Killer Curves

By: Naima Simone

She’ll lead him right into temptation…

Lately, things have been a little weird for Sloane Barrett—late night crank calls, disturbing images in her inbox, her tires slashed. She tries not to let it bother her. She tries to pretend everything is ok. Then someone breaks into her house and attacks her…and Sloane realizes she needs professional help. Tall, gorgeous, and overwhelmingly intense help.

But Sloane knows all too well just how much trouble intense guys can be.

Security Specialist Ciaran Ross’s priority is to ensure Sloane is safe. His gut tells him she’s in danger, but his feelings for her are pulling his focus. Ciaran has already made the mistake of falling for a client, and the results were disastrous. He won’t risk it again. He can’t. But running from love is the surest way to get Sloane killed…

To Gary. 143.

Chapter One

“Maybe if you weren’t such a fat bitch and got laid more, you wouldn’t be so uptight.”

The vicious words played in Sloane Barrett’s head on a relentless, taunting loop.

Fat bitch…laid more…uptight… Fatbitch…laidmore…uptight… Fatbitchlaidmoreuptight…

She tightened her grip on her clutch purse while heat coursed up her neck and poured over her face, combatting the cool air of the August evening. Like I care what a smug, spoiled brat like Drake Morriston thinks of me, or calls me. She shouldn’t. He was an eighteen-year-old toddler with more money than sense or morals. He was destined to end up as one of the FBI’s Most Wanted on the lam in some European country with his indulgent parents footing the bill. So no, she shouldn’t care if some future dissolute criminal called her fat or a bitch…

But damn it, the little rat bastard had hurt her feelings.

Like a ghostly specter refusing to be exorcised, the humiliation from Drake’s voice rushed over her again before she could stem the tide. The entitlement. The condescension. The insults. She would love to say the message had been abnormal, but, unfortunately, she couldn’t. As a teacher at the prestigious and very elite Kennedy-Lewis Preparatory Academy, a prep school that catered to the children of Massachusetts’s obscenely wealthy, she was viewed as more of a servant than a degree-holding, professional educator. That she hailed from the same background as most of her students didn’t matter a damn. Not when she—gasp—worked for a living.

She snorted as she tugged open the glass door to the Boston Harbor Walk restaurant. The disrespectful punk should count his blessings he hadn’t been in front of her when she received his nasty voicemail. With her five-feet, ten-inch—over six feet in heels—one hundred fifty-five-pound frame, she could’ve taken him.

All this because she refused to change his grade from the D in her government class that he rightly deserved after she’d caught him cheating on the final. Apparently, Harvard—and his parents—frowned on the low mark marring his transcripts. The principal would probably end up changing the grade anyway. Not that it mattered to Drake or his parents. They wanted her head.

She sighed. Sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder just what the hell she was doing with her life. When she’d proudly received her degree in education, babysitting trust-fund teens with pathological tendencies hadn’t been in the plans.

Dammit. She so didn’t need this harassment on top of the other things going on in her life.

First the eerie hang-ups in the middle of the night. Then the disturbing emails. And earlier this evening, the flat tires. If Mr. Hall, the geometry teacher, hadn’t been leaving the school at the same time as she had, she would’ve had to call a tow truck and been late to Fallon’s engagement party. Her Boston society parents had taught her manners, perfect etiquette, and how to plan and host a dinner party, but not the particulars of changing a tire.

God. What a shitty three weeks.

As if to underscore her summation, her cell phone chimed, signaling a new email. Her feet stumbled to a halt as her heart stuttered before free-falling toward her stomach. Nausea coiled in her stomach, tightening like a boa constrictor.

I’m not going to look. Ignore it. The command whispered through her head. Even as she fished the phone from the pocket of her wide skirt and swiped her thumb over the screen. Dread curdled inside her like milk left out on the counter too long. Because a part of her knew what awaited her in her inbox.

Stop being so melodramatic. It could be an email from her principal about the upcoming school year. It could be Facebook spam from a Montana rancher telling her in broken English how they were spiritual soulmates. It could be—

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