THE UNLIKELY BODYGUARD Page 6

He folded his arms and gave his full attention. The stance annoyed her. "And they are?"

  "When we get to the farm—" She glanced to the side, then met his gaze, drawing a breath. "You cannot kiss me."

  He arched a brow.

  "No touching, either."

  His face was blank and she wanted to pinch him. This was for her benefit, not his. Since she didn't feel she had that much of an effect on him, anyway.

  "Absolutely no touching?" It was the way he said it that unnerved her, like a line drawn in the sand and a dare to cross it.

  "None. If we're going to be living in the same house—" Oh, how the good sisters would give her an earful if they knew, she thought fleetingly. "We have to keep this impersonal."

  "Agreed."

  She sighed with relief. "I promise to do my share for room and board." She had to trade something in the bargain for her to feel she wasn't just using his place as a convenient getaway. "If I don't have to slop hogs. Roast them, yes. But meet them and stare into their beady little eyes before I sauté them, no thank you."

  His lips were twitching and Calli realized her heart pounded with the anticipation of seeing him smile, just once. It didn't happen.

  "Agreed."

  She wished she could get more conversation out of him than those short abrupt sentences, she thought, but said, "Good. Fine."

  Suddenly he stepped closer, his arm sliding smoothly around her waist and pulling her against his long body. The contact was electric, primal, and her hands flew to his chest.

  "You agreed!"

  Without a word, he ducked his head and covered her mouth with his, his kiss a slow slide of wet lips and tongue. And Calli responded and received, her heart racing up to her throat as her body softened and swelled and dampened with every move of his lips on hers. She didn't think there were any men left who kissed like this. Lush. Determined. A movie kiss. A tiny fraction of a moan came from him and then just as quickly, he pulled back.

  "Gabriel!"

  His lips curved a bit, his gaze sweeping her flushed face. "You said when we get to the farm—" He let the words hang between them as he released her and stepped back.

  "I'm going to have to get this in writing I see," she muttered tightly, her lips numb and her body singing. Needing a separation, she swiftly collected up her shopping bags and walked out the door, heading to her car. She opened the trunk and he deposited her suitcase and garment bag inside. She topped it with her goodies.

  "Where's your bike?"

  "Didn't bring it." He nodded to a black truck parked at the far end of the lot. It was dented over the rear fender and covered in dust. "Just follow me," he said, pulling his keys from his pocket as he walked away. "And, Calli?"

  She paused, one foot inside her car, one out.

  Back-stepping, his gaze dropped briefly to her legs, then to her face. "The exit for the highway is about a mile down the road."

  "I know."

  "In case you decide to keep going."

  His words were like a gauntlet dropped at her feet. A dare. And a way out. "You chicken?" she challenged. "Afraid I'll reform you or something?"

  "No." His face was suddenly devoid of expression. "Afraid I'll corrupt you or something."

  "You just try," she flung back. Please.

  * * *

  Four

  « ^ »

  He'd lied.

  It wasn't a farm, she decided as she left her car. Well, not really, and not at all what she expected. Yes, there were fields, though not large ones, but there was also a barn, a stable, a paddock and a corral. The latter penned three beautiful chestnut horses, playing tag from one end of the enclosure to the other. But it was the valley that took her breath away. Every shade of green and gold imaginable. It was as if a giant hand had scooped out a wide portion of tawny dry earth, making room for his ranch on a plateau between high, buff-colored walls. It made her feel insignificant just to look at it.

  She loved it. It was solitude and silence and rich splashes of color in the wildflowers growing out of the stone cliffs, defying nature. Her heels sank into the dirt as she walked to a wide area serving as a driveway. Dust from the ride in swirled in a threat before settling. She gazed out over the land, hearing the gurgle of water over rocks, a horse stomping restlessly before scampering like a pleased child when Gabe moved close to the corral. She twisted to watch the animal nudge his hand and he stroked its long brown nose. Even in the distance she recognized the gentleness he kept hidden and she felt a sudden burst of jealousy. For a horse?

