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Closing his eyes, Marc dropped his head forward so that his forehead was pressed to the door. Royce was willing to pretend he hadn’t said anything, and he was grateful. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his head.
“What’s your favorite food?”
“Pistachios,” he replied without thinking.
“I thought you were allergic.”
“I am,” he said forcing a laugh because it was too damn late to take back his answer and give his usual one of steak or chocolate. Fucking Royce—he’d scrambled his brain. “Had one only once. For about two seconds, that little green nut was heaven.” He bit down on the inside of his mouth to keep from telling Royce that his older brother Gabriel had given him the nut as a joke. Gabriel had been horrified when Marc had ended up in the hospital for three days. It had just been a careless accident. “But my next favorite is grilled watermelon. Goes great with fish tacos.”
A firm hand landed on Marc’s shoulder, and he found himself spun around before he could release the doorknob. His shoulder slammed back, and Royce was standing so close their noses nearly touched when Marc tilted his head down.
“Do I need to worry about your love of pistachios?”
“N-no.”
“Well, keep in mind if you’re entertaining any more death wishes that it’s my life on the line as well. Your would-be assassin has to get through me to get to you, and I have no desire to die on this job. You understand me?”
“Yes. Yes of course.” Marc’s heart was pounding in his ears as he stared down at Royce. Fuck, was it really possible for this man to look sexier? Despite being pinned between Royce’s hard body and the door, he wasn’t in any way afraid. No, he was turned-on, and if Royce didn’t take a step back, he was going to figure it out really damn fast.
“And just a quick reminder while I’m playing the adoring boyfriend, I’m still the one calling the shots. If I say leave, we leave. If I say run, you run. If I say hide, you hide. Got it?”
“Yes,” Marc said on a sigh. Oh God, it was like some part of his brain was shutting down at the sound of Royce’s voice. The strength and power, all of it bearing down on him and he wanted to let go.
He heard Royce harshly suck in air as if he was drowning. The hand on his shoulder tightened for a moment, his thumb running along his collarbone in something that Marc desperately wanted to call a caress before Royce released him completely and took a step back. Cool air rushed in to take his place, and it was almost painful not to have him there. God, he needed to get laid.
“Let’s get out of here,” Royce said. His voice seemed deeper, rougher than before, but Marc didn’t let himself think about it. He opened the door and led the way back to his car. It was better to get this nightmare started.Chapter Five“My property starts here,” Marc said as he steered down a narrow, paved driveway.
“How big is it?” Royce caught himself staring at Marc’s hands on the wheel. Such elegant hands with long, slim fingers. Artist’s fingers. He tapped his index finger on the leather at times and at others, he squeezed or stroked around the wheel—like he loved the sensation of leather under his palms. He was tactile.
Michael had been like that.
The sharp pain in his chest stole his breath, and he forced himself to look away at the rolling hills and thick stands of trees. Like before, anger rushed in. If he didn’t watch himself, this whole job would turn into a nightmare.
“How big is my stretch of land?” Marc asked. “Not that large. Five acres. It has my home and a guesthouse where Lilah is currently living. Then lots of trees. I like the privacy.”
That might not seem big to Marc, but to Royce that was a lot of space for someone to hide. Just like it had been at Geoffrey’s. Darkness was falling and as he turned back to the man he was to protect, he could still see him in the waning light, see the way his thick brows made him seem pensive—even at rest.
Marc glanced at Royce, as if feeling his gaze, but said nothing.
The strange intimacy of them alone, in the dark car, wasn’t lost on Royce because there was a palpable tension that seemed to stretch between them like live wire. The hair on his arms crackled, and he curled his hands into fists in his lap as Marc looked back at the driveway. Royce didn’t want to fucking feel anything like that. Not again.
The house came into view—a large Mediterranean style two-story with stucco that looked gray in the low light but was probably more of a warm color because the entry and a turret-style rise were covered in multi-colored stone. The house fit the man: sophisticated and continental, yet warm. Like the looks he kept giving Royce.
