by Sabrina York
He eased back when the Cadillac pulled off the freeway on some Podunk exit, and then cut his lights and followed at a distance as the car turned onto a dirt road. The cloud of dust it kicked up helped hide him from view, which was providential, but hell on the eyes.
By the time the Cadillac stopped he probably looked like something out of Road Warrior. He cut his engines, rolled his bike behind a hillock and eased forward so he could reconnoiter the scene.
The four men got out of their car. It appeared they were in the middle of an argument. Excellent.
Mason eased closer, doing a commando crawl through the rocks and sand, hoping he didn’t happen upon a sleeping rattler or a nest of scorpions. He surveyed the scene, evaluating the threats and watching for an opportunity to launch his attack.
“Yeah? Well I don’t give a shit what he said. She’s fucking hot.” One of the men bellowed. He been the driver and was the largest of the four, bulky and muscular, but without much body control. Mason assessed him in a second. Minor threat. Punch to the throat and he’d drop.
“We do what we been paid to do. Nothin’ more.” A smaller man, wiry and lithe, obviously the leader, judging from the deference of the silent two, stared his compatriot down.
“For shit’s sake Scoob. If we’re gonna kill her, what the fuck does anyone care if we have a taste first?”
Mason’s muscles tensed. Kill her? Something deep within howled at the prospect. It had little to do with his mission.
Scoob reared up and glared at his partner’s defiance. “Because dumbass. Ever heard of DNA?”
Dumbass put out a lip. “I’ve heard of it.”
“You fuck her, and yours is all over her body.”
“But we’re burying her.” Dumbass threw out his arms. “Here. In the middle of fucking nowhere. They won’t find her. And if they do, it won’t be till she’s bones.”
“You willing to bet your life on that? Because I’m not. So here’s the deal. We do the job, then you go back into town and find a blonde hooker.”
Dumbass appeared to be thinking this over. “It won’t be the same.” He jabbed a thumb at the trunk. “She’s a celebrity.”
Scoob snorted. “Her mother was a celebrity. A fucking supermodel. She’s nothing but a reality star.”
“But she’s been on TV. I’ve never fucked someone who’s been on TV before.”
“Oh for Christ sake. Just dig the fucking hole.”
One of the other thugs stepped forward, a skinny guy with what looked like a mouthful of meth-teeth. “We can’t dig the hole.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“The shovels are in the trunk.”
Scoob blew out a harsh breath and stomped over to the car and unlocked the trunk. He lifted the girl out and dropped her on the ground. She landed with an oof and immediately started to flail.
No doubt she was scared to death, but it would have been smarter to play dead. Scoob kicked her in the belly.
The sight made Mason’s blood surge with rage, his skin prickle. Oh, he wanted to take these fuckers out. All the way out. He reminded himself he would have to rein in his fury when he made his move…or he might accidentally kill them.
But then, control was overrated.
He’d do whatever he needed to save this chick, annoying though she was.
Fortunately, her captors were far more annoying.
Scoob pulled out the shovels and tossed them to his minions.
“What about you?” Dumbass asked.
Scoob smirked. “Someone has to keep an eye on her.”
“She ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Apparently Scoob had had it with the insubordination. “Do you want to get paid?” he snarled, and when the men nodded, he added, “Then get to fucking work.”
Muttering amongst themselves, they headed out into the desert.
Excellent.
That left one of them with the girl. Mason eased closer.
Scoob hunched down next to her body; the trembling gave away the fact that she was not unconscious. The bastard pulled off the hood and smiled at her. When he gently brushed her hair from her face and cupped it behind her ear, she flinched. “It really is a pity,” he said. His hand roved over her cheek, across her neck and lower to test the weight of her breast.
She tried to wrench away, to slap his hands away, but her wrists were bound and there was nowhere for her to go.
“Don’t worry,” he said in a soothing voice. “It’ll be over quickly. This ain’t my first rodeo.”
That alone set Mason’s blood on fire.
The fucker had killed before. He wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.
No. Not this time. Not this fucking time.
Enough. Enough of this shit. It was time for him to make his move.
Pansy steeled her spine. She was going to die.
She’d accepted it.
Oh, it wasn’t an easy acceptance, not by far, but these things never were.
Her only regret was that Steven might get away with it.
And that it was Steven who had hired these cretins there was no doubt. He wanted her out of the way. He wanted to grab the brass ring. And he was willing to kill to do it.
How she wished she could go back in time and warn her mother.
But then, Marla Hightower never listened to her. She never listened to anyone. She always did precisely what she wanted to do.
The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
But none of that mattered now.
Pansy had moments to live and her last sight would be that of this bastard’s ugly face.
That was a tragedy of monumental proportions—
A shadow rose in her peripheral vision. Her heart ceased its manic thrum for one painful moment and then launched into a skitter that made her breathless. The wraith moved quickly toward them. It enveloped her captor in a malevolent hug. A gargle. A sigh. And then a soft thud as the body fell to the ground.
The warrior glanced at her and their eyes met. A shock slashed through her. It was him, her mind sang. He was here.
