The Boss and His Cowgirl(4)

Clay backed away. “I’ll get out of here so you have some privacy.”

She nodded but didn’t speak so he gave her arm a little pat and steadied her as she slipped off the counter to stand on the marble floor. Once she had her balance, he backed out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. He almost ran over Hunter, who’d been hovering just outside.

“Dammit, Hunt. How did this happen? How did the protesters get inside?” Clay was as angry at himself as he was his security chief. Security should have watched out for her. Hell, he should have watched out for her. She was, ultimately, his responsibility.

Hunt made a noise that resembled a growl. “A group came through a secondary entrance in the basement and got to the main control board. Building security thinks it might have been an inside job. They’re investigating.”

Lightning flashed beyond the sheer curtains covering the bedroom window, followed shortly by thunder. Frowning, Hunt pulled out his cell phone, swiped the screen then punched an app icon. “I didn’t know we had weather moving in tonight.” He checked the forecast and radar then shrugged. “Nothing but boomers and some rain. Now, about Georgie. It won’t happen again, Clay. I promise. I’ll put a man on her personally.”

Clay tunneled his fingers through his hair. “As soon as she’s—” A massive boom rattled the window glass and seconds later, all the lights in the suite went out. A scream from inside the bathroom had both men scrambling—Hunt for light, Clay for the door handle.

Jerking the door open, Clay found Georgie kneeling on the floor, her head down, shoulders hunched. Was she gagging? Jeez, but he hated that sound. Had ever since college and drunken frat parties. He kicked the door shut in Hunter’s face and bent down. Using the flashlight app on his cell, he checked her over. Clay lifted her long brown hair back from her face, though she tried to turn away. Georgie’s throat worked as she swallowed hard, coughing with the effort.

To combat his very visceral reaction to what was happening, Clay recited the Gettysburg Address. Then the Preamble to the US Constitution. He figured he’d have to start on the Declaration of Independence next but Georgie finally inhaled and turned an apologetic gaze on him. He stood to retrieve another washcloth.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, not looking at him as he crouched beside her.

He wondered if her heightened color was a result of exertion or embarrassment. “It’s okay—” He bit off the next word, an endearment that slipped too easily into his head. To cover, he brushed her hair back over her shoulders. Pet names didn’t come as easy to him as they did Boone. The fact that one had formed on his tongue should have concerned him, but he couldn’t work up the energy to worry about it at the moment. He handed her the washcloth and she wiped her mouth and face but still wouldn’t look at him. It was then he realized she’d stripped down to a bra and panties—red ones. He refused to process that visual, focusing instead on the situation. “What happened? You seemed okay when I walked out.”

Georgie swallowed a dry heave and wrapped her arms around her chest. “I...panicked. The dark. And the storm. I’m a tad...claustrophobic. Or something.”

Clay swallowed the insane urge to laugh as his adrenaline rush faded. He bit the insides of his cheeks and when that didn’t help, he bit his tongue in an aborted effort to stop the sputtering laugh that finally escaped. He immediately apologized. “It’s not funny. I know. I’m sorry.”

A choking sound spurted from her. She’d hidden her face in her hands so he snagged the robe from the back of the door and draped it across her shoulders and back. She slipped her arms into the sleeves and twisted her body so she could see him. Clay was surprised to see her biting her lips as if she, too, was trying to hold back her laughter. Then the robe gapped and he glimpsed the bruise on her ribs. He curled his hands into fists to keep from ripping the robe off to examine her. Those bastards had marked her with their idiotic stunt. That quelled his urge to laugh.

“You’re bruised, Georgie. And you have that bump on your head. I’d like a doctor to look at you, okay?”

Her forehead furrowed in confusion before she glanced down and saw what he was talking about. “Oh. I am. Huh.” Her gaze caught on his. “I was too busy being scared witless to notice, and it was dark so I couldn’t see...”

She rubbed absently at her pale skin, and Clay reminded himself Georgie was in his employ and traumatized. He was not as big a jerk as his father or brothers when it came to women. He refused to be, but damn if he wasn’t suddenly aware that Georgie had been hiding some very interesting attributes behind her boxy suits and thick glasses—said attributes all but staring him in the face, despite the modest cut of that red lingerie and the robe.