My Biker Bodyguard

by Turner, J. R.

from her face, brushed it off her forehead. His fingers were

  trembling. "Breathe. You're okay. It's over. You'll be all right

  now."

  He helped her sit up more, rubbing circles on her back,

  stroking her hair. When she could breathe again, when she

  could see again, she glanced at him and he smiled.

  "There you are."

  She didn't smile back. "Jesus, is this gonna happen every

  time I get…scared?"

  He shrugged. "People react differently to different things.

  It ain't easy gettin' ripped out of your life and thrown into this.

  You'll be all right."

  She nodded. That did make things easier. This wasn't for

  the rest of her life. She could go home. How did he always

  know the right thing to say? Of course, dummy, he does this

  for a living. He probably had an entire encyclopedia on how to

  calm down hysterical women.

  "Look, we got our first lead," he nodded toward the

  unconscious gunman and grinned. "We caught us a bad guy." She did smile then. "I bet you say that to all the girls." "Nope, just the ones who use my gun to beat the living

  crap out of a creepoid like that."

  "Creepoid?" She raised a brow and sat up, still breathing

  deep, still shaky, but feeling more like herself.

  He shrugged. "I wouldn't want to burn your innocent ears

  with worse, sweetheart."

  "Oh, you mean like son-of-a-bitch, bastard, asshole?" "Oh," he gasped, covering his heart and rolling to his

  back, as if brought low by her filthy words. "Be still my

  beating heart. I think I'm in love."

  She laughed out loud. Inside, she wished that was true.

  Chapter Twelve "Who hired you?" Agent Davis asked the bruised, bleeding, and handcuffed man seated in the interrogation room at FBI headquarters.

  Mitch watched with Mordstrom behind the two-way mirror. They'd been decent enough to him since the troops had shown up to take Mike to the hospital and get Mitch and Jess off the side of the road. The man they'd caught still hadn't said one word–not his own name, not who'd hired him, nothing. He was going to be a hard nut to crack.

  Flexing his fingers, Mitch winced at the crackle of bones. He'd powerhoused that guy a good one and it had been thirty minutes before the creepoid came around. He repressed a grin at the name. The EMT's had almost insisted he be taken to the hospital, but the agents had proven to be more insistent that they take him into custody. Now that Mitch thought about it, the agents might actually be halfway decent.

  "We got word," a blue-suit leaned through the door, "your limo driver guy–he's got a concussion, but he's gonna be okay."

  "Thanks." Mitch nodded, relieved.

  When they were alone, Agent Mordstrom crossed his arms and cleared his throat. "You did good out there, keeping her safe."

  Mitch shrugged. "It's my job, same as yours."

  "That it is," Mordstrom nodded.

  "And," Mitch grinned ruefully, "I had one wild woman to help me out. Those knots on his head are from her."

  Mordstrom chuckled. "She did good too, then."

  "That she did." Mitch recalled thinking she'd been hit, that he'd failed her, those agonizing moments spent searching for an entry wound–and didn't smile.

  "We'll make him talk if it takes all night," Mordstrom said, likely mistaking Mitch's scowl for worry. "But he'll talk."

  He wondered if over-confidence was a requirement for the FBI, or if they doused it on themselves every morning before they left for work to hide the stink of being fallible.

  He returned to studying the gunman, who repeatedly pulled back his lips and sneered at him whenever Davis asked a question, revealing two very yellowed canines in a mouth full of comparatively whiter teeth. Mitch smiled. "I'd say it won't take nearly that long."

  Mordstrom raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How do you know?"

  "Look at his teeth."

  The agent leaned closer to the glass, then turned his own grin back to Mitch. "He's a smoker."

  "You want I should go in there and give him a goose?"

  "You got some on you?"

  Mitch shook his head. "Quit years ago, but I could stomach one right about now. You know anyone who might have a pack?"

  "I'll see what I can dig up." He started around Mitch, then turned before he got to the door. "Just smoke, no questions."

  Mitch nodded. He'd be able to freak the guy out more if he just stood, shoulders hunched, begging for the man to make his move, so he could give him another taste of the Conner Knock-Out, smoking to his heart's content, or his lung's punishment.

