Definitely Beth's daughter.
No need to compare the slightly darker green eyes, high cheekbones, or the matching pointed chin. They shared more than physical DNA.
The way Dirty Dan had gone on about his sensitive daughter being spared the truth, Mitch had expected her to be spoiled, a bit of a prima-donna. Instead, he'd met a woman ready to commit assault and battery if he tried to harm her family.
To make it worse, Dan had sworn him to secrecy. If he said one word about why he was really in town, he could kiss this crazy room goodbye. The thought may be appealing, but he couldn't do his job from anywhere else. How much simpler this would all be if she knew the truth. Apparently, Dan had told Jess nothing about her mother's side of the family. If they were lucky, that wouldn't turn out to be a fatal mistake.
As she disappeared into the garage, he used the height afforded by the second-story window to canvas the area. All appeared normal, at least for this rough neighborhood.
She'd been raised by protective bikers, surrounded by streetwise tough guys. Basically, his kind of people. It looked like luck would have a little more help than he'd first thought. Maybe, just maybe, the built-in security of bikers in residence would be enough.
Luck was a lady he didn't normally bet on, however, and it made him grind his teeth to do so now. For a decade he'd never once failed. He'd known it was possible, but deep down, he supposed it would never happen to him. Only the careless, the reckless failed, not those who were as methodical as he.
Why is this assignment so damned different?
He gripped the windowsill, breathing in the summerheavy scent of exhaust, hot tar and the faint yeasty odor from the brewery. Jess might be a secret back in L.A., but she'd been too easy to trace.
Returning to the bed, he pulled his cell phone from inside the leather coat he hadn't worn since things got ugly in New York. It felt strange, but damn good to wear the battered jacket instead of the suits he'd worn since settling on the West Coast.
The phone picked up in midring. "Hello?"
"It's me, Mitch," he said as he dug the spare Glock out of his pack and flicked the safety off. "I've got her."
Chapter Two "Okay, Dad, spill it." Jess had waited three torturous hours before she could corner Dirty Dan in the supply pantry off the parlor. He wasn't going anywhere, even if Trash put his first paying customer in a coma.
"What do you mean?" He sat on an upside down bucket and stroked his beard; his super-sage, thinker pose and a telltale sign he wanted to be difficult.
"You know exactly who I mean." Jess kept her voice a fierce whisper, afraid to shout and scare the customers. "Who is Mitch and what's he got on you?"
Both hands went flat on the knees of his black jeans. "Remember who you're talking to, kiddo."
She rolled her eyes. "I'm not a kid anymore, Dad. If he wants to drag you into trouble, I have to know. We're in this together, remember?"
"Yeah, I remember."
"Then don't B.S. me. What's going on?"
"I owe him a favor, that's all, from way back, before I went in the joint. Nothin' illegal, but I gotta make good on it. Relax, he'll be gone in a week."
"A week?" She fought back the high-pitched squeak in her voice. How could she believe him when he refused to look her in the eye? If he had laughed, called her a worry wart, and given her a noogie, she would have felt a heck of a lot better, though she hated the burning, knuckle-rub to the scalp. Even worse, how could she survive a week of Mitch? "What happened to a few days?"
"It'll be all right. I promise." He stood, held his arms out, and waited.
She scowled, not yet ready to give in and frustrated by how easy it was for him to end her questions. The guilt of denying him that hug would kill her and he damned well knew it. "Fine. Okay. You win. For now."
He held her tightly, pressing her face into the buttons pinned to his leather vest. Her cheek mashed against an American eagle and she inhaled his suede scent, happy for a moment.
Of course when she stepped back, the double whammy of doubt and worry filled her gut with barbed-wire. It didn't help either, that her next appointment would arrive soon. There's never enough time to talk.
"Just remember," he said and let her go. "He isn't staying."
She got the warning loud and clear. Don't get attached. Like she wanted to hitch herself to a dishonest drifter. "Yeah, I know."
Didn't matter anyway. Her father would never understand how his constant disapproval made it impossible to date any man they knew, much less dare to get involved with one. Her choices outside their friends were never good enough either.
