Free Bodyguard by Suzanne Brockmann

clothes? I don’t fucking believe it.” Harry O’Dell shook his head. “You are one amazing piece of work, lady. One amazing piece of work.”
    As the first of the fire trucks and police cars squealed to a stop in front of the house, he yanked his raincoat more securely around her, tying it closed with the belt, then rose to meet the fire chief.
    Alessandra sat in the Farmingdale Police Station, still wearing only Harry’s raincoat.
    She looked utterly defeated. Her face and hair were streaked with soot, and her eyes were dull with fatigue and shock.
    It seemed impossible she’d survived a blast of that magnitude completely unscathed.
    Either luck or the angels were with this lady, all right. She’d been in the bathtub, and the heavy enamel had shielded her against the force of the explosion, protecting her from flying debris. She’d actually fallen—inside the tub—from the second to the first floor of her house without getting hurt.
    It didn’t seem fair that someone like Alessandra Lamont, who could be moved to tears over the loss of a new bag of underwear, could have such stupendous good luck. Talk about shallow. Talk about completely skewed priorities.
    Talk about gorgeous.
    Harry sat down across from her, trying not to think about the fact that beneath that raincoat—his raincoat—she was absolutely naked.
    He should know. He’d had his hands all over her tonight. Her skin was silky smooth, her body damn nearperfect. Soft where it should be soft. Firm in just the right places.
    The light from the fire had made her skin seem to gleam through the smoke. And try as he might, even all these hours later, he couldn’t shake the image of her, scrambling up the stairs, trying to get away from him. Her breasts were small but perfect, well proportioned to her small-boned slenderness. Her legs were four miles long, her hips softly curved, her butt thong quality, her stomach enticingly soft.
    She was also definitely a natural blonde.
    At the time, his body hadn’t reacted to the sight of her. After all, the house was on fire, and she’d just kneed him hard in the balls—two factors which always put something of a damper on his ability to become aroused.
    But now he ached. It might’ve been an aftereffect of that knee to the groin—of having his very fragile package handled completely without care. If he were the sort who could get away with lying to himself, he would’ve willingly gone with that excuse. But the hard fact was, something about Alessandra Lamont got his hormones dancing and squawking.
    But it sure as hell wasn’t her unswerving honesty, her unshakable morals, or her superior intellect—all of which were nonexistent.
    That left only her world-class body and perfect, beautiful face, with her perfect, beautiful, empty blue eyes.
    Alessandra Lamont might be nothing more than a bimbo, but as bad as that was, Harry was worse.
    Because if she were a bimbo, that made him a man who lusted after a bimbo.
    He was a complete hypocrite. He scorned her for who she was, what she was, yet the mere sight of her gave him a major hard-on.
    He didn’t want to have to sit and talk to her, didn’twant to deal with her shallowness and stupidity. But he was dying to get down with her.
    Yeah, he was a fine, upstanding human being.
    Harry cleared his throat, but she didn’t look up. She was sitting with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if holding herself together. She looked completely vulnerable and very young. And underneath his raincoat, she was wearing nothing.
    “Mrs. Lamont?” Harry purposely used the formal name, hoping it would remind him that she’d willingly married some mob-connected scumbag for his money, hoping it would make her seem that much more despicable, hoping it would reduce his relentless attraction.
    It didn’t work.
    She looked at him then, and he could see fear in her eyes. Fear and something else. Something that looked an awful lot like hope. “Have they discovered what caused