  Mordstrom came back with a pack of Marlboro's and a book of matches. "Finally got a name on him. He's Patrick 'Punch' Maldonado. Fitting, huh?"

  "Yep." Mitch smiled, wriggling his sore knuckles.

  "You sure you wanna risk it?" Mordstrom asked, holding out the cigarettes and matches.

  Mitch took both and grinned. "Hell yeah."

  Davis and the thug looked up as Mitch came into the room. Mordstrom followed, motioned Davis over to them, and whispered in his ear, and then retreated.

  "Don't mind me," Mitch said as he leaned against the wall by the door. The thug glared at him and spat on the table. The wad was pinkish, showing he still bled somewhere in his mouth.

  "Don't be such a pig." Davis told the thug. He sat down across from him at the table. "Now, let's go back to the beginning, Punch."

  At the sound of his name, the thug shrank in his chair. Mitch tapped out a cigarette and overtly sniffed the whitewrapped tobacco, exhaling with great pleasure he didn't have to fake. Smelled just too damn good.

  The thug eyed the cigarette. Mitch grinned, raised an eyebrow. He stuck the filter between his lips and struck a match, sucking in the harsh, dark taste of sin. Glorious. The plume he expelled floated over Davis's head to hang above the center of the table. The thug straightened, his eyes never leaving Mitch.

  "If you give us a name, we'll go easy on you." Davis continued, ignoring Mitch. "We don't want you, you're small potatoes. We want the man who hired you."

  Punch still refused to speak. Mitch dragged on the cigarette again, experimenting with different sized smoke rings. They drifted in halos through the room. The thug's leg battered the underside of the table with staccato nerves.

  "What have you got to lose?" Davis urged. "You give us a name, and we cut you a deal. No one's been injured here, you didn't kill anyone. All you got to do is come clean."

  Desperation flickered in Punch's gaze.

  Man, this is too fun. Mitch gave up the fancy tricks and concentrated on filling the room with as much smoke as he could. The nicotine made him dizzy, but with his back to the wall, he had no fear it showed.

  "Give me a cigarette." The thug finally said.

  "Why?" Davis asked. Even though Mitch couldn't see the agent's face, he could hear the smile in Davis' voice. "You haven't given us a damn thing. Tell me why I should make any concessions for you."

  "I know what you're doing." Punch rocked back on his chair, tilting the front legs off the floor. "It's not gonna work."

  Mitch exhaled the largest plume of smoke yet and silently stared through the cloud at Punch. Resist that.

  "No?" Davis asked. "Have it your way." The agent stood and turned to Mitch. He winked at him through the smoke, his back to Punch. "You ready?"

  Mitch nodded, looked for a place where he could stub out the last of the smoke, and finding nothing promising, lifted his foot. He ground it out on the sole of his shoe, cupping the dead butt in his hand. "Ready."

  "Wait." Punch rocked forward, crashing the chair back onto all fours. "Give me a smoke and I'll give you a name."

  Mitch raised his eyebrows at Davis. He hadn't really expected it to work so well, or so fast. Punch was a career killer, he had to be made of sterner stuff than this. He wanted to urge Davis not to trust Punch's sudde
n cooperation, but couldn't utter precautions in front the thug. He'd have to hope that Davis was smarter than that.

  Davis turned around and sat again. "Name first, smoke second."

  "No deal." Punch's eyes glittered desperately. "I know how this works. I give you a name first and I'm SOL."

  Davis waved Mitch forward. "Give him one."

  Mitch tapped out a second smoke and tossed it on the table. It landed precariously close to the wad of spit and began to roll. Punch snatched it up quickly before it could get wet and squinted at Mitch. "Now a light."

  Mitch looked at Davis.

  The agent shook his head. "No dice. The name first. Or I'll have Mr. Conner take it back."

  Punch eyed them both. "You gonna cut me a deal right?"

  Davis nodded.

  "Then I gotta see it in writing first." Punch grinned, twirling the cigarette in two jittering fingers.

