Raw Power

by Jackie Ashenden

  Callie Hawthorne might be beautiful, sexy as hell, and far more intriguing than was good for her, but one thing she was not was tidy.

  It had offended Jack’s military soul when he’d seen it earlier, and now a couple of hours later, as they arrived back from the hotel, he remained offended.

  There were clothes scattered everywhere, piles of books and papers left on every flat surface. Coffee mugs littered the rooms—some with half-drunk coffee in them—and still-damp towels left to drape over various items of furniture. In the tiny kitchen area, there were dirty plates piled on the kitchen counter, an empty pizza box on the low coffee table in the living room. Even her bedroom was a mess, with pillows and cushions thrown all over the floor, along with yet more clothes. Some tubes of makeup had fallen on the carpet from her dressing table, and scattered on her bed were a pile of papers with phrases and what looked like bars of music written down on them.

  Callie was bent over those pieces of paper now, scrambling to gather them all up into a pile, snatching at them like she didn’t want anyone to see them.

  Jack leaned on the doorframe and watched her dispassionately. She’d been angry with him before for entering her house without permission, he got that loud and clear, and hell, he could understand that. But it wasn’t as if he’d pulled open her panty drawer and gone through her underwear or anything. All he’d been interested in was checking all the entrances and exits, seeing whether they’d been tampered with and if not, making sure they were secure. And they all were, though he’d recommended to the senator that the locks and window catches be replaced with something more heavy-duty, just to be on the safe side.

  He’d also mentioned the cameras he’d found and the senator had assured him that particular issue would also be investigated.

  “I didn’t go through your stuff,” he said, so she knew. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Callie didn’t look at him, bending to snatch up the last couple of papers from the floor. She was still wearing that little white dress and as she moved, it pulled tight around her ass, outlining those delicious, firm curves he’d found so distracting the night before.

  Curves he still found fucking distracting, if he was honest.

  He shifted against the doorframe and told his body to settle the hell down. It aggravated him that he was easily able to deal with all kinds of pain and ten thousand different forms of physical discomfort, but give him this one, nicely rounded ass and his self-control was as slippery as hell.

  Perhaps he needed to go out and hook up with someone. Find some chick in a bar somewhere. Then again, he was a 24/7 bodyguard, so where would he have the time?

  Tired. He was tired. Had to be. And maybe he was still pissy about finding those cameras.

  It had been an unexpected twist and one he wasn’t happy about because a) it indicated that someone had once had access to Callie’s place, and b) her security was now severely compromised, given whoever it was who’d been watching her now knew the layout of the place, and her movements.

  Another reason why he’d recommended a complete replacement of all the security in her house.

  Nothing like discovering something that was going to make his job a thousand times more difficult.

  Callie’s response to the news too had worried him. He’d expected her to be shocked and horrified, but shit, she’d gone absolutely white and he’d thought she was going to pass out. There had been such fear in her blue eyes, even after the brandy he’d given her, and when he’d taken her fingers in his for some reassurance, they’d been icy.

  Something’s not right.

  No, it really fucking wasn’t and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.

  This job didn’t feel right and he couldn’t quite pinpoint why yet. Though he was pretty certain it had something to do with the fear in Callie’s eyes. A fear she was desperately trying to hide and couldn’t.

  Briefly he debated asking her about it straight out; then again he had in the hotel room before and she’d shrugged it off. He had a feeling she’d probably do the same again now, so there was likely to be no point.

  Better to wait until he’d gotten her trust a little more.

  “You should be checking your important documents,” he said, when she continued to say nothing, moving to put the papers she’d been collecting onto the bed and pat them into a neat pile. “Like your passport and birth certificate. Make sure they’re there and nothing has been tampered with.”

  “I don’t have a passport and anyway, you said on the way over that it didn’t look like anyone had gotten in.”

  “No, but it doesn’t hurt to double-check.”

  “I will later.” She gave her papers another pat. “Right now what I really want is a change of clothes. So . . . if you don’t mind . . .”

  Jack pushed himself away from the doorframe—she probably needed some private time after the morning she’d had— did one last scan around the room, then turned and went down the hallway without another word, leaving her to get changed.

  Going back out into the living area, he prowled around, doing yet another check of the catches on the windows that overlooked the cobbled street area outside. Then he stood in the middle of the room surveying the mess of clothes on the linen couch, the untidy stacks of books and magazines and other paper paraphernalia on the low coffee table, the shoes on the floor, and yet another towel scrunched up in a heap and kicked half under the couch.

  He’d put his own neatly packed kit bag that he’d finally gotten out of the car down beside the couch to keep it out of the way, but plainly he needn’t have bothered. He could have opened it and emptied out the contents on the floor and it wouldn’t have made it any untidier.

  He took another look around, noting with interest that though there were quite a few knickknacky things on the bookshelves, there weren’t any family photos, not a single one. Strange when the Hawthornes were reputed to be a close-knit kind of family.

  Callie was at all her father’s functions and supposedly represented him on the boards of a number of different charities. And in all the interviews with the senator that Jack had read on the plane on the way to Boston, the guy had raved about how supportive his daughter was and how he wouldn’t be where he was today without her.

