HER ITALIAN BODYGUARD

PROLOGUE

The next day, right around noon, the family of three rolled into town in their sleek, jet-black BMW with windows so tinted you couldn’t tell if someone was inside unless the door swung open. And when it did, they stepped out like something out of a movie. 

That was the first time I saw him—Mark Washington. He was nine, with caramel skin and a crooked smile that didn’t look so much like a flaw as it did a secret he hadn’t yet shared. His dark hair was neatly cut, and he had this confidence about him, even as he stood there in his perfectly ironed polo shirt and cargo shorts, like the whole world was a stage and he’d been cast as the lead. 

I was sitting on the porch, swinging my legs idly over the edge and trying to keep the splinters on our worn-out wooden steps from catching on my socks. A half-melted popsicle was clutched in one hand, dripping steadily onto the faded planks beneath me. Beside me, Diane, my childhood bestfriend was busy sucking on a lollypop, way to immersed into the sweetness to care about my new neighbours.

When his eyes met mine, it was like the air shifted, the kind of moment you don’t realize is significant until years later. At the time, I was too busy trying not to stare. He appeared too clean, too expnesive if you will. Mark waved, a quick, casual motion like we’d known each other forever. And just like that, something shifted in me. I didn’t know it then, but this boy—Mark Washington—was going to change everything. That he would be my damnation.

CHAPTER ONE: HAPPY THIRD ANNIVERSARY

My heart thumps wildly in my chest as I make my way toward Mark’s office on the fifteenth floor. The steady click of my heels against the polished floors echoes in the quiet hallway, a rhythm that matches the pulse in my ears. The blood rush from all the excitement of this particular day is high. Beneath my leather coat, I’m wearing nothing but a delicate lace slip, the kind I know drives him crazy. At twenty-three, I’ve got my life pretty much figured out, or so I like to think. I’m married to my high school sweetheart, Mark Washington, and today marks our third wedding anniversary. 

Most people think Mark bewitched me somehow, or that there’s no way a man like him could actually love me. And can you blame them? He’s sharp, successful, and devastatingly handsome, the kind of man who turns heads even when he’s just grabbing a coffee. But they don’t know what I do: I’m head over heels for him, and he’s just as obsessed with me—maybe even more. Heck, he makes it known I’m his wife everywhere we go.

“Terry,” I greet his PA with a bright smile as I step into the sleek office lobby. 

“Mrs. Washington,” she coos in return, adjusting her glasses with a soft, approving grin. Ah, Mrs. Washington. No matter how many times I hear that title, it never gets old. It always makes the butterflies inside me dance.

“How’s everything coming along?” I ask, glancing at her noticeably round belly. She’s five months along, glowing with that serene joy only expectant mothers seem to master. It’s impossible not to feel happy for her. This is her first kid with her husband John. They got married over the summer last year and of course, we were in attendance.

“I’m doing great, and so is the baby,” she replies, her hand instinctively resting on her stomach. Her smile is warm, almost maternal already, and it’s contagious. 

“Well, keep at it. You’re rocking it,” I say with genuine cheer. “Mark’s in, right?” 

“He’s in the conference room right now,” Terry answers, glancing at her monitor to check his schedule. “He’s meeting with a group of startups to decide which ones to fund. Should be done in…” She trails off, tapping her screen. “About ten minutes.” 

“Perfect,” I say, adjusting the lapel of my coat. “I’ll just wait for him.” 

“Happy anniversary,” she calls after me, her voice sweet and sincere. 

“Thanks, Terry,” I reply, flashing her another smile as I turn toward the plush seating area by the window. 

Mark always insists we enjoy this stage of life before we think about kids—traveling the world, chasing our dreams, and, of course, indulging in plenty of amazing sex. And while I can’t wait for the day we start a family, I have to admit: these carefree years have been something else. Today, though, I’m determined to make him remember exactly why we fell for each other in the first place. 

Using my spare key to his office, I let myself in, the soft click of the lock barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning. The room smells faintly of his cologne, a warm blend of cedar and spice, and it feels like stepping into his world. I make my way to his chair, sinking into the buttery leather with a satisfied sigh, crossing one leg over the other. Anticipation bubbles in my chest, a mix of nerves and excitement. This anniversary is going to be unforgettable. I’ll make sure of it.

My gaze drifts to the large portrait of him on the wall. Damn. I didn’t think it was possible for someone to look more handsome in a photo than in real life, but there he is—commanding, confident, and downright perfect. Goddess! I must have saved a country in my previosu life.

On his desk, three framed pictures catch my eye, each one a snapshot of our story. The first is from when we were kids, grinning wide with scraped knees and sticky hands—proof of simpler times. The second is from high school, his arm draped over my shoulder like it was where he always belonged. And the last is from our wedding day, the sunlight catching the tears in his eyes as we said “I do.” Mark had insisted on documenting our memories, preserving them like treasures. How could anyone not fall in love with a man like that? 

The sound of the door unlocking snaps me out of my thoughts. My heart leaps as I shrug off my coat, letting it fall to the floor. Beneath, I’m wearing nothing but the lace slip I’d chosen specifically for this moment. A small, wicked smile plays on my lips as I turn toward the door, waiting for him to walk in. 

But the moment he does, my stomach plummets. 

“I think the second startup had a great presentation and—” Mark’s voice trails off abruptly as he steps inside, his COO, Mr. Waterford, trailing close behind. 

“Oh, fuck!” Mark blurts out, spinning around so fast he nearly knocks into the doorframe. His ears burn red as he keeps his back to me, one hand raised as if to block the view. Meanwhile, I’m scrambling for my coat, frantically yanking it off the floor and wrapping it around myself. 

Mr. Waterford freezes for a split second, his face a mixture of shock and amusement, before clearing his throat awkwardly. “I’ll, uh... I’ll see you later,” he mumbles, making a hasty retreat without so much as a backward glance. 

The door shuts behind him, leaving only the two of us. 

This was not how it was supposed to go. 

Mark stays where he is, shoulders tense, a low groan escaping him. “What were you thinking?” he mutters, half laughing, half exasperated. 

“Surprise?” I offer weakly, trying not to die of embarrassment as I clutch the coat tightly around me. 

He turns his head slightly, enough for me to catch the flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Happy anniversary, Mrs. Washington,” he says, shaking his head, the warmth in his voice melting some of my mortification. 

“Happy anniversary, Mr. Washington,” I say softly, a playful smile curling my lips as he pulls me into a kiss. His lips are warm, lingering against mine, and for a moment, I forget everything else. Inluding what has just a happened a few minutes ago.

“Did I ruin it?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper as I pull back just enough to meet his gaze. 

“Ruin it?” he chuckles, the deep sound vibrating in his chest. There’s an amused glint in his eye as he turns toward the door, clicking the lock into place and sliding the latch at the top for extra security. 

He turns back to me, his expression shifting into something darker, more intense. Slowly, he starts unbuttoning his shirt, each movement deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. “No, darling,” he says, his voice low and rich, “you could never ruin anything for me.” He lets the shirt fall open, revealing the taut muscles of his chest, and I feel my pulse quicken. 

He takes a step closer, closing the space between us. His fingers trail along the edge of my coat, teasing, before resting on the lapels. “Now,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet, “get that coat off you.” 

Heat blooms in my cheeks as I let the coat slide from my shoulders, the fabric pooling at my feet. His gaze roams over me, and I can see the desire flickering in his eyes, unmistakable and electric. 

“Perfect,” he whispers, his hands moving to my waist as he pulls me closer, his lips brushing against my ear. “Happy anniversary, Mrs. Washington. Let’s make it one to remember.”