Forged In Desire
He had removed his jacket and tie, and she saw that a dark brown leather shoulder holster held his gun. The holster had a side compartment she guessed contained extra bullets.
Of course, she should not have been surprised that he was loaded down with such weaponry. He had been hired to protect her, after all. But still, seeing it was a stark reminder of her predicament. Her uncle had talked to her and she had promised to cooperate with her protector. With Striker. “Okay, Striker. Did my kitchen pass muster?”
“Not really. That’s a nice view out that window, but you’re going to have to keep the blinds drawn most of the time. I also noticed several troubling areas in your yard.”
“What?”
Glancing at his phone, Striker told her what he’d noted.
“I never had a reason to worry about any of that before.”
“Now you do. I’ll take care of it.” Striker moved around Margo to go back into her living room and she was right on his heels.
“So how long have you been a protector?”
Not long enough, he thought to himself. He didn’t want to think how different his life would be today if years ago he’d been there to protect the one person he should have been safeguarding. He wouldn’t be carrying around all this guilt if he had. “Several years,” he said, tossing the answer over his shoulder. He kept walking to check the front door to inspect the locks. She had an alarm system and that was good. He glanced around the room. Again there were too many windows. And she had stairs. There were also several rooms connected to her living room. He would check them out later after doing a walk-through upstairs.
“How many is several?”
He stopped walking long enough to look over at her and wish he hadn’t. She was leaning in the doorway that separated her living room from the kitchen. In that lazy, carefree pose, she looked good. Too good. There was something about her standing there with her hair tossed around her shoulders that made parts of his body ache.
“About eight years.”
“And what did you do before that?”
He could tell her that his past was none of her business. But he had no problem sharing what he did because that time—thanks to Sheppard Granger—had pretty much shaped him into the man he was now. He was alive when he could have been dead. And he was making something out of his life.
He looked her straight in the eye and said, “I was in jail serving time for manslaughter.”
CHAPTER THREE
MARGO’S BREATH CAUGHT as she stared at Striker. Had he just admitted to being an ex-con? Was he joking? From the intense expression on his face, she had a feeling he was dead serious. Did Uncle Frazier have any idea that the man he’d hired had a criminal record? For manslaughter?
“How many rooms are there upstairs?” he asked, picking up his duffel bag and moving in the direction of her stairs.
She jerked her head around. “Wait!”
Striker stopped and stared at her. Had hearing that he’d served time freaked her out? It wouldn’t be the first time that someone he had been hired to protect reacted that way to his past. Some saw it as an advantage, thinking that if he had a killer instinct, he had the ability to keep them safe. Then there were others who found it so repulsive they would ask Roland for someone else. Considering Quasar and Stonewall were ex-cons as well, that eliminated Roland’s top three protectors. Hell, that would even eliminate Roland.
Striker, Quasar and Stonewall had met when they’d served time together. From the first, he and Stonewall had been destined to be enemies. Quasar, the youngest of the three by only a year, had pretty much stayed to himself. It had been rumored Quasar had come from a well-to-do family and had confessed to some white-collar crime to keep a family member from going to jail. The three of them had been released from prison within months of each other and had hooked up with Roland, who had started a security business. Since neither Striker, Stonewall nor Quasar had known a damn thing about security, Roland enrolled the three of them into one of the top tactical training schools in the country. In addition, Roland managed to hook them up for a full year with former Secret Service agent Grayson Prescoli, who had a reputation as being one of the best in the business after serving under three presidents. Although they’d initially lacked in-depth knowledge in security, what the three of them possessed was an ingrained ability to survive and a drive to safeguard and defend anyone left in their care.
“You want something?” he asked in a tone that came out a little harsher than he’d intended. He was tired of her just standing there and not saying anything.
“I want to know what happened.”
Striker continued to stare at her. If she was asking for details, he wouldn’t be giving them to her. Instead he wrapped it up in a sentence that, as far as he was concerned, said it all. “Life happened.” At eighteen he’d been found guilty and sent off to prison. He’d lost people he’d cared about as well as a scholarship to play football at the college of his dreams. And he knew he only had himself to blame.
