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  Slow Burn

  Roxie Noir

  Copyright © 2017 by Roxie Noir

  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.

  Cover: Coverlüv

  Photographer: Wander Aguiar

  Model: Jacob Cooley

  Editor: Sennah Tate

  I was hired to protect her, not make her scream my name.

  From dodging bullets in Afghanistan to working for the Secret Service when I got out of the Marines, I know danger pretty well.

  Or I thought I did. That was before my latest assignment came with a whole new kind of danger.

  Her name? Ruby.

  She’s the gorgeous-as-hell, opinionated, spitfire daughter of Senator Burgess. Her family’s beyond strict, but for girl who’s so innocent, she’s anything but sweet.

  Wicked green eyes, curves that beg me to touch them, and a smile that makes me think dirty, dirty thoughts.

  Her father’s a nightmare — a totalitarian who rules his family with an iron fist. He decides what clothes his daughters wear, what books they read, where they can go — hell, who they marry.

  Ruby can pretend with them, but she can’t pretend with me. I can tell there’s more to her than the demure southern belle she’s supposed to be in public.

  But I’m a professional, hired to be her bodyguard. I know better than to fall for someone I’m supposed to protect, but with every glance, every accidental touch, every word she says to me, I just want her more.

  I want to tear away the innocent good girl veneer, and make the real Ruby scream my name as she rakes her nails down my back.

  It’s f*cking dangerous. If we get caught, there will be hell to pay — and it’ll be even worse for her.

  But I don’t think I can stay away.

  Join my mailing list and get my novella Dirty Sweet for free!

  Logan and I are friends. That’s it. Just friends.

  Sure, he’s really hot. Yeah, he’s got biceps I’d like to lick and a smile that makes me feel all fluttery inside. And yeah, even though he’s the strong, silent type, he still manages to make me snort-laugh at least once a day.

  Particularly if I’ve had a couple of drinks.

  I did drag him to this Halloween party, and we are getting drunk, but it’s no big deal. Nothing’s gonna happen. Because we’re just friends.

  Best friends. The kind of friend I can’t risk losing over something dumb like a drunken kiss, no matter how bad I want to try it just once.

  There will be no kissing. No bicep licking. No nothing.

  Because we’re just friends.

  Sign up now and Dirty Sweet is yours, free!

  Slow Burn

  Roxie Noir

  Chapter One

  Ruby

  My hair sticks to my neck as I scoop the sticky, bubbling, pink-orange goop into the funnel, making sure to leave half an inch of air between the jam and the top of the jar. I tap the funnel gently on the side of the jar, dislodging any leftover peach chunks, and as I lift the funnel from the jar, my sister Pearl takes it and wipes the top rim with a damp paper towel.

  She hands it to Joy, who drops a seal onto the jar, then puts it on the kitchen counter, next to thirty other identical jars.

  We do it all in silence, like we’re a well-oiled machine.

  “Even through Jim’s campaigns and his work in Washington, it’s always been my top priority that I remain at home, raising our children and running the household,” my mother says in her soft, quiet voice.

  The reporter taking notes makes a noise of agreement.

  “Right now we’re making peach jam from the very last of the peaches in the family orchard,” she goes on. “So many homemaking skills are becoming lost due to the moral decay in today’s society. Girls are growing up not knowing the simple, basic homemaking tasks that made this country great in the first place. These are the valuable, much-needed arts that become lost when women are forced into the workplace and out of the home.”

  I’m facing the window, but I can hear the reporter tapping his pen against his notepad. I’ve lost track of which newspaper he’s from, but it’s something fairly small and local, which means he won’t be pushing back too hard against my mother’s outrageous claims.

  “Mrs. Burgess, there are many women who would say that they prefer to work outside the home,” he says.

  I don’t have to look at her to know she’s smiling a soft, pitying smile at him.

  “Of course there are,” she says, in her most sympathetic, understanding voice. “But when I go out with my husband to his speeches and rallies, and I talk to the strong, hard-working women of South Carolina, what I hear over and over again is that so many of them have a desire to return to traditional life and values, to be keepers of the home. I’m sure some women enjoy doing a man’s work in a man’s world, but modern society has robbed wives and mothers of the chance to truly make a difference in the lives of their husbands and children by serving them at home.”

  I blob more peach jam into a jar. Pearl wipes it. Joy plops the lid on. All three of us have heard our mother’s canned responses so many times that we know them by heart and could quote them verbatim.

  “Yes,” the reporter is saying. “But aren’t there women out there whose desire isn’t to stay at home, but to…”

  This one’s got more backbone than I expected, I think, scooping again. Usually they only pretend to argue for a sentence or two, then roll over and accept everything she says about how a woman's true purpose in life is to serve her husband’s needs and focus the rest of her energies on her children.

  None of them have the nerve to ask about me, of course. That’s a surefire way to ensure that you never get another interview with Senator Jim Burgess, any member of his staff, or any member of his family, ever again.

  As my mother is quietly, sweetly, and kindly answering another question, the kitchen door opens and my father’s aide Mason steps through. He’s wearing khakis and a long-sleeve Oxford shirt despite the September heat.