  Not the safest vein of thought, she warned herself, turning toward the one-level rambling house. Another surprise. Though it could use a coat of paint and some flowers around the porch supports, it was simple, serviceable. And the kitchen was…

  "Outside?" she said, swinging around to look at him.

  He pushed away from the fence, moving toward her. "Not up for the adventure?"

  She ignored the sarcasm in his tone and said, "I can't picture you cooking here."

  "I rarely cook anything, much less outside. Bull cooks."

  "What or who is Bull?" Nothing pleasant came to mind.

  "You'll know soon enough." She noticed he didn't come close to her, always several feet away.

  "This Bull person isn't going to mind me invading his territory?"

  "He'll be ecstatic."

  Her brows tightened at the cryptic remark. He didn't offer an explanation. Typical. She looked at the kitchen. The entire area, including a wood dining table with six chairs and a long bench was protected by a porch stretching beyond the length of the house. The work area itself consisted of a water pump over a stainless-steel sink flanked by thick wood counters pressed up against the wall of the house. Opposite that and facing the open was a beautiful stone hearth with a grate for grilling. At least the view was spectacular, she thought as she approached, noticing a cove in the fitted stones to let bread rise. A three-by-five-foot table rested alongside the hearth, thick and smooth butcher block. She ran her hand over it like a caress. A chef's dream, she thought, the perfect height for herself. Her attention shifted to the homo, built far enough away from the house to not invite a fire hazard. She peered inside the blackened interior, then at him. "Does this work?"

  He nodded mutely and she felt his pale eyes follow her, intense as a touch.

  Calli had never had to cook without electricity and she looked forward to the challenge. Especially the adobe oven that looked like a giant beehive. This will bake some incredible bread, she thought happily.

  "Intimidated, I see."

  He didn't know her well enough to recognize excitement when he saw it. She turned toward him, arms akimbo. "I suppose you will not only expect me to cook but be a ranch hand, too?"

  Gabe sighed and raked his fingers through his hair, making it look wild. "Look, Calli. I don't expect anything from you." Her gaze sharpened on him. "I don't expect anything from anybody."

  Me, either, she thought. "I agreed and I will. Or are you trying to get rid of me again?"

  He hesitated and Calli thought he'd tell her he'd changed his mind about their arrangement. "Just making sure you understand."

  She folded her arms and gave him her full attention. "Understand what, exactly?"

  "That I didn't bring you here to get you into bed."

  "What a shame," she muttered under her breath, looking at the ground.

  "What?"

  Her gaze flashed up, colliding with his. Self-preservation kicked in. He was not the tie-down-and-love-forever type. And she wasn't about to lose herself in a man that wouldn't give her what she needed. Not that she knew what that was. But sleep with him just because he had a sexy walk, a sexy voice and looked good with beard stubble? No way. "It would take a lot more than bringing me here to get me into your bed, Gabriel."

  Gabriel. God, he liked the way she said his name, a slight Southern drawl, aristocratically soft. But her words sounded too much like a threat and something, he wasn't sure what, broke inside him. You're not good
enough for her anyway, man. So just back off. She's a case, an assignment. And if he kept thinking of her that way he just might live through the next couple of weeks. Yet like Adam tempted by Eve, he let his gaze wander over her lemon-yellow dress, the matching heels dusted with dirt. His body tightened from just looking at her and he was a little glad she'd started rooting in the cabinets.

  "Pitiful." She tsk-tsked.

  "You're really going to cook?" Damn, if he didn't sound like an eager kid.

  Bent to look in a lower cupboard, she turned her head and flashed him a smile. "It's what I do best."

  Not really, he thought, but he hadn't tasted her cooking, only her kisses. Jeez, he needed to get away from her. Striding to her car, he released the trunk latch from inside and retrieved her luggage.

  "I can do that," she said as he passed into the house.

  He ignored her and she hustled in after him. The inside was as plain as the outside. And dreary. She stood in the entry, her gaze passing over the beige stuffed chairs and sofa, the chair with a permanent dent in the seat from his body. There was nothing special, nothing personal, about the place. Even the southwest design seemed to lack the style's usual appeal. His boot heels sounded in the hall off to the left corner and she walked toward the noise. She passed a closed door, a bathroom with a claw-footed tub, then headed to a room at the back. He was setting her bags on the floor as she stepped through the door.

