by Elise Faber
Devon calmly swiped the files out of danger and mopped up the mess with his napkin. “So no drugs.”
“How could you honestly—?”
“I didn’t.”
“So why did you ask?”
“Because I like you a little scrambled.”
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.” He glanced over her shoulder, and she felt the server come up behind her before setting their plates in front of them.
She decided to scramble him a little in return. “I can’t believe you’re eating a salad.”
He frowned. “Me neither. Hate this shit. Thought I was done with it when I retired.”
Becca twined a noodle around her fork and brought it her mouth, sighing in pleasure before chewing and swallowing. “No cursing.” Her lips twitched when his expression went contrite. “So why order it?”
Devon’s cheeks went slightly pink. “I’ve gained weight.”
Her eyes flicked to Devon’s middle — flat, even while sitting — then to his arms and chest. He did not look like a man who needed to cut back. “Ummm,” she said, “and where’d you put it?”
“Hell — er, heck — if I know.” He sighed. “I could barely button my pants this morning.”
Oh. Oh!
An episode from the week before flashed across her mind. Their CFO was Devon’s old teammate, and his assistant had offered to pick up Devon’s dry-cleaning for her. Becca, feeling swamped as always, had agreed.
“What?” he said grumpily, shoving a bite of lettuce into his mouth.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she prevaricated.
“I’m sure it’s not.”
She took another bite of carb-loaded deliciousness. “Well, Caleb’s secretary grabbed your clothes from the cleaner’s last week—” His curse halted her flow of words.
“Sorry,” he said when she gave him her version of The Stare. “I meant motherpucker.”
“Of course you did.” A roll of her eyes. “Do you think she gave me the wrong set of pants? They all kind of look the same.”
“Except mine have my name sewn in them.”
“You have your name sewn into your pants?”
Devon waved the question away. “Not the point.” A pause. “Caleb did something to them, shrunk them, had the waistband taken in.”
“That seems insane.”
“Former athletes, remember? Pranking each other is how we pass the time.” His expression went from irritated to pleased. “Oh, I so know how I’m going to get him back for this one.”
“Athletes seem to be a lot like children.”
He grinned, flagged down the waiter, and placed a double-order of spaghetti. “Can’t argue with you there.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
DEVON WAS EXPECTING a fight.
He hadn’t driven Becca back to the office after lunch, instead taking her directly to her apartment… where Pascal was supervising the installation of her security system.
She hadn’t fought with him, just sighed and shook her head at the sight before walking into her kitchen.
“How much longer?” he asked Pascal.
“Twenty minutes. Then I’ll show her how to work the system.”
He nodded and followed Becca into the kitchen.
She leaned against the sink, head hanging and the files almost overflowing her arms. Her body language was so forlorn, so sad that he wanted to pull her close and just hold her tight.
Blue eyes flicked up, and Devon’s breath caught. If he’d thought her body language was bad, those eyes…
Damn. Or rather, dang.
He gave an internal smile. Becca was even censoring his thoughts. But his amusement vanished nearly as quickly as it had come on.
Because she was crying.
It wasn’t even a thought, just instinct, to take the files from her arms and set them on the counter, to gather her against him, to brush the drops of moisture from the corners of her eyes, to ask, “What is it?”
She sniffed and shook her head. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Bullsh—” Her stare met his. “Poop.”
The tiniest smile curved her lips, and she released a shuddering breath. “Thank you.”
“For what?” he asked. “Cursing is a terrible habit anyway.”
“That’s not—” She tried to pull free but, for some reason, his arms wouldn’t release her. After a moment, her shoulders slumped. “I can’t afford it.”
“I think I can spot you one meal,” he said with a laugh. He wanted to see Becca smile again, hear her laugh, not worry about forty dollars when he had millions to spare.
“It’s not that.” She struggled, shoved his chest, but they seemed to be finally getting to the crux of things.
“Why do you work two jobs, Becca?”
“I told you,” she huffed. “We all know that the position at Prestige is just temporary. I can’t sit around and wait for it to end.”
“I know how much rent is in this area. I know how much I’m paying you.” He paused. “What else is going on, Becca?”
“Nothing.”
A thought occurred to him, and Devon was surprised that he didn’t find it nearly as scary as he probably should. “A kid?”
“Oh my God, we are so not having this conversation.”
He pictured a little girl with blue eyes like Becca’s, with blonde curls. “How old is she?” he asked.
“How— No! Just no.” She finally succeeded in freeing herself and leaned back against the sink, arms crossed. “I don’t have a kid. I’m not on drugs. I don’t have a gambling problem.”
“Then what?”
“My mom is sick.” Becca shook her head. “No. Not sick exactly. She was in an accident almost a year ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She had a spinal cord injury.”
Devon closed his eyes briefly. In his line of work, he’d seen too many injuries of that type, knew how devastating they could be.
Knew how expensive.
“That’s why you work two jobs.”