He left her toeing a box of latex gloves on the bottom shelf. Why couldn't she meet one normal guy? They either bored her and wanted to stay, or excited her and wanted to go. Men just left. J.D. had just got back from his annual crosscountry summer, and even Trash, well, he kept his job, but he disappeared from the house every time he got a new girlfriend.
This sucks.
The loud, electronic bell on the front door beeped. Another customer, probably her appointment. Jess rubbed her face. Had she really thought questioning her mule-headed dad would turn out any different? She'd been suffering delusions of grandeur to think she could get the truth out of him.
In the parlor, she waved to Lisa, a hardcore biker groupie. The sort that didn't actually ride, only exclusively dated men who did. A cloud of nicotine and perfume wafted up from her as Lisa plopped into the chair and began chatting about a hot date she had that night.
Jess nodded and tried not to think about their strange guest now. Her hands needed to be steady for the Geisha girl Lisa wanted on her shoulder. She set out ink and opened the sterilizer for fresh reservoirs.
Tonight, at the cookout, she'd solve the Mitch situation. * * *
The party was in full swing, the keg empty, and Jess hadn't yet taken one minute to breathe. Between running steak, chicken, burgers, and brats to her dad, opening bags of chips and deli containers of go-withs, she'd been busy since the shop closed.
In the back of the garage, she worked the new keg to the edge of the standing cooler. Hair hung in her face and she inhaled a stray lock. With a curse, she spat it back out.
Music thumped through the walls and vibrated the spare bottles of beer in the cooler door. Another pair of hands would be nice, but she'd set up kegs since before she'd been old enough to discover the stuff tasted like rancid lemonade. She wasn't about to start asking for help now.
"Need some help?" Mitch's deep voice came from the doorway.
Of course it was him.
He'd shadowed her all day; hovering in the parlor, watching her set out the disposable china, staring at her in the kitchen. Fed up, she'd told him to chill out and claim a lawn chair, but here he was again. She grunted a 'no', conscious that with her knees bent, her derriere bobbed in the air.
"You sure?"
She nodded and finished waddling the heavy gray barrel onto the dolly. When she straightened, her back popped. God, that felt good. She huffed more hair out of her face and turned to Mitch.
Without his leather jacket on, standing in his sleeveless tshirt, she could finally admire his tattoos. Lots of tribal black work and a pair of Japanese characters she recognized from one of a few she'd chosen for herself. It meant Banzai, not a war cry as many thought, but eternal life. Did he know the difference?
As she studied the tattoos, it occurred to her that he was studying her in much the same way. And suddenly she was certain the red, lace-edged tank she wore was the one she'd stained last week putting new forks on Mickey's soft-tail Harley.
She crossed her arms. "Shouldn't you be out there catching up with all your old friends?"
Despite her father's efforts to encourage his buddies to remember him, no one did. More importantly, it was obvious Mitch didn't know a soul. That didn't look as if it would last long though. Already he'd been back-slapped a few good ones and ogled hungrily by every woman, single or not, in the back yard.
Mitch mere
ly grinned, the white of his teeth bright in the dimness. "Just thought I'd see if you needed help."
His muscles jumped as he flexed them, proving he could handle the keg. The show was more than a girl should be forced to resist on a perfect summer night. Need help? Lots of it.
"I can manage." She grabbed the dolly and in her hurry, turned it too fast. The barrel teetered.
Mitch bent and righted it quickly. He looked up at her from where he crouched. His face, mere inches from her navel, sparked a dark combination of need and rebellion. She shuddered the sensation away. Too dangerous while they were alone. "Thanks, I can get it now."
"Do you always do things the hard way?"
She didn't have enough fingers and toes to count the times her father had asked the very same thing. From Mitch, however, it made her want to kick something. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means, I came in here to help. Let me help." He gave her a healthy nudge and she let go of the dolly to keep her balance.
Mitch grasped the handles and tilted the dolly back as if the keg was empty. He grinned. "There. Was that so hard?"
