Read The Protector (Lone Wolf, Book 1) for Free Online Page B

at her for a long
moment.   This woman was carrying a
deadly weapon—a deadly weapon that she had been hired to use to keep me
safe.   She tossed her jet hair back,
running a long-fingered hand through it before taking off her sunglasses,
folding them and sliding them easily into her back jeans pocket.  
    Layne caught me staring, and smiled
roguishly, her head to the side as she leaned back on her heels.   “I’ve never been in a violin shop,” she
said, her smile deepening as she shoved her long fingers into her back pockets,
too.   “I never even knew there was such
a thing.   Though I guess it’s kind of
obvious that there’d have to be.   But
there’s really enough people in the entire Boston area to keep a violin shop in
business?”
    “You’d be surprised how many kids
take violin lessons,” I said, smiling a little, too after clearing my
throat.   “And there are actually three
string shops in Boston…the other two have cellos, basses, other stringed
instruments—Verity’s is the only one that deals solely in violins.”
    Layne whistled lowly, under her
breath as she rocked back onto her heels again.   “Must be a lot of kids driving their parents crazy with
screeching strings around these parts.”
    I laughed at that.   “Sometimes, I give lessons—I like kids,” I
shrugged when her brows went up.   “And
yeah—there’s a lot of screeching with those bows dragging across the strings,
them trying to find the right places for all of their fingers, learn the
posture.   Though the
screechy-string-stage doesn’t usually last long, believe it or not—kids are
pretty quick learners.”
    “Yeah, well, I don’t think there’s
enough money in the world that would make me put up with that,” said Layne with
a shake of her head and a chuckle.   Then
her eyes widened and her face took on a look of mock horror as she
groaned.   “Oh, God—I’m your
bodyguard.   This means that when you do
lessons…”
    I grinned smugly and chuckled as
Layne stepped forward, looping my arm around her neck again as the elevator
doors dinged and opened up to the ground level.   God, she was so hot—not in the metaphorical
sense (though yes, she absolutely was), but more in the body temperature sense
of the word.   Like, she was almost
feverish to the touch.  
    “I’m not paid enough for this if
you have to teach kids while I’m around,” she chuckled, and I gazed at her
sidelong, listening to the deep smoothness of her laugh.
    “I’ll get you some earplugs before
I take on another kid for lessons,” I promised her.  
    “You’d be surprised how good my
hearing is, earplugs or no,” she muttered mildly.  
    We walked across the pavement to
the sidewalk outside.   Boston in
June—It’s one of the most beautiful times of the year to come visit our fair
city.   There were hotdog and taco
vendors on the street corners with the scent from both wafting towards us and
making my stomach rumble, women and men in their business suits and kids
staring down at their cell phones at every corner and on every bit of the
sidewalk as they moved through their lives.   College kids sat along the entrance to the art museum as we passed it,
writing in their notebooks, or—most often—typing into their electronic tablets.
    We walked about two blocks, and by
the end of the second block, even though Layne was fully supporting me and all
but helping me put one foot in front of the other, I was really feeling
it.  
    Finally, thankfully, Verity’s
Violin Shop came into view.
    It’s in one of the older buildings
in Boston, made up of pretty brick and Victorian embellishments, added well
after it was built.   The sign out front
has been hanging above the old metal front door for over fifty years, though it’s
been re-painted many times.   The sign still
looked vintage and beautiful though, with its looping, scrolling words, “Violin
Shop,” a hand-painted violin nestled into the words on the sign, as if