Idiot was right.
He should be at work. Southern summer heat brought out the crazies almost as well as full moons did, and JCL Security was feeling the impact, juggling cases like they had eight arms, which they didn’t. Too many sleepless nights had been spent at his office, especially with the Bennett case coming up. Just a couple more weeks before Thea Bennett had her bastard of a husband before a judge and hopefully out of her life, but the paper- and prep work to get the high-profile bastard there had been a bitch. He seriously needed to—
“Conlan, hey!”
For a passing moment he was convinced the voice belonged to the woman filling his thoughts. But when the high, candied voice called again, he realized it was coming from the counter. The cashier. Tonya, Tammy? Tracy? He couldn’t remember. She was blonde with a deep tan he would’ve deemed impossible in a landlocked city like Atlanta, the shade a stark contrast to her white smile. Stepping up, he threw her a grin. “Hey.”
She batted long lashes, almost hiding the way her glance slid down to the crotch of his jeans, framed in his leather chaps. “Long time, no see.”
He winked automatically. “It’s a long wait between Mondays.”
The girl giggled. “Your usual?”
“That’s right. Thanks,” he said, passing over a ten-dollar bill.
She made change, certain to caress his hand as she laid the money in his palm. Conlan was more interested in the dark Colombian roast another employee was walking toward them. High-octane all the way. The sight of the near-black brew had him salivating for something other than Doe Eyes for the first time that morning.
He reached the condiment counter just as his phone buzzed in his back pocket. Probably Jack. Retrieving the cell confirmed his suspicion.
Where the hell are you? his partner had texted.
Piss off, Con replied, a grin tugging at his lips. The irony that he’d spent too much time asking himself the very same question didn’t escape him. In a half hour he’d be at the office and they could both stop wondering.
With a little back-and-forth he managed to cram the phone back in his tight jeans. He glanced around absently, and his gaze snagged on a pair of amber-brown eyes that suddenly met his.
He froze.
Doe Eyes dropped her chin and shifted over the slightest bit, enough that her friend’s position blocked her from view, but not before he caught the blush coloring her creamy cheeks.
His cock banged against his zipper as if begging to be let out. The bite of pain caught his breath in his throat. Jesus, what the hell was he—
Don’t! Ask. Again. He knew what the hell he was doing here, and he needed to go; he really did. He needed to stop letting his dick run this show, grab his coffee, and get back to reality.
He was restless, that was all. He was a man who needed action. Needed to be doing something, anything, not sitting behind a desk like he’d been for weeks while prepping Thea’s case. Usually he worked off his frustration in a way that involved cool silk sheets and bare skin and satisfaction on both sides, but there’d been no damn time. Just his hand and the additional chafing it provided, which wasn’t near as effective—or satisfying. That had to be the reason he couldn’t stop thinking about his mystery woman.
Of course. That had to be it.
Popping the lid off his cardboard cup released the rich aroma of ground coffee beans into the air. He lifted his cup and blew across the hot liquid, the sound almost a sigh of relief. He was already reaching for the packets of sugar when black squiggles caught his eye. There. On the part of the paper sleeve now facing him, he could see a name and number were clearly written: Tiffany. A 470 area-code phone number.
So that was her name. Sounded like an eighties pop star. A glance over his shoulder found the cashier leaning across the bar where drinks were picked up, her mounded breasts shelved there, on display. Come back soon, she mouthed, her shoulders doing a little wiggle. On reflex, he threw her a grin, but her seemingly seductive move couldn’t pull his glance downward. His dick didn’t even twitch. Apparently only one thing could trigger his runaway libido this morning.
He added the sugar, trying to ignore the panic in his gut and his one-track mind. The latter was impossible. He wanted to know Doe Eyes’ name, her phone number. Were her breasts as full as they looked beneath that starched white button-down? Was her hair as soft as he swore it would be when he fisted it between his fingers?
He stirred a bit too vigorously, and coffee sloshed over the side of the cup.
