Guarding Aisha Read online

  Guarding Aisha

  A Bodyguard Romance

  Zoë Normandie

  Copyright © 2019 by Zoë Normandie

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Coming from a military background myself, I am an intense supporter of the military, and admire those in service. The sacrifices they have to make, and the decisions they are faced with are not easy or simple. Talk to anyone in the military or special forces and they will tell you that the system isn’t perfect, and there is always room to improve how we do business.

  That said, please keep in mind that these books are fiction. Some of the content is dark and extreme, and used only to illustrate difficult questions. These books ask – how do you fight for what you believe in, fight for the values you hold inside, fight for someone you love?

  In real life, SEALs are highly trained, highly dedicated operators and what you see in these books are fictionalized stories. I admire SEALs and all service people because of what they do - they fight for what we all believe in - and that’s what makes them heroes.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Hunting Avery

  Also by Zoë Normandie

  Fighting For Olivia

  Also by Zoë Normandie

  Also by Zoë Normandie

  Please leave a review

  About the Author

  1

  Jake Wilder gulped his enormous coffee, hoping to ease the incessant throbbing in his head. Yes, he regretted those beers from last night. Yes, he knew better than to drink the night before a meeting with his boss, especially at his advanced age of thirty-four years old.

  But, time and time again, Jake dug to the bottom of the cooler on game night, opting not to give a shit. As the late-winter sun pierced through the vaulted windows of the embassy’s lobby, he avoided the admission that he was compensating for something his life lacked.

  After crushing his disappointing coffee, he absently looked around the lobby for a garbage bin. It was a busy afternoon, with long lines at each kiosk in the US embassy. The full lobby stifled his view of disposal options. There were people everywhere, and it only increased his ire.

  A kid being led through the crowd by his mother bumped into his elbow hard, jolting Jake’s arm up and out, and slopping what was left of the coffee on his pants. The kid looked back at him with a bright and mischievous smile.

  “Little shit,” Jake snapped.

  The kid’s mother heard him and scowled.

  With a low growl, he forced himself to disengage lest he do something he didn’t want to do. Hell, it was still too early to talk to other humans—he wasn’t in a good place. This bullshit meeting had really ruined his plans for the day, which were to work out and try to figure his life out. On top of that, he couldn’t deny the nagging in the back of his mind: why had his boss, Charles, demanded they meet at the job site? Jake could have easily met him at one of their local haunts in the Canadian capital city. It would have been much easier to say no to whatever Charles had to say.

  Despite his reluctance to even be at the embassy, Jake was on time for the meeting, but Charles was not.

  Jake was never late. He was disciplined. Maybe his personal life was a fucking mess, but work-wise, he was always on the ball. As a former SEAL special warfare operator, he was hardwired that way.

  What Jake didn’t need was to linger around, waiting for things to happen. Charles damn well knew that Jake didn’t wait, not since the creeper incident during Jake’s leg of the deployment in the Sahel. The guys got a real crack out of that—they’d forced him to wait, alone in the bush, and he’d ended up fighting a man-sized black-and-yellow tree spider on a routine patrol. That thing was fucking vicious, but eventually Jake won the hand-fight and adopted it—meaning he’d stuffed the creeper in a bag and brought it back to camp. There were tour souvenirs, and then there were battle souvenirs.

  The forever war had changed Jake over time.

  The whole fucked-up memory made Jake shudder, so he forced his attention back to the present, scanning the lobby for his boss’s face, knowing the exercise was futile since there was no way Jake would have missed the entrance of Charles. One doesn’t miss a boisterous, six-foot-three Frenchman with silver hair. He was built like a tank, and louder than one too. He was one of the few men Jake could see eye to eye with.

  The view in the busy, noisy lobby was aesthetically pleasing, at least. Modern lines, geometric marble, gold-embossed desks. Everything stamped with American flags. The last part—Jake had to be honest—bordered on ostentatious. There was patriotism, and then there was… showmanship.

  For good reason, however: this was a flagship American embassy situated a stone’s throw from the Canadian Parliament Buildings in Ottawa. No doubt the president wanted the American presence to be known and admired in the allied city. All of this made the embassy a busy, important place. A place that attracted lots of people trying to immigrate into the US. A place where important political assets came and went.

  It was also a place where Jake made money, using his skills as an ex-SEAL for the only post-military work he could figure out: close personal detail and VIP transport. He was a bodyguard. Gunslinger. Muscle bringer.

  Broken sailor.

  Under a streak of sunlight through the window, one of the marines guarding the lobby tepidly marched up to Jake.

  “Hey, buddy,” the nearly white-blonde marine greeted him in quiet tones.

  Fucking marines.

  Jake didn’t like being called anyone’s buddy, and he narrowed his eyes in response. “What’s up?” he said gruffly, his baritone deep and velvety.

