He’d kept walking, but he was the walking wounded. Her smile had hit him in the chest like an RPG round. The way her lush mouth turned up in earnest joy to expose perfect pearl-white teeth, made her already pretty face absolutely angelic. There was no possible way for him to sync up the image of the woman he’d picked up in the limo to the shrew portrayed in the rags on the newsstand. This could not be Queen B— the diva, the scandalous heartbreaker, and stage vixen who’d gone from R&B to rap, back to R&B again in a tumultuous path.
“You’re definitely not old,” he said after an awkward moment, standing by the elevator and adjusting his hold on her multiple bags.
From the corner of his eye he saw her swallow a smile.
?
?We used to call my mama and grandmama, ma’am.”
He had to smile. “Yeah,” he said with a slight chuckle. “I guess you’re right . . . but it’s just respect, Ms. Brown.”
“Anita, since you’re driving me to the awards tonight and will be the closest thing I have to a date.”
He gave her a quick glance, glad that the elevator had arrived. “Yes, ma’am,” he said in reflex, and then wanted to kick himself when she smiled and simply shook her head.
She stepped in and he followed her, not knowing how to process her statement. This woman didn’t have a date? How in the hell . . .
Okay, maybe she had issues. Maybe the stuff in the tabloids was true. He just needed to stay in character, do the job Lowell had asked, and keep his mind from wandering. He was Delta Force—Hoorah.
They rode up in relative silence, and when the elevator doors opened, there was only one other door on her floor. Her apartment took up half a city block . . . whoa. Okay, now it was time for a reality check. This woman was loaded, he was military and did all right by normal folks’ standards, but this was over the top. Anita Brown was way out of his league.
She walked ahead of him digging in her purse. He told himself that he had to stop studying her delicious posterior. But his training kicked in when she reached for the door.
“Please, ma’am, let me go in and sweep it for you first,” he said in a low, firm tone. He set her bags down by the door, then took her keys from her hand, managed the locks and entered her apartment, senses on full alert.
Anita placed her hand over her heart and leaned against the small crescent table that was littered with mail, almost taking out the large vase of calla lilies. The way that man said ma’am just ran all through her. It was the way he dropped the end of the word, had an interesting Midwest something to it that was mixed into his New York sound, and was all male. Up close, he was a presence that could not be denied . . . and the way his hands felt— good Gawd. Had just a slight callous to them, like a guy who labored for a living. But the strength in them . . . when he’d helped her out of the limo she thought she’d faint dead away.
Fanning her face for a moment, she peeked into the apartment, listening to him go room by room and suddenly trying to think of anything she could to get him to stay for a little while longer.
“All clear,” he finally said, coming back to the door. “Where would you like your bags?”
“My bedroom,” she said as quietly and sexily as possible.
She watched the muscle pulse in his jaw as he gave her a curt nod, extended his arm with a sweep to invite her in, and then did what almost looked like an Honor Guard three-point turn before collecting her bags and heading toward her bedroom. Never in her life had a suit looked so frickin’ good on one man’s body. She generally didn’t go in for the Wall Street-banker style, but this guy made a plain white Oxford button-down shirt and a basic rep tie transform into something exotic by any woman’s standards.
“I will be back at nineteen hundred hours, sharp, ma’am,” he said.
“In plain English, sir,” she said with a wide grin. “And will you cut the ma’am and just call me Anita?”
“Six pm, Ms. Brown.” He smiled.
“Okay, I’ll take Ms. Brown for now. Wouldn’t wanna get you in trouble with your boss,” she said, glimpsing him over her shoulder as she turned to walk back down the hall toward the front door. “It’s black tie, I hope Lowell Johnson told you.”
She chuckled when she heard Zachary’s footfalls hesitate behind her. “Guess he didn’t,” she said turning to face him. “That’s cool . . . I’ll give my stylist a call and see what Javier can rustle up.”
“Ma’am, you don’t have to—”
“It’s part of the job, we expense that kinda stuff all the time,” she said quickly and then folded her arms over her chest. “So, how tall are you?”
“Six-four,” he said in a low rumble and then looked out of the expansive bank of windows.
“Shoe size?”
“Fifteen.”
“Are you serious?” she said and then covered her mouth, laughing. “TMI!” Laughing harder as he shifted uncomfortably, she waved her hands and then hugged herself. “I’m sorry, that was inappropriate and really bad . . . all right, all right . . . what’s your inseam?”
“Now you’re really getting personal, ma’am,” he said, beginning to chuckle with her. “I take a forty-two long, all right?”