  Agent Davis sighed and sat back. "I figured you for smarter than that Punch. It's gonna be hours before we get something typed up. Don't forget that we've got this conversation taped and that the tapes are evidence in any court proceedings that follow. Our deal is on record."

  "What exactly is our deal?"

  Davis shrugged. "How about disrupting the peace and assault? We could prosecute on murder one, if you want to continue to play hardball."

  "No," Punch said quickly, putting the cigarette in his mouth. "I'll take the deal. My lawyer'll have me out by morning."

  Mitch stifled a snort. No way in hell this loser would get a break that easy. Not here, not with the record he had. Optimistic was too mild a word for the jerk.

  "Give us a name."

  "I only got one name." The cigarette bobbed between his lips as he spoke. "Grady."

  Mitch eyed Davis. This confirmed what they'd thought all along. They had their man now. Punch wouldn't even know Grady existed unless he'd contracted him to do in Jess and her mother.

  Davis nodded Mitch forward. Matches in hand, he stepped close, tore one from the book, and scratched it into fire. The smell of sulfur singed the room. Punch sucked the flame into the end of the cigarette and leaned back in the chair, floating in the ecstasy of a craving fulfilled.

  Mitch shook out the match and grimaced. This man shouldn't have one ounce of pleasure in his life.

  Davis seemed to sense his change in temperament, because he abruptly stood and placed a hand on Mitch's shoulder. "Let's get the rest of his story."

  Mitch nodded and backed toward the door. He suddenly needed to be away from the stink and stench of cigarette fumes, away from the filth of Punch. There was a time in New York when he could have taken a different road and ended up being the thug sitting at the table, a time when he'd been on his way there. It left a bad taste in his mouth that didn't solely come from burnt tobacco.

  Outside the interrogation room, he passed the Marlboros and the matches back to Mordstrom. "Worked like a charm."

  "Good job."

  "Nothin' to it." Mitch kept going. "I'll be back. Gonna grab something to drink and eat, get the taste out of my mouth. I want to tell Jess the good news."

  Mordstrom might have said something else, but Mitch didn't wait to hear it. He left the agent standing by the two-way mirror. In the hall, the sound of people busy at work, the ringing of phones, and the scent of smoldering popcorn overwhelmed him.

  He headed down to the first floor and out into the street, gulped fresh air and wished for a stick of gum, a linty bit of breath mint from his pocket, anything to combat the heady taste in his mouth.

  Jess waited upstairs for word. He wanted to get to her as quickly as possible. He wished he could have beaten the name out of the thug instead of dipping back into a bad habit to get the job done. Sure, he understood that battery made any confession inadmissible, but in this case, he cared less about convicting the guy they had, and more about protecting Jess from the one they couldn't find.

  * * *

  Jess held the phone to her ear and grinned. "We got a lead, Dad."

  "That's terrific kiddo." He sounded relieved. She wished he was there, in person, so she could see his face and know if he was really all right.

  "Yeah, they're talkin' to…a guy right now, someone who knows who hired the hits."

  "What kinda guy?"

  Sure, he would ask that question. She didn't want to worry him, didn't want him to get all riled up after the fact. There wasn't any sense in that. "Just a guy the FBI hauled in. I'm actually calling from their headquarters. Mitch is down with the agents now, interrogating the man."

  "Why aren't you there?" He sounded ready to dash in and demand they baby-sit her.

  "Because I don't need to be. I don't want to…." How could she tell him she didn't want to complicate things for Mitch, that he might just feel enough for her to distract him from doing the right thing? "I don't need to be there Dad. They'll tell me what happens when they're done. I'm sure of it."

  "I wouldn't trust them. They ain't been real good about telling you the truth so far."

  "What do you mean?"

  He didn't answer right away and she heard what sounded like J.D. in the background shouting Trash's name. Her father said, "I mean, you can't trust people like that."

  She could say that he hadn't told her the truth about her mother either, but she kept her lips sealed on that subject. Reminding him would only further his pain and complicate everything. She sighed heavily. "Dad, this is good news."

  Again, a pause and the sound of something crashing. "I know honey, and I'm sorry to bring you down."

  "How's things going on your end?" Jess wondered how much of the house was getting destroyed while she was away.

