The Pleasures of Summer Page 2

  By the time they found her, she had swum four lengths at a fast crawl. The uniformed maid stumbled when she saw that Summer wasn’t wearing a swimsuit. With a blush and an apologetic glance at the visitor, she hurried away.

  Through her tinted swim goggles, she watched as the bodyguard stood at the side of the pool, shifting from foot to foot. She kept him waiting while she swam another length and then she climbed out, took off her goggles and shook her hair.

  ‘Towel,’ she said in a clipped tone, stretching out her hand in his direction.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he fetched the towel from the sun-lounger. Keeping his eyes averted from her naked body, he carefully handed it over.

  Summer deliberately didn’t thank him. She wrapped the towel around her hair, rubbed it dry and dropped the wet towel at her feet. Stepping closer, she stared him down. He was in great shape for his age, but no match for her.

  ‘I swim three kilometres every morning at seven and I expect you to join me. Oh, and be a darling and make sure that there are no leaves or insects in the pool before I arrive.’ She strolled away, leaving him staring open mouthed at her ass – and walked straight into her dad.

  That was the end of Bob.

  After that, operation Defeat the Bodyguard became her favourite game. Tyler, the driver, arrived the following day. She managed to clock up two speeding tickets during the afternoon she spent with him. Her dad had gone crazy about that one.

  Then there was Joe. He was a real sweetie and a strict vegetarian. Serving braised liver for lunch and steak tartare for dinner two nights in a row had ended that particular assignment. The poor guy had been almost barfing while he watched her eat and she wasn’t sure if she could keep that much protein down.

  Thursday brought the charming Tony who had a penchant for expensive Italian suits. Luckily he was gay. A heated kiss in her father’s office while she was giving him a tour of the house ensured that he was sent packing before his first hour was up. She really should have mentioned the hidden security cameras.

  The last guy was bald, monosyllabic and built like a brick house. He had been a tough nut to crack until she had taken him lingerie shopping for three hours, insisting that he sit outside her dressing room and view each outfit she tried on. Asking the assistant to take their photograph was probably a bit mean, but then so was sharing them on FB. He hadn’t returned the next day.

  No new bodyguards had arrived since Friday.

  Summer stretched and yawned before she got up. She would be a sweet, dutiful daughter until her dad left for Atlanta. Casual clothes and no make-up except a quick slick of her favourite lip-gloss. She had almost reached the landing when she heard her father’s voice in the hallway below.

  ‘What do you mean, you have no one available? You’re on a retainer, Niall. Make someone available, for Christ’s sakes.’

  She sat down on the stairs. Operation Defeat the Bodyguard obviously wasn’t over yet. When her dad’s voice dropped, she tilted her head to catch the rest of his words.

  ‘I want the best. I don’t care what it costs. Just get him here by this evening.’

  Summer heard the door to the breakfast room slam. Her dad sounded worried, and that was unlike him. She rested her head against the banisters while she twisted the ring on her right hand. The plain gold band had once belonged to her mother. It was the only piece of jewellery she had been allowed to wear at school and now it wouldn’t come off.

  She wondered what her mother would think if she saw her now. The Hampstead mansion was very different from the one-roomed flat where her parents had spent the first few years of their marriage. What would her mother say if she knew about all the naughty things she had done during the week? Worst of all, she wondered if her mum knew that she was planning to go to an exclusive fetish club with her friend Molly?

  Out of habit, Summer kissed the ring. She was being foolish. Her mum was dead. Climbing to her feet, she hurried down the rest of the stairs.

  The blonde’s parted lips were moist and glossy. She was kneeling at his feet, her position in contrast to her prim office uniform of black skirt, white blouse and hair in a neat chignon. ‘Please, Sir, allow me to pleasure you,’ she begged.

  Flynn looked down at her, appreciating the angle of her neck in that position. He would strip her later and mess up that efficient hairstyle, but not yet. ‘You haven’t earned that right yet. Has she, Lottie?’

  The raven-haired siren shook her glossy bob. ‘No, Sir. I should be the one to pleasure you.’ Lottie wore a skin-tight latex outfit that showed off her generous curves. She was tall enough that her six-inch heels brought her close to his height. And put the collar she wore right into convenient grabbing distance.