Don’t look. Don’t. He realized he’d closed his eyes. A sigh escaped as he rubbed a thumb and finger against them, but as soon as the lids popped open, he searched for her. Had to see her. Felt his heartbeat pick up knowing she might meet his eyes.
He was so screwed—and smart enough to admit it. He let go, let the conflict and the churning in his gut and the tension cramping his muscles go. And then he looked toward her table.
It was empty.
“Well shit.”
He stood for a moment, cursing himself, the coffee, and everything else he could think of. When another customer stepped up behind him and cleared his throat, wanting access to the counter, Con grabbed his cup and headed out the door. On his way, he chucked the coffee in the trash without a single sip.
* * *
“He’s watching you,” Cristina teased. Jess ducked her head, but the hot tide spreading across her cheeks was impossible to hide.
It wasn’t mere embarrassment. She was mortified. If she could’ve started her first day back at work anywhere else, she would have, but Cris had insisted. Since Jess began her job right around the corner at Ex Libris Media straight out of college, she and Cris had met here for coffee on Monday mornings. It was their girl time, and Cris would be damned if she’d let what had happened to Jess take that away from them.
Jess, on the other hand, thought sometimes change was good.
That wasn’t her lying down and giving up. Yes, she’d been attacked by her boyfriend two months ago, but she’d survived. There were things she was determined to make happen—like standing on her own two slightly wobbly feet. It was just…seeing the man she’d fantasized about for months wasn’t one of them. Not now, while she still felt the imprint of every bruise, every cracked bone, every foolish dream across her healed skin. She felt ugly because what had happened was ugly, and no matter how hard she scrubbed, all these weeks later, she couldn’t get the ugly gone.
“I love watching bikers,” Cris mused, seeming oblivious to Jess’s discomfort. “If only I could get Steven to wear leather, I’d be a very happy wife.”
Sneaky woman. Who could resist laughing at the image of Steven, all five-feet-eleven lanky inches of him, being swallowed whole by a leather jacket and pants? Not that he wasn’t cute; he was just more Mr. Rogers than Mr. Hell’s Angels. “Sounds like a good setup for chaffing.”
Cris choked on a sip of tea. Spluttering, laughing, she finally managed, “Why do you think it has the cutout right there in the middle, huh?”
“For convenience.”
“Pffttt.” A flick of Cris’s hand brushed the idea aside.
“Display purposes?”
Cris tilted her head, considering. “Okay, that too, but…”
Jess shook a finger at her friend. “Uh—”
“But—”
“Uh-uh.”
“Je—”
Only one thing had ever stopped Cris when she got on a roll: The Look. Jess used it now.
“Party pooper.” Cris’s bottom lip poked out.
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
They both laughed. To Jess’s horror, she felt mirth give way to the burn of tears at the backs of her eyes.
“Oh, Jess…”
Shit shit shit.
“That’s it. I’m calling Saul.”
Jess jerked her head up. “You’re not calling my boss. I’m fine. I was cleared to work, and I’m going to work.”
“You’re not ready.”
&nb
sp; Closing her eyes, Jess counted impatiently to ten. Cris meant well, but Jess had won this fight repeatedly in the past week—both with Cris and herself. She didn’t want to have to do it again.
She opened her eyes and stared straight into Cris’s. Love and concern radiated from her friend. So did fear. Jess was intimately familiar with the feeling. And with her decision. No way in hell would Brit take over her life. Saying no to him could very well have led to her death. If she could say it then, she could say it now, when only his memory was here to stop her.
She didn’t speak; she didn’t have to. Instead she gathered her purse and her coffee and stood. Cris tightened her lips but didn’t argue as she got to her feet. Together they made their way to the door, dumping their trash along the way.
Ignoring the slap of summer heat as she stepped outside, Jess scanned the parking lot. Cris would be doing the same, she knew. The fact that both of them worried, wherever they went, about Brit showing up pissed her off. After producing a convenient alibi for the night of her attack, Brit had walked out of the Atlanta Police Department and onto an airplane. Work, or so Detective King had informed Jess. Brit’s position as vice president of his father’s tech company—and his family’s prominent position in city politics—lent legitimacy to the story, for everyone but Jess. Cat and mouse was Brit’s favorite game, and what better way to keep the mouse on edge than for the cat to disappear? Two months after she’d last seen him, she couldn’t stop searching the streets for his face.