She didn’t know from where this joy arose. Oh certainly, he had taken out her captor. But it was something more than mere relief. It was a familiarity. A dizzying glee that he wasn’t what she’d thought. He wasn’t a threat to her.
Probably.
He still had three more of them to contend with. When he lifted a large finger to tantalizingly lush lips she nearly snorted.
Be quiet?
Duh.
Still, she nodded. But only to be polite. He was saving her after all.
Probably.
She tried to track him as he skulked into the desert toward the site where the others were digging her grave, but he melted into the darkness, and there was a mound of dirt blocking the view. She struggled to sit up so she could see better, but all she could make out was the dim light of the lantern and the silhouette of men and shovels.
It occurred to her at that moment—and she really did not know from where this non sequitur had come—that Joe Peschi was right. If you’re going to kill someone and bury them in the desert, you really should make sure the grave is ready beforehand. Apparently these guys weren’t too bright.
Either that, or they didn’t watch Joe Peschi movies.
A cry wafted over the desolate plain. It ended in a warble. And then there was a shout. The retort of a shot.
Pansy ducked back down. Getting hit by a stray bullet would be inconvenient. Aside from that, she wasn’t entirely safe yet. If they shot her rescuer, she was still in danger. And possibly mortal danger, considering the conversation she’d overheard.
Please God, she prayed. Let him prevail!
Cold fingers clutched her chest at the thought of that man, with those beautiful, stunning startling eyes, lying dead.
It was almost as disturbing as the thought of being raped and murdered and buried in a shallow grave. She had no idea why.
Her heart thudded as she listened to the sounds of battle. Thumps and
oofs and snarls. Damn, she wished she could see.
Ah, but—how often had she heard it?—be careful what you wish for.
A thunder of footsteps approached. She edged under the fender of the car in an attempt to protect herself. With the zip ties around her wrists and ankles, she was, for all intents and purposes, helpless.
She hated the feeling.
A man ran past. He was big and bulky and…another man tackled him.
Pansy knew—just knew—which one was her hero. The first man fell with an earth-shaking thud and her protector crawled up his body, landing punch after punch into his kidneys, his solar plexus, his face. They rolled in the dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust—and then they separated and both sprang to their feet.
One took a position, something fierce and ominous and reminiscent of a warrior, a man who knew how to fight. The other cowered.
Pansy was pretty sure which was which.
But then, they came together again in a clash of shadows. She was aware of quick, harsh whipping movements, hard blows. From her position beneath the car, she watched in awe as the warrior battered his foe. It took seconds…and then the bastard dropped.
Her warrior stood then, straightened. Tugged down his jacket and surveyed the motionless body before him.
Silence blanketed the scene. Pansy couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.
Had he saved her? Or had she stepped from one peril into another?
She had little time to wonder. Hard hands grabbed her ankles and dragged her from under the car. She couldn’t stop her yelp. The harsh stones on the road cut into her skin and the dirt abraded her cheek.
She caught a glimpse of her warrior, saw his head snap around at her cry, but there was only time for that.
She hated being manhandled, and this night had had its share, so as the man who had hold of her tried to lever her body up before his as a shield, she fought him with everything in her.
It was difficult because her ankles were tied, but she squirmed and writhed and kicked as he attempted to drag her away into the desert.
She shouldn’t have bothered.
The warrior advanced on them at a full run and plastered his fist in the miscreant’s face.
His foul breath brushed her cheek as he wheezed a sigh, and crumpled.
She crumpled with him, and braced herself for another hard fall.
But she didn’t fall.
Her warrior caught her. Snatched her from the other man’s hold and whipped her into his arms and…
God. He smelled so good. Some tantalizing aftershave mixed with the scent of leather and sweat. A sinful combination.
Pansy had little time to revel in it. He carried her to the car and sat her in the passenger seat, sideways so she was facing out. Then he pulled out a knife.
Her heart stalled. Her trepidation must have shown on her face because he sent her something of a smirk and then, with quick moves, sliced her bonds.
“Stay here,” he said. And she froze. Not because he’d commanded her to stay like a dog. But because his voice was gravelly and low and had a musical lilt that poleaxed her. She had a vision of the two of them, entwined in a heated embrace, his murmurs, that voice rippling over her as she came…
Which was ridiculous.
But she had a hell of a time evicting the thought.
When she finally did, she stood and brushed herself off, then wiggled her hands to restore the circulation. She glanced around for him, whatever his name was, and frowned. She could see two of her attackers lying by the trunk of the car. It looked as though their wrists and ankles had been zip tied, which gave her no end of pleasure. But she couldn’t see him. Where did he go?
And then he came over the rise carrying something.
Holy hell.
Carrying two somethings.
Two grown men to be exact.
As though they were nothing.
He dumped them on the ground next to their buddies and quickly tied them up as well. Then he brushed off his hands and glanced at her. A frown rippled his brow.
“I told you to stay put.”
She lifted a shoulder, though it hurt. “I don’t take orders very well.”
“They could still have been conscious.”
