Guarded Secrets

Eleanor Kane marched through the glass doors of Holt Enterprises, her combat boots striking the marble floor like a metronome. The Manhattan skyscraper reeked of wealth-minimalist decor, abstract sculptures, and a receptionist who could've doubled as a model. At 5'6", Eleanor's brunette hair was scraped into a severe bun, her hourglass figure sharp in a tailored black blazer and pants that clung just enough to draw eyes. She didn't care. Her hazel eyes swept the lobby, cataloging exits, blind spots, and the guard by the desk who looked more decorative than functional.

Eight years in the army-two tours in Afghanistan, counterintelligence ops in hostile zones-had wired her to see threats everywhere. That instinct had kept her alive, even if it left scars nobody saw.

She was still adjusting to civilian life. Bodyguard. The word tasted bitter, a downgrade from leading recon missions and disarming IEDs under fire. Her last op, a botched extraction in Kandahar, had cost her squad a friend and her left shoulder a bullet. The physical wound healed; the guilt didn't. She'd left the military six months ago, craving purpose. This job-protecting a billionaire CEO-was a paycheck, a way to stay sharp. If it meant babysitting a spoiled suit, she'd grit her teeth and do it. Her attitude, honed by years of proving herself in a man's world, would handle the rest.

The receptionist looked up, her smile wilting under Eleanor's intensity. "Can I help you?"

"Eleanor Kane. Here for Alexander Holt," she said, voice clipped, already scanning for the elevator.

The receptionist tapped her keyboard, all business. "Mr. Holt's new assistant? Top floor, elevator's on your left."

Eleanor's jaw clenched, her temper flaring like it had when green lieutenants underestimated her in the field. "Not an assistant. Security." She didn't wait for a response, striding to the elevator with the same purpose she'd carried into war zones. Sloppy assumptions pissed her off, and she wasn't here to play nice.

The ride to the 60th floor was silent, the mirrored walls throwing back her scowl. She adjusted her blazer, the fabric skimming her curves, and braced herself. Alexander Holt. Tech billionaire, self-made, and, per the dossier, a control freak. She pictured a soft exec with a receding hairline, coasting on inherited wealth. Her military record-explosives expert, fluent in Farsi, commended for keeping her cool when ambushes went south-meant she could handle him, no matter how big his ego.

The elevator opened to a glass-walled office, the Manhattan skyline sprawling beyond. But it was the man by the desk who stopped her cold. Alexander Holt was no soft exec. He was 6 feet of lean muscle, his dark suit cut to showcase broad shoulders and a tapered waist. His black hair was neat, and when he turned, his blue eyes hit her like a sniper's scope. Her pulse jumped, a betrayal she smothered instantly.

"You're late," he said, voice low, a British accent curling around the words. He checked his watch, then fixed her with a look that felt too knowing.

Eleanor smirked, defiance her default. "Traffic. Be grateful I showed, Mr. Holt." She stepped forward, arms crossed, aware of how the stance highlighted her figure. His gaze flicked down, just for a second, before locking back on hers. Heat prickled her skin, but she held her ground.

He didn't smile, but his eyes glinted with something-amusement, maybe. "I assume you're the new assistant. Coffee, black, no sugar, and the quarterly reports by noon."

Her smirk vanished, irritation sparking like a live wire. She'd faced that assumption too often in the army, from brass who thought she belonged behind a desk, not a rifle. "I'm not your assistant," she said, closing the distance, boots echoing. "Eleanor Kane, security. Ex-army, counterintelligence. I've run ops in places you'd never set foot. I'm here to keep you breathing, not fetch your drinks."

The air thickened, charged with challenge. Alexander's gaze sharpened, peeling her apart. He straightened, his height edging into her space without crowding. "My apologies, Ms. Kane," he said, smoother now, but no less intense. "I wasn't expecting... someone like you."

She tilted her chin, unflinching. "Expect me to do my job. That's what you're paying for." Her tone was ice, but his scent-clean, expensive, with a hint of sandalwood-stirred something she didn't want to name. He was too handsome, all sharp jaw and piercing eyes. Dangerous in a way no insurgent ever was.

He studied her, then nodded, leaning against his desk. "Sit. We have a problem."