by J. Kenner
Trying to ignore the wave of mortification that swept over her, she flashed him a weak smile, positive her cheeks were flaming red.
At least she’d managed to get a grip on herself before she’d peeked through that last little bit of material. She sighed, savoring the memory. Plain white cotton briefs. Simple. Sensible. And oh, so sexy.
She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Oh, me, oh, my.
Heck, she’d even throw in an ooh-la-la.
“Uh . . . Zoe?”
With a jerk she yanked her head up, suddenly realizing where her gaze was still aimed.
Oops.
Her cheeks burned hotter, and she pushed back from the wall, standing up straight and trying to pull herself together. “Right. Yes. Well. . .”
His gaze locked onto her, his brown eyes warm and inviting. When he took a step forward, she inhaled, her body humming with anticipation.
Nervous didn’t even begin to describe the way she felt. Terrified was more like it. Still, it was just a date. She repeated the phrase like a mantra. This is just a date. Just a guy and a girl going out.
“What happened to Mr. Wonderful?”
She frowned. “Who?”
“You’re taken. Remember?”
“Oh. Right. Well. Taken is such a vague term, really. Don’t you think?”
“Vague? As in, Mr. Wonderful won’t care? Or as in, there is no Mr. Wonderful?”
“He, uh, died.” She met Taylor’s eyes, saw pure passion burning there, then looked away again. Oh, my. “Very suddenly. Very tragic.”
Taylor stepped closer, the heat from his body warming her to her toes, pooling in secret, intimate places. Teasing and taunting her.
She drew an unsteady breath. This dating thing was moving along a bit more quickly than she’d expected. “We’ll miss him, of course, but life must go on.”
“Of course,” Taylor murmured. “So tell me, Zoe . . .”
She looked up. “Yes?”
“Why?”
“Why?” she repeated.
“Why did you tell me about Mr. Wonderful in the first place?”
“Oh, that.” She licked her lips. “Well, he hadn’t keeled over yet.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No?”
He shook his head. “Want to try again?”
She inhaled, then glanced down, breaking eye contact. “Maybe gorgeous men make me nervous.”
He chuckled. “Oh.”
She cleared her throat. “So this is okay with you?”
With a devious grin, he leaned forward, his face only inches from hers. She held her breath as he turned his head.
“This?” he asked, his mouth so close to her ear that his breath teased her.
She swallowed, searching for her voice. “A real date, I mean.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. He leaned back to look at her, then reached out and touched her skin, his finger trailing down her cheek. “That’s perfectly okay.”
Oh, Apollo’s apples, his touch. A firestorm of shocks ricocheted through her. Her chest constricted, her body warmed, and she felt faint. And then her body finally remembered that little detail about breathing . . . and she exhaled in a whoosh. Mildly mortified, she opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again when she realized her mouth wasn’t too keen on sounding out vowels or consonants.
With a wink that suggested he knew exactly the effect he was having on her, he presented his arm for her to take. “Should we get going?”
“Mm-hmm,” she managed, pleased to be able to form sounds. That, at least, was progress.
Sucking in more air, she slipped her arm through his, trying not to jump from the electricity that zinged through her when her skin brushed against his. Sooner or later she’d get used to his touch. Sooner, hopefully, because if she waited for later, all her nerve endings would likely be fried.
Somehow she managed to walk outside, down the stairs, and into the parking lot—all without her body dissolving into cinders and ash from the heat they were generating. That was convenient, really, since she didn’t think a pile of charred flesh would make much of a hit at the party. And if she didn’t go to the party, she had no legitimate reason to be with Taylor.
And she really, really wanted to be with him.
She frowned, realizing just how much that was true. He made her laugh; he made her insides flutter. He made her want to take risks.
Huge risks, actually. She nibbled on her lower lip, then stopped when she remembered Deena’s words. Did she really want to lose herself to this man? Could she? Or was it more likely she’d lose her mind, since just the slightest brush of his skin against hers sent every atom in her body zooming into supercharged mode?
Insanity seemed like a small price to pay for everything she’d been denying herself for the past twenty-five years. This was Taylor, after all. The man she’d been fantasizing about for days during that soft time between waking and dreams. For this man she’d risk a psychotic episode.
She sneaked a peek at him out of the corner of her eye as they walked to the far end of the apartment complex’s parking lot. He was about six inches taller than she was, had untamed hair that begged for her fingers to run through it, and a strong profile that made it clear this was a man who’d never let a woman down. He was Harrison Ford with a dash of Pierce Brosnan and an attitude.
At any rate, control didn’t really seem to be a possibility here. Which meant that if they ended up in bed, she’d probably end up plastered to the ceiling or shooting for the stars or melting the box springs.
“You okay?” He’d maneuvered them in front of his Mustang, and now he was looking down at her from his six-inch advantage. His brow creased, and his brown eyes reflected so much concern that she almost melted.
How sweet. He was worried about her—and she was fantasizing about what he’d be like naked.
“I’m fine,” she said, giving herself a mental shake. “Really.”
He nodded, but didn’t look too convinced, and she sighed. So much for that whole aloof tactic all the women’s magazines promoted. Aloof she wasn’t. Desperate, maybe.
