Her Three Protectors [The Hot Millionaires #3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)
The Hot Millionaires #3
Her Three Protectors
Porcha Ballantine’s husband is dead, and now the killers are out to get her.
On the run and desperate, Porcha turns to an old friend for help. When he dispatches three hunks with attitude to help her, she instinctively trusts them. As Troy Anderson, Adam Cole, and Beck Easton slowly unravel Porcha’s problems, they also tackle the subject of her sexuality and invite her to play with them. After three years of marriage to a man who controlled her every waking moment, she’s more than ready for some fun.
When Porcha is snatched by the bad guys, the action moves to Miami as her protectors do whatever they must to find her. They grapple with drug dealers, diamond smugglers, and the dregs of the underworld, putting their lives on the line for the woman they love. It’s taken them years to find her and they’re damned if they’ll let her go…
Genre: Contemporary, Ménage a Trois/Quatre
Length: 60,406 words
HER THREE PROTECTORS
The Hot Millionaires #3
Zara Chase
MENAGE EVERLASTING
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
ABOUT THE E-BOOK YOU HAVE PURCHASED: Your non-refundable purchase of this e-book allows you to only ONE LEGAL copy for your own personal reading on your own personal computer or device. You do not have resell or distribution rights without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner of this book. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer to peer program, for free or for a fee, or as a prize in any contest. Such action is illegal and in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law. Distribution of this e-book, in whole or in part, online, offline, in print or in any way or any other method currently known or yet to be invented, is forbidden. If you do not want this book anymore, you must delete it from your computer.
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
If you find a Siren-BookStrand e-book being sold or shared illegally, please let us know at
legal@sirenbookstrand.com
A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Ménage Everlasting
HER THREE PROTECTORS
Copyright © 2012 by Zara Chase
E-book ISBN: 978-1-61926-877-7
First E-book Publication: July 2012
Cover design by Les Byerley
All art and logo copyright © 2012 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
Letter to Readers
Dear Readers,
If you have purchased this copy of Her Three Protectors by Zara Chase from BookStrand.com or its official distributors, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.
Regarding E-book Piracy
This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.
The author and the publisher work very hard to bring our paying readers high-quality reading entertainment.
This is Zara Chase’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Ms. Chase’s right to earn a living from her work.
Amanda Hilton, Publisher
www.SirenPublishing.com
www.BookStrand.com
HER THREE PROTECTORS
The Hot Millionaires #3
ZARA CHASE
Copyright © 2012
Chapter One
“Yes, who is it?”
Porcha pushed the button on the video entry phone, a simple task made difficult because her fingers shook so badly.
“You’re expecting us.”
Us? Porcha’s heart crashed against her rib cage. She peered at the three figures filling the small screen, hyperventilating as panic and confusion clouded her brain. Tension and lack of sleep made it difficult to think straight. Was this for real, or could it be a clever trap? One man. She’d asked Georgio to send one man. Why would he think she needed three?
“Georgio sent us. The name’s Anderson.”
The speaker was at least six two, with the swarthy complexion of a South American and black hair tied back in a ponytail. As though sensing her scrutinizing him, he removed his shades and revealed intelligent dark eyes that flashed with annoyance. Clearly, he didn’t appreciate being kept waiting. Too bad! Porcha wasn’t about to let anyone in until she was absolutely sure they were who they said they were.
The designer stubble peppering Anderson’s jaw did little to disguise his film-star looks. His aquiline features, strong jaw, and deep vertical lines in a forehead currently knotted with impatience hinted at both competence and tough resourcefulness. If he really was Georgio’s man, she’d expect nothing less.
What the hell…her life was on the line, and she was wasting precious time ogling a fit-looking man. His appearance didn’t mean diddly-squat. The people out to get her might have chosen a handsome man to lull her into a false sense of security, and she’d almost fallen for it. Porcha grabbed her iPad and pulled up the picture Georgio had e-mailed of the man he was sending. They looked one and the same, although the picture didn’t do him justice.
“We’re kinda conspicuous out here, Ms. Ballantine.”
“I…I was only expecting one of you.”
The man calling himself Anderson hitched impossibly broad shoulders. “Georgio told us all to come. We’re just obeying orders.”
Yes, but whose orders? “I’m not sure.”
“Look, open the door. If you’re worried, I’ll come up on my own. Or call Georgio and get confirmation that he sent us all.” Anderson glanced over his shoulder, as though he disliked hanging about in broad daylight in such a public place. “We’ll wait, but not all day.”
