My Escort

He's Mine

I bang my glass down. "Another one!" I yell, wiping my mouth after a long chug of chilled beer that ran smoothly down my throat. So refreshing! "Wow! She's the girl!" someone cheers among the tough-looking men on the other side, highly amused. "Refills the lady's glass," Mr-I-give-orders-around-here says, laughing at my expense.

His name is Marlow, actually, and he's the owner of this place. Red's face twists into a displeased look. "You've had enough, Madam," he mutters, scowling at me.

"Shhh!" I hiss at him, leaning closer to his face. We're seated across from one another, the table too small to serve a decorous distance. "Don't call me madam!

You are my husband, remember?" I murmur, and my mood is at its sublime after the two big glasses of beer. Red sighs heavily, reclining back in his seat.

Staring at me with his blazing eyes, he suddenly huffs a very tiny laugh, turning my eyes wide in utter stun. No, I didn't imagine it, did I? My eyebrows arch as I try to make my slightly intoxicated brain into proper use.

Red laughing? I mean, huffing? Or whatever it was? This is incredible. "What?" he quizzes upon my too-fixed gaze that's eating him alive.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" He's back to serious Mr. Bodyguard, but a gleam of mischief remains in his now-smoldering eyes, resembling a cooling volcano.

"I've never seen you laugh. And it's been three months since I met you,"I reply earnestly, amazed. Red's lips part slightly, as though he's about to say something, but the words refuse to lurch out. Damn! I frown mentally,for I’m dying to hear him talk, or say something . . . Just anything.

"Here is your refill, ma'am!" Simone, a blonde bartender, places another glass on the table with a bid grin. "Thanks, man!" I grin back, wriggling my ass with pleasure, ready to down another. I want to forget the world I live in and get lost into this foreign land.

I feel invisible here: no one knows me, except my bodyguard, and no one gives a damn about who I may be.Mrs. Mia Kingston? I left her in Portland. In here I'm Mrs. Red. To me it's more than freedom; it's like the air I breathe.

I'm so fed up of fake smiles wherever I go, people worshiping my steps just because I'm the wife of some notorious businessman. I'm about to grab my beer when Red suddenly snatches it from me.

"What are you doing?" I snap at him, startled. "It's my duty to make sure you're safe in every way. That includes what you eat and drink," he says condescendingly. "You've had enough." He glares at me. "What the—" I pause, huffing flabbergasted.

"And who said so?" I snarl quietly. "Me. Your husband," he replies, and my breath hardens at the sound of it. Oh God! Why do I feel aroused at by these two words? My husband? I swallow tightly, and his eyes are on me as he drinks the beer without haste.

No, stop being ridiculous, Mia You've agreed to play husband and wife and he's merely playing along.I try to reason with my ingenuous subconscious.

"Um . . .” I clear my throat, trying to hide how flustered I am. Hopefully my cheeks haven't turned into a perverted shade of red. "You can have it your way, then.

Husband!" My voice is sarcastic as I take another bite of my fried chicken breast. Sounding refreshed, Red places the empty glass down.

"I'm not sure if there's a strong signal here so I'll ask for the telephone line and see if we can contact home," he says suggestively while fishing for his mobile, back into the responsible bodyguard mode.

Oh no! Does he want to call Patrick? Why don't I want hear anything about my husband?

"Wait!" I snap, stopping him from rising up. He gives me an inquiring look, and

I'm sighing soundly. "Don't call him now.

Later. Let's do it later." I'm probably

sounding weird saying this, desperate even, but it's what I desire. I want to forget him and everything with his last name. Red frowns. "But—"

"I'll call him after we're done eating!" I utter sternly, exerting my full authority

over him. "Okay." Red's voice is defeated as he sits down, and it breaks my heart that I've almost shouted at him.

I don't have the tendency of yelling to my employees, and when I do it always haunts me as I hate being yelled at myself.

But sometimes I got to cross the line and ensure things go as I want them to. "I'm sorry," I breathe, my gaze stuck on the plate of chicken and roasted potatoes that's no longer at my interest.

"Sorry for what?" Red quizzes, surprise lacing his voice. I gaze up at him, sighing softly. "I wish to be myself for the few hours I'm here.

If I could I wouldn't want anyone knowing where I am right now," I say, ignoring his question that withers my bravery.

"Including your husband?" He shows no surprise as he asks this. I nod. "Especially my husband." Which reminds me, he must be in Geneva by now and he's probably contacted me already. But no, I'm not checking my phone. Not yet.

And he’s definitely not there yet even if he’s flying private I can tell from the slight movement of Red's pink lips that he wants to say or ask something, but refrains himself from doing so.

Instead he just nods. "I'm curious of something," I think out loud, and Red's stare urges me to go on. I lean forward onto the table.

"Between me and Patrick, who is the one you're serving? To whom does your loyalty lie?" I ask, my eyes artfully constructed into the sphere of the mystery exuded in him.

As expected, Red doesn't rush into answering my question. His composure is intact as he stares deeply into my eyes. I scorch at it, taking a sharp breath.

"My loyalty lies to the V.I.P," he says, genteelness defines his manners, and his eyes shimmer in some indescribable fashion. I gulp.

"The V.I.P?" My voice is barely audible, and the noise in this place adds much to it. The dudes are arguing over something and it’s casually chaotic.

"Who's the V.I.P?" I ask him. "You, Madam," Red mutters in deep,

breathtaking voice. Oh? A smile finds a way on my lips as I try not to blush. He’s mine.

"Don't call me madam, please. Not today. Not here," I say, and he doesn't respond to this.

Red tries to clear the bill but it seems like Marlow wasn't bluffing about the food being a token of our stay in his place. He rejects the payment.

"It's our tradition to make our guests feel at home so the room payment is totally

cool for starters," he tells us. I'm surprised.

"What, Lady? Thought some dudes like us are savages?" He breaks into a peaceful laughter, and the rest join in. Some women are present, too. "Um, no?" Well, I can't say I didn't, but I can't tell them.