do you know the Anderson-Tates?” Her voice came out as a cultured trickle.

  “Old friends.”

  “Childhood friends?” She quirked a brow.

  “Not that far back. Yale.” He didn’t mention that he’d rocketed through the material and graduated three years before Carlton Anderson-Tate and then been snagged up by the government working for an intelligence division of Homeland Security. Following that, he spent time training with the CIA before he broke half the rules and realized he was in the wrong goddamn agency. Soon after, he met his current boss, and Oz showed him where he truly belonged. Too bad he’d nearly been kicked out a couple months back.

  The woman made a show of leaning to the side and crossing her legs in plain view. He caught a hint of the shadow between her legs a split second before she draped one slender thigh over the other. She reached a hand across the table. “Julianna.”

  “Lars.” He enveloped her hand with his. A tingle of awareness shot through him. It’d been a hell of a long time since he’d been with a woman.

  She cocked her head, letting her thick red hair tumble across her shoulder in an effect that would lure in many a man in this room—and probably land her a wealthy husband while she was at it. “Interesting name.”

  He didn’t respond to the comment, but rubbed his thumb across her fingers before releasing her hand. Her lashes dipped, and he let her look her fill. His tux was not a rental and fit him to perfection. His white shirt hung open at the collar, the bowtie he’d arrived wearing now sat in his jacket pocket. He knew he looked good, and one woman even whispered in his ear that she was staying here in the Anderson-Tates’ home and which room he could find her in. He’d simply nodded and smiled with no intention of visiting her.

  This woman, on the other hand, he could see himself getting tangled and sweaty with.

  “I believe we share an acquaintance,” Julianna said, reaching for her martini again.

  “I’d say we probably share quite a few.” He glanced around the room at all the people with too many hyphenated last names to count and as much personality as an eggroll.

  Eyes glittering, she drank in his appearance. “I haven’t seen this side of you before, Lars.”

  Surprise was hard to come by in his line of business, where he must expect the unexpected at every turn, and Julianna’s statement surprised him. Leaning forward, he said, “It seems unlikely we’ve met before. I’d remember you.”

  “We didn’t meet. I just asked my friend about you. I believe at the time you were on your way to Toronto.”

  Now that got his attention. He hated bad weather, and Toronto could never draw him as a visitor. He’d spent four miserable weeks there guarding a woman from several men who thought they owned her. After having paid good money for her, of course.

  Julianna went on, “Did you enjoy your visit?”

  “No.” He sipped his vodka. “I despi
se the cold.”

  The joke of the century—a full-blooded Russian who preferred the tropics.

  She issued a tinkling laugh. “My friend said as much.”

  He lowered his glass to the table. “Who is your friend again?”

  She met his stare. “If I tell you, I believe it will lower my chances of getting you to follow me to my bed.”

  Lars sat back in his chair, studying the woman. “Bold. I’d expect nothing less from a redhead wearing that dress. What makes you think I still won’t follow you to bed despite our mutual friend?”

  She leaned forward, giving him another glimpse of her ample breasts. “Because once I tell you, I know you’ll get up and leave the party. Then I’ll be stuck here with all the bores.” She cast a look around.

  Too many times to count, Lars acquired intelligence in just this manner. A chance meeting, a person slipping in and out of his life. Never one this beautiful, though he knew one of theirs when he saw her.

  “You’re acquainted with Madeline.”

  She nodded and perfected a small pout. “Now you will ask me what I have come to tell you, and I won’t even get to peel that tuxedo jacket off your broad shoulders.”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “I’m ready to hear whatever you have to say.”

  “Let’s find someplace more comfortable to chat.” She tossed him a come-hither look and stood. He watched her drift through the crowd for a moment, admiring the long lines of her back and the curve of her ass sashaying away from him.

  When he located her again, she sat in the corner of a very cozy loveseat. He sank to the cushion, crowding her. At once, she raised a hand to his jaw and scuffed her fingertips along his five o’clock shadow.

  “I love a rugged man.”

  He leaned in and captured her earlobe with his teeth. “Tell me what you know.”

  She sucked in a gasp and turned her lips into his. Her murmur brushed across his lips. “Pierre Moreau.”

  “The racecar driver?” he whispered back, moving his lips lightly over hers.

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes. He couldn’t tell if she really enjoyed the caress or if it was all a very good act meant to fool others. “There’s a hit on him, and it will take place at 24 Heures du Mans,” she said, referring to the upcoming racing event.

  Lars tipped her head back, nibbled at her lips and then kissed down her throat to the pulse in her neck. Far too fast to be just an act.

  He sighed.

  When he pulled back, Julianna gave him a disappointed smile. “Go. I knew I couldn’t distract you from your work.”

  Gripping her fingers, he brought them to his lips. “You’ve been enchanting. Maybe we’ll meet another time.” He left her sitting there, feeling only the slightest pang of regret that he didn’t get a chance to make love to a woman like her. Though she was right—nothing could throw him off course, and the biggest race in France, 24 Hours of Le Mans, took place in days. He didn’t have spare minutes to waste, not even for test-driving a sexy redhead.

  * * * * *

  “Mademoiselle Delphine, where is your client?” The harsh bark of the question filled her ear, and she quickly switched the phone from speaker and slapped it to her ear.

  “Monsieur Brun, what do you mean? Pierre assured me he’s already in the restaurant awaiting your meeting.”

  “Well, he’s not here.” His tight, clipped French left no question that the sponsor wouldn’t put up with more of her client’s antics. She could hardly blame the man—they shelled out millions of dollars on Pierre Moreau each year, which basically paid him to be at their beck and call for press releases, interviews and photoshoots meant to promote their product.

