Michael: The Defender

by JoAnn Ross

  “Okay, boys and girls,” Eric called out, “we’re getting ready to roll. Quiet on the set.”

  “Quiet on the set,” the assistant director echoed. “Scene thirty-six, take one. Rolling.”

  Michael had read the script. He’d even, in an uncharacteristically masochistic mood, envisioned Lorelei acting out the role of the sexy mystery writer turned undercover stripper. But even so, there was no way he could have been prepared for the reality of the scene.

  There was a sound of a motorcycle gunning its engine offstage. Every male in the room was at attention, reminding Michael of Elvis, his old hunting dog, at point

  The engine roared louder. Then, while everyone watched, Lorelei, clad in a black leather jacket, body-hugging leather shorts and thigh-high boots rode in on a police motorcycle while the actor playing the part of the club’s emcee introduced, “Officer Extremely Friendly.”

  The sight of her long legs straddling that bike was enough to make Michael want to drag her off the stage and away from prying eyes. Unfortunately, he knew that it was only going to get worse.

  Which it did.

  Flashing a vixen’s smile, she climbed off the bike and began moving her hips to the gut-wrenchingly sexy music that a blues band was belting out.

  She pulled a prop pistol from the holster she was wearing low on the hip, gunslinger style. No cop would wear his sidearm that way, Michael thought, then decided reality wasn’t all that important for the act. She spread her legs, which looked even longer than usual in those gleaming black boots with stiletto hooker heels so high Michael didn’t know how she managed to stand up in them, let alone try to dance.

  She pointed the gun at the audience. “Freeze suckers!” There was a rolling drumbeat. When she pulled the trigger, the pistol fired sparks, but no bullets.

  Then she got down to business.

  Unlike so many of the girls who worked in the Quarter, often dancing in the front windows of the clubs to attract customers, Lorelei did not display all her feminine charms at once. On the contrary, the act gave new meaning to the word tease.

  The first thing to come off was the brimmed police cap. She plucked it from her hair, which had been crimped into a mass of rippling silver waves by the hairdresser, turned it around three times in her hands, then tossed it into the crowd. An extra Michael recognized as the kid who had delivered pizzas to the crew the day before caught it with a wide grin and put it on his own head.

  The fringed leather motorcycle cop gloves were next, and somehow, as she tugged each finger free with her teeth, she made taking off a pair of gloves seem an almost indecent act.

  The audience was getting into it now, shouting for her to take off more. Naturally, she obliged, unzipping the leather jacket, revealing a black leather bra with chain straps that offered up eye-grabbing cleavage. Her skin was porcelain pale against the jet leather and sparkled in a way that suggested the makeup woman had dusted some crystal substance onto her shoulders and the crest of her breasts.

  Michael didn’t know which was harder, watching Lorelei’s lascivious movements as she strutted back and forth across the small stage, dragging the jacket behind her, or watching the men in the room watch her.

  “Christ,” Brian, who was standing beside Michael murmured, “I wrote the damn scene and I’m turned on.”

  He wasn’t the only one. “She’s good,” Michael allowed.

  “Good? Hell, the lady’s world-class. By the time she gets down to those pasties, there won’t be a guy in the place capable of walking out of here.”

  Feeling an urge to put his fist into the center of the writer’s handsome face, Michael jammed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans to keep them out of trouble.

  “Cut,” Eric suddenly called out.

  “Cut,” the assistant director echoed.

  The band stopped in the middle of the song’s bridge. Standing alone on the stage, Lorelei put her hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes against the glaring klieg lights.

  “What’s wrong? Please don’t tell me I have to start again.” Her discomfort with that idea was more than evident.

  The metamorphosis was startling, even to Michael, who’d known she’d been acting. One minute she was Officer Extremely Friendly, the sexiest stripper on Bourbon Street; the next minute she was the Lorelei he’d known most of his life. The girl he’d once loved.

  “You were doing great, sweetheart,” Eric assured her. “But you’re not sweating.”

