by Lori Foster
Interest sharpening, Justice growled, “You’re talking about sex?”
She wished she could be as plainspoken as him. But his question alone made her face hot. Lifting a hand in a lame gesture, she said, “Stuff that comes before that.”
“What stuff?”
Fallon shifted. “You know what I’m saying.”
He chewed his lip again. “Okay, so we’re talking foreplay, right? Making out, groping a little, testing the water so to speak.”
“Yes, exactly.” And all that had gone well enough as long as she left on her clothes. “We seemed to suit...until it came time for the deed.”
He snorted a laugh. “The deed?” he mimicked. With a teasing glance, he asked, “We’re still talking sex, right?”
“Yes,” she growled, her eyes narrowed as Justice made her feel foolish.
“Let me tell you, if Marcus screwed that up, then good riddance.”
Yes, he’d definitely screwed it up. The same strangling humiliation swamped her. “We found we didn’t suit and that there could be no future between us. Not in any intimate way.”
“Holy shit,” Justice breathed. “He did screw it up. Jesus, what a putz.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
He snorted another laugh. “If you say so. But now I just feel sorry for him.” This time Justice reached out and patted her knee. “The idiot will be regretting that the rest of his life.”
It blew her away that Justice seemed to consider her such a prize. “Why would he regret it? Because he works for my father? I don’t think Dad would—”
“Yeah, your dad definitely would. But what I meant was that he’d lost out with you.” Justice got back on the expressway before saying, “You know you’re a catch, right?”
He didn’t know her well enough to make that judgment, but she enjoyed hearing it anyway. “You think so?”
“Know so. I mean, what’s not to like, right?”
She half turned to face him. “So tell me, what do you consider my sterling qualities?”
He glanced in the rearview mirror again. “Would that be crossing a line? I mean, I don’t look forward to your dad unloading on me again.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t.”
He grinned wide enough to put dimples in his whiskery cheeks. “Alrighty, then. For one thing, you’re cute as hell. Big bedroom eyes, soft sexy mouth, and you have such a sweet little body.”
Fallon ducked her head as guilt swamped her. “I don’t.”
“See, this is why I should pound on Marcus. Did that prick say or do something to make you—”
“No.” Caught between wanting to laugh and dying of embarrassment, Fallon said, “And your language is deteriorating by the second.”
“Let’s blame Marcus,” Justice grumbled. “He brings out the worst in me.”
Shaking her head, Fallon said, “You’re incorrigible.”
“Just speaking the truth.” He grew more serious. “You’re also really nice. And smart. You have a good sense of humor. You’re daring. And... I dunno. You’re genuine.” With a fast shrug, he added, “I didn’t expect that. I thought with you being rich and all, you’d maybe be snooty or bitchy, but you’re not. You’re real down-to-earth.”
Never in her life had she been so flattered. “Thank you, Justice.” For obvious reasons, compliments to her character were far nicer than commenting on her physical appearance.
He gave a nod, then said, “You also look really great dancing. Too good, maybe.”
Having no idea what he meant by that, Fallon said again, “Thank you. I haven’t had much practice dancing either, but I enjoy it.”
“I could tell that you did,” he murmured. “Hell, every guy there could tell.” Then he asked, “Marcus never took you dancing?”
“A few times. Not often.” She didn’t want to detail everything she hadn’t done, so she switched gears. “While we’re discussing Marcus, I should probably explain that none of this was his fault.”
Justice snorted. “I saw him, remember? He was all butt-hurt and bossy, probably because he knew he’d screwed up.”
Fallon choked. “Butt-hurt?”
He grinned again. “Yeah, you know. All pouty and belligerent.”
“I’ve, ah, never heard the term.”
He dismissed that with a shrug. “Take my word for it—men don’t act that way unless they’re butt-hurt. Not real men, anyway.”
With Justice having been a fighter, his ideas of how real men should behave might differ from many others. “Could I ask you something now?”
“Shoot.”
“Why did you give up fighting when you’re so obviously good?”
“Ouch.” He gave a theatrical wince. “Tough question. See, I’m not that good. Not good enough to win a title and that’s what it’s all about.”
“But you’re fast, and strong and—”
He grinned at her. “Keep going.”
“Admittedly, I don’t know that much about fighting, but I was certainly impressed.”
“Because,” he repeated, “you don’t know that much about fighting. The dudes you’ll meet tonight at Rowdy’s? Some of them are top-notch. Championship quality. Without sounding too cocky, I am good, but only against untrained idiots. You could throw street thugs at me all day long and I wouldn’t break a sweat. But in the cage...” He gave a small shake of his head. “Whole different ballgame.”
Fascinated, Fallon thought about the men she’d meet, even while wanting to know more about Justice. “How so?”
He lifted one hand from the wheel and curled it into a tight fist. Muscles bulged all along his forearm, his biceps, shoulder and into his neck. “I have bricks for fists. Real knock-out power. Problem is, trained fighters aren’t still long enough to let me hit them. MMA is a mixed fighting style, so it’s not just boxing. It’s grappling, too.”
“Grappling?”