  The marine shifted from foot to foot. “We’ve got a complaint from some chick that you are—”

  “What?” Jake grunted, looking down his nose at the young marine, who stood five inches shorter and fifty pounds less. Was there suddenly a problem with waiting in a lobby? There were lots of fucking people waiting. Sure, he was the only one who looked like he ever did pull-ups, but what the fuck? Idiots. All of them.

  Feeling this energy, the marine slunk back with baby-pink cheeks, cleared his throat, and swallowed like he was trying to get down a ball of cotton. Blame the operator in him, but Jake had a funny way of doing very little but still coming off as intimidating as fuck.

  He used it to his advantage. All the time. At work. In bed. Wherever.

  The marine stuttered, but took a breath and continued. “Listen, bud, it’s just that you are… looming.” He stood stiffly and blinked, as if he half expected Jake to knock him out if he made any threatening movements.

  Jake assessed him. He was a young soldier. Hadn’t seen much. Combat de
ployments? Doubtful. Certainly nothing near the shit Jake had experienced in Iraq, Mali, the Gulf, you name it. This kid didn’t have any blood on his hands. His kill counts were exclusive to Call of Duty. Jake’s real-life kill counts, on the other hand, were impossible to count.

  The marines that guarded the embassy were well aware that Jake was an ex-SEAL turned private security contractor. Half of them had already asked Jake for tips on selection, keen on learning what it took to get in.

  Breathing out and trying some patience on for size, Jake decided to be easy on this one. “I’m fucking waiting,” he said flatly, trying to temper his tone. The kid didn’t deserve his wrath. “Is that allowed?”

  “Just required to check.” The marine nodded too enthusiastically and slipped away, apparently relieved to escape unscathed. He nearly squeaked as he scurried off, leaving the veteran operator alone.

  Jake grunted something crass under his breath and spotted a garbage bin over by the last kiosk near the security door to the interior of the embassy. He fought the desire to three-point-shoot the cup over the head of the darkly tanned European man standing off to the side of the immigration counter.

  That wasn’t going to help him stay under the radar.

  He decided to make it on foot, keeping his elbows sharply out while passing that annoying, shithead kid and hopefully snagging a nose in the process. Unfortunately, the mother was already ushering him back out into the cold March air.

  As Jake sauntered past the tall, black-haired European man, their gazes connected. Something about the man’s expression made Jake’s Spidey senses tingle. The man would not relent and would not look away. In fact, his gaze turned into a sneer that was both threatening and ferocious. Jake nearly stopped dead in his tracks. He got the feeling that someone, or something, was out of place. It was a well-honed instinct he’d developed in the SEALs.

  But he kept walking, his gaze cutting away from the man and landing on a lithe woman standing stone-still at the immigration counter, quietly talking to the embassy representative. The European man’s eyes never left Jake, and it became damn clear to him that he was nothing more than a tiger guarding what was his.

  With her back to Jake, the woman, her hair and frame modestly draped in dark-grey fabric, quickly slid a note along the counter. It was such a delicate movement—a flick of the wrist—that Jake barely noticed it. The immigration agent behind the counter picked up the note within a split second, glanced and it, and looked up, disturbed. Frazzled. Nervous.

  Jake narrowed his eyes, scanning.

  Something was fucking wrong.

  The agent pushed back from her desk and disappeared behind the walls of the embassy.

  As Jake prowled closer, trying to catch a scent of what the fuck was happening, the European man’s shoulders flexed tighter. He looked ready to rip Jake’s face off.

  Jake found his way to the garbage bin to dispose of his coffee cup, but he positioned himself between the security door and the woman. The woman was watching the security door to the inside of the embassy with the same expression Jake wore when he’d first jumped out of the back of a plane. Her bright brown eyes were frightened and uncertain. And Jake realized that he knew her from somewhere. He’d never forget a face like hers. It was stunning. But where did he know her from? Her soft, heart-shaped face, softly tanned skin, and sultry eyes wouldn’t be easily forgotten. Never mind those pert red lips.

  Her hands, still tightly clenched on the embassy counter, whitened. Jake took a step toward her.

  “Hi,” he said, his voice sounding foreign to himself. He was clearly out of practice with the whole human-relations thing.

  Before he could say anything more, the European man stepped forth. “Move on,” he growled darkly, with a heavy French accent.

  Jake’s eyebrow cocked, and he decided that after that display of male aggression, he absolutely wasn’t going to fucking move on.

  He dismissed the man and looked directly at the beauty in front of him. “Are you okay?”

  She took a few steps toward him, and her mouth opened to form words, but before she could get them out, the big metal security door behind Jake clicked open. He turned in slow motion to see the embassy agent motioning the woman forward.

  “Come this way.” The employee spoke in urgent tones.

