Sleeping with the Playboy Read Free Page B

him.
    A few minutes later, they were back in the foyer and she was reaching into her breast pocket for a business card. She gazed directly into his eyes. “You are definitely in need of help.”
    She handed him the card, and turned to the door.
    He glanced down at the card, then followed her out to the elevator. “Wait a second. Does this mean you’re taking the job?”
    She pushed the button. “Yes.”
    â€œBut…when will you start?”
    The elevator dinged and the doors opened. She stepped inside. “Right away.”
    â€œBut how do we do this? If you’re going to be my bodyguard, shouldn’t you be staying here? Where are you going?”
    As she pushed the down button inside the elevator, a tiny infectious grin sneaked across her lips. “I likedthe look of those feathery pillows in your guest room, Dr. Knight, so if you must know, I’m going to get my toothbrush and jammies.”
    The doors closed in front of Donovan’s face.
    He stood in the vestibule holding her card, feeling transfixed and suddenly exuberant, and totally surprised by the fact that his cool, reserved bodyguard actually had a sense of humor.
    Things were definitely going to get interesting around here.

Two
    J ocelyn grabbed hold of the brass handrail in the elevator, then tipped her head back and tapped it three times, hard against the oak-paneled wall.
    What in God’s name had possessed her to say such a stupid, suggestive thing? She was a professional, dammit, and she had a well-deserved reputation for objective, serious behavior and an almost masculine demeanor that demanded respect from the world of executive protection. She never smiled at clients. Not unless they made a joke and etiquette required it. Never was she the one to make the joke. And certainly not a sexual one!
    She reached the bottom floor and stepped off the elevator into the lobby. The uniformed gentleman at the security desk nodded at her as she passed by.
    A few minutes later, she was walking down the dark street to where her car was parked, debatingwhether or not she should have taken this job. She didn’t approve of rich, snobby doctors—especially gorgeous ones who wore tuxedos and went to the opera and ballet just to add polish to their appearance, and expected every female within spitting distance to dissolve into a puddle of infatuation at their feet.
    It was all so pretentious, and she hated that kind of thing. She had her reasons, of course. And okay, maybe they were personal, but what had happened in her life happened, and she’d experienced firsthand the kind of shallow pomposity people like Dr. Knight were capable of.
    Besides her father—who had left his own, personal imprint on her as a woman—she’d experienced the social-climbing doctor type. The type who went to medical school just to get a summer home on Rhode Island, a yacht moored at the most prestigious club and a Mercedes parked in a three-car garage.
    A Mercedes. All through medical school, Tom had talked about getting one. He’d lovingly referred to his future purchase as “The Merc.”
    Jocelyn pushed those memories aside and pulled out her cell phone. She called her assistant, Tess, to tell her she’d be taking the assignment. She then retrieved her overnight bag from the trunk of her 1987 Acura Legend, and headed back to Dr. Knight’s high-rise, wondering if it wasn’t too late to back out, and how she could go about doing that. Because, despite everything she’d just told herself about how much she hated pretentious men who wielded their wealth like swords dipped in liquid aphrodisiac, she had responded to the bold, sexy look in Dr. Knight’s eyes. The sheer perfection of his face and the sensualway he’d walked as he’d followed her around his penthouse, so relaxed and casual about everything, had made her feel uncomfortably hot beneath her starchy, cotton blouse. She’d had to