  “That’s because you’ve got the temperature about forty degrees in here,” she complained. When she wrapped her arms around herself, the always vigilant wardrobe mistress suddenly appeared with a silk robe.

  “I instructed the electrician to lower the temperature so your makeup wouldn’t melt under the lights,” Eric said. “But I want you to look hot and sweaty.”

  “I can do many things on cue, Eric,” Lorelei said dryly. “Scream, cry, even faint But sweating on command is beyond the scope of my talent.”

  “No problem.” He called for the makeup woman, who appeared on the scene with a plastic water bottle. Sighing, Lorelei surrendered the robe, held out her arms, and turned slowly while the woman spritzed a mixture of water and baby oil onto her skin.

  “That’s better,” Eric said, nodding his satisfaction with the effect. “Okay,” he cued the band and Lorelei, “let’s pick it up a few bars before we broke off.”

  “Scene thirty-six,” the assistant director called out. “Take two. Rolling.”

  As much as Michael hated to admit it, the director was right. Before, she’d appeared strangely alien, like some sort of unearthly goddess. But the moisture glistening above her vermilion lips, between her breasts, on her torso above the low-cut waistband of the skinhugging shorts and on the sleek flesh at the inside of her thighs made her appear far more human. And, although Michael never would have thought it possible, even sexier.

  She turned her back to the audience, smiling at them over her shoulder. It was then he noticed, for the first time, that the dazzling smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Michael wondered if such mental detachment was her way of showing the fictional character’s discomfort with what she was forced to do to research her mystery story, or Lorelei’s own unease.

  She unfastened the bra and turned back to the cameras, holding it coyly against her breasts, the thin chain straps flashing silver in the blue spotlight focused on her. Although it was impossible to hear much of anything over the blaring music, Michael imagined he heard a collective intake of breath as every man in the club waited for that bit of black leather to drop.

  And then something filtered into his consciousness. A faint cracking sound coming from above the stage. Acting on impulse, he shouted, took the six steps on to the stage two at a time, and flung himself against her, sending her flying. A moment later, a huge kleig light crashed to the floor, only inches from where Lorelei had been standing.

  10

  THE ACTION WAS SO fleeting it took onlookers several seconds to catch up. The band continued playing, while the musicians dwindled off one at a time as comprehension dawned. A murmured question rippled through the crowd, turning into a babble of excitement as what had happened—and even worse, what could have happened—sank in.

  “Dammit,” Eric shouted, pushing his way to the stage, “what the hell happened here?”

  “What does it look like?” Brian said, his shaky voice revealing heightened emotion. “O’Malley just saved Lorelei’s life.” He took to the stage as well and crouched down beside Lorelei, who was still lying beneath Michael.

  “How are you?” Brian asked her.

  “I think I’m fine,” Lorelei managed to gasp even as her heart continued to pound in her ears. “Although I’m having a little trouble breathing.”

  That could be because his chest was crushing hers, Michael realized. She felt small and soft beneath him. And he also couldn’t help noticing that she felt damn good, too.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, rolling off her. At the sam
e time, he pulled the pistol from his shoulder holster.

  “Good God,” Eric said, backing up when he saw the gun.

  “Is that really necessary?” Brian asked.

  “Yeah.” His own heart pounding in a way that made Michael think he might be having a heart attack, he pulled the flip cell phone from his jacket pocket and hit the fast dial number for his office.

  “Get down here to Le Girls Cabaret,” he said abruptly when Shayne answered. “Yeah, she’s okay. But we had a close call and I want to get her back to the hotel while you start questioning people here. ”He paused and considered his options. “You’d better call Dirkson down at the cop shop and have him send some guys over, too.”

  “You’re calling in the police?” Eric asked. “Is that really necessary?”

  Michael looked down at Lorelei, who was sitting on the stage, her arms wrapped around herself, looking somewhat shell-shocked now that the adrenaline jolt was beginning to subside.

