I'm in my bed, tucked tightly under the covers when a phone rings somewhere inside the house. I don't recognize the ringtone and it makes me leap into action. I dash into the main room, searching for an intruder. No one. I look to the muddle of things on the kitchen bench. There, at the edge of the counter is the source of the noise—an old-fashioned ringtone coming from a mobile phone that's not mine. A large set of keys sit beside it—also not mine. Not far from me, a man's jacket is draped over the sofa. It's black, tailored, large, and then I remember where I'd last seen it. On the broad form of one Agent Randall.

I invited him to stay! Why would I do that? When he wakes, what will we possibly have to talk about?

The ringing stops and I glance around my meagre living space, where my life is scattered around the corners of the room. The afternoon news is playing softly on the television. Big white pots sit in each corner, home to leafy plants that begin to calm me. My eyes skip over to the photo of my parents near the corner wall, but like always I avoid them by scanning the photographs of my workmates. Baskets of clean laundry are piled on top of each other. I slip into some leggings, throw on a sweater and wriggle free of the wretched commando dress, flinging it across the room to where the wall heater creaks noisily.

Well, well, well... Agent Randall has made himself right at home. He's even figured out how to use my temperamental heater.

I frown.

If I'm this surprised by Agent Randall's presence, this means I don't remember him entering my house this morning, which means I must have fallen asleep on the ride home, which must also mean that he searched my bag for my keys. He put me in bed. He removed my socks and boots. Each act is more intimate than the last.

He's a stranger!

Shivering, I grab one of my acoustic guitars and flop down onto the sofa. I switch the television to mute, ready to play a deafening chord. Then I see it—the news presenter's expression shifting to astonishment, the headlines scrolling at the bottom of the screen: 'CEO Nathaniel Blake rescued early this morning. Rescuer in her mid-twenties. Identity unknown.'

My heart drops at the thought of having something so personal paraded over the television for the world's viewing entertainment. And I'm there, on television. The mystery girl. And thank god I'm still a mystery, because I can imagine Laura Barnes arresting me for breach of contract.

Worse, Nathaniel must hate me for deserting him like that.

Meeting Nathaniel Blake has completely messed with my life.

I strum again.

I think I hate him.

My fingers pick over the strings.

But I want to see him again.

When did I become this reckless?

When I stopped for Nathaniel on the bridge. But how could I not? Each reason to be reckless felt justified. I couldn't abandon Agent Randall after he'd protected me. That in itself said something about who he was, a man to be respected, not tossed to the sidewalk like the failure Ms. Barnes had made him out to be.

I turn to the spare bedroom opposite mine, checking to see if Agent Randall has stirred. The door is open, but there's not a skerrick of movement within. The bathroom door squeaks behind me on my right and Agent Randall steps out of the steam with a towel wrapped below his naval, showing off lightly tanned skin and a wide V that begins at his hips and narrows beneath the white towel. I shouldn't be looking, but with his height he's hard to miss. And it's not every day that I have a man standing half naked in my house—not to mention, one with hard muscle gracing his arms and metal army tags glinting against his chest. His strong earthy looks could be in an upmarket men's catalogue for the rugged male.

He grunts at me and smooths the top of his hair, which he is in the process of tying into a ponytail, emphasizing the ink over his left shoulder, bicep, and down his arms.

I think I just licked my lips and I'm pretty sure he saw it, because he's staring at me with a new level of dark brooding Agent Randall that is very contrary to the dark glares he'd given me at the hospital. He strides off to the spare bedroom with all the discipline of a military man, totally unfazed by my moment of weakness.

What am I doing?

Without thinking, I strum my guitar and the chord fills the house. My fingers itch to play, to release some of my pent-up nerves, but I'm not one to play in front of strangers. My fingers tap on the wood of the guitar. I can't stop myself from pressing down the strings and plucking them with my fingers, playing a rush of darkly angelic notes that are the opening notes to a heavy metal song I've never known the name to. I thrash out chords, giving them the feel of an angry Spanish dance. I'm so engrossed in the music that I jump as a clothed Agent Randall walks by my left and snatches up the other guitar, raising it in the air as if asking permission to play. My fingers stop on the strings and the last chord dies.

"Don't stop," he says.

I frown, shrug, and try to pick up where I left off as he walks past me and sits on the other side of the sofa, resting the Spanish guitar on his knee. It looks so small with his large hands wrapped around it. This is not what I was expecting from Agent Randall. For some reason, I never imagined he could possess interests outside of being a bodyguard.

The notes twang under my hands, cruisy chords set between melodies. His guitar sings perfectly over mine, notes rising and falling in a complex melody, spinning and turning again until it rises to a climax and the melody becomes a running passage of intricate notes, my melody weaving under his, the two of us so in sync that we might have some psychic link. We break into the thrashing chords once more, and I stare at his blur of fingers as his notes speed above mine. We break apart into our own melodies, our thumbs and fingers slapping an interweaving and persistent beat upon the wood between plucks and strums, adding a rolling percussion beneath.