“Yes.” She shrugged. “Insurance doesn’t cover everything, and her rehab facility is expensive.”
“What about your dad?”
Becca’s eyes shuttered. “He’s not around.”
And now Devon felt like an asshole — okay, in Becca-terms, a jerk.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
And cue the awkward pause.
Pascal, who Devon was starting to think had a super-human ability to solve every problem, saved the day.
“Ms. Stealing?” he asked, coming into the kitchen. “Would you like me to show you the system? The company is finished.”
She blew out a breath, averted her gaze from Devon’s. “Sure. Let me just find my wallet.”
“No need,” Devon interjected. “It’s been taken care of.”
If it were possible for human eyes to fill with fire, hers would have. She leveled a glare at him. “Lunch is one thing, an entire security system—”
“I need you safe.”
Her jaw fell open. “But why?”
Yes, genius, why? Why did he care so much about a woman he barely knew?
Because that was a giant lie.
He’d come to know Becca well enough over the last months to understand that she was different from most of the women he knew. She was independent, fiercely so, and wasn’t looking for a handout.
And he liked her… a whole hel — heck — of a lot.
Not that he could tell her that because, boss-secretary thing aside, she looked a heartbeat away from freaking out.
“You’re my other half until Clarice gets back,” he said, seeing panic swell in her expression then fade at the mention of his normal assistant. “Prestige would fall apart without you.”
“Yeah?” she asked.
He nodded, had the feeling that he might fall apart too. “Now go let Pascal show you the system so we can get out of your hair.”
CHAPTER NINE
Not a pleasant combination for a waitress.
Especially one forced to wear Daisy Dukes and a tight, mid-drift-baring T-shirt.
Crappy tips and cranky customers.
Add that to her car being vandalized, and Devon going over her head to have the security system installed at her apartment… well, the last was sweet, except for the fact that it made him even more dangerous to her and her heart.
Good-looking. Powerful. Wealthy. And sweet.
It was a devastating combination.
Rough fingers grabbed her arm, jerked her to a halt. “I said, I want a beer.” A man wearing the losing team’s hat and a surly expression glared at her.
Becca forced a smile and tried to free herself, only to have the man’s fingers tighten. She winced, knew she was going to have bruises tomorrow. “I’m going to put this order in. Your beer is next.”
“I want it now.”
“I could be getting it now, if you hadn’t slowed things down by grabbing me.” She yanked, but the guy didn’t release her. “Let go.”
“I—”
The man didn’t finish the thought because he was suddenly on the floor halfway across the bar. The skin on Becca’s arm felt like it had been scoured, but she wasn’t being held captive and knew why even before she turned around.
Devon.
In air thick with the bitter tang of beer, with the not-so-pleasant burn of sweat and man-funk, she could still smell him.
The cinnamon hit her first, a rush of the spicy scent straight into her nostrils. It jolted her system, made her heart race and her nerves fire.
Or maybe that was just Devon.
He came close, near enough that she could smell his deodorant, something indecipherable and utterly masculine. Definitely not floral like hers. And maybe that was an inane thing to think, but with him right there — towering over her, inundating her senses — it was the only thing that came to mind.
“You okay?” he asked. His eyes were wild, the words gritted out through a jaw so tight she was surprised they were clear enough to decipher.
Becca felt shaken but nodded anyway, absently rubbing the sore spot on her arm.
Devon’s gaze latched onto the spot and flared hot. “I’m going to kill the bastard.”
Her own stare trailed down, and she grimaced. Her skin was red, angry-looking, an imprint of four fat fingers on her upper arm. She lifted it and glanced to the back side. Yup. A sausage-sized thumb-shaped bruise was already forming there too.
Cute.
Devon took a step away from her, presumably to kick some as—
And, oh great, now she was as bad as he was. Cursing. Good Lord.
Which was so not the point.
Jumping forward when he took another step, she snagged his hand, held tight, and hoped he wouldn’t drag her with him.
But something amazing happened the moment she laced her fingers with his.
He stopped.
She almost stopped breathing. His jaw was no longer tight. Instead, it hung open.
He felt it too?
The spark, the zing, the… Goldilocks’ sensation of just right.
“Don’t,” she said.
Devon nodded.
“Come with me.” She tugged, and he followed, six feet four inches of suddenly cooperative male.
It was like holding a tiger by the tail. Sooner or later, he’d snap.
Becca made eye contact with Laurie, the other waitress on duty in the bar, silently asking her to cover the section.
The brunette inclined her head, already moving toward the bar to gather the next round. One of the bartenders, Steve, was hustling the drunk and angry patron out the front door of the restaurant. The other, Ben, was quickly filling glasses.
They all knew how close of a call they’d had.
Bar fights meant damage being taken out of paychecks, meant losing tips and dealing with the police.
Bar fights meant getting fired.
And, though they might all have their own reasons, each of them working at McKay’s needed their job.
So Becca decided to take Devon out the back.
Tension filled her limbs, making her steps halting and stiff, especially in three-inch heels.