“Sort of a mix between wrestling, submission and strikes. My takedowns are too slow and once I’m on the ground the best fighters have an advantage over me with speed. If I get hold of a guy, or if I can land a punch or kick, I can put him down. That’s my strength.”
She agreed—he looked very strong.
“But any scenario other than that and I’d get in trouble. The losses I had were all submissions.”
“How many losses did you have?”
“Twenty wins, six losses.”
“Pfft. And for that you gave up?”
He scowled at her. “There wasn’t a path to the belt. The heavyweight title holder is a beast. He beat me twice. If I lost weight and dropped down to light heavyweight, my buddy Cannon was in the way.”
“You didn’t want to fight a buddy?”
“Hell, I don’t mind that. Guys compete with their friends all the time. It’s a sport, not a grudge match.”
He sounded disgruntled, making her smile. “Sorry, I didn’t realize.”
“I trained at Cannon’s camp. I’d seen him fight plenty of times, but even in training he was slicker than most. I knew I’d only beat him with a lucky punch, and so far, no one’s gotten a lucky punch in on him. You’ll like him.”
“You don’t sound resentful.”
“Of Cannon?” He snorted. “No, ’course not. He’s a great guy. Not just at fighting either. That camp? It’s his gym, a way for fighters to learn new techniques from each other, but he also runs classes for the neighborhood kids. Everyone in Warfield idolizes him because that’s the type of man he is.”
She held silent for a bit, noticing that he again checked the rearview mirror, then the side mirror. Just cautious, or was there a problem? She checked her side mirror but saw nothing amiss, just other cars on the road.
As the light faded from the horizon, streetlamps flickered on.
They each removed their sunglasses. The headlights automatically flicked on as Justice took another exit and turned down a busy street.
“Do you miss fighting?”
“Yeah. A lot.”
She heard the longing in his tone and it bothered her. “Why switch to being a bodyguard then? I’d think if you enjoyed it and you were good—even if not the best—it’d be worth it to continue.”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I’m no good at being second best. Too competitive. My last fight was a good win. I was the underdog. Everyone expected me to get my ass handed to me. Instead, I nailed a quick, clean knockout in under thirty seconds. So I figured I’d go out on a high note, you know?”
“Wow.” But because she didn’t know, she asked, “That’s fast, right?”
He laughed. “Yeah. Usually we go three five-minute rounds. Championship fights are five five-minute rounds.” He shifted, popped his neck, then admitted, “Nine times out of ten, he’d have beaten me. But he shot in, I threw a punch and pow, he went down for the count.”
“I’d say there’s luck, and then there’s being ready. Clearly you took advantage of an opportunity. You were prepared and you did what you needed to do, when you needed to do it.”
Grinning, he patted her knee again. “Yeah, that’s how I tell it, too.”
“Do you still train?”
“Sure. Once a gym rat, always a gym rat. But now I can eat burgers when I want.” He patted his flat abdomen. “And drink an occasional beer.”
Absurd for him to pretend he had any fat on his body. From what Fallon could tell, he was muscle layered on muscle. But given it was probably a somewhat new occurrence, she was ridiculously pleased that he’d drunk a beer with her.
“On top of being competitive, I like a challenge. Let me tell you, this gig is real challenging. Hell, every day I learn something new. Another fighter friend, Leese Phelps, was the first to cut out for personal security. He sort of paved the way.” With another cocky grin, Justice added, “I still get to be a badass and have some interesting assignments. As a bonus, I get to carry a gun.”
Startled, she asked, “You’re carrying a gun?”
He gave her a “duh” look. “You thought I wouldn’t?”
“I never thought about it either way.” She looked him over, but didn’t see—
“Want to see for yourself, huh?” He leaned forward a little, lifted his T-shirt and showed her a black automatic in a holster connected to his belt, situated at the small of his back.
It took her a second to find her voice. Justice had just flashed a swath of firm skin and muscle, and the waistband of black boxers riding low on his hips. Temperature rising, Fallon asked in a whisper, “Have you ever shot anyone?”
“Not so far, no.” As he pulled up to a stoplight, he turned to look at her. “But I would if necessary.”
She believed him.
Then he flashed another grin, flexed his arms to make massive muscles pop in his biceps. “But with guns like these, it’s usually not necessary.”
Fallon felt like fanning her face. Good Lord, he looked fine. Needing another switch, she said, “I’m sorry I’m not a more interesting assignment.”
“You fit that ‘challenge’ part, and that keeps it interesting.”
Before she could ask him what he meant, the light changed and he moved his foot off the brake.
“Before you,” he said, “I worked with Mark Stricker.”
Her jaw loosened. “The movie star?”
“Yeah. Let me tell you—that was interesting. Did you know he’s, like, five-two?”
“Really? I thought he was taller.”
“Me, too.”
“In movies, he looks to be at least six feet tall.”
“Yeah, but it’s a trick. They put him on a platform when he’s next to the taller female actors. Crazy, huh?”
“Fascinating.” Curious why he’d been assigned to Stricker, she asked, “Was he in danger?”
“Nah. Mostly I helped him train for a new role as a fighter. But there were also times I had to keep the rabid fans away. I can’t talk about it much. The deets on the film are still hush-hush.”
