THE UNLIKELY BODYGUARD Page 2

  Even the men she'd managed to find the time to date recently were agonizingly polite, obsequious. And painfully dull. They didn't talk to her, they chatted, as if she couldn't handle anything remotely stressing. If they only knew her past, she thought with a flash of memory. Calli wanted more. Of what, she wasn't sure.

  She felt extraordinarily restrained by the image she needed to project for her career and the one struggling for escape. She looked down at her clothes and smirked. This wasn't exactly her usual style, but she felt incredibly daring and lush in leather. And beneath it all was a wild assortment of Brazilian lingerie that made her feel gloriously wicked. That was her only private justice, like snubbing the world when she wore tailored designer suits. For beneath every one of them was unchained seduction in lace and garters.

  For an instant, she wondered if Angel knew, since he'd had his hand halfway up her skirt when he'd carted her out of the bar.

  She slid over the gearshift and jammed in the key. The engine revved and she was turning to look behind her when the car door suddenly opened. Before she could speak, he reached across and turned off the car, then pulled her too easily from behind the wheel.

  Where had he come from? she wanted to know. She'd watched him walk away!

  He held her by the arms to his eye level. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

  His eyes were like shaved ice. Scary. "Of course not."

  "Then what the hell were you doing?" He shook her and one of her shoes plopped to the ground.

  "That's not your business, now is it, Angel." Where he got that name, she couldn't begin to wonder. He was more like Lucifer. Dark, lean, with lots of muscle beneath that jean jacket. She felt it when he'd carried her so humiliatingly from the bar. She saw it now in his hauntingly pale eyes. God, they were like crystals, sparkling with secrets. The power of them worried her.

  "Do you mind?" She brought her shoeless toe to the crotch of his jeans.

  "Don't play there, little tigress," he rasped, and something ignited inside Calli.

  "I hadn't planned on it. Well-placed kicks work so much better." She tapped him lightly and his eyes flared. "Put me down."

  He did, abruptly, releasing her as if his hands were burned, and stepping back.

  Jamming on her loose shoe, she slid back into her car. She didn't look at him, but she could feel him; his stance casual, his hips slanted, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. And those eyes. "I don't know what possessed you to interfere in my life, Angel Whoever-you-are, but I can take care of myself." Where was that car key?

  "I'll remember that when I'm reading about your murder in tomorrow's paper."

  "You're being a tad possessive toward someone you don't know." She found the key.

  Angel watched her search for the ignition, three times. "You're drunk, Miss Thornton."

  She held up her hand. "Let's not beat around the bush, shall we? I'm smashed."

  "And who will you kill on the road just to spite me?"

  She sighed, slowly lowering her head to the steering wheel. The horn beeped and she flinched. He was right, of course. Pride and rebellion could be taken only so far. Removing her keys, she swung her legs to the left and climbed from the BMW, closing the door. The following silence hung like a knife between them, sharp and dangerous.

  She stared up at him. His face was expressionless. She didn't think anyone could do that, wipe every ounce of emotion from his face, but he had. She staggered a bit, then bent and took off her shoes. Angel's eyes flared as she straightened.

  She was just a little thing.

  "Don't let my size mislead," she said, recognizing his surprise. "I really am tougher than I look."

  "Same goes here."

  She let her gaze rip and slide over him, down to the dark, snakeskin boots, then back up, smiling at the gold loop in his ear. "I can't imagine how." She turned and pointed her oblong key chain at the car. The lights went off, the locks snapped and the alarm set with a double beep. She leveled a side glance at him. "Bet you wish you could lock me up that well, huh, Angel?"

  Yes, he thought. He did. But what he wanted was to lock himself up with her.

  "G'night, Angel, honey."

  She brushed past him as she headed straight to the hotel, her shoes dangling from her fingertips like dainty slippers. His gaze swept her, clinging to her behind shifting inside the leather until she slipped into the hotel room. God, she was one wild number, he thought. No, he corrected, she was playing at being wild. That she hadn't bothered to set the car alarm outside the Nail told him she'd no idea where she was sticking that pretty nose and was damn lucky that her car hadn't been stripped when they'd come out. If she knew anything about The Rusty Nail, she wouldn't have set one polished toe in there. He'd read her instantly when she had. Her clothes were too expensive, too tailored. They spoke of money. And her white BMW screamed it.