"No." She tucked hair behind her ear and smiled, despite herself. Trash would've retreated with his tail between his legs, J.D. would've scolded her for being ungrateful, and her dad wouldn't have offered his help. He liked her independent. "You might come in handy after all."
"I'm good at a lot more than this, Sweetheart." He jerked his chin toward the half open door. "Catch the door."
"Don't call me sweetheart." Jess grinned, certain she looked like the joker in a deck of cards. She held the door wide.
"Whatever you say, Sugar-pie."
He actually winked at her. She opened her mouth to reply, but as he maneuvered through the narrow space, his arm brushed against her breast. He didn't appear to notice, but her entire body short-circuited and she went mute.
Cheers greeted them as they rolled the new keg into the crush of partiers. Trash swayed on his feet like a weed in the wind as he helped J.D. lift the empty keg out of the ice-filled trashcan and set it beside the deck stairs.
"Better leave the full one to the big guys." J.D. shoved Trash back and nodded to Mitch. "Grab an edge."
It was tantamount to J.D. welcoming Mitch to the family. Jess scowled at him, and didn't know why. Maybe because she couldn't stop thinking about how temporary Mitch's visit was. This man didn't live in town, he didn't own property, and likely the only business he did was on the dark side of shady.
Jess didn't want her father hurt, she wanted Mitch gone. But every hour that passed, she found herself dreaming up ways to keep him just a little longer, like a stray dog she'd once brought home, hoping her dad wouldn't make her get rid of it. Only Mitch was no lost puppy, he was a lone wolf on the prowl for…something.
Abruptly, she turned on her heel and stalked into the kitchen. They were low on cups, as usual. She ripped the bag open so fast the cups flipped in her hands and she had to scramble to catch them all. She slammed them on the counter and took a deep breath.
Her dad was too old to go back to prison and she was too old to forgive him a second time. Even Trash knew better. Ever since she'd chased him and his stolen radio out of the house with a baseball bat. Nothing illegal–ever. Later, she'd helped Trash talk to her dad about working for them.
She couldn't see Mitch taking orders, sweeping the garage, restocking the inventory. Nor did she believe he'd be easy to clobber with a bat. In fact, she had an idea that he'd snatch it away from her and…what? Hit her with it?
Through the screen door, Jess watched him. She'd seen dangerous men her whole life. Knew some of them well. Yet this comparably clean-cut guy unnerved her. No, he wouldn't hit her. He would yank the bat away and simply glare at her. Why did that seem even more threatening?
Because it made him all the more appealing.
She shifted her gaze to her father. He spoke with Shelly, who had the hots for J.D. Jess didn't blame her. J.D. wasn't bad looking–in a rebel-without-a-cause way, but Jess could never see herself with him, and neither could her dad. Unless a guy looked like an altar boy, her dad wouldn't approve. Except for Jack. Dirty Dan hadn't just disapproved, he'd hated her dating a cop. Right look, wrong occupation.
A solution came with startling clarity. The minute she showed interest in Mitch, the minute Mitch showed real interest in her, Dirty Dan would toss Mitch out on his ear.
Such a simple plan, and so easy. Armed with a fresh stack of red plastic cups, Jess bounced down the steps, matching the rhythm of Ram Jam's Black Betty and feeling very much like that damn child gone wild. Without fail, Mitch's eyes went to where her t-shirt stretched across her breasts.
Oh, this is gonna be too easy.
* * *
Mitch forced his gaze away from Jess's chest. Guiltily, he glanced at Dirty Dan. The man stared missiles at him.
Damn.
The old biker shook his head slowly, a reminder of the other half of their agreement. Hands off. No funny stuff. At the time, Mitch had thought himself so clever. Agreeing to be platonic with Jess had been easy. He never intended to break that particular professional rule to begin with. Except for the first time, he wanted to question the wisdom of that rule. God help him if her father suspected. Dan would send him packing.
Well, he could try.
"Here you go." Jess handed him a stack of cups.
He glanced at the empty space on the table. She could've set them down herself. He did it for her, surprised by her suddenly flirtatious grin. From get-off-my-land cold, to cheerleader friendly, the switch made him a little dizzy. He found a dimple on her right cheek he hadn't noticed in the gloomy garage. The dimple, the smile, the inviting look in her eyes, turned his blood to hot diesel.