  He smiled slowly. ‘I’m inclined to agree. Lottie, you can show her how to worship me with your mouth.’ He turned to the blonde. ‘Bella, remain kneeling there and watch. Pay attention. There will be an exam later, and you won’t like the penalty if you fail.’

  He settled himself back on the couch while Lottie dropped to her knees in front of him and unfastened his leather trousers.

  A buzzing sensation against his hip distracted him. He hadn’t given her permission to use the vibrator, so what was it? The pulsation continued, accompanied by the sound of the Tardis.

  ‘Fuck!’ Reluctantly, Flynn opened his eyes, allowing the vision of the two gorgeous women to dissipate, and groped for his phone. The boat rocked as he rooted through the outer pocket of his fishing waders to find it and fumble it out.

  ‘This had better be good,’ he growled. ‘Lottie LeBlanc was about to give me a BJ.’

  His boss’s voice was disgustingly cheerful, but not at all sympathetic. ‘Tell her to take a rain check. I have a job for you. An interesting one.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Flynn was wary but intrigued. Niall knew that his idea of an interesting job involved an H&K semi, a dozen bad guys and blowing things up with C4. He wasn’t back at full strength yet after the last, and hopefully final, round of surgery, but he was prepared to fake it. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Security detail. Nothing too taxing, don’t worry.’

  Damn, how did Niall Moore do it? He hadn’t told his boss about his injuries, but somehow he had found out. It was creepy how he did that. Niall went on, ‘It’s easy work, but the fringe benefits are stunning.’

  ‘Go on.’ This he had to hear.

  ‘You know those blondes you see in glossy magazines and wonder if they’re real?’

  ‘I read Jane’s, An Cosantóir and the New Yorker.’ The last time Flynn had used a glossy magazine, he was jamming it into a toaster to use as a detonator.

  ‘In that case, you might have missed her. Summer O’Sullivan. She’s under threat from some dipshit moron with a grudge against her father, Tim. You’re just the man to keep her safe.’

  That was a name Flynn knew. ‘O’Sullivan Airlines? I didn’t know the mouthy little git had a daughter.’ Then a memory clicked. ‘Hold on. You’re talking about the blonde airhead?’

  The photo on the front page of the Daily Star of Summer O’Sullivan, naked except for a Garda jacket, screaming abuse as she was being dragged along Grafton Street, had sold lots of papers.

  ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I’m not babysitting that brat. Get someone else.’

  ‘There is no one else.’ For the first time, Flynn caught a hint of exhaustion in Niall’s voice. ‘Come on, Fug, do me a favour. O’Sullivan is the sort of windbag who will ruin the agency’s reputation if I can’t deliver. And I’ve no one else left.’

  Flynn didn’t bother getting pissed about being called Fug. He knew damn well that when anyone from the Wing called him that, it stood for Fucked Up Guy, not Flynn Ulysses Grant. In a way, considering the source, it was almost a compliment. He focused on the important question. ‘How come you have no operatives? Last time we talked, you had half a dozen qualified men.’

  ‘Civilians.’ Niall sounded disgusted. ‘Not one of them can cope with the little madam. They’re
too polite. So I thought, who’s the least polite person I know?’

  ‘And fuck you too, you bastard,’ Flynn said, but it was half-hearted. He couldn’t argue with the truth. ‘It’s pity work.’

  ‘Okay, it’s not East Timor, but it’s real work. It’s only for a few weeks; you can get back to fighting form and take a more challenging job afterwards. I promise I’ll find you something more to your taste.’

  ‘Something with a lot of C4?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘Could be. There’s a nice little covert-ops job coming up, something that calls for your special skills. If I’m sure you are up to the job.’

  ‘That’s blackmail!’ But it was a half-hearted protest.

  ‘Suck it up, Fug, and get your ass down to the O’Sullivan place in London ASAP. I’ll send you the details.’ Niall disconnected the call before Flynn could protest any further.

  ‘Well, fuck!’ He stared at his phone in frustration, but knew he’d been had. Somehow, his old CO had conned him into babysitting a blonde brat for a couple of weeks.