  He leaned against a street lamp, watching until her lights went out. Then he hitchhiked a ride back to the Nail for his bike. Go home, Calli Thornton, he thought with a ride past the hotel and a final look-see for her car. A good woman like that didn't belong here. Ever. And certainly not near him.

  Gabriel "Angel" Griffin knew he shouldn't get too close to her. Just her perfume drove him mad. God, everything about her drove him nuts. She was sensual energy and didn't realize it. He'd spent the past two nights trying to reason her into a neat isolated corner of his mind. He had to, had to go back to feeling the way he had before he'd laid eyes on her.

  Like nothing.

  Feeling old and empty at thirty?

  Or keep worrying over a black-haired beauty with a sultry walk and eyes as bright as a New Mexico sky? He wished he could dismiss her from his mind, but he couldn't. He'd made a promise.

  And as he relaxed on the seat of his bike, boots propped on the handlebars, he kept one eye peeled on the entrance to Damien's Haven. She was really pushing it this time. Damien's looked like the average yuppie nightclub on the outside; tasteful decor, a bouncer and a line to get in. But inside, it was a designer-draped cesspool. More drug traffic went through that place than a Colombian cartel, bringing out the wired and weird. And Calli was in the center of it.

  Last night it was the streets, conversations with people who would sell their souls—and hers—for a few bucks. He'd been there, too, she just hadn't known it. For three days he'd watched her push the limits of her safety; a couple of fairly harmless admirers getting a little too familiar with that sweet behind, a kid trying to snatch her purse, unsuccessfully. So far nothing serious, not that every man within sight came to her rescue just because of her looks and the payback they might receive. The paybacks brought him out of hiding and under her nose tonight.

  Rooting in his pockets, he found a half-crushed cigarette and slid it between his lips. Then he hunted for a match, lit it, cupping the flame and squinting through the smoke at the entrance to Damien's. It was wide and he could scrutinize at least two-thirds of the club from here. And her. Or he would be inside right now. He drew on the smoke, exhaling in a short stream, then made a face at the stale taste and pitched it into the street. He saw her move through the club and his chest tightened unfamiliarly as she neared. She paused at the entrance, shaking her head to someone he couldn't see, then left. She maintained even steps and Angel wondered if she'd had anything to drink tonight. She hadn't the past two nights.

  She strode toward her car and he enjoyed the sight of those high-heeled legs. It was leather night again. This time, flame red. He liked it. Then she saw him and stopped in the center of the street. Horns beeped and traffic moved around her. The streetlights showered a dingy yellow over her and she continued, pausing briefly to let a car pass.

  "How much do you get for baby-sitting?" she called.

  He arched a brow, his gaze gliding heavily over her. "You're no baby."

  She cocked her hip and smiled. "Nice of you to notice."

  "Hard not to."

  He liked the faint blush stealing into her face. He couldn't remember
the last time he'd seen one. A real one.

  "You're becoming a pest. Don't you have a life, a wife, or somewhere else to be?"

  Slowly he shook his head. She walked toward him and stopped beside the bike. She planted one hand on her hip and looked him over so thoroughly, Gabe felt his groin tighten. God. Did she know what she did to a man? She was temptation incarnate and Gabe knew he couldn't do what he was thinking. He swung his boots off the handlebars and sat upright.

  But just the same, he let his thoughts multiply. And he ended up with her image parading through his mind without a stitch of clothing.

  "You're cramping my style, Angel."

  He didn't like that she called him that. It wasn't his real name. Some whore on the street gave it to him after his first lay when he was fourteen and he could never shake it. After so many years, he let it ride. But right now, he hated it and wanted to hear her call him Gabe. He shifted, straddling the bike. "Get on."

  Her look was bland. "Get real." She moved toward her car, turning off the alarm and opening the locks. He started the motorcycle, riding up beside her and blocking her from opening the door. The noise of the engine settled low.