The not knowing had been Cris’s primary argument against Jess’s return to work. Jess had acquiesced far longer than she should’ve, far past the time it took for her injuries to heal. But she had a life to live. She couldn’t sit on her rear in a locked apartment, waiting. Wondering. Driving herself closer and closer to insane.
No. No matter what happened, she would face it on her feet, not cowering in a corner.
They came to Cris’s car first. When her friend would’ve kept walking, Jess cleared her throat.
Cris heaved a sigh. “Really?”
“Really.”
Cris faced her, looking ready to argue, but Jess wasn’t having it. “Move it before you make me late for work,” she said, her tone softened by the knowledge that Cris only wanted her safe.
Her friend’s good-bye was a warm bear hug that avoided Jess’s still-sore ribs. “Call me when you get home tonight.”
“Yes, Mom.”
Cris’s chuckle was watered down a bit by the tears glazing her eyes, but it was there nonetheless. “Hey, I’m not the one you want spanking you.”
Jess didn’t encourage her by replying. Besides, Cris didn’t need to know the idea of a man spanking her turned her stomach. She didn’t think she’d be considering erotic games like that for a long while, even in fantasy. She stepped to the side, waiting while Cris started her sporty yellow Nissan. When the car didn’t back out, Jess jerked her phone out of her pocket.
Would you go already! she texted.
A smiley face sticking its tongue out popped up on the screen, and then Cris reversed, blew Jess an apologetic kiss, and drove toward the exit. Jess walked a few spaces down to her car, still shaking her head as she fingered the Open button on her key fob.
“Well well well, look what the cat finally dragged out.”
Jess whipped around, pain shooting through her hip as it collided with the side-view mirror of the car next to hers. Speak of the freakin’ devil. Clearing her heart from her suddenly tight throat, she forced out, “Where did you come from?”
Did it matter? For God’s sake, the man who’d tried to kill her—and gotten away with it—was standing between her and freedom. But the thought was all her adrenaline-addled brain could produce.
Brit pushed his blond curls back off his forehead. That was how he’d taken her in, those innocent curls and bright blue eyes. Something Dr. Jekyll-ish would’ve been more accurate.
“Come on, Jess. Didn’t you miss me?” His perfectly polished John Lobb’s clicked on the pavement as he stepped closer. Jess backed up, wishing she was anywhere but stuck between two cars and an asshole. When said asshole’s eyes lit up, she winced. Never run from the cat, she reminded herself, but her legs weren’t listening. They took her backward again and again until the thick bushes lining the parking lot poked through her thin summer skirt.
Brit flashed that bright white smile she’d come to hate. “I’m just checking on you, Jess. Making sure you’re all right. Come here and give your fiancé a proper greeting.”
Like a kick in the balls? “You were not my fiancé. I would never marry you. Stay away from me.” She fumbled with her cell. “I’m calling the police right now.”
The smile went wide, but Brit’s eyes went dark. He clucked in mocking disappointment. “Go ahead, love.”
The sound of a car slowing behind her, readying to enter the parking lot, drew her attention. She glanced over her shoulder as an APD cruiser crawled by. Hope flared for the tiniest second in her knotted stomach. She nearly sagged in relief…until she faced Brit.
He was waving at the squad car. Unconcerned. Smiling that smile.
And why shouldn’t he be? They’d let him go before, right? It was his well-backed word against hers, and no one had believed hers. She doubted they’d even bothered to investigate his alibi. Her grip on the phone tightened until she could hear the plastic creak.
Brit took another small step forward. “Come here, Jess.”
The words were low, aroused. He wet his lips, and Jess shuddered.
It was broad daylight, for Christ’s sake. Why wasn’t anyone helping? “No way in hell. Leave me alone.”
