THE (UNSOUGHT) BODYGUARD

FLYING HIGH

Annika flew out to see her parents on her birthday. Shivaay took the aisle seat next to her in first class, and she wondered if he'd had to check his firearm to get through security. She went shopping in Paris with her mother during the day, went with both parents to the Eiffel Tower restaurant for dinner, where she was treated to champagne and a slice of birthday cake complete with candle, compliments of the chef.

She spent the night in a room at the same hotel as her parents, with a nice view overlooking the Seine, and was slated to fly back home in the afternoon. She was strolling through an open-air market, filled with shouting from vendors and the sounds of live animals and patrons jabbering away in French. Shivaay stuck close as she wandered, feeling distinctly out of his element. The girl, sensing his discomfort and feeling devious, pretended to be looking over a selection of bread and reached out covertly and pinched the ass of the woman standing next to her.

As expected, the woman turned, eyes narrowed, and looked accusingly at Shivaay. "Comment oses-tu, vous putain de cochon! Gardez vos mains pour vous, fils de pute, ou je vous arracherai tes testicules!" (How dare you, you fucking pig! Keep your hands to yourself, son of a bi*ch, or I'll rip your testicles out!)

Annika, like the rest, pretended to be shocked by Shivaay's behaviour. "Oh mon Dieu, je suis tellement désolé, mademoiselle! C'est un indien, il n'a pas de cerveau." (Oh my God, I'm so sorry, miss! He's an Indian, he has no brain.)

"Dites au bâtard indien de regarder ses mains, parce que ce genre de merde n'est pas toléré ici. Même si son visage est beau," the woman snapped, sent one last vengeful glance at Shivaay and marched away. (Tell the Indian bastard to watch his hands, because that kind of shit is not tolerated here. Even though his face is beautiful,)

"Je ne sais pas de quoi elle se plaint. Je ne me dérangerait pas qu'il me toucher partout où il aimait," said the woman behind the counter. Annika grinned and moved on, Shivaay at her elbow. (I don't know what she is complaining about. I wouldn't mind him touching me wherever he liked.)

"Why do I get the feeling you did that on purpose?" he murmured.

"Because I did," she replied with a small smile. "I wanted you to get that first hand experience of a Parisian yelling at you in a language you don't understand. Was it good for you, too?"

Annika glanced over her shoulder to see him grin and her heart fluttered, stomach flip flopping a little. "It wasn't bad. And despite the language barrier, I think I understood her meaning, for the most part." She grinned back. "What I want to know is what you said about me to her. I gathered the Indian part," he added.

The girl smiled wider. "I would've thought you'd want to know about the vendor lady saying she wouldn't mind you putting your hands all over her, personally," she said teasingly, and turned away, going to look at the work of an artist selling sketches of the locals sights.

They flew home in Harsh Trivedi's private jet and Shivaay felt much less on edge with his Pistol strapped to him once more, even though security risks were pretty much nonexistent at thirty six thousand feet, armed or not. Annika was sitting in the cluster of four seat next to his, sketching with her feet up on one of the seats and Shivaay smirked because she had Hello Kitty socks on.

"Why are you smirking at my feet?" she murmured, shifting a little.

"Your socks are amusing." He shrugged.

Annika's hazel eyes peeked over her sketchbook to look at her toes. "Well that's a relief. I thought you were going to tell me you have a thing for feet."

The man snorted. "Generally not." She fell silent, only the scratching of her pencil breaking the silence. "What are you drawing?"

She looked up again. "Nothing important," she said, smirking a little. "Why?"