Look at the fantastic cover they did for it:
Country singer Daniel “Dusty” Young can’t understand why anyone would want him dead, or why anyone would think he’s important enough to kidnap. So it comes as a complete surprise when attempts are made on his life and he’s appointed Rafe, a G-man guardian angel. Rafe is determined to protect Daniel, even from himself, but it’s not an easy job.
When Rafe finally takes Daniel off to the middle of nowhere, it gives them time to pursue other things, like each other. Too much R&R might just make them sloppy, though, and sloppy could get them killed. Can they survive fighting for their lives and falling in love?
Look for it tomorrow at Resplendence!
I have to admit, I do love the bodyguard trope. I'm not sure why I haven't written a ton more of it! Although I am currently working on a story that falls into that category -- it's gone long so I'm not sure when it'll be finished!
Here's an excerpt of Guardian Angel:
Dan smiled at Ben and Roxy, and nodded when they gave him the thumbs-up.
The crowd was screaming as the band played the opening chords of “Damned Fine”, and Dan took a deep, deep breath. Okay, Daniel. Time to show ‘em what all you got.
“Ladies and Gentlemen! Dusty Young!”
The lights blinded him for a second, swirling blue and red and yellow, but he was expecting it, his fingers moving on the guitar strings automatically. The crowd was loud enough he couldn’t hear himself play, and he could feel the swarm surge forward.
Security, dressed head-to-toe in denim, pushed them back, keeping the screaming fans from getting to the stage.
He shook his ass, leaned down into the mic and started singing, pitching his voice deep and husky, grinning as the crowd went wild. Hell, yes.
The girls up front tossed him flowers and underwear, one trying to toss herself on stage. A dark-haired security guard caught her around the waist and put her back on her feet in the midst of the crowd.
Man, if they only knew what a waste of silky panties that was. He moved across the stage, dancing with Timmy and Darla, tsking under his breath as the two of them flirted wildly with each other. Horndogs.
The show went off without a hitch, Dan feeding off the audience, getting more and more pumped the longer the show went on. That fed the audience in return and near to the end of the final set of songs, a girl got past security and onto the stage, launching herself at him. He stepped back instinctively.
The flash of metal startled him, and he put his hands up, stumbling over some cords. Someone large and denim-dressed pushed the girl out of the way before wrapping around him and pulling him toward the wings.
“Jesus fucking Christ. Did she have a gun?” He stumbled along, heart just pounding. “Where are we going?”
“Leaving the fucking building. Are you hurt anywhere, Mr. Young?” The arms around him were strong, the security guard tall, muscled, voice deep.
“Leaving the…? But I got a show to finish! The label’s going to fucking burn me.”
“Protocol is to get you out of the building until it’s cleared, Mr. Young.”
“Cleared? You don’t just—” A series of shots rang out, and he went stiff. “Jesus fucking Christ! Tell me my band’s being moved.”
Was he hurt?
Did he even know?
Mr. Muscles started running, pulling Dan along, not saying a word, just pulling him through the winding corridors of the concert hall.
Suddenly, they were out, and he was being hustled into the back of a car, his security guard coming with him.
He shook his head, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. “My guys. I need to get my guys.”
“You suddenly bulletproof?” His protector nodded to the driver. “Get us out of here.”
The car peeled away, leaving the concert hall behind.
“What the fuck?” Dan twisted, reaching in his back pocket for his cell. He’d call Aimee, tell his manager this shit wasn’t going to work.
One big hand swallowed the phone up. “Sorry, Mr. Young. Protocol is that we get you out, and there’s no contact until we know it’s safe.”
The guy pulled out a walkie-talkie. “Archangel here, I’ve got the primary. What’s going on back there?”
“Chaos. Pure fucking chaos. Get out of there like your ass is on fire.”
The walkie-talkie was turned off and tucked away again in the denim jacket. “Location B.”
The driver nodded.
“Bullshit. Give me my fucking phone.” No fucking way was this on the up and up. He was a singer, not the goddamn president. Something smelled like shit.
His daddy always said, Smelled like shit? Probably didn’t taste like Granny’s biscuits.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Young, I can’t do that.” The warm brown eyes really did look sorry.
Okay. Okay. Think. Keep talking. The next stop light. Hit the door. His or mine? Bastard couldn’t be locked in here, too. “Sure you can. This ain’t national fucking security. It’s country music.”
“That girl had a gun, Mr. Young. She very nearly shot you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Obviously the cops got her. Lemme check on my band.” Okay, my door or try to take the big guy’s door? He reached behind him, testing. He didn’t know what was going on, but this felt all wrong. He had no clue who this guy was—had he gone from the frying pan into the fire? It sure fucking felt like he had. Okay. Fuck. Fuck. Okay.
“Don’t try it,” murmured his…captor?
That’s what this was, right? A kidnapping. “What the fuck’s going on?” Shit, now he was going into sorta scared. Fuck.
“I’m just trying to keep you safe, Mr. Young.”
“Bullshit. I want my phone.”
“Just relax, Mr. Young.” The guy leaned forward and murmured something to the driver who nodded.
Dan took his chance as the car slowed, pushing himself across the man’s back and diving toward the door. Whatever this was, it wasn’t in his fucking contract, and he was getting the hell out of Dodge.
Dan got the door handle and shoved it hard. Come on. Come on. Come on.
A strong arm went around his waist, and he was pushed between the big body and the back of the car. His captor’s other hand reached over and pulled Dan’s hand off the door. “Are you nuts? You’re going to kill yourself!”
“Let me out or give me my fucking phone.” He was still buzzing from the concert, still vibrating from the adrenaline.
The big asshole just shook his head, using sheer brute force to right him, putting him back in his seat. “Sorry, Mr. Young. I just can’t do that right now.”
“What the fuck is this?” Dan wrapped his hand around the neck of his guitar, holding on. He really didn’t want to use her for a club. He would, but he didn’t want to.
“I’m taking you somewhere safe, Mr. Young. You’re going to need to trust me.” The man held out his hand. “I’m Rafe.”
“Safe from who? I didn’t fall out of the fucking turnip truck this morning.” He shook the man’s hand once, refusing to release the guitar.
Rafe’s hand was warm and solid as he gave Dan’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I don’t have any information to give you, but I can promise you that you won’t be harmed. Not on my watch.”
The car was picking up speed, the street lights fading away behind them.
Okay. Fuck. What was he supposed to do? “No information? Where are we going? Why won’t you give me my phone? Who the fuck’s paying your paycheck?”
Those dark brown eyes looked at him. “What about ‘no information’ are you not getting here?”
“The part where I’m in a strange fucking car with strange fucking muscle. This is fucking asinine.”
“Need to know basis, Mr. Young.” Rafe turned to look out the window. “We’ll be there soon.”
smut fixes everything