A sleek private jet sat on the tarmac with a red carpet leading up to the steps. Snake eyed the ridiculous sight and snorted. He’d rather be climbing into a Chinook helicopter, preparing for a jump into an active war zone, than be standing here on this private airstrip outside of Miami.

He tugged at the collar of his pale pink button-down shirt, irritated as hell he had to wear it as well as the fucking loud-as-shit tie and a goddamn sport jacket. He rolled his shoulders. Together, the shirt and jacket felt like a straitjacket. They, along with the slacks, had been tailored for his body—as in, a fucking tailor had measured his inseam, asked him which leg did he prefer his dick to point toward, and had hummed a constant “mmm-mm-mm” as he’d gotten up in Snake’s personal space with his tape measure and his frisky fingers to make sure of a tight fit.

Now, he felt like a jackass in the white suit with the loudest tie he’d ever worn in freaking pink and blue. He thought the point of a personal protection job was to be inconspicuous, understated, hovering at the edges—at least that was how his old friend, Deke Warrick, former SEAL and now with the Charter Group had explained it. As soon as he’d signed the contract, he’d gotten the call from his client’s stylist—stylist!—ordering him to head to Miami for a “wardrobe makeover.” Of course, he’d immediately placed a call back to his erstwhile buddy Deke, who’d proceeded to laugh uproariously, and then sent him a link to his client’s Instagram account, which had explained a lot of things.

Oh, hell no. He’d tried to quit, saying, “This is not what I signed up for. There’s no way Charter Group knows. They’d never have loaned me out for this shit.”

“Snake, I know you’re a little testy. But other than the threads, this’ll be an easy job. A cakewalk. All you have to do is hover around your client, act as though you adore her, and that’s it. The ruse will put you in close to her inner circle, which allows you to keep her safe. And hey, did I mention you’ll be flying with her to a private island? I have guys who’d give their left nut for such a cushy assignment.”

Snake growled. He hadn’t even met the woman, but after she’d insisted he jump through all these hoops, he could only imagine how bad things might get once they were alone.

“Thought snakes hissed…” Another chuckle sounded. Then, click.

After Deke had hung up, he’d conveniently remained out of the office, so Snake couldn’t continue talking his way of it this assignment. Look how well that had turned out. Now, here he was—standing outside a hangar at a private airport, waiting for his client. Didn’t help that the white-hot heat reflecting off the black tarmac, unfiltered by a single cloud in the sky, made him sweat in his ridiculous “threads.”

So, maybe he was bellyaching. Maybe whining a little inside. He’d suck it up, like he had any other time he’d been given an assignment he thought below his pay grade or particular talents. He wasn’t proud. Well, not too proud to do grunt work, anyway. But, seriously? His tie had freaking flamingoes on it! Who cared that the blue matched the color of his eyes, or so the stylist had said.

Sucking in a deep breath, Snake squeezed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He could do this. The job was just four days. Then he’d catch a real break, his first vacation in a year. His anger was just a by-product of the fact he needed time to unwind and get his last assignment in Iraq out of his mind. Maybe spending time on a luxury island would distract him enough he’d let go of the edginess that had become a permanent feature of his personality. During the last few weeks, even the guys on his team had suggested he get downtime, get laid, get stinking drunk—whatever was needed to get him back to normal. Always known for his sense of humor and practical jokes, he’d lost the ability to laugh.

And again, guilt ate at him over the fact he no longer found humor in the simple things. Who the hell laughed after seeing his buddy’s limb torn off by a roadside bomb? Snake had been tossed like a ragdoll but had landed on his feet. Both feet. Payback hadn’t been so lucky. Still in rehab, he was rethinking his career options.

After another deep breath, he checked his loaned Tag Heuer watch, and then he stiffened. A black limo turned the corner, coming into view. Seconds later, it drew to a halt beside him.

The driver exited, rounding the vehicle without giving him so much as a nod, and opened the door.

Long, tanned legs entered his view. No surprise there. She’d taken plenty of pictures of her legs—bared in a tiny string bikini, while getting waxed, or stretched to advantage alongside her athlete-boyfriend’s muscular legs.

Not until the driver moved back and she stepped out on silly, spike-heeled sandals did he get the full impact of her beauty as she gracefully flung back her thick, tawny-gold tresses. Snake’s breath caught. Her selfies hadn’t done her justice. Unlike in her photos, she wore no makeup other than a hint of blush and a smear of pink, but her features didn’t need them. Large green eyes framed by dark brown brows and lashes, a light smattering of golden freckles across her nose and cheeks. Cream-colored skin. And holy fuck, that plump pink mouth…

Snake gave himself an internal shake. No admiring the client. She was bat-shit crazy and vain to the bone. And she had a boyfriend who might be strong enough to kick his ass.

So, why was he accompanying her on this vacation instead of “Hammer Hands”?

One perfectly plucked eyebrow arched as she locked her gaze with his. Then she let her glance slip slowly downward. By the time he was feeling really cheap, she turned and walked toward the private jet sitting in the middle of the tarmac.

Snake was blowing out a deep breath when she raised her hand and snapped her fingers, never once looking backward.

No, she did not. He squared his shoulders.

She might be a knockout, but he wasn’t a doormat. The sooner she figured that out, the better. He had a job to do. He’d do his best to keep her safe. He just needed to figure out why she needed protecting. The details Deke had given him were sketchy, and he’d been too busy looking for ways to turn down the gig to pay much attention to what precisely he was here to do.

Well, no better time than now. He bent to grab the handle of the loaned prissy leather case, which was packed with more clothing the stylist had deemed fit for the weekend, and rolled it toward the red carpet.