  "Oh, everything's fine, just fine. Hold on a sec," her father tried to muffle his next words, but she heard them anyway. "You guys knock it off! It's Jess." Then he was back on the line, silence in the background. "Sorry about that, they just broke that damned elephant stand."

  "Don't worry about it Dad. No big deal." Jess grinned. She'd hated that thing since Trash had brought it back from dumpster-diving last summer. Her grin fell though, as a sudden wave of homesickness washed over her. "Are they still keeping you guys under surveillance?"

  "Sure, and they're way too damned obvious about it. The whole neighborhood knows they're here."

  "Bet things are real quiet now."

  He chuckled. "You'd think this was the 'burbs."

  "Enjoy it while it lasts." She smiled at the thought of their decent neighbors finally getting some peace and quiet. "If nothing else, at least you guys get a break until they leave."

  "That's true. I just wish they'd park their damned van in a driveway or something. Or at least pick out something a little less…brand new."

  She frowned. "They're not really expecting someone to show up, are they?"

  No answer from the end. She twisted her legs from beneath her, knees popping and feet tingling, and extended them over the side of the sofa. "Dad?"

  "Yeah. I'm here." He sighed. "Truth is, I think they're more interested in what I'm doing."

  She wrapped the phone cord around one finger as she thought of a way to help him see the bright side of being a suspect, which didn't come easy. Before today, they'd thought she and Mitch were possibly behind the whole thing. "At least you're safe, Dad."

  "Guess so." He sounded angry now. She decided it would be best to end the conversation.

  "I'll call you when I hear more." She smiled to soften her words. "I love you."

  "Love you too, hon. Hurry home." Now he sounded near tears. She would not break down, no matter how much her chest ached.

  "I will."

  They hung up, but her hand stayed on the receiver, pulling the warmth from the hard plastic as if it could hold onto her father for just a few minutes longer. He was there and she was here, and she was powerless to do anything about that, not while the threat still remained.

  Powerless. The very word straightened her back. God, she hoped it would all be over soon.

 
; The door opened unexpectedly and she jumped to her feet. Mitch stepped inside and closed the door behind him. In one hand, he held a container of mints. "We got him, babe. It's Grady all right. They're sending the go ahead for his arrest." The mints clacked against his teeth.

  She ran to him without thought, throwing her arms around his neck and uttered a relieved chuckle. "This is great!"

  He squeezed her. "This will all be over soon."

  She landed back on her feet, but she didn't take her hand from his shoulder. "Thank God you pack a punch."

  "You're not so bad either. Clubbing him over the head."

  She grinned up at him. "We make a great team."

  "Definitely." His smile faded a bit, his gaze clouding slightly as it dipped toward her mouth. Mints crunched and he swallowed, the knot of his Adams apple bobbing. "You know what this means, don't you?"

  She shook her head, unable to find her voice. The feel of his broad shoulders, the muscles there moving as his thumb made lazy circles below the strap of her bra, took all the words out of her head.

  "It means that we're almost done here."

  "Almost over." She breathed the words out on a sense of loss. What would it be like to go home? Never to feel this hard, muscled body–this sense of security and danger all mingled into one large ball of temptation beneath her hands?

  Unbidden, she imagined him on top of her, his hot, warm, naked skin sliding against the inside of her thighs. The double threat to her body and heart created a fusion of mad, emotional need that couldn't be resisted a moment longer. She stood on her toes, breasts pressing against the zippers and snaps on his leather coat.

  His mouth covered hers, tentative, brushing lips against lips, tasting her acceptance, sharing his minty flavor. She opened to him, inviting him with the tip of her tongue. Shivers raced down her back, hit the hot core of her, and spread through her breasts, electrifying her skin as he pulled her closer.

  He growled in the back of his throat as she ran her fingers over the nearly-bare skin of his scalp, as she gripped the muscles across his shoulders and pressed into his chest.

  The kiss hardened, grew more intense, exactly as she wanted it to be. Again and again, his mouth slanted over hers. He trailed a hand down her back. Eyes closed, she murmured in pleasure, arching for him, giving herself fully to the wonderful torment of her escalating passion.