  He hooked his thumbs in his pockets and stepped back from her. "There are two others if you don't like this, one."

  She'd noticed the doors farther up the hall. "This is fine." And which is your room? she wanted to ask. And why am I really here, Gabriel? Did you really need free labor that bad? She didn't think so.

  Her own reasons were clear. It was totally and utterly reckless. Gabriel Griffin was bad company, raw seduction in tight jeans, and even with the rules she'd set down, the good sisters' warnings played in her head. She ignored them, feeling like Eve in the garden of temptation. What was it going to be like, living with a man that threw her hormones out of whack whenever he looked at her? Like he was doing to her now. Her body senses were heightened, aware of even his breathing, and she quickly focused on the simply decorated room, spared of clutter. A tall dresser, nightstands flanking the double bed, both with squat oil lamps, and a beautiful handmade quilt spread across the bed. There were a couple of terra-cotta urns and pots on the floor and dresser, all without flowers or plants. The furniture had an unstained rough quality, like frontier antiques. A rag rug in sandy tones covered the floor. Not bad for a guy's place, she thought.

  When she didn't respond, he started to leave.

  "It's nice, Gabriel." She turned her head and met his gaze as he twisted a look over his shoulder. "So, what is it that you do out here, all alone?"

  "I train horses for trail riding."

  He looked anxious to leave. And she didn't want him to just yet. "I didn't know they had to be trained."

  His hot gaze slid over her. "The animals aren't bred to be ridden, Cal."

  She felt heat warm her cheeks and tilted her chin defiantly. His low tone reeked of sexual innuendo. "I'm sure I'll learn a lot while I'm here." She moved to her suitcases, dragging one onto the bed and sending the zipper around. She flipped the top back, then glanced at him. His gaze seemed to scrap over her.

  "Are you planning to watch me change?"

  He smirked, but his mind's eye was peeling away the feminine layers faster than she could ever imagine. "Make yourself at home. Need anything, just ask. I'll be in the barn."

  Calli let her breath out, then shut the door after him. Quickly, she stripped out of her dress and heels and into an old pair of cutoffs and a tank top. She dug into the bottom of the suitcase for sneakers and socks, not about to opt for sandals on a ranch. She was going to investigate this place first, then report for duty. A smile stretched her lips. Angel, honey, she thought, don't think for a minute that I can't hack it. She would die before admitting she didn't know a thing about ranching. Or handling him.

  Leaving the room, she snooped and found he liked books. There were shelves lining the walls on either side of the living room fireplace, stacks of them under the end tables. Even two or three with places marked. His taste held a wide variety from Asimov to Clancy.

  Avoiding the rooms with the doors closed, she investigated the bathroom next. Finding the flushing toilet was like manna from heaven, until she realized that if she wanted a bath, she had to haul water from outside. Ten minutes later, she amended the idea when she found an outdoor shower. With slats of polished, treated wood and a pull chain to operate the flow of water, it looked more like a sauna. She shook her head, amused. Water, obviously heated by the sun, was stored in a tank on stilts with God knew what else lurking in its depths. This, she thought, was roughing it. What's a few inconveniences? She could have said no, she reminded herself, and he did warn her. Not up for the adventure?

  Was he daring her to stay or daring her to fold and leave?

  That there was a generator, humming like an old man trudging uphill, told her he didn't do without as much as he would like her to believe. Following the lines, she found they ran to the refrigerator standing on the porch/kitchen and to a washer. At least I won't be beating my clothes against a rock, she thought.

  She walked around the yard, the field, stooping to pick herbs from the overgrown garden. Someone had made an effort once and the rows of herbs hidden in weeds were halfway decent. It was the second thing on her mental list. Food was the first.

  She rummaged in the cabinets, the fridge, and found enough staples to make a meal. But that was it. Well, she would ask him to point her in the direction of the nearest store later. Her inventory limited, she managed a surprise, then went searching for Gabe. And she found him.

  Oh, Hail Mary, did she find him.