Better to try to wrangle a little finesse into the situation, or at least try to carry on normal conversation. As best she could tell, in the dating world, desperate didn’t equal desirable.
“Meet Francis Capra,” he said, unlinking their arms so he could open the passenger door.
“Francis?”
“I wanted to name her Frank Capra after I finished her, but cars are female, and I didn’t want to give her a complex.”
“You rebuilt this car?”
“Yup.”
“That must have been a lot of work.”
“It was. But I loved every minute of it. Automobiles are different from other females. Women are enigmatic. But my car. . . I can take it apart, then put it back together until I know it backward and forward.”
He ran his fingertip over the hood as he circled to the driver’s side.
“And you can’t know a woman that well?”
With a sidelong glance, he slid behind the steering wheel. “I didn’t say that, sweetheart. I’d certainly be up for the challenge.” He twisted in his seat to face her, one arm draped over her seat, completely casual and utterly intense.
She swallowed.
“For example,” he continued, his grin revealing an adorable dimple. “I can imagine meeting a woman who intrigues me so much that I want nothing more than to make her come apart, to investigate her mysteries, to get to know every delicious inch of her.”
She swallowed again, afraid to even hope that she might be worthy of such luscious scrutiny.
His smile broadened, reaching his eyes. “But even then, who’s to say I’d learn all her secrets?”
Well, if that wasn’t the understatement of the year . . .
“Like I said, women are enigmas,” he finished in a wry voice.
“But would you want to learn all a girl’s secrets?” she asked, knowin
g the answer. Not all secrets were created equal, and if he knew hers, he’d run. Just like Tessa had run from Donis. She’d never heard of even one mortal-Protector union that had lasted. Not one.
But that was okay, because all she wanted was a fling. Really.
He frowned, as if seriously considering her question. “There are some girls whose secrets are unknowable; they are complete and total enigmas,” he said. “But there are a few with whom I’d be happy to spend years trying to work out the puzzle.”
He grinned, and she was sure her face was on fire. Then he shifted in his seat and started the engine. It was about time, too. Who could have known that dating was going to be so much like a council meeting—eight different layers of meaning, nothing straightforward, and sweaty palms all the way?
But at least she knew one thing for certain. She snuggled back against the soft leather upholstery, trying not to let too satisfied a grin spread across her face. If nothing else, she was sure that—as much as she might be infatuated with George Bailey Taylor—he was just as interested in her.
Yes, indeed. She might like this dating thing after all.
Taylor was doing a piss-poor job of driving. The trouble was, he was a hell of a lot more interested in the woman next to him than he was in watching for red lights or paying attention to the other cars on the road.
And he’d bet Francis Capra that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. He’d seen it in her eyes, and it had thrilled him all the way down to his toes, which, considering he was a good three inches over six feet, was a heck of a long way down.
Hoop had called him charmed. Hell, maybe he was. This spectacular woman who’d been the center of his fantasies for days—no, for his whole life—actually wanted him. Even now—dead broke, off the force, his white-knight days long gone—still, she wanted him.
If that wasn’t charmed, he didn’t know what was.
“Uh, Taylor?”
“Hmmm?”
“Are you gonna pull over for the cop?”
Damn! Maybe not so charmed after all.
He tapped the brakes and turned off Sunset Boulevard onto one of the perfectly manicured side streets. Behind them, the siren whoo-whooped, the patrol car’s kaleidoscope of lights dancing around like some bad disco memory.
“What did I do?” He swiveled around, trying to figure out what heinous traffic infraction he’d committed.
She’d switched out her regular glasses for sunglasses, but he could still see the corners of Zoe’s eye crinkle as she laughed.
“I think the better question is, what didn’t you do? You didn’t stop at that light, you didn’t yield at that intersection, and you certainly didn’t pull over when the cop first tried to stop you.”
“At least I’m thorough.”
“Oh. Is that what they call it?”
A baby-faced cop with vivid green eyes walked up to the convertible.
“License, please.”
“Problem, Officer?” Taylor asked, trying to sound innocent as he squirmed in his seat to fish his license out of his back pocket. Beside him, Zoe looked as though she had front row tickets to the best show in town. All she needed was a tub of popcorn and she’d be set.
Scowling, he handed the cop his license, keeping one hand closed over the steering wheel. Maybe it was unreasonable, but he was seriously resenting having his quality time with Zoe shortened by one of Los Angeles’s finest.
“I’m going to have to ask the two of you to step out of the car.”
Taylor scowled. That was weird. And certainly not protocol. What the hell was going on?
Another glance at the cop and the lightbulb pinged. A rookie.
“Look, Officer,” he said. “We’re running late. I used to be on the force. Give Captain Dodsen a call. He’ll vouch for me.”
The green eyes flashed. “I asked you to step out of the car.”
“If you could just tell me what I did . . .” Taylor trailed off, his attention captured by the cop. Was he shimmering?
He squinted. Sure enough, the uniform had become almost transparent, replaced by a fine Italian suit. Everything about the man changed. Everything except those emerald green eyes.
And then, just as quick, he was a cop again, front and center and looking royally pissed.