  2

  Dunboy House, the O’Sullivan mansion near Hampstead Heath, reminded Flynn of one of the big houses in the midlands of Ireland. It was a huge Regency-style building, with colonnades, marble steps and a beech-lined avenue. But it was surrounded by a demesne wall that wouldn’t keep out a child. He was going to have his work cut out for him.

  He announced himself at the security gate.

  For an instant, he considered how out of place he was going to look, still rough from his fishing trip, but he didn’t allow it to bother him. They needed his expertise, not GQ looks. He’d leave the pretty boy stuff to Niall. He checked his watch; yes, he was on time.

  When the gates opened, Flynn sped up the driveway. He stopped the Venom, a bike that was more powerful than it looked, outside the front door and grabbed his rucksack. Out of long habit, he hefted it as if it didn’t contain an arsenal’s worth of weapons. It took more effort than usual. Damn his injuries. He was determined to be back at his fighting best as soon as possible.

  The front door was slightly ajar. The security was so sloppy it was scary. ‘Al Qaeda could waltz in here,’ he muttered. Even at the best of times, this was stupid. When a nutcase was making death threats against your family, it was criminal.

  He didn’t bother ringing the bell to announce his arrival, but pushed the door open and walked inside. An open door was an invitation in his book. Hell, anything not secured with laser and a triple deadlock was an invitation to Flynn.

  The hall was cool and dim, with oak panels and black and white marble tiles that looked original. A wide wooden staircase drew his eyes upwards and a movement at the top caught his attention.

  A blonde, wearing only a skimpy towel tucked around her breasts and which barely covered her hips, fussed with her damp hair as she descended. ‘Malcolm,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘I’m going to the sauna. Send someone with towels.’

  Flynn whistled in appreciation. The legs revealed by that inadequate towel were spectacular, long and shapely and lightly tanned. Her feet were elegant and high-arched, with nails painted silver and pink. Those luscious thighs were the stuff of fantasy, and Flynn allowed himself a brief vision of how she would look without the towel.

  She stopped on the last step, artfully widening her eyes as if she was surprised to see him there. Yeah right, as if she hadn’t been aware of him from the moment she turned onto the landing.

  She looked him up and down, examining him, and then turned away dismissively. ‘The servants’ entrance is around the rear,’ she said, pointing to the front door.

  He laughed and moved closer, onto the step where she stood. This close, he could see the individual lashes around her dark blue eyes. She wore no make-up, but smelled of something exotic and expensive.

  She took a half step back before she halted, staring up at him defiantly.

  ‘I usually have to pay someone to say something that corny. But don’t worry, I won’t forget.’

  On impulse, he moved in and gave her damp hair a slight tug. Something about the texture was wrong; it wasn’t vibrant enough for her personality. For an instant, she softened, swaying slightly in his direction, before indignation stiffened her spine and she snapped, ‘Take your hands off me.’

  Flynn let go. He’d had the answer he needed.

  ‘Just checking if the curtains matched the carpet – since you so kindly gave me a flash of the carpet on your way down.’

  She gasped in outrage, yanking the towel tight around her. ‘How dare you?’

  He laughed. ‘You can ask that after parading in front of a strange man wearing only a towel? You must be kidding.’

  ‘I’ll have you fired, just like the others.’

  ‘I’m disappointed. I didn’t think you’d give in so easily. That’s blondes for you, I suppose, even fake ones.’

  The flash in her eyes made him chuckle.

  ‘You stink!’

  He hadn’t had a chance to shower since leaving the boat, so it was true. ‘That’s the best you can come up with? What are you, five?’

  A cough from the side of the hallway interrupted him. ‘Ahem. If you two are finished flirting, I need to speak to Mr Grant.’

  Flynn gave her a half smile, one that promised interesting things in the future, before turning away.

  ‘Teflon’ Tim O’Sullivan was shorter than he had expected. On television, where he was frequently seen exhorting the government to get out of the airline business and stop interfering with him, he was larger than life. In his office, surprisingly modern for such an ancient building, he was small and wiry, full of nervous energy and an air of ferocious intelligence.