  He was in the barn, stripped to the waist and shoveling dung into a wheelbarrow. The barn was cool and dry, the odor palatable after a few seconds, but that hardly mattered to the option of watching Gabe in rancher mode. She swallowed, wetting her lips as he bent and scooped and tossed. A horse watched him as if this were a lesson he had to learn, and Calli simply watched, learning a lot in the few seconds. His body was carved marble, thick arms and shoulders, a trim, flat waist, and every inch she could see was bronze. She wanted to touch him. Bad.

  "Gonna burn a hole into my back or what?"

  Startled by the annoyance in his voice, she straightened. "Well, if you're going to take that kind of attitude, I won't give you this." He turned, propping his arm on the top of the handle, his gaze traveling over her attire with slow approval. She felt immediately hotter under his velvety gaze and held out a tall glass of lemonade. He let go of the shovel, snatching a raggedy towel off a peg as he moved toward her, wiping the sweat from his face and chest. Oh, don't, she thought, I like the sweat. It looked good, trickling down the center of his bare chest, his temples, mingling with bits of hay in his dark hair. But what startled her the most were the tattoos on his arms.

  Nowhere else, but his arms. A ring of thorns around one bicep; a Tasmanian Devil in a dust cloud on the other. A dragon-wrapped dagger pointed down on one forearm to where Celtic knots circled his wrist. Turquoise and yellow flames shot up from the other and curled around his elbow, and USMC labeled one deltoid. Then she noticed something else. The scars. One in his side, jagged and shiny, a slice under his stubbled chin, and a deep gouge on his left shoulder that looked like a—

  "Is that a bullet hole?"

  He took the glass. "Yeah." Tipping it to his lips, his Adam's apple climbed and fell as he drained it. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, his pale gaze colliding with hers as he handed it back. "Where did you find lemons?"

  Go ahead, avoid telling me your secrets, she thought peevishly. "The fridge, though most of them could have walked away on their own."

  His lips curved, then receded. "Need to shop?"

  "Every woman needs to shop, Gabriel. But as to food,
yes, if you want to eat tomorrow."

  Gabe wanted to eat, all right, but she was on his menu. If he thought she looked hot in leather or that simple yellow dress, nothing prepared him for very short cutoffs and a body-fitting, hot-pink tank top. She had the best-looking legs he'd ever seen on a woman and his imagination saw him licking every inch of those defined muscles. He wondered what she did to get them to look like that and in the same instance knew he should be thinking of her as an employee. Except he wasn't paying her and she didn't look like a ranch hand.

  "Need help? Or are there hogs to slop?"

  "No hogs."

  Her lips tightened. "I didn't think so."

  "Just chickens." He inclined his head to the coop a hundred feet or so away from the barn. "And they're taken care of."

  "I can shovel hay," she offered.

  "Not opting for horse turds?"

  "When you look like the expert?" She shook her head. "Ain't no way."

  He smirked, then turned away without a word and picked up the shovel. She stood there, watching.

  The silence stretched and when he spoke, his voice was heavy with impatience. "Go back to the house, Calli."

  His tone stung. "You're welcome, Angel," she snapped. She headed out, head bowed, arms folded over her waist, when the sound of a vehicle approaching brought her head up. She stopped short. Gabe was right behind her as a truck, old and faded red, jostled and bounced up the road in a cloud of dust.

  "That'll be Bull."

  "I'm thrilled," she said over her shoulder, her gaze thin with hurt. He was oblivious and she quickened her steps toward the house. Gabe couldn't keep his gaze from her sweet little bottom shifting inside the short shorts, teasing him with the soft curves shaped in frayed cloth. Sweet.

  The truck skidded to a halt and Gabe strode to the man leaving the vehicle. Bull was big, barrel-chested, with heavy short legs. Gray hair stuck out in all directions from beneath a beat-up, stained straw cowboy hat, which was curved to perfection, as Bull would say. He wore worn jeans and a T-shirt ringed at the neck with sweat. His daily attire. Usually his shirts said something across the chest. Today it was washed-out blue with Runs With Scissors printed across the front.