Evidently his answer stumped her, if her expression and lack of response were anything to go by. He continued up the stairs and left her standing there.
Margo watched Striker move up the stairs, momentarily distracted by how well his body fit a pair of pants. He didn’t just have a nice-looking tush; it was sexy and got sexier with his every step. When he was no longer in sight, she shook her head, trying to pull herself together.
His response to her question meant he had no intentions of telling her why he’d been sent to jail. Knowing it was for manslaughter was bad enough. Who did he kill? Why? She wanted to think it had been self-defense, but if that had been the case, then he wouldn’t have been sent to jail, right? How long had he been confined?
The key thing was that he was no longer in jail. He had served his time and she had a feeling rejoining society and rebuilding your life after prison couldn’t be easy. But it seemed like he was doing okay, and she wanted to believe he was good at what he did.
He looked to be in his early thirties, which meant he couldn’t have spent too many years behind bars. But then, how many were too many? How old was he when he’d gone in? When she heard him moving around upstairs, she decided to join him there as well.
* * *
STRIKER STARED AT the huge bouquet of yellow roses sitting on the desk of what appeared to be the room she used as an upstairs office. Telling himself that knowing who sent them was all part of his security measures to protect Margo, he pulled off the card and read it.
We need to get back together, Margo. Call me. Scott.
Striker shook his head, thinking, What a way to go, asshole. He was more than a little rusty in the romance department, but even he knew that using a few endearing words would have made an impression. Instead this guy Scott had issued an order that he’d expected her to obey.
Had she? Margo didn’t come across as a woman who would say “how high” after any man told her to jump.
According to Roland, Margo and this Scott guy had broken up and she’d left New York for Charlottesville. That had been over a year ago. Evidently Scotty-boy wanted her back.
“Just what are you doing?” Margo asked in outrage, rushing into the room and snatching the card out of his hand. “You had no right to read that.”
Striker had heard Margo coming up the stairs but hadn’t hurried to put the card back. Why should he? “As the man protecting you, I had every right.”
She threw the card on her desk and rounded on him. “You’re supposed to be protecting me from a crazy hit man. Not an ex-boyfriend.”
“And while I’m protecting you, I don’t want to have to deal with a boyfriend. Ex or otherwise.”
Anger flared in her eyes. “You won’t. Scott has a tendency of being overly dramatic.”
“For your sake, that drama better not happen on my watch.”
For a moment they just stood there, faced off. Why, of all things, was he consumed by her scent? A lush fragrance that was uniquely hers. It was undeniably woman. Oh, shit. Thinking this way wasn’t good. He backed up and turned to leave the room.
“Where are you going?”
“To continue what I was doing before you came up here—check out the place.”
He left her standing there and walked to another room. Her bedroom. It was the kind of bedroom he figured she would have. It wasn’t all that frilly, but it was feminine as hell. She was neat. Nothing out of place, no clothes lying on the floor or shoes thrown around. She’d decorated the bedroom in yellow and light gray, with a bedspread featuring yellow roses and matching curtains. Apparently she had a thing for yellow roses. In that case, it made sense for Scott to take advantage of that fact by sending her those flowers. And, damn, how many pillows did she have on that bed? Looked like a dozen or so.
“Is this really necessary?”
He didn’t turn when she entered. “Evidently it is or I wouldn’t be in here. I use all of my time wisely, Ms. Connelly.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “Margo. You want to be called Striker. I prefer being called Margo.”
He nodded. “Okay, Margo.” He moved to look into the master bath. When he returned moments later, he glanced around her room again. “I assume this is the room you sleep in.”
“Yes. Why?”
“Where is the guest room that I’ll be using?”
As far away from this one as possible, Margo thought. “I have a guest room downstairs.”
“Not close enough.”
She dropped her hands by her sides. “What do you mean not close enough?”
