Sleeping with the Playboy by Julianne MacLean Read Free Book Online Page A

tilted his head as if he were disappointed she’d stood her ground. “I guess not.”
    He pushed the door open, but she wrapped her hand around his firmly muscled upper arm to stop him from going in first. It was damp with perspiration and the intimacy of touching his warm, wet skin at that moment—after what had just occurred between them—was painfully erotic. She felt the heat of the connection straight down to her toes.
    Pushing those feelings down into the deepest reaches of her being, and summoning her acute, well-honed bodyguard senses, she went through the door first. “Mrs. Meinhard? Are you here?”
    â€œIn the kitchen!” she heard the woman call out.
    â€œIs everything all right?”
    â€œIt’s fine!”
    Nevertheless, Jocelyn had Donovan wait inside bythe door while she checked out the penthouse. “It’s all clear,” she said when she returned.
    But it wasn’t all clear. Not by a long shot, because her heart was still pounding out a cacophony in her chest. All because of her client’s blatant sexual appeal, his discerning ability to see through her tough-girl image and her own inability to keep her head on straight about it.
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    That night, after a long day in the hospital, Donovan changed into a pair of faded old blue jeans and a T-shirt, then sank into his plush, white sofa. He crossed one leg over the other on the glass and wrought iron coffee table. He had just ordered Chinese food, and Jocelyn had gone into her room for a few minutes to make sure the alarm system would be installed tomorrow as scheduled.
    He stared at the dark windows, enjoying the silence for a moment, thinking about their conversation in the vestibule that morning.
    When he’d gone up against all her judgmental observations with one of his own, he had completely disarmed her. She’d backed down quicker than a spooked rabbit.
    What was her story? She didn’t want him getting into her personal life, yet she was perfectly comfortable and eager to get into his.
    She would probably argue that it was the nature of her job—to learn everything she could about the people she was sworn to protect—but he didn’t buy that. When he’d asked her about her personal life, the shock and fear on her face had come from deep down inside. He’d seen panic in her eyes, as if noone had ever tried to reach in and pull out her soul before. It had been disturbing to her.
    Why also, he wondered, did she have such strong negative opinions about his lifestyle? He wasn’t a criminal, yet she looked upon him—and everything he owned—with disapproval and disdain.
    He stood up, went to the CD player and inserted Eric Clapton, Unplugged, to try and clear his head. Sounds of a jazzy guitar filled the large room, and within seconds, Jocelyn came down the hall, still wearing her brown trousers and white blouse, though she’d unfastened the top few buttons. The blazer was gone, the part in her hair was crooked; her blouse was slightly untucked. To be honest, she looked a little bedraggled from the day.
    She was completely adorable.
    There was a different expression on her face tonight, one he hadn’t seen before. It was…mellow.
    She raised her eyebrows. “You listen to Eric Clapton?”
    â€œAll the time.”
    Jocelyn stood in the arched entry to the living room with her hand on one of the white columns, listening for a moment, then she began to move slowly, languidly into the room. Her voice was nostalgic and lighthearted when she spoke. “I haven’t heard this in ages. I used to listen to it in my car. I drove to Florida once for a vacation, and played it over and over. It was great.”
    He smiled at her personal reminiscence and sat down. “When was that?”
    â€œOh, four years ago. I haven’t had a vacation since.”
    â€œSounds like you could use one.”
    â€œNot really. I like to work.”
    He sat down