Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Heiress Camille “Cam” Kingsley would rather paint landscapes than grace society pages, but someone is sending chilling threats that say Cam’s last stroke of the brush should be her last breath. Enter Sawyer Maddox—former Navy EOD tech, fiercely protective, and the newest member of the elite Maddox BRAVO Security Team. His keep the free-spirited heiress alive, even if she believes danger is “just a dramatic misunderstanding.”
Sawyer’s strategy is lock down the mansion, lock out the bad guys, and absolutely, positively do not lock lips with his client. Easy… until one night when Cam paints for him. With each brushstroke, a blazing fire ignites between them.
With every mischievous grin Cam flashes, Sawyer’s bulletproof resolve cracks. And when the threats close in at paint-splattering speed, he’ll have to choose between following the BRAVO handbook or following his heart.
Protecting an heiress was never supposed to be this messy. But for Sawyer and Cam, danger might just be the masterpiece that paints them into the greatest love story money can’t buy
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
Sawyer
I’m halfway through dismantling a Glock 19 for a refresher speed-clean when my phone buzzes across the stainless-steel workbench like a restless cricket. One glance at the caller ID—Dean Maddox—and I know break time’s over. My cousin doesn’t summon me unless something’s on fire or about to be.
I pouch the weapon pieces in their velvet slots, wipe my hands, and jog the length of the BRAVO hangar. High above, the company logo—a gold —gleams against charcoal paint. We’re supposed to be “private security consultants,” but every inch of this place screams paramilitary. There’s obstacle courses, target ranges, armored SUVs lined up like obedient rhinos. I love it. After seven years of Navy EOD, disarming bombs, the disciplined hum of ready power is the only lullaby that works on my frayed nerves.
Dean’s office sits on a mezzanine overlooking the controlled chaos. Frosted glass, modern lines, basketball-size Himalayan salt lamp that pretends to mask the scent of gun oil. It’s a huge step-up from the skyrise he used to conduct business at. This site is more practical.
He’s pacing when I step into the large glass conference room we’ve named the Aquarium. His phone’s pressed to his ear, expression welded into that don’t-make-me-say-it-twice scowl our mothers swear we inherited from Grandpa Maddox. He jerks a chin at the leather chair opposite his—sit, stay—then turns his back and finishes the call.
I sink into the chair. The leather hisses, still warm from whoever just vacated it, and a faint trace of citrus cologne lingers in the air. Something tells me this isn’t a routine bodyguard job for a C-list tech bro.
Dean hangs up, pinches the bridge of his nose, and exhales like the world is growing heavier by the minute. “Pack a bag, Sawyer. You deploy in an hour.”
I arch a brow. “That’s… abrupt. Even for you.”
He drops a thick folder onto the desk. Stapled to the cover is a glossy eight-by-ten headshot of Camille Kingsley. Even in black-and-white she looks technicolor—wide hazel eyes, bee-stung lips, cheekbones that could slice glass. Her smile is crooked, like she’s in on a joke nobody else has heard yet.
“Camille Kingsley,” I say aloud, just to make sure the universe isn’t pranking me. “As in Kingsley Aeronautics? The zero-emission jet prototypes?”
“As in $34-billion market cap,” Dean confirms. “Her father, Gregory Kingsley, is scrambling to finalize an IPO. Two weeks ago Camille started getting threats.”
I flip open the folder. Inside: ransom-note letters, photos of bullet holes punched through landscape paintings, a police report stamped Ongoing Investigation. My stomach tightens. “The cops have any leads?”
“Nothing actionable. The letters are clean of prints and the phone threats route through VPNs in four continents.” Dean plants his fists on the desk. “Gregory’s pissed and panicking. He wants BRAVO on Cam twenty-four/seven until the perp is bagged.”
“Why me?”
“Because you don’t rattle.” He slaps my shoulder hard enough to pop a vertebrae. “And because you just finished that cyberstalker case in L.A. without so much as a scratch on the client.”
She’d been a Hollywood influencer whose TikTok went feral—easy compare-and-contrast with Camille Kingsley, America’s reluctant eco-princess. I’ve seen Cam’s face flash across finance channels and gossip rags: heiress turned rebel artist, paint under her nails instead of champagne bubbles in her flute. I know the basics: refused a seat on the Kingsley board, opened a community art studio in downtown Saint Pierce, donated half her trust-fund allotment to marine-conservation grants. The press either labels her a visionary or a spoiled brat who hates using daddy’s jet. Depends which side of the “eat the rich” debate sells more ad space that day.
Dean slides a tablet across the desk. A live security feed fills the screen: Cam’s Atlantic Heights mansion—a century-old sandstone beauty that looks like it could outstare Alcatraz. I watch a housekeeper carry tulips through a sunlit foyer. No sign of the princess herself.
“What’s the client’s attitude toward personal security?” I ask.
Dean snorts. “In her words: ‘I’m not running from a boogeyman wearing administrative shoes and a Napoleon complex.’”
I rub my jaw. “Translation: She thinks this is overkill.”
“Exactly. Gregory insisted. She tolerated two days with a local outfit before she sent them packing.”
“I’ll last longer.” I grin. “I’m charming.”
“You’re a bulldozer in combat boots. Just remember she’s the job, not the enemy.” He tosses me a key fob. “Take Rover Two. It’s fully up-armored, fresh from ballistic testing.”
I push to my feet. “Any stipulations?”
“Only one.” Dean’s eyes sharpen. “Keep it quiet. If the press sniffs you, Kingsley stock tanks. That IPO clock’s ticking.”
Silent and invisible, yeah, I can do that. I’ve defused warheads behind enemy lines with nothing but a multitool and a prayer. Babysitting one reluctant heiress can’t be harder.
Two hours later, Rover Two growls up Danforth Street, eating Saint Pierce’s asphalt like protein pancakes. Victorian mansions perch on either side, strung with bougainvillea and eight-figure price tags. Camille’s address looms ahead—a four-story behemoth fronted by wrought-iron gates tall enough to keep out Godzilla.