“Just what I said. The way things usually work is that a team of protectors will work in shifts to take care of a client. Since the demand for security is high right now, I’ll be the one protecting you morning, noon and night. Even when you sleep. I want to be close enough that I can hear you breathe, and I won’t be able to do that downstairs. What’s in the room next door?” he asked, already striding into the hallway.
He wants to be close enough to hear me breathe? The thought of any man, especially him, being that close to her at night made her go still. It then occurred to her just how underfoot he intended to be.
“Wait a second,” she said, rushing behind him. He had already opened the door to the other room.
“A guest room, I see.”
She didn’t say anything. To be honest, this was her only guest room. The third bedroom upstairs—where she found Striker snooping—was where she kept her work supplies and managed the accounting books. The room downstairs was her workroom where she did all of her fittings and sewing. Its sofa could be made into a bed, and that was where she had intended to put him.
“This is a nice room with its own full bath. It will work for me after I move a few things around.”
She released a resigned sigh. “I like the way the furniture is arranged.”
“I’ll put it back just as you have it when I’m all done.”
“And when will that be?” she asked.
“Depends on that crazy hit man.”
His words reminded Margo of the seriousness of the situation she was in. It just wasn’t fair. This was what she got for doing her civic duty. As if he’d read her mind, Striker said, “At least you’re alive. Can’t say the same thing for Jeffery Turner.”
Her thoughts immediately went to Jeffery and she remembered how the jurors had hugged each other before departing that final day. Each of them had tried to downplay Erickson’s threats, but deep down, they’d all been shaken up by them. She could tell. Nancy Snyder had been the only one to ask the FBI agent whether they should be concerned, and the man had assured her that they shouldn’t be. Well, undoubtedly that agent had been wrong.
When she saw Striker leaving the room, she followed. “Wouldn’t sleeping downstairs make better sense for you?” She was attracted to Striker and she wanted to put as much distance between them as humanly possible. She wasn’t used to a man sharing space with her, especially one who emitted sexual vibes with every step he took. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate on her work with him around. She wasn’t used to being drawn to any male this way and she didn’t like it. Found it downright irritating.
He surveyed the hall before checking out the bathroom. It was only when he came out that he responded to her comment by asking a question of his own. “Why would you think me sleeping downstairs makes better sense, Margo?”
She’d told him to call her Margo, but, with the huskiness of his voice, the name flowed from his lips with such an incredible sexiness. “Well, because you’d be closer to the front door. To protect me if anyone tries to get inside.”
He held her gaze. “My job is not to keep them from getting inside. My job is to keep them from getting to you. There’s a difference.”
Margo didn’t see the distinction. “They can’t get to me if they don’t get inside,” she argued.
“Not necessarily,” he countered. “Good assassins can get to their victims without setting foot inside their homes. They can use high-powered rifles with infrared beams to hit any target they want. Hell, if they are desperate enough they can blow an entire house up.”
That was the last thing she wanted to hear. “Then maybe I should leave town for a while.”
“That’s what he’ll anticipate you doing. I understand Turner was on his way to the airport to get lost. He never made it there. We’ll stay here until it’s decided that it is no longer safe to do so.”
Then, without saying another word, he walked off and left her standing there.
* * *
STRIKER FIGURED IT wouldn’t take Margo long to follow him downstairs. He was now checking out another room, where it was apparent she did most of her work. There were several huge sewing machines, mannequins, a worktable and bolts of fabrics neatly arranged in the room. No clutter. There was also a sofa, the kind that converted into a bed. Was that where she assumed he would be sleeping? Hell, that sofa bed wasn’t even big enough for half of him.
“You got a nice work area here,” he said, deciding to give her a compliment since she was hanging in the doorway and not saying anything. Just watching him. Knowing her eyes were on him was unsettling. Especially when he knew she was actually checking him out. A man could tell. Why did the knowledge that she was practically undressing him with her gaze make him want to smile...at least halfway?
