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Rhys’s mouth didn’t so much as twitch. Of course it didn’t. My joke wasn’t Comedy Central worthy, but I imagined finding a waterfall in the Sahara would be easier than finding a drop of humor in that big, infuriatingly sculpted body.
“The reason is twofold,” Rhys said calmly, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “One, I do not become involved in my clients’ personal lives. I am here to safeguard you from physical harm. That is all. I am not here to be your friend, confidant, or anything else. This ensures my judgment remains uncompromised. Two, my clients understand the way things must work if they are to remain safe.”
“And how is that?” My polite smile carried a warning he either didn’t notice or ignored.
“They do what I say, when I say it for anything security-related.” Rhys’s gray eyes locked onto mine. It was like staring at an unyielding steel wall. “Understand, Your Highness?”
Forget love and passion. What I wanted most was to slap the arrogant expression off his face and knee him in the family jewels while I was at it.
I pressed the pads of my fingers into my thighs and forced myself to count to three before I responded.
When I spoke again, my voice was frigid enough to make Antarctica look like a beach paradise. “Yes.” My smile sharpened. “Luckily for us both, Mr. Larsen, I have no interest in being your friend, confidant, or ‘anything else.’”
I didn’t bother dignifying the second part of his statement—the one about me doing what he said, when he said it—with a response. I wasn’t an idiot. I’d always heeded Booth’s security advice, but I’d be damned if I fed into Rhys’s inflated sense of self.
“Good.” Rhys stood. I hated how tall he was. His presence obliterated everything else in the vicinity until he was the only thing I could focus on. “I’ll assess the house before we discuss next steps, including upgrading your security system. Right now, any teenager with access to YouTube tutorials can bypass the alarm.” He shot me a disapproving glare before he disappeared into the kitchen.
My jaw dropped. “He—you…” I sputtered, uncharacteristically speechless. “Why, I never!” I turned to Booth, who was trying to melt into the giant potted plant by the front door. “You’re not leaving. I forbid it.”
Rhys could not be my bodyguard. I would murder him, and my housekeeper would murder me for staining the carpet with blood.
“He probably has first-day jitters.” Booth looked as uncertain as he sounded. “You’ll get along just fine after the, ah, transition period, Your Highness.”
Perhaps…if we made it out of the transition period alive.
“You’re right.” I pressed my fingers to my temple and took a deep breath. I can do this. I’d dealt with difficult people before. My cousin Andreas was the spawn of Satan, and a British lord once tried to grope me under the table at Monaco’s Rose Ball. He only stopped after I “accidentally” stabbed his hand with a fork.
What was one surly bodyguard compared to entitled aristocrats, nosy reporters, and evil family members?
Rhys returned. Surprise, surprise, his glower hadn’t melted.
“I’ve detected six security vulnerabilities we need to address ASAP,” he said. “Let’s start with number one: the windows.”
“Which ones?” Stay calm. Stay reasonable.
“All of them.”
Booth covered his face with his hands while I contemplated turning my hairpin into a murder weapon.
Rhys and I definitely weren’t making it out of the transition alive.
