Page 31 of The Forbidden Bodyguard

I am.

Goddamn it, I am!

I wish he’d signed that damn agreement, then I could speak openly. Sure, kissing him would be nice, but it would be nice to talk to someone about it. Other than my lawyer, who told me I was out of my fucking mind—a direct quote—for doing this.

“And if my father ends up dead?”

“What if you end up dead? Come on, Stella, this is crazy.”

“I know, Simon, but can I really live with myself if my father got returned to us in pieces?”

Simon just shook his head and drew up the document for me.

Which, as it turns out, was a waste of time, because my very sexy bodyguard won’t damn well sign it.

Next minute, I’m lifted off my feet from behind, and I let out a squeal.

“Declan! What are you doin—” Three skateboarders rush past at high speed, laughing, as I grab at the surrounding air unsuccessfully.

Declan places me back down on my feet.

I grip his arm to steady myself.

“You zoned out and were walking straight into the middle of them.” Declan frowns.

My heart beats wildly, and my ovaries do the tango as this alpha man towers over me. I want to run my fingers over his dusting of whiskers and lean into his chest.

There’s just something about this man that makes me wonder if we’d fit together like two jigsaw puzzles, and no matter how wrong it is to want that, I still do.

Damn him.

“Thanks.” I clear my throat and glance around, seeking a distraction. I spot a gallery. “I’m going to look around in there. You can stay outside if you’d rather.”

“I’ll join you.”

Damn it.

He holds the door open, and a small chime announces our arrival. Large frames adorn the wall with a few sculptures dotted around the large space. I glide in, taking in the abstract paintings before I’m greeted by a stylish middle-aged woman with big blonde hair, large gold hoop earrings and a stunning apple green A-line dress.

“Good afternoon,” she has an old-school New York accent that tells me she comes from money. “My name is Victoria.”

Well-bred, like your mother, my father would say.

“Hi, Victoria. Stella Voss. I’m not buying today, simply browsing.”

If she’s good at her job, she’ll recognize my surname and be impressed. That’s not my goal, of course, but it does come with a guarantee of respect and good service.

Or at the very least, she won’t think we’re tire kickers. My Chanel sneakers probably told her enough the moment we stepped inside.

“Welcome, Stella. Let me quickly tell you about this artist so you know what you’re looking at. Belinda Cohen began painting a few years ago when she had a monumental life change.”

Oh.

We all walk along the first wall, and I study the emotions in her works. Immediately I think of my character and wonder if there is any similarity in their experiences and information I can use.

“May I ask what her life event was? I’m an author and actually out doing research for my character and story.”

At first glance, the paintings are beautiful, but the longer I gaze upon them, I begin to see things differently. I see struggle and pain and even hope emerging in the one furthest on this section.