  Jake’s brain was trying desperately to fire on all cylinders—to remember her, to place her—and failing.

  Having spotted her moment, the woman in grey walked past Jake. She looked like she was doing everything in her power to still her movements and keep herself calm, but Jake would bet anything she wished she could break into an Olympic sprint.

  “Back off,” said the French voice from the side. When Jake looked back, he saw a man ready to fight.

  As the woman passed through the door into the secure internal area of the embassy, Jake spied Charles, also standing in the secure interior. So Jake looked back, shot the European man a wink, and sifted right on through, casually following in the woman’s wake. He heard the European man run up to the door with a growl, but the heavy security door clicked firmly shut between them.

  Inside the secure area of the embassy, locked away from the public, the marble floors shone so brightly you could brush your teeth in them. As Jake moved down the hallway, keeping an eye on the woman in grey up ahead, he observed marines analyzing security footage in their side offices, and regular federal employees performing their end-of-day rituals.

  In hushed whispers, the embassy agent ushered the woman down the corridor. They moved quickly and with purpose.

  No one had given Jake a second look as he’d slipped through the door—he was a regular contractor there, after all. But it was funny, Jake thought, appreciating the crowded halls, that there seemed to be a higher-than-average security contingent working today.

  Jake nodded to Charles as he approached. “What is going on here?”

  “This, my friend, is a story that you are not going to believe.” Charles spoke in his casual French way, crossing his muscled arms across his chest.

  French SAS turned French intelligence upon retirement from combat, Charles’ heavily inked arms paid tribute to a time when France fought more than just terrorism. An old-school parachute marine, Charles ran his private security contracting business high and tight. His connections were second to none.

  “Try me,” Jake replied, leaning against the marble pillar behind him, crossing his own jacked and inked-up arms. “I’ll believe any of your crap, you know that.”

  Charles let out a husky chuckle. “Be nice, my friend,” he joked in return, toying with his tongue. “What do you think of her?”

  Jake raised an eyebrow. Charles only ever had one thing on his mind.

  “Fuckable,” Jake said sardonically. “But not wife material.”

  “Like anyone would fucking marry you,” Charles jeered, stabbing Jake in the ribs.

  Jake threw him a look of warning for no other reason than because he didn’t like to lose.

  Charles stifled a laugh with his hand, trying not to ruin the calm of the hall, and Jake’s mouth widened into a passable smile. The feeling was strange on his lips.

  “You missed an interesting show in that lobby,” Jake continued. “A woman fleeing for her life? With a bodyguard in tow? A prison guard? I don’t know yet.”

  Charles nodded, and the two men calmly assessed the pair of women nearing the end of the hall, deep in hurried conversation. A group of suited individuals met them at the end of the corridor, and the conversation changed to a debate in swift, concerned tones.

  Jake clicked his tongue softly, shaking his head. It was all coming together.

  “You begged me to meet here,” Jake pointed out. “The embassy. Not the pub.”

  “I didn’t beg.”

  “You said, come work one last contract. That’s what you said.” Jake’s arms tightened across his chest. “You said it would be a walk in the park.”

  “I didn’t fucking beg.” Charles gritted his
teeth.

  “I told you I was heading down stateside. Ryder’s back from the Sahel. It was a bad tour. He’s hurt.” Jake’s voice trailed off as he thought about his best friend down in Virginia. His best friend who needed him.

  Jake knew that feeling. He knew what it was like to come home roughed up—physically and mentally.

  If he weren’t so disciplined, Jake would have jumped out of his skin when several loud bangs sounded from the embassy lobby. For thirty seconds, Jake felt lifted from his body and transported back to Iraq. He heard RPGs volleying in the distance. He felt sand and wind whipping across his face, and he saw the lonely vista of war-torn Mosul on the horizon. He wasn’t there anymore, but he wasn’t anywhere.

  Coming to, Jake blinked rapidly before realizing he was in Canada, at the American embassy. Gasps and murmurs echoed throughout the area, and marines flowed out of their offices and toward the lobby security door to investigate the loud noises.

  “What the hell was that?” Jake growled at Charles, turning swiftly toward the threat.

  “Not gunfire, not explosives,” Charles answered quickly, concerned. He blocked Jake’s advancement, stilling him in place.

  Not RPGs.

  “This way.” Charles turned toward the group in the corridor, which was beginning to funnel through an open doorway.

  Jake followed, feeling more awake than he’d been since arriving in Canada. The first touch of danger he’d felt in an entire year lifted the fog of hangover, and he found clarity in his suddenly renewed focus. Something always kicked in when he felt a threat. Then he operated on instinct, smelling blood in the water, emerging from hibernation, and exposing the hungry predator within. Once a warrior, always one. Some skills don’t get unlearned, even after being out for a year.