The last word rose beyond her control as she watched Brit’s muscles tense, watched him prepare to lunge. She drew a breath, ready to scream.
“Jess, com—”
“Everything all right over here?”
The words were rough, hard. Strong. Standing at the opposite side of her bumper from Brit, facing the other man down like they were gunfighters at the O. K. Corral, was her biker. Her fantasy. She blinked, told herself she was crazy, but when her eyes opened, he still stood there. For one second she wanted badly, hysterically, to do something completely girlie like swoon. Too bad there wasn’t room in the tiny space between cars for her to fall flat out, but getting on her knees to thank God wasn’t beyond possibility.
“I think I asked you a question,” the man said.
Brit’s eyes narrowed, his hands balling into fists. “Mind your own business, you pr—”
“No,” Jess said, amazed her voice could sound so steady when her insides were shaking apart. “No, everything isn’t all right. Please…”
The man didn’t hesitate to push his way into Brit’s space. Part of her fell a little bit in love on the spot.
“I think you should go,” he said. Without taking his eyes off Brit, he extended his hand to her. Jess forced herself forward, gaze stuck on that hand as if it held all the hope in the world—and at that moment, maybe it did. She laid her hand in his. Felt his calloused fingers wrap hers up tight. And fell the rest of the way in love.
From one corner of her eye she saw Brit reach for her. Skittering away, she tightened her hold on her savior’s hand.
She needn’t have bothered. The man was faster than Brit, catching her ex’s hand before it ever came close. Brit’s skin went white around the man’s grip. The air between them sizzled with tension. Jess held her breath.
“Let go,” Brit warned, “or you will regret it.”
“I don’t think so. Leave. Now.”
Like a mask falling over his face, the convivial Brit Holbrooke returned. He chuckled, stepped back, calm and cool. Only his eyes revealed the truth. “Of course.” Those eyes centered on Jess. “Perhaps we’ll run into each other again, Jess, catch up on things.”
Her heart leaped to bullet-train speed. “No.”
Her savior didn’t look down, didn’t take his eyes off Brit, but she felt the rough trace of his thumb across the bac
k of her hand. The touch gave her courage. It soothed her rattled edges.
Brit lifted a brow, telling her exactly what he thought of her response, met her savior’s eyes for one long moment, then turned away. It wasn’t until he’d climbed into a black SUV, backed out, and exited the parking lot that what she’d done hit Jess. She bent forward, her free hand going to her stomach to still the nausea churning inside.
“Just breathe,” the man said. He switched hands, one regripping hers, the other sliding along her spine, up and down, hypnotizing her with his touch. When she felt like she wouldn’t rattle apart, she straightened, meeting the man’s dark gray gaze head-on.
“Thank you.”
The words weren’t anywhere near adequate, but they were all she had. Her savior didn’t seem to mind. He smiled, and a teasing glint lit his eyes. “Anytime. So…what’s your name?”
“Jess.” A laugh, tinged slightly with hysteria, escaped. “Jess Kingston, damsel in distress.”
“Conlan James.” He shook the hand he still held. “Knight in shining armor.”
“A trait I very much appreciate right now.”
Her heart did a tap dance against her ribs, but for totally different reasons than it had five minutes ago. The reality of the moment hit hard. Here he was, her fantasy man, standing right next to her. Staring into her eyes. Touching her. A black bandanna covered his hair, baring his rugged face to her gaze. He wasn’t playboy beautiful like Brit, but the sexual appeal that dripped off him didn’t need refining. He was bigger than she’d expected, broader; the top of her head barely reached his stubble-darkened chin. His size, like his touch, soothed her, made her feel safe, protected. And wasn’t that a stupid, weak thing to think. Stupid Jess.
She should step back, let go of the heavy fingers wrapped around hers, but God, she didn’t want to. She could touch him forever.
The need was so intense that, for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. And then it passed and she realized she’d been holding her breath. He was still staring at her. “Sorry.”
Conlan’s hand slid away from hers, almost as if he was as reluctant to let her go as she was him. He cleared his throat. “Is this a regular problem?”
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