“Thanks,” she said, coming into the room to stand by him but not too close. Did she think he would bite her or something? He couldn’t help grinning at that. He’d been known to leave a passionate mark or two on women. Why did the thought of leaving one on her do things to him? And why did he enjoy breathing her scent?
At that moment his cell phone rang and immediately he recognized the tone. Pulling it out of his back pocket, he answered the call. “Yes, Stonewall?” He nodded and then said, “I heard and I’m here. I’m forwarding my notes. Have Bobby pick up everything on my list. As soon as possible. Not taking any chances.” He then clicked off the phone and sent his notes to Stonewall.
Striker glanced over at Margo, and she looked at him expectantly, as if she was waiting for him to tell her about the call. Instead he asked, “Have you eaten yet?”
He could tell his question caught her off guard. “Have I eaten?”
“Yes, have you eaten? Almost dinnertime.”
“No, I haven’t eaten.”
He nodded before calling Stonewall again to arrange delivery of their dinner from the Bullseye.
After he ended the call, he looked over at Margo. She was staring at him. “What?” he asked her.
“Is it a coincidence or did you know that not only is the Bullseye my favorite place to eat, but what you ordered is my favorite meal from there as well.”
“No coincidence.”
“How did you know?”
“From my research on you. And just like I know what you like and don’t like, the places you like to frequent and other interesting tidbits, any hit man who has made you their target knows as well.”
“But you don’t know if I’m anyone’s target.”
“You’re right. I understand there were sixty to eighty people in the courtroom that day. Unless they catch this guy, there’s no telling who will be the next victim. My job, Margo, is to make sure it isn’t you.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“SO TELL ME some things about yourself, Striker,” Margo prompted. They were sitting at the kitchen table eating her favorite meal and things had gotten quiet. Too quiet. She had dismissed the sounds of the two men moving around in and out of her house. Striker had introduced them as Bobby and Bruce, and they were taking care of the items that bothered Striker, like the darkened areas of her yard. Bobby was outside installing floodlights and Bruce was upstairs putting in security devices that Striker wasn’t elaborating on.
“Why?” he asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
She ignored how her stomach clenched when she looked at his mouth. More specifically, those lips he’d just wiped. When had she ever been fascinated by the shape of a man’s lips? But there was just something about the shape of his—namely, that cute little dent in the center.
She jumped when he leaned over and snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Hey, you’re out there in la-la land. Come back.”
Gripes. He’d caught her staring. “I was just thinking about something,” she said, which wasn’t a lie.
“About what?”
He would have to ask, she thought. She couldn’t just come out and say your lips. Instead she said, “How much you know about me and how little I know about you.”
He shrugged massive shoulders and her gaze followed the movement. Was there anything about this man that didn’t get her attention? “It’s part of my job to know all I can about you.”
“Well, I don’t like it.”
He pushed his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair. “There’s nothing for you not to like.”
And as if that settled it, he stood. She couldn’t keep her gaze from roaming over him. There was no way he didn’t have a strict physical fitness routine with all those muscles. She hated admitting it, but she had enjoyed his company during dinner, although he’d sat there, eaten his food and hardly said a word.
It had been a long time since she’d shared a meal with a man. Her uncle didn’t count. To be honest, Scott didn’t count either since, toward the end of their relationship, he’d begun spending more time with his clients than he did with her.
She smiled when she thought of Scott assuming he was doing her a favor by being her guy, with him making a six-figure salary and all. He hadn’t known anything about her wealth.
“What’s the smile for?”
She looked over at Striker. “Just thinking.”
“Again?”
She frowned at him. “You got a problem with me thinking?”
He pushed his chair under the table. “If I ever have a problem with anything you do, Margo, you’ll be the first to know, trust me.” Then he said, “I recall you saying something about an appointment with a client in the morning.”
She drew in a deep breath, refusing to let Striker unnerve her. “Yes, Claudine Bernard. We met for coffee last week to discuss the details of her wedding. She hired me and I need to take her measurements tomorrow. Luckily her wedding isn’t until September, so I’ll have time to make her wedding gown after all.”
