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mouth and made him realize he was smiling. With a small cough, he looked away and caught Sam’s enigmatic smile before the guy directed his attention back to his wife Lydia.
    He stabbed his fork into the potatoes, scooped it into his mouth, and concentrated on applying himself to the contents of his plate. Used to the buzz of Hollywood film sets, he blocked out the sound of voices, but Liberty’s voice filtered its way through, her lilting tones relaxing him.
    Her light touch on the back of his hand grabbed his attention again.
    “So, Flynn, I understand you’re a bodyguard.”
    “Yeah.”
    Silence filled the gap. He wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted from him. He’d answered her goddamned question.
    Her cool hand rested on the top of his, and the urge to turn it over and clasp her fingers in his was strong enough to make him slide it away, letting hers drop to the table with a soft thud.
    The small blink of insult had guilt rolling through him. Christ, no one made him feel guilt, except maybe his mother, when she’d been alive.
    He grasped the neck of the beer bottle in a move designed to smooth the hurt. He didn’t want to upset the woman, he just wondered how long it would take to get inside her panties and if he had to be sweet to her. It wasn’t in his nature to be sweet. He swept a glance over at his nephew and saw his move hadn’t gone unnoticed. Jesus. They all knew him. He was a bad-tempered son of a bitch. Why did he need to try and be pleasant?
    She’d removed her hand from the table and occupied it with her wine glass, taking dainty little sips with her soft pink mouth, and lust stirred again as he imagined what she could do with her wet, shiny lips.
    Her ramrod straight spine, together with the fact she had now engaged his nephew in a very lively conversation about some computer game shit, indicated he was not likely to be forgiven any time soon.
    Sam leaned back on his chair as his little girl climbed into his lap for a snuggle. Her small thumb popped inside her mouth, and soft sucking sounds came from her as she laid her head on her daddy’s chest and stared at Flynn, her wide eyes unblinking.
    Flynn stared back, uncertain how to react to such intense attention.
    She took a deep breath and spoke, her English voice surprisingly clear from around her sticky, wet thumb.
    “My mummy says that isn’t a tattoo on your face.”
    A hard knot formed in his stomach. Fuck. He could deal with the occasional kid, but the sudden silence from the nearby adults made him contemplate leaving. The food in his mouth turned to dust and his throat contracted as he tried to swallow. Lydia’s green eyes widened in horror at her daughter’s loud declaration and froze him to the spot. He was shit with women. If he got up and ran, sweet, quiet Lydia would be upset, and if there was one thing he hated, it was to upset women. Shit.
    Liberty’s small cool hand touched his thigh and gave a gentle squeeze. The dust formed a hard lump in his throat, and he almost choked to death as she gave his leg a comforting follow-up pat.
    Before he required the Heimlich maneuver, he grabbed his beer and gulped most of it down, the fizzing liquid backwashing up his nose. With little more than a splutter, he managed to contain it, but the tears filling his eyes were probably a dead give-away.
    His blurred vision centered on the little girl’s serious face. Lydia never moved. Sam, calm as always, waited him out.
    “I…” A sharp cough cleared his throat and gained another stroke of Liberty’s hand. Vibrations tore through his body, almost shaking it apart from inside with the plethora of mixed messages assaulting his system.
    He raised his hand, rubbed his fingers over his lips, and blew out a laughing breath of disbelief. Shit. For someone who didn’t like to be the center of attention, he sure did seem to be gaining an audience. It was the brunette. It was her fault.
    “Yeah, Rosie, mummy’s right. I don’t have a tattoo.”