  Damn you, Moreau.

  He’d probably wandered off with a beautiful woman again. As his press agent, one major struggle with representing a top racecar driver was that she couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.

  “Give me two minutes, Monsieur. I’ll find my client and send him to you for that meeting.” She ended the call and dialed Moreau. His phone rang and rang. Most likely he silenced the device to give her, and anyone else he had obligations to, the slip. After the fourth ring, the call went to voicemail.

  With a curse, Lillian shoved her phone in her trousers pocket and grabbed her handbag. If she hurried to the restaurant, she could possibly stop Pierre from missing the meeting entirely. When it came to a million-dollar sponsor, being late was better than not showing at all. Monsieur Brun and his colleagues already threatened to drop him entirely and look to another driver to hang their signs and patches on.

  She rushed from the hotel suite and to the elevator. The big race would take place in mere days, and her client still needed a sponsor. If Brun pulled his support, who would pay Moreau’s entry fees? And what kind of press agent would she be? Nobody would want to work with her if she lost the biggest supporter in racing.

  The elevator down to the bottom floor where the restaurant was located took far too long, and she tapped her high heel on the floor. As soon as the doors opened, she hurried out and shot across the open space to the restaurant.

  Spotting Brun, she waved his way before continuing on to the hotel guard. In rapid-fire French, she asked if he’d seen Mr. Moreau leave the restaurant. Yes, he had. With a woman. The pair stepped back into the elevator.

  “Damn.” She let the American side of her think up half a dozen other bad things to say in reference to her client. So irresponsible, always thinking of his pleasure first. The only thing he got serious about was winning his next race—and she had no doubt he would. If the stubborn ass could even enter after Brun stopped writing him checks.

  She walked up to another hotel security guard. In her experience, these men and women were the eyes of the building, and they knew everything.

  “Good day, sir. Have you by chance seen the woman who caught Mr. Moreau’s eye this morning?”

  The older gentleman offered a smile. “That I have, mademoiselle.”

  “Would you know which room she stays in?”

  “Room? No.”

  “Do you know the floor?” she pressed. “It’s urgent that I find Mr. Moreau for a meeting. You know he has a big race coming up.”

  He smiled, and his moustache twitched in amusement. “That I do, mademoiselle. The race is everything at this time of year.”

  “Please.” She pulled out a bill and pressed it into his hand. Money oiled many wheels in her line of business. “Which floor?”

  “Seven.”

  She grinned and stepped back into the elevator. “Merci!”

  “Damn him,” she muttered in the English she’d learned from her American mother from birth and fluently swapped between. She didn’t have time to chase down and then babysit her client. Plenty of work awaited her before the upcoming race. Maintaining a positive relationship between Moreau and the public and press proved to be a full-time job. Add in press releases, scheduling public appearances and a book signing, and she put in fourteen-hour days for Moreau. The jerk could at least show up to a meeting.

  The cocky driver thought he was too big for schmoozing sponsors anymore. After winning countless races and the 24 Heures du Mans two years running, she could see how he’d formed the misconception.

  I’m here to set him straight.

  Taking off down the corridor, she began pounding on doors, calling his name. “Pierre! Pierre Moreau!”

  A door opened under her knock, and she faced a balding man. “Pierre Moreau is here in this hotel?”

  “Ugh,” she made a frustrated noise in her throat and whirled from the door. He poked his head out and watched her go, but she ignored the man and pounded on the next room door.

  By the sixth room, she had several angry guests shaking their heads or fists at her and no Moreau. She stomped down the corridor, her aggravation rising with each footfall. Her parents called her anger very American, and it became a bit of a family joke that when Lillian blew up, the world better watch out. In this case, Moreau better watch out.

/>   She raised a fist and struck the next door in a series of blows that shook the steel in the frame. “Moreau! I know you’re in there!”

  Her phone rang again, and she knew it would be Brun calling to demand her client’s attention. She ignored the call and raised her fist again, when the door flew open.

  Pierre stared down at her, that wicked smile on his face that would manipulate a butterfly out of its wings and seduced every woman he ever encountered—except her. Not that he hadn’t tried.

  She leveled him in her best glare. “Monsieur Brun is downstairs waiting for you. Did you forget your meeting?”

  Behind him in the depths of the room, she saw the blonde light a cigarette and pinch her robe shut over her nudity.

  Well, that didn’t take him very long. From what she could guess, Pierre would be a terrible lover. He took all of seconds with a conquest. Then again, his life had been built on speed.

  “Please go downstairs and sit with Monsieur Brun, Pierre. He’s already angry that you’ve kept him waiting.” She lowered her voice. “Do you think your time is more important than your sponsor’s?”

  He made a little shooing motion with his hand that infuriated her for the number of times he made it. “Tell him I’ll be down.”

  “No. Now,” she said, using her father’s sternest French.

  Pierre’s dark eyes roamed over her. He certainly possessed a charisma that sucked in every woman around him, and he tried to use his charm on her now.

  She threw a look behind him at his lover. “You—get dressed immediately. Pierre, I hope you used a condom, because you don’t want any more bastards.”

  The woman gasped, and Lillian gave her a smug smile. Pierre’s eyes narrowed on her as he stepped out of the room, into the corridor. If he’d had intercourse with the lady, then he must not have done more than drop his trousers—the man remained fully dressed, including shoes.

  Lillian put a hand on his arm. “We must hurry.”