She didn’t know why his tone annoyed her. “But they weren’t.”
“You didn’t know that. They still could have posed a threat to you.”
Whatever. She frowned at him. “How do I know you don’t pose a threat?”
There was no call for his expression of outrage. “Me?”
“Yes you, Mister…Stalker.”
“I am not a stalker.”
“You’ve been following me all night.”
He might have growled. “You should be glad I was following you. If I hadn’t been, you’d probably be in that grave right now.”
The truth of that hit home, but twined with it was the bald fact that she had no idea who he was, or why he was here. She had to know. She had to. “Did Steven hire you?”
He blinked. “Steven who?”
“Steven Bowles.”
It was a relief when he shook his head.
“Then who sent you after me?”
She disliked his hesitation. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”
Something nasty curled through her gut. “Really?” Seriously?
Without another word, she turned on her heel and marched away.
Chapter Three
Mason stared after the tiny woman as she flounced down the rutted track in five-inch heels. Flounced. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” His voice came out in an unseemly squawk.
“Back to town.” This, with a toss of her annoying ponytail.
“We’re miles out of town.” In the desert, for fuck’s sake.
“I’m not staying here with you.”
He didn’t like her tone, or the sizzle of irritation her distain ignited. “What?”
She whirled around and crossed her arms. He tried not to notice the way her breasts lifted. “I have no idea who you are. You won’t tell me who sent you.”
Well shit.
He wasn’t supposed to disclose his mission, but he was blown now, wasn’t he? The secrecy was probably a moot point. “My name is Mason. I work for a private security firm.”
“And?”
“And I was charged with tailing you and making sure you were safe.”
“You’re my guard dog?”
Hardly. “Something like that.”
“Forgive me for being dense, but aren’t people usually informed that they have bodyguards?”
“Given the fact that you have consistently refused a security team, your aunt thought this would be best.”
She stilled. Her head tipped at an irksome angle. “My aunt?”
“Yeah. Catherine Hightower? She hired our company to protect you both.”
“I…how long have you been following me?”
Mason shrugged. “The team has been on you two weeks.”
“The team?”
“There are four of us. We work in shifts.”
She shook her head. “I…I had no idea.”
“We’re good at what we do.” Until tonight. Tonight she’d noticed him.
“Well shit.” She stomped over to the hillock and sat down. “So Aunt Catherine suspected we were in danger?”
“Apparently.”
“And there’s a team on her as well?”
“Some of the best.”
Her expression went pensive. He disliked the hint of worry on her features. “I haven’t heard from her in days.”
“I’m sure she’s fine. I would have been informed if anything happened to her.”
“Can you check?”
Um…break protocol? But then, hell. He was blown. Protocol pretty much went out of the window. “I can ask for an update. But for now, I think we need to get you somewhere safe.”
The look in her eyes slayed him. “Is there? Anywhere safe?”
He swallowed hea
vily. “Ma’am. It’s our mission to keep you safe. Now, if you don’t mind, shall we go?”
“Go?” She glanced at the Cadillac.
“I have my bike. Are you comfortable on a Harley?” The whisper of a smile on her lips was answer enough.
“What are you going to do with them?” she asked, waving at the fuckers bound in the dirt.
He shrugged. “Leave them here.” He’d call the incident in. Let Jon and his guys handle clean up.
One of the bastards groaned.
Her smile kicked up. “It gets hot in the desert.”
“That it does.” He reached out a hand to her. “Shall we?” A shiver raced through him as their palms skimmed. She might have felt it too; her eyes flared as they touched, but she hid it quickly.
He was trying to appear calm, but all he wanted was to sweep her away, away from these men, this spot, this debacle, and button her up but good.
Oh, he might have wanted something else too, but really, this was a mission. She was his target. There was no room for fantasies of tangling with Pansy Hightower.
Or buttoning her up, for Christ sake.
She was sexy hot. No doubt about it. Her very expression made a man imagine those pouty lips around his cock. But she was nothing to him. She could be nothing to him. Nothing but a job.
Hell, even if he weren’t bound by his ethics, she was hardly the kind of woman he would want for any kind of long term relationship. A notorious party girl, concerned with little more than the color of her nail polish and finding the perfect purse in which to carry her dog—not his type.
Still, she was pretty hot.
Mason pushed those thoughts from his mind as he led her to his bike and straddled it before helping her on. Though she objected—because it would muss her hair—he insisted she wear his helmet. Besides, her hair was pretty fucked up already. But he didn’t think it would be prudent to mention that.
With great satisfaction, he turned over the engine and pulled out onto the dirt road.
He was sure the satisfaction stemmed from the fact that he had successfully saved the girl—and not the fact that her arms were wrapped around his waist, and her soft breasts pressed against his back.
Pretty sure, anyway.
The Harley’s engine thrummed between his thighs as he made his way back the way he’d come, over the dusty track and onto the freeway and the jetting toward town. Pansy clutched at him each time the bike swerved, making him wonder if she’d ever been on one before. But that was a stupid thought. Of course she had been. A woman with her lifestyle? She’d probably done everything.