I Told You To Run But You Didn't (Georgia) novel Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Georgia’s POV

2 Finished

By the time Harvey’s car dropped me off, the estate was bathed in darkness and silence. He drove away, leaving me standing alone on the path to my bungalow. I was exhausted, drained from the drama with Lucas, and all I wanted was to fall into bed.

As I approached my front door, I saw a small orange ember glowing in the shadows of the porch. I froze.

The ember lifted, brightening for a moment, and briefly illuminated Estevan’s face as he took a drag from a cigarette. I’ve never seen him smoke before, I thought.

My first instinct was to just go inside. My workday was over. He wasn’t my problem until 8 a.m.

Then he stood up, and swayed, just for a second. He was unsteady.

Damn it. I whispered to myself, my bodyguard training overriding my exhaustion. Is he drunk?

A compromised target is still a target. I walked towards im. “Estevan? Are you okay?”

He turned, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face when he saw me. His tie was loosened, and his eyes were unfocused. “Georgia,” he said, his words slightly slurred. “You came back.”

“I live here, remember?” I said, my tone flat. “What are you doing? And are you drunk?”

“I am celebrating,” he announced, taking another long dag from the cigarette before flicking it into the darkness. “My brilliant new bodyguard, who saves my life and then gives me brilliant, evil ideas.” He took a step toward me and stumbled.

I caught his arm instinctively. “Okay, celebration’s over. Let’s get you to the big house.”

“An excellent idea,” he murmured, leaning heavily on me. I had to put his arm over my shoulder to support his weight as we started the slow walk to the main villa. He was surprisingly heavy, all dense muscle. He lowered his head, his lips brushing against my ear.

“You smell good,” he whispered, his warm breath sending a shiver down my spine. “Not like gunpowder and asphalt.”

I ignored him, focusing on getting him to the door. “Just walk.”

“Did you enjoy it?” he purred, his voice a low, jealous rumble.

“Enjoy what?” I asked through clenched teeth.

“The kiss,” he whispered. “With your pathetic little ex-husband. Did it feel like coming home?”

I stopped dead, pushing him upright so he was leaning against a stone pillar. “That is none of your business,”

I hissed, my face burning with anger and embarrassment. “And you are heavy. Walk straight.”

He just laughed, a low, rumbling sound that was unnervingly attractive. “So fiery,” he murmured, his eyes half-closed. “So defiant. Just like… Zane,”

Annoyed and completely unnerved, I practically dragged him the rest of the way to his front door and rang the bell, handing him off to a very worried-looking Butler.

III

O

1/3

11:44 Sat,

Chapter 43

92 Finished

“He’s all yours,” I said, and walked back to my bungalow, his drunken, nonsensical, and far-too-accurate whispers echoing in my head.

The next morning, I woke up with a hammer pounding against the inside of my skull. Oh, gosh. I fumbled for the aspirin on the nightstand, my head throbbing with every movement. There’s no way I can work today. But the thought was immediately crushed by the memory of my contract. Your time is mine.

Grumbling, I forced myself through a hot shower, the steam doing little to ease the vice-like grip on my head. I dressed in practical cargo pants and a t-shirt and walked to the main house to report for duty, only to find Harvey standing in the foyer, looking calm and collected.

“I’m ready for my assignment,” I said, my voice tight. “Where is he?”

“Good morning, Ms. Sinclair,” Harvey replied smoothly “The Boss left for the city an hour ago.”

My jaw tightened. “He left without me? I’m his bodyguard. I’m supposed to be with him.”

“Indeed,” Harvey said, and added. “However, after your late night… Mr. Salvatore felt you would benefit from a day of rest. His explicit orders were that you were not to be disturbed.”

Before I could argue with that infuriating, condescending logic, the main door opened. A uniformed courier stood there with a small, shoebox-sized package. “Delivery for Georgia Sinclair.”

My blood ran cold. How did anyone know I was here?

Harvey signed for the package and handed it to me, his expression grim. I took it back to my bungalow, my heart starting to pound in a rhythm that matched the throbbing in my head. I placed it on the coffee table and carefully sliced open the tape.

Inside, nestled in foam, was a digital timer already counting down from five minutes, wired to a block of C4 plastic explosive.

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