Impossible. Clearly Taylor was long overdue for a good night’s sleep.
He rubbed his eyes. For a moment there—not even half a second, really—the officer had looked exactly like his new client, Mr. Mordon. Weird. But explainable. Probably workaholic guilt. He should be working, after all.
“Now,” said the cop, his hand closing over the door frame. “The girl, too.”
Beside him Zoe stirred, and Taylor caught her staring at the policeman. She was tense, wound up like a spring and ready to bolt. Hell, he couldn’t blame her. This guy was even giving him the creeps.
“Chief Prescott’s going to hear about this,” he spat. “I promise you that.”
“You can take it up with Prescott later,” the officer said, his eyes darkening. “But first you’re going to come with me.”
The hell we are. He turned to Zoe, and she whispered just one word. “Go.”
He wasn’t about to argue. With a quick flip of his wrist, he turned the key and started the engine. The pseudocop made a grab and managed to lock his fingers onto Taylor’s shirtsleeve, but Taylor floored the gas pedal and the car sped away, leaving him with a ripped shirt, but otherwise intact.
“What a strange—” He looked in the mirror and his jaw dropped. The cop was racing behind the car—on foot, for crying out loud—and he was gaining. “Who the hell is this guy?” Taylor muttered, wondering if they’d somehow gotten sucked into a Terminator movie.
Next to him, Zoe was rummaging around on his floorboard.
“And what the hell are you doing?”
Her head popped up, followed by the rest of her, and he saw that she was holding an empty commuter mug.
“Now’s not really the time to stop at Starbucks,” he joked.
She ignored the attempt at levity. “Fond of this cup?”
“Not particularly.”
“Good.” She heaved back and let it sail. Taylor checked the rearview mirror just in time to see it clunk the policeman square on the nose. The strange supercop began to lose ground. “Nice shot.”
“Let’s just say I was on the varsity girl’s softball team.”
“You were?”
“No. But let’s say so anyway.” He opened his mouth to ask, but she turned back toward him. “Not to be a side-seat driver, but I’d get us lost if I were you.”
A damn good suggestion. He floored the accelerator, then turned north toward the foothills and tried to find a side street that would lead up to Mulholland Drive. With all the little streets up in the hills, they should be able to lose their new buddy.
Their buddy? No, no. That was exactly the problem. Just who was the police officer after? Him, or the too-normal-to-be-real all-American girl in the seat next to him?
“Any idea who that guy is?” he asked.
“Nope,” Zoe said quickly. “No idea at all.” She shifted in her seat to face him better. “Thanks for going when I said ‘go,’ though. I. . . uh . . . had a bad feeling about him.”
“You’re welcome. But for the record, it wasn’t just blind trust.”
Her eyebrow went up. “No? Then why’d you haul off down the street? You can get into a lot of trouble for leaving after a cop stops you.”
“If he’d been a cop, I wouldn’t have left.”
She smiled, broad and genuine. “How’d you know?”
“There is no Chief Prescott.”
“Clever,” she said, tapping the end of her nose.
“How did you know?” he countered. “You said you don’t know who the guy is.”
“I don’t.” She frowned and settled back into her seat. “But I told you in the library, I’m a good judge of character. That guy was weird.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, not
believing her, but having no clue how to argue. He took a turn without slowing, then gave Francis Capra a nice pat on the dash before turning back to Zoe. “So, kidding aside . . . are there really thugs after you?” Or were they after him, and if so, why?
She sighed. “I haven’t got a clue. I can’t imagine why there would be.”
“Zoe, I’m serious. I’m an investigator, remember? A bodyguard. That’s the whole reason you hired me. Except that I thought we were joking.”
“So did I.”
He laughed. “You’ve never had a problem with your lies coming true, have you? Your dreams turning into reality?” He hummed a few bars of The Twilight Zone theme song.
She scowled. “Oh, mother of Zeus, not yet. That would be incredibly inconvenient.”
He turned to look at her better. “I’m joking, you know.”
At first she looked confused; then her face cleared. “Right. Of course.” She smiled. “So am I.”
Uh-huh. Something just wasn’t ringing true, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. Below them, the lights of Los Angeles twinkled on their right, a random pattern heading out toward the Pacific. To their left, the patterned grid of the lights of the San Fernando Valley winked at them.
Both order and chaos. Just like his life.
He turned off Mulholland and onto Coldwater Canyon, heading down toward the San Fernando Valley—as good a place to get lost as any.
He took his eyes off the road just long enough to glance at her. “Let’s run through the scenario, okay, sweetheart?”
She nodded, looking a little wary, but not arguing.
“First you tell me you need an escort. Then you tell me you’re being chased by thugs.”
“Actually, you brought up the thugs.”
“No, I didn’t.”
She nodded, twisting in her seat and tucking her leg up under her, revealing a luscious bit of thigh. He ripped his gaze away and focused on the twisting road.
“Yes, you did,” she insisted. “Hoop said I need protection, and you said from thugs, then I—”
“Okay, fine.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “And your point is . . . ?”
He swallowed, not really sure, other than that he suddenly hoped that she hadn’t really needed him. Just that she’d wanted him. Even if only a little.