- Available in: Ebook
- Published: February 16, 2020
Circle Eight Millennium Book 5
Being a female bodyguard means Harley Graham has to work harder, longer, and fiercer than any of her male counterparts. It also means she has to ignore her baser needs. It’s not been easy but manageable until she gets the call to go to Montana to help out a friend and finds her world turned upside down by Sawyer Valentine.
Sawyer doesn’t want a bodyguard, especially a female one with a chip on her shoulder the size of a small country. She’s pushy and strong as hell, and dammit all, sexy even wearing body armor. His life is complicated enough being heir to a huge fortune and dealing with threats to his life.
The explosions that rock Sawyer and Harley will be nothing compared to what happens between them. When life gives you a hard right turn, hang on with both hands and don’t let go.
Sawyer exited the small plane and trudged into the airport in East Nowhere, Wyoming. Not that he knew the name of the town; just that it was the middle of nowhere, and he was exhausted. He hefted his bag on his shoulder and walked into the terminal.
Okay, it was sort of a terminal. Looked like one gate and a couple dozen chairs. One teenager dozed in a coffee kiosk, and a woman stood holding a sign that said PANTHER. He walked passed all of it until he almost hit the exit by the security checkpoint. A conversation with Lance replayed in his head. Oh, right. Sawyer was Panther, a code name so people wouldn’t see his real name. Not that anyone would recognize him in the ridiculous getup Lance had insisted he wear.
He did an about-face to return to the gate area. The woman walked toward him, frowning something fierce. She’d taken off her cowboy hat, and he noted she had dark auburn hair in a thick braid and eyes the color of the sea, a bluish green. Her walk was deliberate and, if he wasn’t mistaken, her jerkiness indicated she was annoyed. She wasn’t very big, but she came to his chin, which meant she was taller than most women. Her legs were a country-mile long, encased in a pair of well-worn jeans topped with a flannel checked shirt. Her Wyoming look was completed by a pair of very scuffed cowboy boots. He’d be surprised if there weren’t holes in the bottom of them.
“Excuse me.” He held up his hand. “I think you’re my ride.”
Her brows went up. “Is that so?”
Sawyer dug for one of his female-melting grins. “I’m Panther.”
She slapped her hat back on her head and crossed her arms. “If you’re Panther then you must know the code word.”
He drew a blank. Big ole zilch. Nada. Zip. What code word? “I, uh, didn’t get a code word.”
“Then get lost, mister.” She walked around him and marched away with surprising speed.
“Wait, really. I’m him.” He caught up to her with effort. Damn, he was winded. “I’m him. I swear. I need a ride, lady.”
“Lady?” She glanced around. “There ain’t no lady here. Get stepping, dude. I don’t have time for you.” She made a beeline for the ancient-looking luggage area, which had a black snake-like belt that had likely seen the Kennedy administration.
He was tired, annoyed, and hungry. He wasn’t prepared to do battle with a female driver. Sawyer interrupted her quiet questioning of the other eight passengers. “Harley.”
She swung her head around so fast, her hat wobbled. “What did you say?”
“I’m supposed to meet a guy named Harley. If that isn’t proof, I don’t know what is.” He was desperate for some coffee and a sandwich, but first, he needed transportation—and protection, for which he was paying a fortune.
She grabbed his arm in a surprisingly strong grip and steered him toward a corner by the exit door. “Tell me your middle name,” she demanded in a low voice.
Sawyer frowned. “Why?”
“If you’re Panther, then you know your middle name, right?”
She squeezed his arm, and he wondered if she had bionic fingers. Damn, the woman had a grip. “Alexander. My middle name is Alexander.” He pulled from her grasp and rubbed the spot she’d squeezed. Wyoming drivers were tough as hell.
“Damn.” She ripped the sign in half and tossed it in the trashcan. “C’mon, let’s go.”
He frowned at her. “Wait, where’s Harley? I don’t know if you’re who you say you are.” Time to turn the tides on this prickly woman. How was he to know Harley had assigned her to drive?
“I’m Harley Graham.”
With that bomb, she took his arm and pulled him toward the parking lot, which was unbelievably ten feet from the airport.
His cowboy was a cowgirl. One with an attitude and a vice grip. His month in Wyoming was going to feel like two years.