  “Your star was almost killed,” he replied. “I’d say that yeah, that calls for the cops.”

  “Surely you’re not implying it wasn’t an accident,” Brian said, appearing honestly shocked by the suggestion that someone had actually tried to harm Lorelei. “I mean, I know she’s been having problems with some lovesick fan, but everyone knows those guys never act on their fantasies.”

  Michael wanted to throttle him. “Don’t tell me, you researched stalkers for a script.”

  “Dangerous Passions,” Brian said defensively.

  “I saw it. And, while it may have worked as entertainment, it wasn’t an accurate portrayal of the problem. You must not have run across the little fact that before John Hinckley, Jr. tried to assassinate the president, he wrote a letter to Jodie Foster telling her that fantasies can become reality in his world. I guess everyone saw the proof of that a few days later, over and over again on their televisions.”

  He heard Lorelei’s sharp intake of breath and realized that he’d scared her. Which, Michael decided, wasn’t all that bad. Although she’d professed unease about her stalker, and had reluctantly allowed Taylor to hire a bodyguard, he’d sensed that the very real danger hadn’t really hit home. Now that it had, it was up to him to assure her that he’d keep her safe. Then he had to somehow live up to his word.

  “Even so,” Eric argued, “accidents do happen.”

  “Sure they do. But until we prove differently, I’m not taking any chances.” He reholstered the gun, then turned to the wardrobe mistress and asked for the robe, which was immediately handed over. Kneeling down, he wrapped it around Lorelei’s ice-cold shoulders. As he was helping her to her feet, Shayne walked in, followed by two men in jeans and T-shirts Michael recognized from his days on the force. One was his former partner, who greeted him with a grim expression.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” Michael said, putting his arm around Lorelei’s shoulders, “Shayne’s arrived with the cavalry. We can get you out of here.”

  She was trembling. Her teeth began to chatter from the chill that had crept over her, a chill that went all the way to the bone.

  “It’ll be okay,” Michael assured her yet again once they were alone in his car. “You’ll be okay.”

  “I know.” She hated the way she’d lost control. Her teeth were clacking together as if she were in the Arctic, and her hands and her voice couldn’t stop shaking. “I realized something when you were telling Brian about stalkers.”

  “What?”

  “He really could kill me.”

  “He’d have to go through me, first.” Michael slanted her a grin, hoping to win an answering smile. “And I’m a pretty big obstacle.”

  That was definitely not an exaggeration. Remembering the way every bone in her body had rattled when he’d hit her and knocked her to the stage, Lorelei figured that she’d have bruises for a week.

  “I owe you, O’Malley,” she murmured: “Big time.”

  “You don’t owe me a thing.”

  His jaw was set, his eyes were chips of cobalt ice. Lorelei had always thought of Michael as the steady, easygoing, albeit stubborn, brother. Now she caught a glimpse of the steely man who’d made a career of hunting down stalkers and serial killers and realized that in his own way, Michael could be as dangerous as her stalker.

  “I suppose this is where you point out that you were only doing your job.”

  This time the look he shot her was laced with disgust. “You know better than that.”

  Yes, she did. What he’d done had nothing to do with the fact he’d been paid to do it, but everything to do with the fact that deep down inside, Michael O’Malley had the heart of a hero. He was undoubtedly genetically incapable of turning his back on anyone who might need his help. “I still owe you.”

  Michael wondered when she’d gotten so damn stubborn. The girl he remembered had been softhearted and far more malleable. He’d always known that in spite of her burning desire to act, all it would have taken to keep her in New Orleans was for him to ask her not to go to California. She would have stayed. And, he reminded himself, would have ended up resenting him for the rest of her life.

  And, although it’d make his job easier if he could just talk her into going into hiding until they could catch the pervert who’d obviously become obsessed to the point of murder, Michael decided that he liked the strong brave woman she’d become.

  “You can repay me by getting Wilder to cut that scene from the film,” he said.