  “Miss Burgess, the Senator would like to see you,” he says.

  The three Misses Burgess in the room turn, as does Mrs. Burgess, but he’s looking at me. I raise my eyebrows. Mason nods.

  “Excuse me,” I say to everyone in the room, wipe my hands on a kitchen towel, and follow Mason. He holds the door for me and I step into the hallway, which is about fifteen degrees cooler.

  It’s an incredible relief. It doesn’t matter that it’s over eighty degrees outside or that the air conditioning in our antebellum house doesn’t work very well, I’m wearing a high-necked shirt with long sleeves, a denim skirt that goes below my knees, and pantyhose.

  That’s something I miss about being married: Lucas didn’t require me to wear pantyhose at all times.

  I follow Mason across the house and up two flights of steps in silence, because there’s no point in asking him why my father wishes to speak with me. Either Mason doesn’t know, or he knows better than to discuss it with me.

  Besides, there’s no way it’s anything good. I think the last good conversation I had with my father was a year after my wedding, back when my marriage was only uncomfortable and unsatisfying, not a complete wreck.

  My father’s home office has a huge, wooden double door. It’s original to this house, and he’ll tell anyone visiting the story of how his great-great-great-great grandmother used this house as a field hospital during the Civil War and hung bloody sheets over all her beautiful, hand-carved door frames so the Yankees wouldn’t loot them.

  It might be true. I have no idea. I just know that
my father’s a politician through and through, and at age twenty-six, I finally know better than to believe everything he says.

  Mason pushes the door open and nods me through to the Senator, who’s sitting at his immense desk in his shirtsleeves, busily writing something.

  “Thank you, Mason,” he says without looking up. “Ruby, you may sit.”

  I do, silently, crossing one leg over the other, and wait for him to finish whatever he’s writing. Probably yet another letter to a donor, thanking them for their important work in stemming the tide of moral decay in modern America, blah blah blah. Finally he places it in his inbox and looks at me.

  “I’m afraid that your situation has generated a great deal of unwarranted attention,” he begins.

  I swallow and say nothing. There’s no point in arguing with him.

  “And while this family has weathered the storm of your disgrace, and will continue to weather that storm as a strong, stable unit, I’m afraid a new problem has presented itself and it must be dealt with accordingly.”

  My stomach twists and my pulse speeds up as I wonder what, exactly, he’s found out about me now.

  “What’s the problem, father?” I ask, keeping my face as perfectly neutral as I can.

  Without answering, he reaches into a desk drawer and produces a small bundle of letters, letting them plop on his desk.

  “You’ve received a substantial amount of mail from a single correspondent,” he says. “Of course, I took the liberty of reviewing your letters, given your situation—”

  My blood boils, but I force myself not to show it.

  Keep sweet, I tell myself. Keep sweet. Keep sweet.

  “—And I’m afraid that what began as misguided interest has escalated into some very disturbing accusations and threats against your safety.”

  I blink. I was expecting yet another lecture on my behavior and attitude.

  “What kind of threats?” I ask, doing my best to channel my mother and keep my voice soft, quiet, and meek.

  He frowns.

  “I won’t be discussing that with you,” he says. “They’re completely unsuitable for a woman to read, but they’re very upsetting. After extensive discussions with my security team, we’ve decided that you’ll be receiving your own detail for the time being.”

  He pauses. I pause, and for a long moment, my father and I just look at each other.

  “You’re giving me a bodyguard?” I ask, finally.

  Now my stomach is clenched into a knot, fury raging inside me.

  I’d bet almost anything that the letters aren’t real.

  I may not be a politician, but I’m not stupid. Either those envelopes are empty, or my father wrote them himself as an excuse to hire someone. Voters tend to not look kindly on fathers who hire someone to scrutinize their adults daughters’ every move, but if it’s in the name of safety? Then it’s fine.

  My bodyguard’s real job isn’t going to be guarding me. It’s going to be watching me, twenty-four/seven, and reporting every single thing I do back to my father.

  “Yes,” my father says. “Since I’m your guardian once more, it falls to me to protect you from harm, and these—” he taps the bundle of letters, “—constitute potential harm. Despite your life choices, you’re still my daughter, and it’s my duty to ensure your safety.”

  Not I love you and I’m worried, but your safety is my duty. I swallow, my mouth dry, cold fury pumping through my veins. I hate this so much my hands are nearly shaking.

  “Thank you, father,” I say.

  “His name is Gabriel Kane,” my father says. “He’s a Secret Service agent on leave and he’ll be arriving tomorrow.”

  And he’ll be on you constantly, following your every move, I think.

  It’s moderately interesting that they chose a man for my bodyguard, but not that surprising. On one hand, my father would prefer that I literally never be alone in a room with a man who isn’t related to me, but on the other, his opinion of women is so low that I doubt he’d trust one to guard me.

  Besides, I’m already damaged goods. It isn’t like my father has to defend my innocence or something. Everyone knows that’s long gone.