  He waved Flynn to a seat, a large leather armchair that looked at least a hundred years old, while he sat behind a heavy mahogany desk. Instead Flynn took a modern wooden chair, one that would allow him to spring up without fighting his way out of a pile of horsehair. O’Sullivan said nothing, but his shrewd eyes took note.

  ‘I’m sorry about that little episode,’ he began. ‘But I’m glad I saw it. As you’ll have gathered, Summer is a bit of a handful and she resents having a bodyguard. She’s developed a talent for getting rid of them. I’m glad to see that you’re not so easily intimidated.’

  Flynn smiled briefly. ‘No, I think it’s safe to say that I don’t scare easily.’

  O’Sullivan flicked a glance at his laptop screen. ‘Niall Moore gave me some of your background. You sound more than capable of taking care of my daughter.’

  ‘I’m happy you think so.’ Of course, Niall hadn’t told O’Sullivan everything. If he knew just how lethal Flynn was, he would never have invited him into his house.

  While other elite Special Ops divisions boasted about how tough the training was for Navy SEALS or the SAS, the Irish Army Rangers Wing said nothing, but just got on with business.

  O’Sullivan sighed. ‘It’s the worst time to have to be away, but I can’t help it.’

  ‘Can you brief me on the situation, sir?’ Flynn had some details from Niall, but it was good practice to make sure there were no gaps in his information. Besides, everyone lied, and it would be useful to see what O’Sullivan lied about.

  The older man leaned forwards, spinning the computer screen around so Flynn could see it. ‘That bloody crash. The OS723 from Atlanta crashed coming in to Heathrow and seventeen people were killed. The BAA inquiry has already cleared us; it was caused by a wheel which fell off an earlier plane, but do you think the crackpots will believe it? Oh no, it must be my fault. Just because it was a budget flight does not mean we cut corners. Damn it, our pilots are better paid than average. Do you –’

  O’Sullivan was all set to continue his rant, but a look from Flynn pulled him up. He calmed down slightly. ‘Anyway, I have to go to Atlanta for a meeting with the Federal Aviation Authority. I want to expand my operations stateside, but I’m worried about Summer. Especially after that incident last year.’

  Flynn went on alert. ‘What inci
dent?’

  ‘Some guy side-swiped her car less than a mile from here and he didn’t even stop. Not so much as a call to 999. There are a lot of bad feckers around so I don’t want Summer on her own.’

  ‘Why not take her with you?’ It seemed the obvious solution.

  ‘She wants to stay here.’

  ‘With all due respect,’ Flynn was doing his best to be diplomatic, but not sure if he could succeed. ‘This house is a security nightmare. Take her with you or send her somewhere that is safer.’

  O’Sullivan sighed. ‘She won’t come with me. Says she hates Atlanta. And nothing will make her go back to Ireland.’

  ‘You’re her father. Make her do what she’s told.’ It seemed simple enough to him.

  The older man gave him a look of pity. ‘Easy to see you don’t have children. She’s set on staying here so I need someone to keep her safe. Can you do that?’

  Flynn nodded. ‘As long as it’s understood that only Niall Moore can fire me. She can’t. And I get carte blanche to do whatever it takes to keep her safe.’ O’Sullivan nodded, so Flynn continued, ‘I need the plans for this house, the security system, the staff rota, passwords, list of everyone who has access, any other information you have.’

  O’Sullivan got busy pulling files from his computer, grumbling under his breath about the details Flynn demanded. ‘There’d be less fuss for the President.’

  Flynn heard. ‘That was easier. At least she did what she was told.’

  There was a second of shock, and then O’Sullivan laughed. ‘Now I know my little girl is in good hands.’

  Summer slammed the bedroom door behind her. The nerve of him. Marching through the front door as if he owned the place. And he was scruffy. His leather jacket was worn. His dark jeans were stained with oil and he smelled of fish. What way was that to turn up for a job interview?

  ‘Fish,’ she snapped at her reflection as she tugged her fingers through the tangled mane of hair extensions. For the money they had cost, they should have come with their own personal hairdresser. What had possessed her to go blonde in the first place? She thought it would make her look cute and bubbly, not haggard and high maintenance.