Porcha went with her instincts. Something about Anderson’s expression made her feel inclined to trust him, and Porcha didn’t trust easily. Just as well, or she’d have been dead by now. She hesitated for a fraction longer, came to a decision, and pushed the button to open the street door.
“Penthouse B,” she said abruptly.
It would take a few minutes for the elevator to whisk them up, so Porcha made the most of the delay and sprang into action. She inserted coloured contact lenses that changed her eyes from their distinctive emerald green to a dull, forgettable gray and then covered them with thick horn-rimmed glasses containing clear lenses. Pushing her chestnut hair into a containing net, she hastily fitted on a long blonde wig and pulled a loose shirt over her tall frame, hoping it would disguise her curves. No matter what else she did to change her identity, she’d discovered with almost-fatal consequences that her assets tended to make her stand out.
Porcha had practised her transformation technique many times before and now had it down to a fine art. She checked her watch and nodded with grim satisfact
ion. Seventy-five seconds. Not bad.
Her hearing was acute, but there were no telltale signs of the elevator arriving yet. The doors squeaked when they opened on this floor. Porcha had made sure of that by wedging a small lump of metal in the place where they folded back—large enough to make the scrape a warning, not so big that it stopped them from opening.
She reached for her purse and extracted her S&W revolver, comforted by the feel of the grip that fitted in her hand just perfectly. Porcha hadn’t had to shoot to kill, not yet, but she knew how. She’d spent hours on the range—Sal had insisted on that—and she’d had enough close shaves recently to know that she could fire at another human being without hesitation if that person was firing at her. No question about it. Her survival instincts overrode the feminine squeamishness she could no longer afford to indulge.
A sound reached her ears, and she froze behind the door, training the revolver at its centre. Boots on the stairs—three sets of them, by the sound of it. It couldn’t be Georgio’s men. They couldn’t possibly have run up twelve flights of stairs in less time than it would have taken the elevator to get here.
Could they?
She tensed when the feet came to a halt outside her door and the bell rang.
“Ms. Ballantine, it’s Anderson.” What the hell? “Check your e-mail. I just asked Georgio to send you confirmation that we’re the good guys, here at his bidding.” She thought she heard him growl something rude before adding, “Seems he forgot to mention that part.”
“Just a minute.”
She grabbed her iPad, accessed her e-mail, and, sure enough, Georgio’s confirmation blinked back at her.
“Didn’t tell you I was sending you a round-the-clock bodyguard because I knew you’d say you didn’t need it. You do! You can trust these guys, babe. They’re the best I have, and they won’t let you down. Sal would have wanted you to make use of them.”
Damn right she wouldn’t have asked for them, but Georgio knew the mention of Sal’s name would engender complete capitulation on her part. Her training went too deep for it to be any other way. Damn it, Georgio shouldn’t have done this! The more people who knew where and who she was, the less chance she had of coming out of this alive.
She heard the murmur of voices coming from the other side of her door, which was the last thing she needed. None of her neighbours knew she was here, but these guys could ruin everything if she didn’t get them off that landing. They weren’t exactly inconspicuous, but she got the impression that they were loyal to Georgio and would camp out on her doorstep until she opened the door, or until Georgio called them off.
She put her gun away, shot back the bolts and dead bolt, and opened the door, instinctively shielding her body with it as she ushered them in. A faint sigh of appreciation slipped past her lips as they filed past her. In spite of everything, she still appeared to possess the capacity to admire a decent male body—or rather, three of them. The spacious room seemed to shrink as they moved into it, hardly making a sound and not the slightest bit out of breath following their long jog up the stairs.
Porcha appraised her unlikely saviours as they in turn assessed her. Anderson’s above-average looks when viewed through an entry phone were nothing compared to the real deal. Standing slightly in front of the other two, legs apart as though ready to move at a moment’s notice, he regarded her with a combination of interest and irritation at being mucked about. She sensed power, ruthlessness, and determination in his psyche—attributes that she could put to good use if she decided to keep him around.
Anderson was wearing a tank top and cargo pants, combat boots on his feet. She got a close-up view of his torso and didn’t find anything to object to in his toned musculature, bulging biceps, and trim waist. This guy spent a lot of hours keeping in shape, and she suspected his ripped body didn’t result exclusively from time wasted throwing weights about in a gym. He was a man of action, and in spite of her perilous situation, she wouldn’t mind being on the receiving end of the type of action he reserved for the opposite sex. It had been a while, and being constantly in fear for her life appeared to be the ultimate aphrodisiac.
“Georgio should have warned you that he’d sent us mob handed.” Anderson’s voice was pitched low, a hint of anger resonating in his tone, like he didn’t appreciate people wasting his time.