“Okay, sorry.” When he again checked his mirrors, Fallon huffed a breath. “Is there a problem, Justice?”
“What do you mean?”
“You keep checking behind us like you’re expecting trouble.”
“It’s my job to expect trouble.”
She started to relax...
Until he added, “Especially when we’re being followed.”
CHAPTER FIVE
FALLON LOOKED SO STARTLED, Justice decided to distract her. “Tell me about your job now.”
She twisted to stare out the rear window. “Justice—”
“Fair’s fair. I answered your questions.”
Glaring at him, she asked, “Who’s following us?”
“Don’t know. I’m willing to bet it’s Marcus, though.”
For a few seconds, she just stared at him—then laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.” But she looked again. “Can you see his car?”
“No.”
She relaxed back in her seat. “How do you know we’re being followed?”
“I know.” He took another look in the mirror before leaving the road and pulling into a restaurant lot.
“This is it?” she asked, sounding disappointed by the updated, casual, mom-and-pop diner.
“No.” Justice did a U-turn in the lot to face the road, turned off the headlights and waited.
Fallon appeared to be holding her breath, so without taking his gaze off the road, Justice said, “Relax. You’re fine.”
In reply, she wrapped her arms around herself.
Justice wanted to comfort her but he’d already crossed too many lines. If he kept it up, he’d deserve to be canned.
A car drove past. A few trucks. And then he saw the fancy sports car.
Fallon seemed unaware as she stared through the windshield.
Was she afraid of Marcus? If so, that was reason enough for Justice to confront him. For some reason—crazy as it might be—he was itching to pulverize the guy.
After the slick black car sped past, Justice asked, “Does Marcus have a Corvette?”
“What?” Drawn from her thoughts, she shook her head. “No—or at least I don’t think so. He’s more a BMW or Mercedes type of man.”
“I saw the Mercedes. Can he afford two cars? Maybe one for business and one for sport?”
“He could, yes. But, Justice, I’m sure that wasn’t him. It’s not his style to chase after anyone.”
“Maybe.” Justice stewed a minute more before deciding it would be best to get to their destination so Fallon could enjoy herself. He drove out of the lot, saying, “We’ll be there in about five minutes.”
“Rowdy’s?”
“Yeah.” So that he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, he asked, “You hungry? They have some killer burgers there.”
She gave it quick thought and nodded. “Very hungry, in fact. Thanks.”
Luckily Rowdy had opened up a separate lot adjacent to the bar because the place stayed packed, especially on a Saturday night. Justice kept Fallon close as he stepped inside the busy bar.
Avery, Rowdy’s wife who usually worked as the bartender, bustled from table to table. When she spotted him, she got closer and said, “They’re in back at the pool tables.”
“Thanks. I’ll join them in a bit, but we want to grab some food first.”
“There’s a booth that just emptied. Follow me.”
Justice waited until they’d nabbed the seats before doing introductions. “Avery, this is Fallon. Fallon, Avery is married to the owner.”
He let the ladies say the
ir hellos before asking, “How come you’re on the floor tonight?”
“One of our waitresses called in sick. Rowdy’s working the bar and I’m doing my best to keep up here. Some days,” she grumbled, “being popular is a bother.”
Fallon smiled at her. “Is there some way we can help?”
Justice froze. If Avery said yes, how the hell would he keep track of her?
Luckily, Avery laughed, told Justice he had a “winner,” then asked them if they needed to look at the menu.
Sorry that he couldn’t lend her a hand, but relieved that Fallon would remain close, he said, “Loaded burgers, plate of fries and I’ll take a chocolate milk shake. Fallon?”
“Works for me. Make it two shakes.”
Avery’s smile was slow and knowing. “Definitely a keeper. I’ll get that out to you shortly.”
“No rush,” Fallon said.
After Avery left, Justice smiled at Fallon. “That was nice of you. To offer to help, I mean.”
“I wouldn’t mind.” She glanced around the bar with a sort of wistful yearning. “In fact, it might be fun.”
Yeah, right. “You ever work as a waitress?”
She twitched her mouth to the side. “Dad would have had a heart attack.” With the tip of her finger, she traced the wood grain in the tabletop. “Going through school, I worked for him part-time as an apprentice. Now my job is decorating the local hotels he owns. Decor gets old quick in the industry. We like to keep things as fresh and updated as possible.”
“The hotels are fancy, aren’t they?”
“Not really. I mean, they’re nice, but not super upscale or anything. I stay busy with it, but I got ahead on everything so right now I have a whole month off.”
Time she’d built in to play. Curious about her, Justice asked, “You like the job?”
“I do. The different locations each have their own character and I get to reflect that in how I decorate them. I do only those in Ohio, Indiana and Northern Kentucky, though Dad has locations all across the country.”
He’d wondered about that. “You don’t like to travel?”
She shook her head and then deliberately tried to divert him. “What about you?”
Justice shrugged. “It’s okay. I haven’t traveled much for pleasure, but fighters go all over, either to compete or to support friends. Brazil, Japan, Canada, South Korea—”