“You like doing that? Making wedding gowns?”
“If I didn’t enjoy it, then I wouldn’t be doing it, would I?” Okay, she’d gotten smart with him. Just like he’d gotten smart with her earlier. As if he realized this, a smile touched his lips. It was so quick that had she blinked, she would have missed it.
“I like you, Margo.”
“Don’t do me any favors, will you, Striker.” At that moment her house phone rang and she looked over at him as she got up from the table. “It’s my business line.”
“I know. It’s okay to answer it.”
She frowned. Did he actually think she needed permission to answer her own phone? As she picked it up, he took out his own cell. She wondered who he was calling as he moved to go back up the stairs.
When she heard one of the upstairs doors close, she answered the call. “Designs by Margo.”
“Yes, Margo. This is Claudine Bernard.”
Margo smiled. “Yes, Claudine?”
“I lost my appointment book and just wanted to verify what time we need to get together tomorrow.”
Margo nodded. “Our appointment is at ten in the morning.”
“Great! I’ll see you then.”
When she turned back around, Striker was putting his phone away as he came back down the stairs. He glanced over at her. “So Claudine needed to reaffirm your appointment time, did she?”
Surprise lit Margo’s face. “How did you know?”
When he just stared at her smugly, she scowled. “You listened in on my conversation,” she accused.
“Damn right.”
Furious beyond belief, she crossed the room to stand in front of him. “How dare you!” she screamed almost at the top of her lungs.
“Dammit, woman. Don’t burst my eardrums.”
“Or mine.”
They both turned and looked at Bruce, who was standing in the middle of the stairs. He was smiling. Margo didn’t appreciate being the butt of anyone’s joke.
“Everything’s all set?” Striker asked the man.
“Yes, both upstairs and downstairs. I just need to take care of the yard,” he said, coming the rest of the way down the stairs. He looked over at Margo, smiled and said, “Nice set of lungs, Ms. Connelly.” Then he moved toward the back door.
Alone again, Margo stared up at Striker. “I have questions and I want answers.”
He shrugged. “Only if I feel like giving those answers to you, Margo.”
Margo closed her eyes. Why did this man, of all men, have to be the one protecting her?
“Getting sleepy?”
She snapped her eyes back open. “I am not sleepy, Striker. Stop being a smart-ass.”
“Okay,” he said smoothly, all but admitting that he had been.
Striker had to fight back a smile. There was something about Margo that made him want to distance himself from her one minute and enmesh himself in her the next. Unfortunately, putting distance between them wasn’t an option. Not when he was protecting her. Whether he liked it or not, until the hit man was captured, he and Margo were as entangled as any two people could be.
For some reason, he liked rattling her. Probably because doing so would keep her mind off her situation. Other women he’d protected would be all but hovering in a corner by now. At least those not brazen enough to think that protector also meant bedmate. Like that damn socialite who’d hired him when she discovered she was being stalked. She had invited him into her bed the first night. Of course he hadn’t taken her up on her offer, but it was still damn hard making the woman keep her hands to herself. He’d been so glad when the police had finally captured the prick stalking her. He definitely couldn’t see Margo behaving so inappropriately. Hell, she’d been ready to kick him downstairs to sleep on that tiny sofa bed.
“Look,” he finally said, deciding he’d rattled her enough. “Let’s go back to the table and sit down. You ask your questions and I’ll decide if I want to answer them.” His tone was deliberately clipped, letting her know up front what to expect.
He watched as she angrily strode back over to the table. If she’d known how much he appreciated seeing her backside just now, she wouldn’t have done that. He followed her to the table and sat down. “Okay, Margo. Let’s get it out. What are your questions?” Before she could open her mouth, he added, “And ask nicely.”
She glared at him while adjusting in her seat, resting her hands beneath her chin with her fingers entwined. Why did he find her so damn sexy? So incredibly desirable. He was a glutton for punishment even thinking that way.
“First of all, I want to know what’s going on. Here at my house? With my phone?”