  Yet there wasn’t one picture of her dad anywhere.

  There could have been one, buried under all the mess somewhere, but Jack didn’t think so. He was a detail-oriented kind of guy and that was one detail he definitely hadn’t missed.

  The bad feeling he had deepened, the memory of Callie’s delicate, icy fingers in his returning. He couldn’t get her shocked look out of his head.

  Glancing toward the doorway to the hall, he debated once again whether to go in and demand she tell him what the fuck was going on, but he could hear music playing now. Very loud music. Very definitely go away I don’t want to talk to you music.

  He cursed under his breath. Okay, so, he didn’t want to force the issue. He’d let her have her space. For now. But if she thought she could get away with ignoring him, she had another think coming.

  He’d get to the bottom of it eventually. He’d make sure of it.

  Since he didn’t like standing around not doing anything but thinking, Jack pushed the issue of Callie’s trust out of his head and began neatening the place up.

  He was in the kitchen loading the dishwasher with the dirty mugs and plates, when he became aware that the music had stopped and that there had been a soft footfall behind him. The scent of something sweet wrapped around him, vanilla and sugar, like the cookies his mom used to make back before Molly, his little sister, had died.

  His heart squeezed tight all of a sudden, a pain that had gotten lost under all the physical agony the grenade blast had put him through. A deeply unwanted pain.

  He gritted his teeth, forcing down the urge to snap at her, because fuck, it wasn’t her fault she smelled like something delicious from a past he was doing his best to bury.

 
; “What are you doing?” She sounded uncertain. “I hope you’re not cleaning up, because . . . well. You’re supposed to be my bodyguard, not my housekeeper.”

  “I’m former military.” His voice was rough and full of ground glass, but he couldn’t make it any softer. “I hate untidy shit.”

  “Oh? What branch of the military were you in?” She was closer now and that scent of hers was making his mouth water, and the pain in his chest get a little rawer. Fuck, he had to get a better handle on himself. He had no excuses for being a grumpy bastard now. Yes, he was tired, but the pain in his hip had subsided from the harsh scream, the way it always did in the mornings when he’d slept heavily and was stiff, to a dull roar.

  “US Marine Corps. Force Recon.” He jammed another plate in the rack, then straightened and shut the dishwasher door, hitting the button to start the cycle.

  Then he turned around to find Callie standing behind him, just inside the doorway of the kitchen.

  And this time it wasn’t pain he felt, but that hard kick he’d felt last night when he’d looked at her. In his heart and in his cock. The need to touch her soft skin, run his hands over those tight curves. Test her. Push her. See if she was as fragile as she looked or whether she was made of stronger stuff. Catch another glimpse of that wildness he’d seen in her eyes on the dance floor of the club.

  Her hair was damp and loose and lying in a glorious tumble over her shoulders, the light from the kitchen windows at his back picking up gleams of caramel and toffee, as well as glints of lighter gold in among the blond strands.

  She wore a pair of soft jeans with holes in the knees and a loose white T-shirt with a wide neck that had somehow slipped off one shoulder, exposing a simple white bra strap and a quantity of pale golden skin.

  Simple, casual clothes that were not designed to be sexy and yet somehow made her look exactly that. Sexy and soft and warm.

  He wanted to push his hands into her hair to see if it felt as silky as it looked. Jerk that T-shirt off and put his mouth on her skin, see if she tasted the way she smelled, of sugar and heartbreak. Then maybe pull her jeans down and slide his hand between her thighs, find out whether she kept the skin there smooth or whether he’d feel silky curls. See whether the blue of her eyes would deepen, whether she’d wind her arms around his neck . . .

  His breath came suddenly short.

  Fuck. Why her? Why now? Because it wasn’t as if he hadn’t come into contact with women since he’d gotten out of the hospital, or had the opportunity to get laid. He’d had opportunity. Plenty of fucking opportunity. He just hadn’t wanted to. So what the fuck was different now?

  Come on, man. She’s been getting under your skin since the moment you met her.

  Callie stuck her hands in the pockets of her jeans and tilted her head, giving him a curious look, which meant that with any luck his thoughts hadn’t shown on his face. “Marines,” she echoed. “Okay then. So . . . um . . .” She stopped and bit her lip, drawing attention to the soft, pouty shape of it.

  He tried not to look, because she was preparing to ask him about his scars, he could almost see it in her face. People always got that uncertain expression just before they attempted to be sensitive about it.

  “Grenade attack,” he said curtly, before she could get the words out. “Took me two years to recover. I’m not able to serve any longer.”

  Her sea-blue eyes widened. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  Sorry? She was sorry? Had he sounded like a pathetic, whiny bitch?

  Gotta work on that bitterness, man.

  He lifted a shoulder and tried to moderate his tone. “It is what it is. And this is my job now.”

  Her gaze touched lightly on the scars on his face before she looked away, shifting on her feet. “I’m sorry about what I said to you last night. About you looking like you’ve just gotten out of the hospital. That wasn’t very nice of me.”

  Well, she was full of apologies this morning, wasn’t she?