  She sent him an annoyed look. "I don't need rescuing."

  "Are you admitting you did the other night?"

  "I'll admit to being drunk and nothing more."

  "Puked all night, did you?"

  She blinked, all innocence and smiles. "My, how attractive of you to mention it."

  He smirked, looked away for a second, then stilled, his gaze somewhere beyond her. "Make some interesting friends tonight?" He inclined his head to Damien's and the three men hanging around the doorway. She looked.

  "Damn!" Fear—real fear—colored her voice as two of the three men pushed away from the wall and headed toward them. One took a drag on a joint, then snuffed it in his palm and shoved it into his pocket before stepping off the curb. Real bad company, Gabe thought, remembering one of them from the newspaper. But Gabe recognized the look as their eyes traveled over her, her expensive car. She was ready cash for them and nothing more. Then they spotted him. "Get on, Calli."

  "Look, Angel. I don't need your protection." She leaned in, her face inches from his, her hand on her car door handle. "Go find someone who does."

  She was just too close, he thought. He wanted to taste her. All of her.

  His lips tightened into a grim line as she tried opening the door, giving him an impatient glare to move his bike. Then her gaze darted frantically beyond him to the men.

  "Don't be a hero, Calli." He could tell she was scared. "You can't handle them and you know it."

  "I wouldn't have to, if you'd move that hunk of steel!" She jerked on the door.

  Without another word, Gabe slapped his arm around her waist and dragged her across his lap. Her legs kicked up, her elbow driving into his stomach, her fist immediately clipping him on the chin and knocking his teeth together, stunning him. But he was stronger and faster and wrestled the keys from her fist, then booted the car door shut and rode away. He twisted slightly and set the alarm, then waved at the men in the street.

  She grappled for balance and he hoisted her tightly between his thighs. Calli glared at him.

  Gabe rubbed his chin. "Not a bad left cross," he said, amused.

  Her lip curled in an unattractive snarl. He dumped her keys into her lap and she scrambled before they fell to the asphalt.

  Calli made a frustrated sound. "This is kidnapping, you know."

  He glanced to the left as traffic moved alongside him. "Sue me."

  "I hate you."

  "Good."

  Was that supposed to please her? "You are by far the stubbornnest, most irritating man I've ever met."

  The wind smoothed her hair back and on the short stretch to the next light, he slumped comfortably in the seat. "Lucky you." He'd met worse, a lot worse. "You didn't cross your pals, yet. I could be an angel." He flashed her a grin that looked more like a shark baring its teeth before a kill.

  And she'd had enough of him. "Stop. Stop!"

  "Calli—?"

  "I said stop, dammit!"

  He pulled the bike to the side of the street.

  Calli shifted, facing him, casually draping her legs over his thigh as if they were in a living room and he was the sofa. "Why do you keep kidnapping me, butting in where you're not wanted?"

  Gabe let his gaze slide over her legs, the skirt hiked up so that he could see the tops of her red stockings, lace, and the shadow between. He swallowed and kept his hands away from her. "Because I was watching a lamb walk into a slaughter. Again."

  "A lamb? Me?" She tapped her chest, tapered nails clicking against the zipper of her jacket.

  He gestured to the street. "You see any other senseless female walking into the sludge of humanity without a thought to her life?"

  She reared back, frowning. "I wouldn't call them sludge, exactly, and what do you care about my life? You don't even know me."

  "I know I don't want to be identifying you from—"

  She put up a hand. "I get the picture—a toe tag."

  Calli avoided his gaze, wondering how she was going to dump him and still avoid those other "friends."

  But Gabe saw the cogs moving behind those expressive eyes and said, "Night's over, Cal."

  Her gaze slid to his, deep blue challenging white-green. Calli knew she would lose. He would camp out on her doorstep and play he-man if she didn't go to bed meekly. She didn't know how she knew that, but she did.

  She threw her legs off his and straddled the bike, trying unsuccessfully to keep her skirt down.

  He heard the bitterness in her voice when she said, "Then take me home, bad boy."