The hall leading out of the bar was just exactly as someone might expect: terra-cotta tile that had seen better days, a fixture with a scant two bulbs working, dust in the corners, and cleaning equipment propped against the walls.
She pushed out the door and immediately shivered against the bracing cold. Or what felt bracing, considering she was only wearing one-half of the recommended clothing for normal adults.
Her tremor seemed to snap Devon into motion. He unzipped his jacket and wrapped her in it then tugged her close to his chest and began rubbing her back.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“F-for what?” Her teeth chattered, and Becca realized it wasn’t just the cold making her tremble, but the aftereffects of adrenaline.
“Scaring you.”
“You d-didn’t.”
“Then why are you freaking out now?”
She stiffened. His words may as well have had a rod of steel inserted straight into her spine. “I’m not freaking out. I’m cold.”
He put a finger under her chin and tilted her head up, studying her eyes. “Ah. There you are.”
She hadn’t gone anywhere.
“You—” She started to lean back, to pull free.
Devon didn’t let her and — for God’s sake — she’d had more than freaking enough of men manhandling her for the day.
“I thought you were cold.” One finger traced her jaw, slid across to outline her lips.
Her thighs quivered, her knees threatened to buckle. His touch was electric.
“I am cold.”
A half-smile curved his mouth. “I’d think you’d want to stay close then.”
She did. But she couldn’t tell him that. Not when he was staring down at her, looking all smug. “You’d think wrong, then.”
“I don’t believe so.”
He bent, closing the distance between them. She wanted him to kiss her. Needed it more than air.
Her lips parted, her breath hitched. Ready. She was so ready for him.
He bypassed her mouth.
A hiss of disappointment slid from her… at least until he touched the tip of his tongue to the rapidly pounding pulse at the base of her neck.
His words were warm puffs of air, sending a shiver down her spine for a whole other reason than before.
“You’re not scared.” His mouth moved up, pressed a kiss to her jaw, behind her ear. “And definitely not cold.”
No. She wasn’t either one of those things. She was turned on as fuc—
He pressed his lips to hers.
CHAPTER TEN
DEVON WAS ON fire.
Becca’s mouth against his was everything, every sensation, every feeling, every need.
He pulled her closer, loving the feel of her breasts against his chest. She was soft and so damned — darned — sweet.
Her tongue darted forward, tapped gently against the seam of his lips, and that gesture, the sign that she wanted this as much as he did, threatened to send him to his knees.
He opened his mouth, let his tongue dance with hers, let his hands do some dancing of their own.
Silky skin… a waist with sinful curves… hips he wanted to grab on to…
Becca pulled back, gasping for air. “This is a really bad idea.”
“Yes.” He threaded his fingers through her ponytail, tugged her close.
She came willingly, even though her mouth kept working. “You’re my boss. My life is a mess.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Devon bit down on the side of her neck, felt himself grow hard at her moan. Then harder still when she grabbed his hair and threatened to pull it from his scal
p.
Ah. So that was her spot.
He sucked, probably marking her and not giving a damn.
“Devon,” she groaned, “that’s—”
The world fell away, and he was aware of nothing more than the sweet floral scent of her skin, the rapid exhales of her breaths, the soft moans as he kissed her throat.
Which was probably the reason he didn’t sense the man coming up behind them.
“You whore!”
White-hot pain exploded along the back of his skull, burned down his spine. He staggered to one knee, barely managing to unclench his hands so that he didn’t drag Becca down with him.
It was worse than taking a punch from Teddy Burke, the enforcer from his former NHL team, the San Francisco Gold. That had happened exactly once and mostly because Devon had taken a joke too damn far.
He heard Becca scream and got his shit together, straightening and blinking to clear his vision, shoving the past back where it belonged.
Some asshole had grabbed her arm and was dragging her down the alley.
She was fighting the man who held her, kicking, thrashing, shouting.
“Pick on someone your own size, asshole,” Devon said and punched the man right in the jaw.
Which basically both ruined his anti-cursing trend and hurt like a mother, but was. So. Worth. It. Especially when the man went down like a sack of bricks.
Becca yanked herself free, and Devon shoved between her and the man — Mick, he realized — then put some distance between them.
And just in time.
Something flashed in Mick’s hand. A knife.
“Stand back,” he ordered Becca.
“Mick,” she said, coming to stand behind him. “Just don’t. Please.”
“You left me!” he screamed from the ground. “Left me!”
“Yes. I did,” Becca said softly. “But I had to. Don’t you see?”
Mick’s eyes were crazed; any sane person could see that. Except, Becca wasn’t being rational. She actually took a step forward.
“We weren’t good together,” she pressed. “You have to see that.”
Devon snaked a hand around her waist and tugged her back to his side. She shot him a glare.
“You. Left,” Mick said, standing and taking a lurching step toward them.
“Stop,” Devon ordered, reaching into his pocket for his phone and putting in a code.