Killer Curves (Guarding Her Body) by Naima Simone

Author:Naima Simone [Simone, Naima]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Forced proximity, fake boyfriend, Naima Simone, Ignite, protector, Mystery, entangled, fake relationship, Suspense, Guarding Her Body
Publisher: Entangled Publishing, LLC
Published: 2015-12-06T18:30:00+00:00

John Barrett shot up from the stool at the kitchen island as Ciaran shouldered his way through the glass door that separated the kitchen and the back of the house, Sloane cradled in his arms. Matthew Daniels, Sloane’s godfather, rose more slowly, shock slackening his features.

Damn. He’d hoped to enter the house undetected.

“What’s going on?” her father demanded, striding toward them.

“Sloane? Is everything okay?” Matthew asked.

Sloane’s body trembled against Ciaran. He’d wrapped her in one of the heavy, white towels on the spa bench, but her bared shoulders, arms, and wet hair soaked his T-shirt. Not to mention shock was probably kicking in like a motherfucker. He had to get her upstairs and dried out. Had to make her feel safe. But first he had to get her past her father and Matthew.

She lifted her head from his shoulder, and offered her father a shaky smile. Warmth and admiration for her streamed through him.

“Nothing, Dad, Uncle Matt,” she rasped. “I’m fine. I caught a cramp and panicked a little. Ciaran is just being a little overprotective.” Her pale pallor and tremulous voice lent credence to her story.

“Overprotective, romantic. To-may-to, to-mah-to,” Ciaran drawled even as he tightened his arms around her. “I’m going to get Sloane upstairs. So pretend we didn’t interrupt,” he added with a pointed glance toward the half-eaten thick sandwiches on the island that the two men had obviously been sneaking and eating before Ciaran and Sloane had barged in the kitchen.

The concern slowly eased from John and Matthew’s faces.

“If you’re sure,” John said, sinking back onto the stool. Chagrin entered his expression. “And what you saw here stays between us.”

Dragging up a rough chuckle, Ciaran nodded and escaped the room, forging a quick path to Sloane’s bedroom.

Thirty minutes later, he replaced the screen in front of the fireplace, the low dancing and swaying flames emitting a mild warmth that toasted his skin. Under normal circumstances, lighting a fire in late August would seem absurd. But under normal circumstances, a woman wouldn’t be sitting on the rug, wrapped in a blanket after being attacked and almost drowning in a Jacuzzi.

Balanced on the balls of his feet, arms braced on his thighs, he glanced over his shoulder to Sloane. Her dark, damp hair hung over her shoulder, the normally straight strands wavy and loosely curled. She appeared so young with the white comforter draped over her shoulders and drawn-up legs, her bare, painted toes peeking out from under the edge.

Young and vulnerable. And scared.

It was the “scared” that alternately ate him up and had him impatient to go on the hunt, locate the bastard who’d dared touch her, and break the hands that had held her underwater.

He should’ve been there. No one should’ve been able to come near her, much less grab her, terrify her, hurt her. Her eyes, usually so vibrant like the emeralds her mother wore on her fingers, were dull with residual fear. He detested seeing that fear.

For a moment another pair of eyes wavered in front of him.

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