America's Playboy Heir Was Untouched, Until His Bodyguard Broke the Rules novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Eight Rules

Jarek lays down his ground rules, fixes Averett's tie mic with two fingers, and watches a staged dinner that ends with the date leaving alone.

"Rule one," Jarek Sobel said. "I only put my hands on you to move you."

It was nine the next morning.

He stood in the middle of the penthouse living room in a black suit that did not want to fit him.

Averett, in the doorway with a mug of coffee, watched him turn the left cuff over his tattoos.

"That's the first rule?"

"First of eight. Rule two, you tell me when your plans change, even if it's only the bathroom."

"The bathroom," Averett said.

"Rule three, you don't go into a room I haven't cleared."

He had a small black notebook, and he read from it one line at a time.

"Rule four, eyes front and phone down when we're walking. Rule five, you don't argue with me in a crowd."

"I argue with everyone in a crowd," Averett said.

"Then rule five is going to be hard for you."

Averett took a sip and said nothing, because he was trying not to smile.

The bandage across Jarek's knuckles was already coming loose.

Someone had cleaned the cuts properly, which meant he had done it himself, badly, in a bathroom, before dawn.

"Rule six," Jarek went on, "the people in my car are the people I name. Seven, if I say down, you go down. Eight."

He stopped.

"Eight?" Averett said.

"Eight is mine. It's none of your business."

"I'm the principal," Averett said. "Everything is my business."

"Not that one."

He closed the notebook and looked up, and for the first time that morning Averett got the full weight of his attention.

It was uncomfortable.

It was also the first time in four years anyone had looked at him without calculating what he was worth.

"I have one rule," Averett said.

"If you have something to say to me, you say it to my face. Not through Quarles. Not on a headset. To me."

"That's fair," Jarek said.

"Say it," Averett said.

"That's fair, Mr. Kingsbury."

"Averett," he said.

"Mr. Kingsbury."

The coffee was good, and the morning was dull, and he found, to his surprise, that he was enjoying himself.

At seven-thirty that evening he stood in front of the hall mirror in a navy suit while Ardith Bartlett fussed with his cuffs.

She was forty-four, had kept his calendar for nine years, and wore a cardigan with pockets deep enough to hold a small dog.

"Dinner's at Delmonico's," she said. "Eight o'clock. You're out the door by ten-forty. The car for her is booked separately."

"I know my own dinner, Ardith."

"I know you do."

She straightened his tie and gave him a look that said she wished he did not.

Jarek came up behind them with a small black box in his hand.

"Mic," he said. "Collar. I clip it on, and Quarles hears everything you say."

"Everything?"

"Everything. Hold still."

Ardith stepped back with her eyebrows halfway up her forehead.

Jarek's hand came up to Averett's collar.

It was a plain, brisk job, two fingers turning the lapel and a thumb pressing the clip flat against his shirt.

Averett kept his eyes on the mirror.

He watched the tattooed hand work at his throat.

The back of Jarek's knuckle rested against the hollow under his jaw.

Averett held very still and forgot to breathe.

"Rule one," he said, very low.

"This is the job."

"It's a very good job."

Jarek's hand paused, and then went on.

"Done," he said, and his voice was rougher than it had been.

Delmonico's was warm and loud, and Averett knew the evening by heart.

The woman across from him was beautiful and polite, and she laughed on cue.

She asked about his father, and he gave her the answers he always gave.

Jarek sat at a table by the window with a glass of water.

His eyes went to the street, the door, the kitchen and Averett, in that order, again and again.

Twice Averett caught him looking when he should have been watching the room.

Both times Jarek looked away a half second too slowly.

At ten-forty the woman stood, leaned in, and kissed him on the cheek while the photographers on the sidewalk fired their flashes.

"Thank you for a lovely night," she said, loudly enough for the microphones.

Then she walked out to a black car that was not his.

Averett watched her go.

When he turned, Jarek was standing a step behind him, holding his coat.

His face was entirely blank, and it was the blankest face Averett had ever seen on a man who was thinking so much.

"I'll bring the car round," Jarek said.

In the parking garage, under the strip lights, the elevator opened and Vernon Tindle stepped out.

He was forty-nine, silver-haired, in a charcoal suit, and he wore a smile that had never once reached his eyes.

He was Kingsbury's head of brand, and he built everything people thought they knew about Averett.

"Mr. Sobel," he said pleasantly, and put a hand on Jarek's arm.

"A word of advice from someone who has been here a while."

"Whatever you see on this job, you didn't see it."

Jarek looked down at the hand until Tindle took it away.

"I only report what I see, Mr. Tindle."

"Of course," Tindle said, still smiling. "That's what I'm afraid of."

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