Prologue

2012 May

London

I don’t know shit about American politics. I don’t need to know. I’m a British citizen and Parliament is confusing enough. Politics don’t interest me much. But I am forced to work around the byproducts of political affairs all the time. I deal in security, both private and for the British government. I’m good at my job. I take it very seriously. In my business you have to be good because when you’re not good…people die.

United States congressman goes down in a plane crash. Newsworthy of course. But when said congressman was the probable vice presidential nominee for the challenging party and the election is mere months away then it makes world news in a viral heartbeat. Especially when people who want the power will do just about anything to ensure the incumbent never stands a second term. Scrambling for a replacement, the GOP understandably needed to fill the empty slot on their ticket. And this is how I came to discover her.

I received the email from her father first. A voice from my past extending a friendly greeting and an acknowledgement of where we’d both ended up. Fair enough. My past had been a colorful one, including both the good and the bad, and he’d come into my life during one of the good parts.

A phone call came next where he told me he had a daughter living in London. He was concerned about her safety and gave some tentative details about why. I was polite and quite sure I didn’t need to involve myself. My job had me overextended as it was. Organizing VIP security for London 2012 at the XXX Olympiad pretty much consumed all my time and I had nothing to spare for the daughter of an acquaintance I’d met at a poker tournament more than six years gone.

I told him no. I was even prepared to give him a referral to another private security firm as a personal favor when he played his hand. Poker players know when to play their hands.

He sent me her picture in second email.

That picture changed everything. I was not the same after I saw it and I couldn’t go back to the man I’d been before seeing it either. Not after we met that night on the street. My whole world altered because of a photograph. A photograph of my beautiful American girl.

1

My mother can’t see this right now and that’s a really good thing. She would freak. I’d made it to Benny’s show tonight because I told him I’d be here and I know how important it is for him. It’s important for me too. I only want the best for my friend just like he does for me. In the past three years Benny has been right there to console me, drink with me, commiserate with me, and even to help me pay my rent upon occasion by giving me work. Well, that and the fact he shot the photograph on the canvas I’m staring at right now. And it’s a picture of my nude body.

Posing as a nude model isn’t something I dreamed of doing for my life’s work or anything, but it is a way to make some extra money in between student loans. And lately I’d been getting offers from other photographers. Benny said to be prepared for more interest too, because of this show tonight. People will inquire about the model. It’s a given, Brynne. That’s my Benny, always the optimist.

I sipped my champagne and studied the really huge image hanging on the gallery wall. Benny had talent. For a child of Somali refugees who started with less than nothing in the UK, he knew how to configure a picture. He’d posed me on my back with my head turned to the side, my arm over my br**sts and my hand flared between my legs. He’d wanted my hair splayed out and my pu**y covered. I’d worn a string thong for the shot but you couldn’t see it. Nothing showed that would classify my image as  p**n . The proper term is artistic nude photography anyway. My stuff was shot tastefully or I didn’t do it. Well, I certainly hoped my pictures didn’t get onto any  p**n  sites, but who could know for sure these days. I didn’t do  p**n . I hardly did sex.

“There’s my girl!” Benny’s big arms wrapped around my shoulders and he rested his chin on top of my head. “It’s smashing isn’t it? And you have the most beautiful feet of any woman on the planet.”

“Everything you do looks good, Ben, even my feet.” I turned around and faced him. “So, you sell anything yet? Let me rephrase. How many have you sold?”

“Three so far and I think this one’s going very soon.” Ben winked. “Don’t be obvious but see the tall bloke in the grey suit, black hair, speaking with Carole Andersen? He’s inquired. Seems he’s quite taken by your gorgeous naked self. Probably going to go for a good palm session soon as he can get the canvas all to himself. How’s that make you feel, Brynne luv? Some rich toff pulling his pud to the sight of your unearthly beauty.”

“Shut up.” I rolled my eyes at him. “That’s just nasty. Don’t tell me things like that or I’ll have to stop taking jobs.” I tilted my head and shook it. “It’s a damn good thing I love you, Benny Clarkson.” Ben could say the crassest thing and manage to make it come out proper and refined. Must be his British accent. Hell, even Ozzy Osbourne sounded proper at times thanks to that accent.

“It’s true though,” Ben said, placing a kiss on my cheek, “and you know it. That chap hasn’t stopped eyeballing you since you glided in here. And he’s not g*y.”

I gaped at Benny. “Good to know, thank you, Ben, for the update. And I don’t glide!”

He grinned at me in that wicked, boyish way of his. “Believe me, if he was I would’ve offered to blow him in the back room by now. He’s off the charts hot.”

“You’re going to hell, you know that don’t you?” I looked over casually and checked out the buyer. Benny was right about him; the guy oozed hotness from the leather soles of his Ferragamos to the tips of his wavy dark hair. About six foot three, muscular, confident, rich. I couldn’t tell about his eyes because he was talking to the owner of the gallery. About my picture maybe? Hard to say, but didn’t matter anyway. Even if he did buy it, I’d never see him again.

“I’m right huh?” Ben saw me looking and nudged me in the ribs.

“About the jerking off? No possible way, Benny!” I shook my head slowly. “He’s way too beautiful to have to resort to his hand for an orgasm.”

And then that beautiful man turned and looked at me. His eyes burned across the room almost as if he’d heard what I’d just said to Benny. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it? He kept staring and I finally had to look down. There was no way I could compete with the level of intensity, or whatever the hell was coming at me from where he stood. The urge to flee kicked in immediately. Safety first.