She eyed his empty hands. "You're not drinking?"
He couldn't say he was on the clock, sobriety a must. "I've had a few, but that steak took up too much room." The answer was honest enough, he thought as he rubbed his stuffed belly. Dan did make a mean barbecue. "What about you?"
Jess shrugged. "I don't like beer."
She might be a wrench jockey, do awesome skin art, as he'd been shown by nearly everyone in the backyard, but being one of the guys didn't extend to their obvious drink of choice.
On the tail end of a slight breeze, he caught her scent again. He leaned closer, almost touching, and inhaled. She smelled like…cinnamon toast. Voice lowered, he asked, "What do you like, then?"
She took a sharp breath and stepped back, the dimple disappearing in a look of confusion. "I like my space."
"I like your space too." In the back of his head, a sharp voice yelled at him to knock it off. He couldn't afford a distraction like this. At the same time, he needed her to trust him, to let him inside and do his job.
"Is that why you came all the way out here?" She flushed, but didn't lower her gaze. "To enjoy my space?"
He smiled at her chutzpah. "That's just a perk."
"Of what? What do you do? For a living, I mean."
He shrugged. "This and that." Mitch didn't want to lie to her, not when he needed her loyalty. This impossible situation got worse by the second. "What about you? You ever think of doing something different?"
"Why?" Her eyes iced, her smile icier. "Are California girls so afraid to get their hands dirty? You think only guys are good at what I do?"
"No, not at all." How easily she'd turned the tables on him. "Just wondered what makes you tick. You make me curious."
"Don't be. It's not…" She shook her head as if afraid to say more. The abrupt return of her distrust made him wonder what he'd done wrong. "Look, just…have fun while you're here. Okay?"
She didn't wait for his reply but spun around and nudged through the crowd to her father's side. Her gait was so rigid, her thick hair barely moved.
Dan's watchful gaze hadn't left him. Mitch tried to ignore that assessing look by giving the guests another once over. Jess's mix of uncertainty and protectiveness made her different from the other women at t
he party. She wasn't hardened by the lifestyle. Somehow, she'd managed to preserve an air of…not innocence, she was too shrewd for that. But goodness, or maybe, a cleanness that came from avoiding an addiction to drama.
Despite Dan's bluster, Jess was obviously the captain of this ship and she'd never let anyone rock the boat. The way others treated her, it was obvious they, too, respected her authority.
Mitch couldn't hear what she said to her father. No one had told him why they called Dan dirty. If he had to guess, Dirty Dan's arrest and conviction for fencing stolen goods had more to do with the nickname than any lack of personal hygiene.
That aside, what court would give custody to an ex-con biker? Especially when Beth could provide Jess with every comfort and opportunity. Maybe the way Beth left, or that Dirty Dan owned a business and had stayed clean did the trick.
"Mitch, you gonna stand there all night, or let me get at the keg?" J.D., an impatient look on his face and a cup in one hand, gestured for Mitch to step aside.
A tattooed, hairy, leather-clad crew surrounded the keg. A big audience for the questions Mitch wanted to ask. He draped an arm around J.D.'s shoulders, holding the swaying man steady until he finished filling his cup. "C'mon, let's find us a seat."
He ushered J.D. to a corner of the yard, passing Jess on the way. Her stare followed him, and he stifled a wink and a smile. Dirty Dan was watching.
For what had to be the fiftieth time that night, Mitch checked the yard and alley quickly, scanning for anything out of the ordinary. Twice, Dirty Dan had left Jess alone when he shouldn't have. Mitch would talk to him in the morning about telling her the truth or taking this threat seriously. The boys got her back–just didn't cut it.
J.D. fell into a lawn chair and kicked his black boots out in front of him. "What's up? What do you wanna know?"
Mitch sat in a chair beside him and grinned. J.D. might be drunk, but he was astute. "Right to the point, hey?"
My Biker Bodyguard Page 2