  Gabe leaned forward, her back pressed to his chest and he ached to run his hands up those legs and beneath the leather skirt. "You wouldn't know bad," he whispered in her ear, "if it was right behind you."

  She turned her head, meeting his piercing gaze head-on. "Is that so?"

  "Yeah. Or you wouldn't be riding with me."

  "Like I have a choice?"

  He gunned the engine, spitting pebbles as he shot away from the curb. Her body mashed back against his and he slipped one arm around her waist. Her breath caught, then released slowly, and Gabe liked the soft, shuddering sound he felt rather than heard.

  But he didn't like how satisfying she felt in his arms. Or how much he craved it when he'd gone without human contact for so long. The temptation for more told him to send her packing, now. And the only reason this trusting female would split, was if she realized she'd trusted the wrong kind of man. He wasn't supposed to like her, just keep her sweet butt from ending up on a slab. That's all he was being paid for, nothing else.

  * * *

  Two

  « ^ »

  They rode in silence, the wind whipping at their clothes, dust curling behind the Harley. His arm tightened around her waist as he tipped the bike on a turn. The big machine vibrating between her legs had nothing to do with her quickening breath. It was him, all him. Tucked snugly behind her, his thighs encasing hers, she felt like she was wearing him. His hand lay splayed across her stomach and she sensed every digit, his wide palm, his arm curling around her hip. Calli hadn't experienced anything quite this powerful in her life and she closed her eyes, wishing she could control her reaction to him. But this was what she'd wanted. Risk. Danger.

  The wind friction did nothing to hide the sound of his breathing in her ear. She didn't try talking to him. But then his hand shifted as their speed increased, moving a fraction lower and with her legs spread, she experienced a sudden rush of heat. He must have sensed it, disliked it, for he immediately brought his hand to the steering grip. Then a moment later, he guided the bike into a parking lot. Her hotel again, she thought grimly as he pulled the Harley in front of her room. Above them neon lights flashed Vacancy.

  He shoved the kickstand down and shut off the motor. The blunted silence strained the taut wire between them and she didn't turn to look at
him, watching his hand flex on the grip before it lowered to remove the key.

  She felt him pocket the key and she shifted on the narrow seat, meeting his gaze. Something moved beneath those ice-green eyes before the look was shuttered to emptiness. He appeared relaxed, arms folded over his chest, his back braced on the bar, his legs spread. Her gaze followed the line from thigh to his flat stomach, then up to his face. His lips quirked. She stared him down, her chin lifting a bit. She could admire a good-looking man if she wanted, she thought petulantly. She might have been raised in a Catholic orphanage, but she was, by no means, a nun.

  She shifted between his legs, her buttocks brushing the insides of his thighs as she slid her leg over the bike. She stood and the ground rolled. How could one drink, hours ago, make her feel this dizzy?

  "You look a little pale."

  Was that concern in his voice real? "Actually, I had only one drink around seven, but I feel like I'm going to wretch."

  His brows furrowed for a split second. "Not on me." He gave her a soft shove toward her room.

  She took a couple of steps, then cocked a look at him. He was admiring her behind and she'd caught him at it. So. He wasn't as indifferent as he seemed.

  "Want to come in?" Careful, Calli.

  "And watch you get sick?"

  Her smile mocked. "What'sa matter, Angel, honey. Afraid?"

  "You should be."

  "Of you?" Her brows lifted. "You've got to be kidding. You're as tame as they come under all that—" She waved loosely at the motorcycle and knew it was a lie.

  His expression didn't change and she faced him fully, sauntering closer. So close she smelled the untouchable wildness surrounding him. He didn't budge a muscle, only his gaze followed her. She laid her hand on his thigh and muscle tensed beneath. But still, he didn't move.

  "Back off, Calli," came the low rasp. "You don't know what you're getting into."

  Her gaze challenged him. "What will you do, Angel? Chew me up and spit me out?" Her face neared his, the whisper of her breath on his lips. Her gaze never wavered, searching his and waiting for a reaction. But he was as lifeless as a granite statue. The temptation of his stillness, to make him respond, urged her on. She let her mouth hover over his, let him feel her nearness like an animal scents its prey.