Bring Me a Dream

Bring Me a Dream

4.2 5
by Robyn Amos

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Jasmine White is tired of people questioning her ability to do her job. She knows she's the best bodyguard in the business, and she'll tell anyone who asks. And now she's got to take sass from her new client Spencer Powell, the late-night radio jock who calls himself "the Sandman." Someone's threatening the Sandman -- and if Jasmine messes up this high-profile

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Jasmine White is tired of people questioning her ability to do her job. She knows she's the best bodyguard in the business, and she'll tell anyone who asks. And now she's got to take sass from her new client Spencer Powell, the late-night radio jock who calls himself "the Sandman." Someone's threatening the Sandman -- and if Jasmine messes up this high-profile assignment, he'll tell everyone about it!

But sexy-cool Spencer's not so sure he wants a woman protecting him -- even one as fine as Jasmine. Part of him wants to drive her away -- and another part wants to hold her delectable body as close to him as possible. And when their body chemistry heats up, the fire it generates could prove a lot more dangerous than any anonymous death threat!

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Tired of losing prime assignments to male co-workers, bodyguard and former D.C. cop Jasmine White is ready for a case she can sink her teeth into. When she's finally hired by WLPS to guard handsome radio host Spencer Powell, Jasmine fears his macho pride will impede her ability to protect him from the stalker he's flippantly nicknamed Nightmary. A contentious first meeting, defused by Jasmine's frequent use of anger management techniques and Spencer's fear of a sexual harassment lawsuit, gives way to a clandestine romance that's marred only by Amos's contrived, slang-filled dialogue. When Nightmary becomes more aggressive, breaking into Jasmine's home, poisoning Spencer and attacking one of his co-workers, the couple seek the protection of Jasmine's large, protective family. Although Amos (True Blue) carefully presents the requisite lineup of possible suspects including a bitter ex-girlfriend, a spurned station manager and throngs of zealous fans the true culprit stands out like a sore thumb from the outset, undermining Jasmine's supposedly sharp investigative skills and dampening the novel's suspense. With its predictable plot and weak heroine, this middling tale will likely languish on the shelf. (Nov. 6) Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.

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Chapter One

Spencer Powell awoke with a start. Then he was moving, rolling — right off the edge of the sofa. He hit the floor hard and, disoriented, lay there.

"Good morning, carpet." He lifted his chin out of the plush shag to spit out carpet fibers.

His head felt thick and achy from too little sleep. After a restless night, he'd finally abandoned his bed to watch a video in the living room. Sleep came quickly once he'd begun to relax.

Staggering to his feet with the grace of a drunken hippo, Spencer dashed a hand down his face and slogged forward. Either he'd landed harder than he thought, and his ears were ringing in three-tone melody, or someone was ringing the doorbell.

He tugged the door open, and his blood immediately started pumping faster. "Well, hello." God bless the Avon lady.

Sleep deprived or not, Spencer never passed up the opportunity to appreciate a good-looking woman. And the one on his doorstep was nothing short of stunning.

His gaze skimmed the features of her face, flying by her sleek, short hairstyle to the slim pantsuit outlining her figure. His gaze lingered there, flowing over her curves like molasses. He admired the way her navy jacket clipped in dramatically at her waist.

She was tall, just inches shorter than his six feet, and she had the body of an athlete. His eyes moved lower. Definitely a dancer's legs. Her trendy navy slacks clung to her thighs, revealing taut muscles, before flaring slightly over her chunky-heeled shoes.

Whatever shewas selling, he was buying, he thought as every male instinct kicked in. A grin, designed to be charming, spread across his face. Taking a step back he raised his hands above his head. "If you're my psycho stalker, I surrender."

"If I were, you'd be dead already."

The woman didn't smile, which was a shame, because she had a small mouth with juicy lips perfect for smiling — and other things. Instead, she moved forward, forcing Spencer to take another step back to allow her to enter.

"Do you always let strangers in so easily?" she asked.

"No, but —"

"Then you'll have to do better next time." As she passed, she slapped a card into one of his open palms.

"Jasmine White." He read aloud. "Close Protection Specialist." The rude snort he issued was a reflex, the last vestiges of sleep clearing from his head instantly. "You're my bodyguard? You've got to be kidding."

He'd spent the early-morning hours, which he usually reserved for sleep, arguing with his station manager, Talibah Arkou, over this very matter. He didn't need a bodyguard.

Hell, before he came to WLPS five years ago, he'd been a shock jock in Philly. There, crank calls and death threats had been proof that he was doing a good job. Back then, they'd been the rantings of the lonely looking for attention, and he'd bet that was all these threats were now. They came with the job. The only difference was that, back in Philly, no one had tried to force a bodyguard, on him.

Maybe he had lain awake between spurts of sleep after last night's incident on the air, but who could blame him? Wasn't everyone around him freaking out? He'd tried to get Tali to calm down, but she wouldn't listen. She'd insisted that the call, and the three written threats that had come before it, could escalate into something serious. She'd told him there would be a bodyguard on his doorstep come daylight and that was that.

Spencer could have thrown his weight around. He pulled phenomenal ratings, despite the fact that he had one of the least-popular time slots. But he had his eye on the morning show. Rumor had it that Johnny Gallow would be retiring soon, and Spencer was first in line for his slot. He didn't want to do anything to jeopardize his chances, which brought him back to the bodyguard.

Oh, well, it was the station's dime. He couldn't change Tali's mind, so he had to go along with it — temporarily. But that didn't give the station the right to turn him into a public joke.

Sure, he'd complained that he didn't want some I dull-witted, three-hundred-pound giant dogging his heels, but this was ridiculous. Since when did bodyguards come honey-dipped and fully equipped? And she was so slender...he'd bet one good breath would knock her flat.

"First of all, the only kind of protection I have any use for is made of latex and fits in my wallet. Second, even if I did need someone to watch my back, you look more like a ballerina than a bodyguard.

Jasmine stopped checking out the house to pin him with a sharp glare. Even with barely controlled anger heating her eyes and bunching her lips, she was pretty.

To Spencer, pretty had always seemed a useless description, watered down for those who didn't quite make the cut for beautiful. Yet, right now, no word seemed more suited to Jasmine's face than pretty.

Her features were small and feminine. She had a perfect oval face with smooth skin like dark toffee. His gaze started at her soft heart-shaped mouth, moved past her miniature nose to those giant Bambi eyes — that were drilling holes in his forehead.

He watched as she sucked in a breath, dearly trying to rein in her temper. After staring at him for a full minute, she nodded.

"Why don't we save ourselves a little time?" She walked into his living room and pulled an end table away from the wall. "Your station manager hired me to protect you, and as you've already stated, you don't feel I'm qualified to do the job."

He rubbed...

Bring Me a Dream. Copyright © by Robyn Amos. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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