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She nodded, stepped out of his way, and waved him toward the bedroom door. “Be my guest. And thank you for the PJs.” She waved a hand toward her T-shirt-shrouded body. “It feels good to be in something that doesn’t stir up a cloud of dust when you walk through a room.”
He grinned. “You wear it better than I do.”
She waggled her eyebrows. “If you think the T-shirt looks good, you should see the boxer briefs.”
His smile slipped, and his eyes flared. “After you, I’m sure they’ll never wear the same.”
She frowned and looked down at the T-shirt, picturing the boxer briefs beneath. “My hips are wider than yours, but the shorts are stretchy. I’m sure they’ll shrink back.”
Nash held up a hand. “It’s not that they’ll be stretched out of shape. I just won’t ever wear them again and not think of who wore them last.” He touched a finger to the corner of his scarred eyebrow in a mock salute. “I’m going under. See you on the other side.”
He pivoted on his heel, snagged his duffel bag and marched through the bedroom into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him.
Londyn’s gaze followed him all the way until he disappeared behind the door, her blood pumping hot through her veins, racing to her core where it coiled and flared like a furnace igniting.
Her bodyguard was entirely too hot to be confined with her in the tight space of the cabin. As heated as she felt at that moment, she might incinerate before the night was over.
She was already way out of her depth, acting in a movie with no previous experience, not even a school play. All her focus needed to be on learning her lines, studying the script and preparing for the next scene.
Seducing the bodyguard her mother was paying for could send her off on the wrong track.
Wrong track, hell.
Nash was the kind of man who could leave her totally derailed.
CHAPTER 4
Nash stripped out of his dusty clothes, noting the rips in the fabric of his jeans and the crusted blood on the backs of his legs and arms. His leather jacket had shielded his upper body from much of the shrapnel generated by the exploding trailer.
They’d been lucky. Had Dana Tyler not told him her daughter was living in a trailer on location, he might not have brought his handy mirror and extension rod.
The day could have ended a lot differently had he backed down when Londyn had told him she didn’t need a bodyguard.
The black-haired beauty’s stubborn independence was sexy as hell—and had nearly gotten her killed.
He dropped his clothes on the pile of Londyn’s clothes she’d left on the bathroom floor, making a note to himself to look for laundry facilities. Since every item of clothing she’d brought with her to the location had gone up with the trailer, she’d need the dirty ones cleaned soon. Hank and Sadie might not make it down to Wyoming for a day or two.
He tried hard to keep his mind from going to the boxer briefs he’d loaned Londyn. He’d never considered them particularly sexy. And he’d never seen them on a woman, and still hadn’t, since they were hidden by the oversized T-shirt that hung down to the tops of Londyn’s knees. But damned if his imagination wasn’t going wild, picturing how the smooth fabric would stretch over the swell of her hips and thighs.
“Fuck,” he muttered and turned on the water, twisting it to the coldest setting. Since he wasn’t waiting for it to warm, he stepped beneath water the temperature of freshly melted snow. Nash bit down hard on his tongue to keep from yelping as the icy spray pelted his skin, chinking away at the heat that had flared to an inferno the moment Londyn had stepped out of the bedroom wearing his T-shirt, the pebbled tips of her breasts making tiny points protrude from the jersey material.
Watching her running around the set in her bra and panties that evening had been his first glimpse of her slim, athletic body.
Nash had been proud of her refusal to shoot the scene in the nude. Plus, he was surprised at how she’d performed the scene without demonstrating the slightest bit of discomfort at running around in nothing but her bra and bikini panties.
Nash had seen bathing suits more revealing than Londyn’s underwear. But the fact they were underwear, not parts of a swimsuit, made the costume that much more intimate, which had to make Londyn, an actress new to the profession, uncomfortable. She’d handled it so well and hadn’t hesitated to grab the reins of the spooked horse in an attempt to calm the animal.
Never mind, she was in her underwear and barefooted. The horse could easily have crushed her feet beneath his hooves, knocked her down, and trampled her to death.
He’d rushed forward as quickly as he could to help her without spooking the horse worse.
In the end, Londyn had managed to soothe the horse and keep all ten of her toes, all while standing half-naked in front of at least two dozen members of the production crew.
Once the chilled water had Nash’s libido under control, he turned the handle to warm, built a full head of lather in his palm and scrubbed his body from head to toe, careful to clean the crusted wounds on his arms and legs. They stung for a second, but these superficial wounds were nothing compared to the ones he’d sustained when the grenade had taken his friend Waterson’s life.
Those wounds were more than physical. The shrapnel had been painful going in and equally painful when they’d been surgically removed at the field hospital prior to shipping him to Germany and the hospital at Ramstein.
The plane that had flown them back for medical care had also carried the body of the man who’d given his life to save his team. Only Waterson wasn’t on a stretcher, surrounded by medical personnel working to keep him alive. He’d been in a body bag, headed to his final destination.
