" Do me a favor,” he said to her, “and stay close to me at all times. If I tell you to get down or to run like hell, you do it. No questions, you just do it, you got that?”
A small furrow creased her perfect brow. “I thought I was safe in this town.”
“You are.” George shot Harry a what-are-you-doing look behind Alessandra’s back.
Harry ignored him. “Humor me,” he told her. “Please? I know you don’t believe this, but Trotta’s a son of a bitch, and he’s known for his persistence.”
George opened the door. “Harry just wants an excuse to put his arm around you.”
Alessandra glanced quickly at Harry, surprise lighting her eyes. Surprise and something else. Something as hot and electric as lightning. It brought her to life so completely and made her exquisitely beautiful despite the heavy makeup.
But as instantly as it appeared, it was gone. Quaffed and shoved back inside. Somewhere down the line she’d learned to hide any excitement, any life, any passion. Someone hadn’t wanted her to be anything more than a pretty bauble. A decorative but unobtrusive piece of art.
George closed the door. “If you want, I’ll turn around and you two can kiss.”
Harry eviscerated George with his eyes. “George imagines there’s some kind of weird attraction thing between us, Al. But George is wrong. George is dead wrong.” He muttered under his breath, “In fact, George is dead.” He looked at Alessandra. “I’m sorry if he offended you.”
“He didn’t. I’m aware that you’re not . . . that we’re not . . . I’m aware.”
“Still, that was completely inappropriate.” Harry looked at George again, who was totally amused. “Stupendously, asshole-ishly inappropriate.”
“I think we’re all a little punchy.” The ice princess had been replaced by someone softer, someone less certain. Someone he had far more trouble resisting. Someone he did want to kiss.
And George knew it, too. The son of a bitch was grinning at him, damn him. "

― Suzanne Brockmann , Bodyguard