  She glanced over at him. Surprise had made her momentarily forget her fear. “So you still think it’s gratuitous?”

  He shrugged as he pulled into the hotel parking garage. “I don’t know about that. But I do know that it’s about the hottest thing you’ve ever done and if I have to watch it again, we’re going to be in deep trouble.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I really will have no choice but to shoot every sex-crazed guy in the place for what they’re thinking.”

  “How do you know what they’ll be thinking?”

  “Because it’s the same thing any red-blooded male would be thinking watching you strut your stuff like that.”

  “Oh... Were you thinking those thoughts today?”

  “You know damn well I was.”

  A slow warmth spread through her, burning off a bit of the deep chill. “Good.”

  Michael’s only answer, as he parked in the reserved space next to the VIP elevator, was a muttered curse.

  Although she considered herself a modern, independent woman, Lorelei uttered not a single objection as Michael ushered her into the gilt-and-marble bathroom and sat her down on the velvet dressing table bench while he ran hot water into a tub nearly large enough to swim laps in. As she watched his strong dark hands open the cut crystal bottle and shake the perfumed bath salts into the water, Lorelei was struck with a sudden urge to drag him down onto the plush sea green carpet and have her way with him. Or better yet, pull him into the sunken, tiled bathtub that seemed to be designed for two.

  “Okay,” he said, oblivious to her thoughts as he turned back to her. “Can you get out of those clothes by yourself?”

  Wondering what he’d say if she asked for his help, Lorelei remembered what he’d said about his rule about not mixing work and pleasure. Unwilling to risk rejection when too many of her nerve endings were still jangling, she reminded herself that discretion was supposed to be the better part of valor.

  “I’ll be fine. Really,” she insisted when he appeared to doubt her. “These clothes were designed to strip off easily.”

  “Don’t remind me,” he muttered. Before she could object, he bent down, took hold of her ankle, and lifted her foot. Holding it against the front of his jeans, he unzipped the black leather boot, pulled it off, then did the same with the other foot. “You looked like every biker’s private fantasy up there.”

  Once again, Lorelei thought about making love with Michael, positive that it was the one thing that could help her forget what had happened earlier. He’d always been
able to make her body float and her mind drift. And dear heaven, how she needed to shut her mind off.

  Lorelei moistened her lips. “Should I take that as a compliment?”

  Her voice, which had trembled earlier, had turned sultry. The throaty tones strummed now familiar inner chords. She suddenly looked about as innocent as a smoking 9mm pistol, making Michael wonder if she could actually recover so quickly, or if she was acting for his benefit.

  Resisting an urge to press his mouth against the arch of the slender foot tipped with toenails painted a gleaming pearlescent that reminded him of sunshine on snowdrifts, Michael nearly swore as he released her.

  “Obviously, you’re feeling better.”

  He looked down at her, innumerable emotions battling inside him. The need to protect warred with the desire to plunder. The need to find her stalker vied with an urge to take her away, far from here where no one could ever find them, perhaps out to the cabin he owned with Roarke and Shayne where he could make love to her over and over again until the rest of the world went away.

  Lorelei watched the shutters go down over Michael’s eyes, viewed the unreadable expression on his face and realized that the man was every bit as strong willed as he’d been when he was younger. Worse, she decided as she felt the tight pressure around her heart. Not wanting him to realize that he had the power to hurt her, she reminded herself that she’d been on her own since she was sixteen years old, and had carved out a place for herself in a fiercely competitive world. She was no longer the wide-eyed virgin who’d worn her young and open heart on her sleeve.

  She could handle this, Lorelei assured herself. She could handle finishing this film she wished she’d never agreed to make; she could handle her unruly feelings for Michael. She could even handle her stalker.

  Oh, God. When had she become such a liar?

  “I’ll be fine,” she said softly.

  He’d watched the play of emotions march across her expressive face, realized that she was still more upset than she was willing to admit, but decided that she was also strong enough to come through this with all flags flying.