and had shoved it into her jeans pocket.
She thunked her forehead against the wall beside the security panel.
“Miss Hightower?”
She turned toward the sound of the bodyguard’s voice. Which one was he again? What was his name? He stood at the end of the foyer, in the opening to the main room at the front of the house, impeccably dressed in an expensive dove-gray suit. She hesitated, wishing her memory of what she’d heard was as good as her memory of what she’d seen . Was it really too much to ask that the bodyguards wear name tags?
“Vince,” he said. “My name? That is what you were trying so hard to remember just now, right?”
“Vince Barton,” she said, his full name finally coming to her as she headed toward him. “Sorry, it’s late. Or, early, I guess?” She rubbed her temple to ease the pressure there. “What time is it?”
He checked his watch. “Not that early. Nine-thirty in the morning, ma’am.”
She winced. “I’ve been up all night.”
“If you want to go upstairs and get some sleep, I promise you don’t have to worry about your safety.” He patted the gun holstered at his hip. “I’m armed and dangerous,” he teased. “No one’s getting in on my watch. The other guards are taking turns patrolling the property and checking all the entry points down here. There will be at least two of us inside the house at all times. You’re completely safe.”
His high-wattage smile had her realizing how completely exhausted she must be. Because if a man as gorgeous and perfect-looking as Vince Barton had graced her with that smile at any other time, she’d have been blushing like a schoolgirl. Instead, she was just annoyed. He seemed too confident: of his looks, of his abilities, or both. She’d been extremely detailed in her description of what had happened last night and the people who’d abducted her. Shouldn’t he be more serious, more alert, more . . . concerned?
Maybe tomorrow she’d hire a different security company, one whose guards weren’t quite so polished or polite or . . . pretty. Maybe they’d send someone taller than Vince Barton, brawnier, with hair that was too long and unkempt, and a hard, angular face that needed a shave. A man who looked like he’d grown up on the wrong side of the tracks and had learned to fight without rules, using whatever means were necessary to survive.
A man like Mason.
She pressed her hand to her temple again.
“Miss Hightower? Do you need me to get you something? Aspirin? A glass of water?”
She forced her hand down. Okay, maybe this bodyguard, Vince, was more observant than she’d given him credit for. Maybe he wasn’t just a pretty face. She should trust him and do what he’d suggested, get some sleep. She’d been up over twenty-four hours straight, and even with her glasses on, she could barely focus anymore.
“I’ve got everything I need upstairs.” It was time for more pain pills anyway, for her bruised ribs. Luckily the hospital pharmacy had filled her prescription before she left.
“Good night, Vince. And thank you, and the others, for rearranging your schedules so you could take me on as a client without any advance notice.”
“It’s our pleasure, ma’am.” Too-polite Vince stepped back to let her pass.
She headed up the front stairs. But even knowing the house was locked, that the temperamental alarm was set, and that three professional bodyguards had searched from top to bottom for intruders after Detective Donovan drove her home, she couldn’t help the prickle of fear that skittered up her spine.
She reached the top of the stairs and headed toward her bedroom. Everything was neat and clean, like the rest of the house, as if nothing bad had happened. She’d studied the couch downstairs earlier, trying to find a trace of her blood from the cut on her arm, but it was clean, pristine.
When she saw the spot on the table by the bed where the now broken lamp used to sit, she started to
She thunked her forehead against the wall beside the security panel.
“Miss Hightower?”
She turned toward the sound of the bodyguard’s voice. Which one was he again? What was his name? He stood at the end of the foyer, in the opening to the main room at the front of the house, impeccably dressed in an expensive dove-gray suit. She hesitated, wishing her memory of what she’d heard was as good as her memory of what she’d seen . Was it really too much to ask that the bodyguards wear name tags?
“Vince,” he said. “My name? That is what you were trying so hard to remember just now, right?”
“Vince Barton,” she said, his full name finally coming to her as she headed toward him. “Sorry, it’s late. Or, early, I guess?” She rubbed her temple to ease the pressure there. “What time is it?”
He checked his watch. “Not that early. Nine-thirty in the morning, ma’am.”
She winced. “I’ve been up all night.”
“If you want to go upstairs and get some sleep, I promise you don’t have to worry about your safety.” He patted the gun holstered at his hip. “I’m armed and dangerous,” he teased. “No one’s getting in on my watch. The other guards are taking turns patrolling the property and checking all the entry points down here. There will be at least two of us inside the house at all times. You’re completely safe.”
His high-wattage smile had her realizing how completely exhausted she must be. Because if a man as gorgeous and perfect-looking as Vince Barton had graced her with that smile at any other time, she’d have been blushing like a schoolgirl. Instead, she was just annoyed. He seemed too confident: of his looks, of his abilities, or both. She’d been extremely detailed in her description of what had happened last night and the people who’d abducted her. Shouldn’t he be more serious, more alert, more . . . concerned?
Maybe tomorrow she’d hire a different security company, one whose guards weren’t quite so polished or polite or . . . pretty. Maybe they’d send someone taller than Vince Barton, brawnier, with hair that was too long and unkempt, and a hard, angular face that needed a shave. A man who looked like he’d grown up on the wrong side of the tracks and had learned to fight without rules, using whatever means were necessary to survive.
A man like Mason.
She pressed her hand to her temple again.
“Miss Hightower? Do you need me to get you something? Aspirin? A glass of water?”
She forced her hand down. Okay, maybe this bodyguard, Vince, was more observant than she’d given him credit for. Maybe he wasn’t just a pretty face. She should trust him and do what he’d suggested, get some sleep. She’d been up over twenty-four hours straight, and even with her glasses on, she could barely focus anymore.
“I’ve got everything I need upstairs.” It was time for more pain pills anyway, for her bruised ribs. Luckily the hospital pharmacy had filled her prescription before she left.
“Good night, Vince. And thank you, and the others, for rearranging your schedules so you could take me on as a client without any advance notice.”
“It’s our pleasure, ma’am.” Too-polite Vince stepped back to let her pass.
She headed up the front stairs. But even knowing the house was locked, that the temperamental alarm was set, and that three professional bodyguards had searched from top to bottom for intruders after Detective Donovan drove her home, she couldn’t help the prickle of fear that skittered up her spine.
She reached the top of the stairs and headed toward her bedroom. Everything was neat and clean, like the rest of the house, as if nothing bad had happened. She’d studied the couch downstairs earlier, trying to find a trace of her blood from the cut on her arm, but it was clean, pristine.
When she saw the spot on the table by the bed where the now broken lamp used to sit, she started to
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