  He studied her, noting her apparent discomfort. She was clearly making an effort and he wondered why. He hadn’t done anything particularly kind this morning, had he?

  “There a reason you keep apologizing?” He tried to keep the demand out of his tone, but he had a feeling he hadn’t been successful.

  Color flooded her cheeks, her eyes widening in what he thought was shock. Then, without a word, she looked away, moving over to the coffee maker that sat on the counter nearby and fussing around with it. “Can’t someone simply offer an apology without it meaning something?” she asked after a moment. “I was a dick last night so I’m apologizing for it. Nothing else.”

  Jack knew he should simply accept the apology and move on. But for some reason he couldn’t. “Didn’t stop you from being a dick, though, did it?”

  “Yeah, well, you were a dick too.” A thread of irritation now wound through her voice, a flicker of the sassy, wild woman he’d seen last night. “I’m not a fan of men giving me orders.”

  It got to him, he couldn’t deny it. That sass, that spark. It made him want to push back. “And I’m not a fan of little girls arguing with mine.”

  She turned, her color high. “Little girl? Seriously?”

  Oh yeah, he liked this. He really did. There was something about the challenge in her eyes that appealed to the hunter in him, the part that loved the chase and always had. The part of himself he kept locked away.

  Now would be a good time to shut the fuck up.

  He definitely should. Yet that’s not what he did.

  He held her gaze instead, meeting her challenge. “Which would you prefer? Little girl or princess?”

  “My name is actually Callie.”

  “Really? I thought you preferred Miss Hawthorne?”

  “And yet you failed to call me that.”

  Her eyes really were the prettiest color when she was mad, little sparks of green glowing in the depths. It made him wonder other things, such as whether her eyes would go even greener if she was aroused. Whether they would glitter when she was close to orgasm or whether they would go wholly blue, a pure, deep sapphire . . .

  He became aware of the sudden silence in the room, of the tension that stretched between them, like a rubber band being drawn back, getting thinner, tighter.

  A mistake, dickhead.

  Callie must have sensed it too, because she tore her gaze away, her cheeks pink, turning to fuss with the cupboards, extracting a mug and sticking it under the coffee maker. “Whatever,” she muttered. “Call me what you want, I don’t care. And if you don’t want my apology, feel free to stick it where the sun don’t shine.”

  She felt it. You know she did.

  But then he’d known since the night before. When she’d looked up at him under the strobes and he’d seen that heated blue glow . . .

  A shot of pure adrenaline pulsed down his spine, flooding him with heat.

  It was so intense it took his breath away, rendering him utterly speechless and unable to move as she fussed around some more with her coffee, going to the fridge and getting some cream out to add to it. Stirring it with a spoon, then leaving both the spoon and the cream on the counter as she turned toward the doorway.

  She had felt it. There was color in her cheeks and she hadn’t met his gaze, not once.

  He wanted to grab her chin again, the way he’d done in the elevator, and turn her to face him. Look deep into those fascinating eyes to see whether he was right or not. To see if the same heat that burned in him, burned in her, too, because he was sure it did, he was absolutely fucking certain.

  But he didn’t. Instead he thrust his hands in the pockets of his jeans and he kept them there.

  He couldn’t touch her, not right now. Because if he did, in that moment, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stop.

  Two years he’d been celibate and it had never been a problem before, not when he’d been too consumed first by the pain of his injuries and then by the further agony of his recovery.

  Now it was like he could f
eel every minute of that time. Every fucking second. But shit, it was not the time to break his drought and definitely not with her.

  After he’d gotten back to San Diego, after he’d finished this job and was part of the 11th Hour team, then he’d find some beautiful girl and really go to town.

  It would be his reward.

  He could wait until then. He just fucking would.

  CHAPTER 6

  Callie sat curled up on her bed the next afternoon, humming a few bars of the new song that she’d been working on for the past couple of days. Not that she could hear herself think with all the banging sounds that were going on outside her door.

  The workmen had started the day before, after she’d stormed out of the kitchen, her apology to Jack having been thrown ignominiously back in her face.

  Locksmiths and security people were swarming all over her house, taking off the existing locks and catches on all the doors and the windows, and replacing them with high-tech stuff that looked like it should be guarding bank vaults, not one small town house full of crap.

  Coming back to her house, her safe haven, knowing it had been full of cameras had been bad enough. But now that it was full of strangers, it was even worse.

  It was stupid to blame Jack for it, since the cameras and the strangers weren’t his fault. Nevertheless, she did.

  Her home was her private little world, the only place she had total control over, where she could make all the decisions, but now that world didn’t feel safe and it was full of people and she wanted to tell them all to fuck off. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t stand there being pleasant and smiling and pretending like nothing was wrong either.

  So she’d retreated to her bedroom the way she’d done the day before and she’d stayed there.

  Jack had left her to it, and apart from the occasional knock on her door asking her whether she wanted food since he was going to cook some, he hadn’t bothered her. She’d been surprised, first by the fact that he’d left her alone and second at his offer to cook. She’d decided not to question the first and the second, well, she hadn’t thought he’d be the type of guy who’d liked fussing around with food.