  “I expect that you’ll show him proper hospitality,” my father goes on, leaning back in his massive leather chair. He’s flanked on either side by tall windows, the heavy curtains pulled back to reveal the rooftops of Huntsburg and the thick, lush forest beyond. “And I also expect that you’ll continue to uphold the standards of the Burgess name, as befits my eldest daughter.”

  His stare could cut through iron right now, but like he just admitted: I’m his daughter. His stare isn’t doing a damn thing to me.

  I think he means don’t have sex with your bodyguard, because my father seems to think that any woman, if allowed the slightest bit of freedom, will simply lie back and open her legs to any man who happens by.

  As if I’m going to be interested in whatever ex-military meathead he’s hired to keep tabs on me. Thugs who report on my behavior to my father aren’t exactly my type.

  But I don’t say any of that. I smile sweetly at him, hands clasped atop my knee, and answer, “Of course, father.”

  Before he can respond, there’s a knock on the door, and then Mason’s face pokes through.

  “Senator,” he says. “The photographer from the Sun-Herald has arrived, and Mrs. Burgess asked me to fetch you.”

  My father nods, then stands. Mason’s face disappears, and my father pulls on his sport jacket, slicking his salt-and-pepper hair back with one hand. I glance one more time at the bundle of letters that he’s left lying on the desk.

  “We’ll be meeting here at eleven sharp,” he tells me, and we both exit his office, the heavy door shutting behind him.

  My father and Mason both walk down the stairs, and I walk in the opposite direction, along the upstairs hallway until they’re gone.

  Then I stop. For a long moment I stand in the hallway, motionless and quiet, listening to their voices echoing from further and further away.

  When they’re gone, I go back to my father’s office. I don’t give myself time to think about how furious he would be if he found me here, I just push the heavy door open quietly and shut it behind me.

  If I get caught in here, I’ll have hell to pay. He can’t kick me out onto the street until the election is over, because it would look absolutely awful to the voters, but he could make my life pretty unpleasant because I have no money, no job, and nowhere else to go.

  But I have to know. I have to read those letters, see whether I’m actually in danger or whether my father’s invented the whole thing so he has a reason to hire someone to watch me.

  Hands shaking, I pull a letter from the bundle near the top, then one other from further down. There are enough that he won’t notice a few missing — or at least, I have to hope he won’t.

  I pull up my shirt and cram the two envelopes into the top of my pantyhose, which keeps them flat against my belly, and put the bundle of letters back on his desk, exactly where he left it.

  Then I tiptoe back to the heavy door, slip through it, and turn back down the hall, away from the staircase, the paper stiff against my skin.

  I’m smiling as I open my bedroom door, take the letters out, and stash them in a secret spot.

  I was raised to be meek, subservient, sweet, and trusting. My father was the absolute authority in my life until the day I got married, and then that authority was transferred to my husband.

  But I didn’t turn out meek, or sweet, or any of those things. I got divorced, even though it left me with nothing.

  And if my father thinks he can control me again, he’s got another think coming.

  Chapter Two

  Gabriel

  I open the waist-high beverage fridge and crouch slowly, my head hammering and my stomach sloshing. The guy behind the counter of this liquor store, a skinny kid with a scraggly goatee who looks barely twenty-one, watches me with a mixture of suspicion and concern, like I’m e
ither going to rob him or pass out on the floor.

  The second one’s much more likely. I don’t rob stores to begin with, but after last night, passing out on this grimy tile floor sounds like a fucking relief, not that I have time. I’ve got to be in the Senator’s office at ten on the dot or I’ll have blown the very last chance I’ve got.

  Then I’d be well and truly fucked.

  I reach in, pushing aside a red bottle of Gatorade. The movement wobbles me a little off-balance, and I go down on one knee. Then I go down on the other, because kneeling in front of this fridge is better than crouching in front of it.

  I pause, closing my eyes, letting the blessedly cool air wash over me. I’ve taken four Advil already this morning, and even though I somehow kept them down, they haven’t done a goddamn thing. I still feel like someone’s filled my skull with rocks and shaken it.

  Probably shouldn’t have gotten stumble-drunk wasted at the Best Western motel bar last night, you dipshit, I think.

  And hell, I knew that as I was doing it. I didn’t even have a good time drinking shitty whiskey until I was porch-crawling sloshed, I just knew that it was my last chance to do it before I spent a couple of months babysitting a stuck-up princess of a Senator’s daughter and living on the estate of a man so famously prudish he probably showers in long johns.

  Just get through it, Kane, I tell myself. You’ve gotten through shit before.

  Slowly, I reach my arm out and start going through the fridge. I move aside bottles of Coke, Diet Coke, and Sprite. I move aside orange and red bottles of Gatorade, then the green Gatorade, getting more and more frantic.

  Where the fuck is it? They have to fucking have it.

  Don’t tell me they’re sold out or some shit.

  I start pulling bottles out and putting them on the floor. Soon there’s a line of them next to me on the dirty off-white tiles, and even though the kid behind the counter is clearly getting agitated, I ignore him.