Porcha shrugged. “Georgio is a law unto himself.”
“I’m Troy Anderson.” He extended a large hand, and Porcha instinctively gripped it, feeling a reaction all the way to her pussy when his long fingers closed firmly around it and held it for a protracted period. Porcha had large hands and feet to go along with her large breasts, but Troy’s grasp made her right hand feel small. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Er, Jean Ballantine.” She flashed a brief smile. “Likewise, I think. Sorry about the less-than-enthusiastic reception. I guess I’m a bit on edge.”
“Which, presumably, is why Georgio sent us.” Troy shook his head. “He didn’t actually enlighten us as to your precise needs.”
“Me either. I still don’t know why he thought I needed three of you.”
“If you tell us why we’re here, I’ll figure it out.”
“Huh-hum.”
Troy turned to the cause of the interruption.
“This is Adam Cole.” Troy indicated another tall hunk with blond beach-boy good looks and a body to match. Porcha’s hand disappeared in his as he took his turn to put the make on her, deep blue eyes sparkling with good nature.
“Nice to meet you.”
“And last but not least, this is Beck Easton.”
“Damn right I’m not the least.”
Beck flexed impressive biceps to prove the point. He was long haired, too. Deep brown locks curled round a resourceful face that sported soft gray eyes, a square jaw, and a beautifully shaped mouth that constantly drew her eye.
“Pleased to meet you, Beck.”
Porcha shook his hand, feeling rather breathless at the invasion of her space by these testosterone-fuelled jocks. She noticed Troy glancing round, taking in the closed shades and the fact that the furniture was arranged well away from the windows. Porcha turned the dead bolt and then two other locks, observing the speaking look that Troy shared with his buddies as she made the penthouse secure.
“A beautiful lady locking me in with her,” Beck said, rolling his eyes. “Didn’t know it was my birthday.”
Damn it, they weren’t supposed to think she was beautiful! That’s partly what the disguise was all about. Porcha wasn’t the slightest bit vain, but she’d discovered this past week that, along with her body, her looks drew the type of attention she could well do without.
“Quit fooling about, Beck,” Troy said sharply, “and give the lady a chance to tell us why we’re here.”
“Who’s fooling?”
“How can we be of service, ma’am?”
Adam actually made her laugh when he accompanied his question with a courtly bow. It sounded unnatural, mainly because it seemed like forever since she’d had anything to laugh about. It felt good to relax her vigilance, even momentarily, and she was aware of just a little of the coiled tension trickling out of her.
“It’s nothing really, which is why I’m embarrassed that Georgio sent all of you. I’ve lost my passport, that’s all.” She wasn’t ready to trust them yet and said the first ridiculous thing that occurred to her, accompanying her words with a helpless flap of her hands. The scatty-female bit usually did the trick. “Georgio’s an old friend and said he’d arrange for a new one so I could get home to England.”
“You’re British?” Beck asked.
Porcha smiled. “What gave me away?”
Beck clutched his hands dramatically over his heart. “I adore British women.”
“You adore all women,” Adam pointed out.
“Hey, what can I say?” Beck spread his hands and grinned boyishly. “I’m just a red-blooded male who likes to—”
“This lost passport. You couldn’t go
to the embassy?” Adam asked.
Porcha shook her head. “That wasn’t an option.”
“I don’t have time for this bullshit!” Troy’s angry outburst caused all heads to swivel his way. “Georgio clearly knows you personally and likes you, or he wouldn’t have sent us. He’s not in the habit of sending his best operatives on fools’ errands.” He fixed Porcha with an icy stare. “If you want our help, and something tells me that you need it rather badly, then you’d best start leveling with us.”
Chapter Two
At his acerbic tone, the woman calling herself Jean Ballantine instantly lowered her gaze to the floor. She lifted it again just as quickly, but Troy didn’t miss her instinctive reaction. Well, well, who would have thought it? This uptight, seriously frightened Brit was a player. The way she responded so automatically to a dominant male voice spoke of a very well-trained sub. Beck and Adam would have noticed, too. Beck liked to play the fool, but it was all an act. He was as sharp as the rest of them. Both of his partners were now probably as intrigued by the female they’d come to help as he was. Something about her caught Troy’s attention the moment she let them into the apartment, turning his annoyance at being screwed with into a genuine desire to help her.
“Let’s start with your name,” Troy suggested. “That ought to be easy enough. Your real name.”
The woman flashed him a defiant look. “I already told you that.”
“Who or what has frightened you?” Troy softened his tone. “We can’t help you if you don’t tell us what we’re up against.”