As the song comes to a close, I'm breathing rapidly. My gaze drifts from the guitar in his hands and to his face. It's the first time I've met his eyes since he sat down. His expression is quiet, almost what I'd call awe, not of me so much, but of what we've done. I have a feeling that same expression is mirrored in mine.

"Cool," he says. "Very cool."

"It was." I grin.

"Do you write at all?"

"I've got songs, but I'm not partial to showing them to an audience."

"So, there's no chance you'll play one for me later?"

"Only if you play me one of yours first."

"Deal." He swings the guitar down, leaning it against the end of the sofa—a place where I've rested it many times before. It appears we are more in sync than I realized.

He shakes his head at me. Why, I'm not sure. Not that I'm about to ask him—this is Agent Randall in front of me, not some easy-going musician. I should really stop calling him that. I don't think he'd appreciate the reminder of his dismissal.

I feel my face warm as something occurs to me. "This is embarrassing to ask... I don't know your name. Your first name, that is."

A smile threatens. "Aaron."

Aaron. Aaron Randall.

Not what I'd expected. He doesn't seem like an Aaron. When I'd discovered the man on the bridge's name was Nathaniel, I'd thought it had suited him perfectly. But Aaron? I imagine someone less aggressive, less big.

"You seem disturbed by this," he says.

"Very." With a smile, I lean the guitar against my side of the sofa. I see it does not escape his attention, and he glances at the guitar beside his legs. It's the perfect time to head straight to the kitchen. "Coffee?"

"Please. White, no sugar."

I nod, making two mugs of the same. I'm about to pass him my best mug—the one with a young Mozart and a scroll of music notes—when I hesitate. My parents had brought it back from Vienna with them, before they...

His fingers are still hovering near the handle, waiting for me to pass it. "Favorite mug?"

I nod.

"Is that the same?" He points at the other mug.

I nod and wince.

He grabs the mug with the hearts and flowers and takes a sip, while I stand frozen, embarrassed that I've lost the plot in front of Agent Randall—Aaron.

Coffee sploshes over my hand. My hand is jittering, and I steady it before a certain agent notices. At first, I don't know why he's touching me until he relinquishes the coffee mug from my grasp. He drinks from his hearts and flowers mug and stares over at the kitchen, as if he's purposely giving me space to pull myself together.

I shuffle over to my side of the sofa and sit slowly. Nerve fueled adrenaline zooms through my blood. I haven't had this reaction to my family in years. Then again, I've never offered anyone that mug. I don't even use it. Clutching the armrest, I practice deep breathing. My hands finally relax. Aaron leans across and places my coffee on the table, but I have no inclination to pick it up, let alone drink it.

"May I ask what that was about?" he asks.

I'm about to say no when I blurt out, "My parents gave me that mug before they..." I rub my eyes.

He waves his hand in dismissal. "No need to finish."

"They were in a car accident. It was seven years ago now, but I... I don't know. It's just with last night, with Nathaniel on the bridge... I wanted to drive past him. But I finally had my chance to save someone—" I gulp down a breath.

He sighs, and I wonder if I've revealed too much. "I'm sorry that happened to you, both last night and back then. If I'd known, I wouldn't have been so hard on you at the hospital or on the phone, but my first responsibility is to Nathaniel. Or it was."

"That was you on the phone? You're Az?" This cannot be the same rude man from that phone call.

"I was out of line when you called. I assumed..." Something like guilt passes through his eyes. He leans back in the corner of the chair, looking more like a pub guitarist in his jeans and layered shirts than the Agent Randall I first met. "Sorry."

"I'm sorry you lost your job."

"Don't be." He sips his coffee. "It's been too long since I've had a holiday, and considering how I handled last night, those few hours in the hospital and the past few days, I think I need one."

"Oh? You're not normally like that?" I say, then wince.

"The truth? I was in a particularly foul mood last night. The fact that I had to watch you and the doctors worry over Nathaniel irritated."

"Why?"

"The past few days with him have been...difficult. You could say he's been out of control."

"How out of control are we talking?"

"He stopped his antidepressants in lieu of a drinking binge that lasted four days straight. He's picked fights with staff and tried to shirk his own security team. When I tried to stop him from trashing his penthouse, he had the audacity to throw punches at me. He's an obnoxious little c—" Aaron sees me gape and halts mid-sentence.

I try to imagine the scenario unfold but fail. "He hit you?"

"I'd be a terrible agent if a pissed man could actually land a punch on me." He gives me a sidelong glance, full of disapproval.

"Forget I said that."

"Anyway, the idiot crossed the line with you. The second I saw you in the ER, I knew you were too good to be wrapped up in his mess."

"You didn't trust him with me?"

"No."

"I was actually nervous walking into that room after seeing the way you reacted."

"I noticed."

Of course he noticed.

But the weird thing is I never felt scared in Nathaniel's hospital room. I trusted him completely.

Aaron picks up the guitar, plucking the strings.

The doorbell chimes through the house and he gives one loud strum before rising from the sofa at the same moment I do. Boldly, he steps in front of me and answers my door!

Then I see why...

* * *
(Chapter continues in Part 2...)