At first, the salary and the fact that his employer—who was no one’s fool—had never once mentioned his dishonorable discharge from the U.S. Army, something that had been the big job-killer up to now, seemed too good to be true.
Jim had been a Ranger, and a damned good one, too, until he’d broken the jaw of a candy-ass colonel who’d ordered his team on a suicide mission. Jim had lost two of his best friends, his temper and then his future.
But Manual Rabat hadn’t mentioned it once. He’d given Jim three tests. First, he’d taken him down into the second sublevel underneath the enormous home built on a cliff, inaccessible from three sides, accessible on the land side only by one gate that was manned 24/7 by three guards.
The entire subbasement was a state-of-the-art gym, the best-equipped Jim had ever seen. And Rabat used it often, too, as was visible when he stripped to put on his gi. There was a gi for Jim, too, and it was clear that he was expected to show his prowess as a fighter.
Fuck yeah. Jim had been trained in hand-to-hand combat by the best. His only problem was going to be not breaking his prospective employer’s arms.
Fifteen sweaty, exhausting minutes later, Jim was on the mat, immobilized. Rabat released him and sprang up, sweating but otherwise unruffled. Jim realized he’d gone three rounds with a world-class fighter and that he was lucky they weren’t enemies, because he’d have been dead.
Drake knew all the martial arts moves Jim knew, and some he didn’t. Clearly, Rabat had been trained in the Russian art of SAMBO, and he was adept at savate. When he stripped to shower, Jim could see the thickened shinbones that came from thousands and thousands of hours of kicking either sand-filled bags or ass. He suspected the latter.
When they were dressed, Rabat had congratulated him. It was the first time anyone had lasted fifteen minutes with him.
He’d passed the first test.
The second came five minutes later, on a mile-long shooting range, where Jim was tested on handguns, machine guns and rifles, at varying distances. Well, at least he got that right. With each weapon, at each distance, he was able to put ten rounds in a nickel. Something told him, however, that Rabat could place them in a dime.
The third test was on a race track, where he was put through a grueling series of tests. A bootlegger’s turn at 80 mph, evasive driving and combat driving.
At the end of the day, he was offered a job for enough money to make him rich in ten years’ time, and lodgings on Rabat’s compound. He was introduced to Mrs. Rabat as her new driver, but Jim was clear on what he was.
The money was worth it to be lackey and bodyguard to a rich bitch. He’d do his duty, no question. But it turned out that the lady was no bitch. Inside of a month, Jim had half fallen in love with her, as had everyone else on the staff.
She was gorgeous, but then that went with the territory of rich, powerful men. If they couldn’t have beautiful women, who could?
There was something else about her, though, a sweetness, a gentleness mixed with a skewered sense of humor that made Jim realize that he’d defend her with his life, even without Rabat.
The woman was magic. Not to mention a highly gifted artist. For Christmas, he’d gotten two watercolors of a puppy who’d adopted him, and they were small masterpieces that he’d framed himself and put up on the wall at the foot of his bed so they were the last things he saw at night and the first things he saw in the morning.
She ran a small, highly successful art gallery in the center of town, selling mostly her own works. She strongly encouraged local talent, but prospective buyers zeroed in on her stuff and didn’t have eyes for anything else. Apparently, she sold everything she ever showed, within a week.
And still, there was enough left over to cover every inch of wall in their huge mansion. He’d heard Rabat was planning a new wing just to house all her stuff.
“Jim…” She smiled into the mirror. “I know you’re a careful driver, but could we please…speed it up? I have some good news I want to share with Mr. Rabat.”
Well, maybe that wing was going to be used for something a little more lively than paintings. Jim raised his speed by five miles. Rabat was already insanely overprotective. If anything happened to his pregnant wife…
Jim shuddered at the thought.
Behind him, she drummed long, delicate fingers on the armrest but said nothing more. She wasn’t the type to insist or whine.
Finally, they were at the big steel gates that were only one aspect of Rabat’s perimeter defenses. There were motion sensors, thermal imaging cameras, trip wires. Discreet, hidden, but definitely there.
Oh yeah, Rabat was an operator. A fucking rich operator.
Rabat had appeared out of nowhere a year ago and in a month had become the proprietor of the three airlines that flew in and out of the Sivuatu airport and the owner of the four shipping companies and two cruise lines that operated out of the port.
Jim glanced in the rearview mirror. Victoria was sitting on the edge of her seat now as they drove through the gates, gathering her things, smiling a secret smile. The smile reserved exclusively for her husband.
And there he was, waiting for his wife, as always.
Jim drove slowly down the drive, waiting for the moment that always twisted his guts.
He pulled up, aligning the back door exactly with where Rabat was waiting. Rabat opened the door himself, lifting his wife out of the backseat and…his face melted.
It never failed to amaze Jim.
Rabat was a hard-ass. It was hard to imagine that look could be on the face of a man like him. All that hardness and toughness and cold detachment, gone.
Victoria whispered in her husband’s ear and he picked her up and twirled her, her happy laughter loud in the tropical evening air.
This was happiness on a scale that almost scared Jim. Rabat put his wife down, touching her cheek gently. The expression of yearning and tenderness on his face was so raw, Jim looked away, chest tight.
Some things are too much for mere mortals to see.
Like looking into the sun.
Acknowledgments
As always, a heartfelt thanks to
May Chen, my editor,
and Ethan Ellenberg, my agent.
About the Author
LISA MARIE RICE is eternally thirty years old and will never age. She is tall and willowy and beautiful. Men drop at her feet like ripe pears. She has won every major book prize in the world. She is a black belt with advanced degrees in archaeology, nuclear physics, and Tibetan literature. She is a concert pianist. Did I mention the Nobel?
Of course, Lisa Marie Rice is a virtual woman and exists only at the keyboard when writing erotic romance. She disappears when the monitor winks off.
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