The Bodyguard’s Siren
She spots Giovanni, and I swear her eyes sparkle like she’s seeing dessert.
“Oh, shit,” I mutter.
Giovanni raises a brow. “Problem?”
“She’s going to flirt with you.”
His face does that flat, unimpressed look he saves just for me. “I don’t flirt with clients’ friends.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, “she’s vicious when she wants something.”
We reach the table. Nola practically lounges across the cushions like an overconfident cat.
“CARAAAAA!” she squeals, then turns to Giovanni, slow and predatory. “And who,” she purrs, “is this tall, dark, ruin-my-life specimen?”
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