Read Online Diva (Ironclad Bodyguards Book 2) by Annabel Joseph, Molly Joseph - Free Book Online
Authors: Annabel Joseph, Molly Joseph
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these fingers,” she said, snaking an arm around him to correct his fingering. “Okay, now strum.”
She put her hand over his and guided his fingers across the strings. It made a nice, full sound. He knew nothing about guitars, but this one seemed very similar to its owner: glossy and curvy, and full of life. Maybe it just felt that way because her fingers were on his, little twenty-year-old fingers over his big, rough, older-bodyguard fingers. He wanted to take those fingers and twist them behind her back, and bend her over, and…
No. He couldn’t let his mind go there. He was so unsettled by his flagging self-control that he allowed her to teach him another chord.
“See?” she said, like he was already mastering them. He’d forget them by tomorrow. The shock of her body against his? He’d remember that his entire life. “Okay, now put them together and you’re making music.”
She was so enthusiastic he had to laugh, even though none of this was funny. He let her coach him through the progressions. “E minor, C, C, E minor. Strum! Now, guess what, you can play Eleanor Rigby with only those two chords.”
“Bullshit.”
He turned his head when she laughed, saw pink hair and pink pajamas and everything that could ruin him if he wasn’t careful.
“I’ll show you how to do it,” she said. “It’s possible for real.”
With her fingers guiding his, they played an iffy, halting rendition of the Beatles’ Eleanor Rigby . He thought it was pretty amazing. He thought it was probably the most fun anyone could have in a tiny bedroom on a tour bus in Europe in the middle of the night.
Well, almost the most fun.
“You did great,” she said when they finished. “You’re a quick learner.”
He acknowledged her compliment with a nod as she finally slid away from him. “All part of the job. I have to think fast.” He handed over her guitar and stood. As enjoyable as this interlude was, it was his responsibility to bring it to a close. “It’s getting late, kid. You might as well sleep the rest of the way to Amsterdam. We can check into the hotel when we get there.”
She turned away from him, laying the guitar in a worn black case. “I told you, I never sleep on the bus, not without drugs or…” She paused as she closed the lid and flicked the latches shut. “Well. Marty used to hold me. Sometimes when he held me, with the road noise and the vibration, I was able to drift off.”
Ransom was already shaking his head. No. Slope. Slippery. Full of prickly bushes and pointy rocks. “I can’t lie in bed and hold you,” he said, because that was the plain truth. “It’s not part of my job.”
Two bright dots of color bloomed on her cheeks. “Yeah, I know.”
“Not that I don’t want to help you. It’s just—”
“I know.”
“Not professional.”
“Can we let it drop?” Her blush deepened. “I was just telling you that Marty used to do it, and it used to work for me. But he’s gone now, so…”
Ransom waited for the rest of it, some flailing stab at seducing him, or some vitriol about his part in firing Marty, but nothing else came. Time for you to leave, sport. This awkward silence? That’s your cue.
“Well, good night,” he said. “Even if you don’t sleep.”
“Good night.”
He went sideways through the door and heard it close behind him with a thump. Catastrophe averted. In some horrible way, it was tempting to curl up next to her, but in some other, more rational way, he knew that would lead to all kinds of fucked up shit. She was a client and he was a professional. He was old enough to know better.
He just needed one night with a real woman. That would put all this inappropriate attraction to rest.
CHAPTER FIVE
Breathe
T hey had four days in Amsterdam before the festival, and by the end of the second day, Lola was losing her shit.
No sex. No partying. No wandering around and getting into trouble with the local club folk. Nothing. No fun.
Oh, he’d take her
She put her hand over his and guided his fingers across the strings. It made a nice, full sound. He knew nothing about guitars, but this one seemed very similar to its owner: glossy and curvy, and full of life. Maybe it just felt that way because her fingers were on his, little twenty-year-old fingers over his big, rough, older-bodyguard fingers. He wanted to take those fingers and twist them behind her back, and bend her over, and…
No. He couldn’t let his mind go there. He was so unsettled by his flagging self-control that he allowed her to teach him another chord.
“See?” she said, like he was already mastering them. He’d forget them by tomorrow. The shock of her body against his? He’d remember that his entire life. “Okay, now put them together and you’re making music.”
She was so enthusiastic he had to laugh, even though none of this was funny. He let her coach him through the progressions. “E minor, C, C, E minor. Strum! Now, guess what, you can play Eleanor Rigby with only those two chords.”
“Bullshit.”
He turned his head when she laughed, saw pink hair and pink pajamas and everything that could ruin him if he wasn’t careful.
“I’ll show you how to do it,” she said. “It’s possible for real.”
With her fingers guiding his, they played an iffy, halting rendition of the Beatles’ Eleanor Rigby . He thought it was pretty amazing. He thought it was probably the most fun anyone could have in a tiny bedroom on a tour bus in Europe in the middle of the night.
Well, almost the most fun.
“You did great,” she said when they finished. “You’re a quick learner.”
He acknowledged her compliment with a nod as she finally slid away from him. “All part of the job. I have to think fast.” He handed over her guitar and stood. As enjoyable as this interlude was, it was his responsibility to bring it to a close. “It’s getting late, kid. You might as well sleep the rest of the way to Amsterdam. We can check into the hotel when we get there.”
She turned away from him, laying the guitar in a worn black case. “I told you, I never sleep on the bus, not without drugs or…” She paused as she closed the lid and flicked the latches shut. “Well. Marty used to hold me. Sometimes when he held me, with the road noise and the vibration, I was able to drift off.”
Ransom was already shaking his head. No. Slope. Slippery. Full of prickly bushes and pointy rocks. “I can’t lie in bed and hold you,” he said, because that was the plain truth. “It’s not part of my job.”
Two bright dots of color bloomed on her cheeks. “Yeah, I know.”
“Not that I don’t want to help you. It’s just—”
“I know.”
“Not professional.”
“Can we let it drop?” Her blush deepened. “I was just telling you that Marty used to do it, and it used to work for me. But he’s gone now, so…”
Ransom waited for the rest of it, some flailing stab at seducing him, or some vitriol about his part in firing Marty, but nothing else came. Time for you to leave, sport. This awkward silence? That’s your cue.
“Well, good night,” he said. “Even if you don’t sleep.”
“Good night.”
He went sideways through the door and heard it close behind him with a thump. Catastrophe averted. In some horrible way, it was tempting to curl up next to her, but in some other, more rational way, he knew that would lead to all kinds of fucked up shit. She was a client and he was a professional. He was old enough to know better.
He just needed one night with a real woman. That would put all this inappropriate attraction to rest.
CHAPTER FIVE
Breathe
T hey had four days in Amsterdam before the festival, and by the end of the second day, Lola was losing her shit.
No sex. No partying. No wandering around and getting into trouble with the local club folk. Nothing. No fun.
Oh, he’d take her
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