His Kind of Trouble Read Free

night guard. Ben had lost his wife the year before, was near retirement and was celebrating the arrival of his first grandchild. Ana chatted with him every night before she left. He was a sweet, good man.
    “What did you do to Ben? If you hurt one hair on that man’s head, I’ll—” she threatened as she took a step forward, then stopped. She had no idea what she would do.
    The man reached into his pocket, pulled out a small black phone. “Your security guy left his phone on the front desk when he went to the men’s room,” the man said laconically. “The studio definitely needs to beef up the night watch. It was easy as kittens to get in here. I could have been anyone. Someone who does want to hurt you.”
    She blinked. “What do you mean?”
    He walked toward her and put out his hand, and she had another chance to appreciate the solid mass of muscle that allowed him to move with a dangerous kind of masculine grace. Cocky, self-assured, powerful and not at all worried about being caught. Certainly not afraid of her.
    She was dismayed to hear a panicked squeak emit from between her lips.
    As if he was dealing with a frightened animal, he bent down to her level.
    “Ana, my name is Chance Berringer. I’m your bodyguard,” he said, holding out his hand just as she heard the sound of heavy footsteps landing outside the door.
    * * *
    C HANCE STOOD AT THE END of the hall near Ana’s dressing room, watching her sign autographs for some of the firemen who gathered around. The least she could do, she said, after dragging them out for a false emergency. One guy suggested filming their show at the firehouse one week, feeding all the guys, and Ana seemed to seriously consider it.
    The men were rapt. Chance didn’t blame them. She was even more striking than in her picture.
    Petite—not more than five foot two, tops—Ana Perez packed every inch of her small frame with succulent curves and intriguing angles that he enjoyed studying as she worked the crowd.
    Too bad she’s a client, he thought with a sigh. Hands off. Chance liked women—lots of women, all women, in all shapes and sizes and colors—and he never experienced a shortage of female company. But clients were always off-limits when they were on a job.
    Well, unless you counted how all of his brothers had met their wives and current significant others, he thought with a smirk. All of the women had been principals, or clients needing protection, when they’d met.
    Not that Chance was looking for a wife. Women were wonderful and he loved them, but he had no intention of ever putting anyone through the experience his friend Logan had just suffered. That had affected him more than he liked.
    Chance had never actually seen such a serious injury up close; Logan had almost died. So much violence done to the human body as his friend lost control and plummeted down the icy ridges of the mountain they had been skiing, landing in a patch of trees. It had been one of the few things that had ever truly frightened Chance. Luckily, Logan hadn’t hit any of the big pines or he would have died on the spot.
    Chance had stayed with him through the helicopter ride out and had listened to Logan’s earnest, painful request for what to tell his wife, Jillian, if he didn’t make it. Chance had to call her and had picked her up at the airport, had taken her to the hospital.
    Jill was one of the exceptions. A former Olympic athlete herself, she understood competition, drive and the need for adventure. She not only understood but encouraged Logan’s need to do the things he did, whether it was extreme skiing or any of the other potentially life-threatening adventures he enjoyed.
    Sometimes she even went with him.
    But Chance still remembered how her legs had weakened, how she’d started to sink, as if her life had fallen out from under her when they had been let in to see Logan for the first time after surgery. Chance had done what he needed to, helping her stay strong for Logan, but