Page 9 of Bossy Wicked Prince
“Yes,” I say firmly.
“Miss Daniels,” he says with a polite, if a little tense smile. “People don’t refuse a man like Nathaniel Walsh.”
“Well, good thing I’m not people,” I say with a shrug. “I come with my own exception clause.”
He stares at me for a moment, blinks, and then closes the passenger door with a nod.
“Very well. Be safe, Miss Daniels.”
3
NATE
The man in the photograph is one ugly-looking motherfucker. He’s obviously had his nose broken a few times, his eyebrows are bushy and untamed, and he’s glaring down the camera lens like he wants to fight the photographer.
I don’t even have to look at his resume; his straight posture tells me he’s ex-military, and the tattoos on his thick neck tell me he got into some unsavory work once he was discharged. Red flags—unless you’re me. I can already tell he’s a prime candidate to interview for our elite security personnel division.
My security company, United Protection Services, is busier than we’ve ever been, thanks to the new cybersecurity division I developed a few years ago. We need to hire an additional twenty bodyguards to meet demand, especially with the upcoming Crown Hotel Group deal.
Almost every celebrity or high-profile politician visiting Toronto stays at one of their hotels. Once we’re their exclusive security provider, we’ll give every high-net-worth individual a taste of the services we offer, brokering more opportunities for growth.
Normally, I’d be fast-tracking the broken-nosed bruiser to the interview stage. All I have to do is send a few emails to my team. But every time I try to compose a message, I find my mind wandering back to the waitress in the elevator.
Focus Walsh. Send the fucking emails. Forget the girl.
I do none of the above.
What was Cat doing, turning down a ride home? Doesn’t she know it’s not safe for her to be walking home alone so late at night? She’s so petite, it would be all too easy for someone to snatch her off the sidewalk and pull her into a car or an alleyway and…
Not on my watch.
Not in my city.
I grind my teeth.
I’d planned to send the car again tonight, but something tells me she’s as stubborn as she is naive. I know it’s not my problem, but Ididmake sure Beau fired Harry Pinkerton. I also made sure he wouldn’t be hired again in this city after I did some digging and found not one, butthreeharassment charges on his record.
If the creep has more brain cells than I gave him credit for, he could put two and two together and figure out he was blacklisted because he was harassing the wrong girl.
He may not come after me—not unless he wants an orange jumpsuit and charges large enough that his grandchildren will be paying them long after he’s dead—but he could go afterher.
And I just can’t have that on my conscience.
For now at least, she’s my perimeter to defend. Until the threat is dealt with.
I massage my brow with my thumb in a vain attempt to stave off the headache I feel coming on.
There’s a sharp knock on the door, and my assistant, Raven, walks in with a pile of papers. Her high stiletto heels click on the marble floor as she strides to my desk.
“Edgar over at Crown sent over some contracts for you to sign,” she purrs, and the sound of her voice makes the pounding in my head intensify.
Raven is a fine assistant, but she always lowers her voice to a raspy murmur that makes my skin itch. I suspect she thinks it makes her sound sexy, but it sounds more like she’s putting on a bad accent for a community theater play.
Without looking away from my computer monitor, I grab a pen and slide the contracts in front of me. Raven leans over and taps at a line with a red-painted nail.
“Initial there,” she rasps, her breasts inches from my face.
I lean away and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Go grab me an Advil, would you?”
