by C. D. Hersh
“Yes,” she whispered.
A rush of air hit her as he backed away.
“Good. Make sure you do.”
“Do what?” She blinked, trying to figure out what he’d said, because from the tone of his voice it had not been what she’d imagined.
“Pay attention to what I tell you, and keep your damn phone on.”
Mike stared at the dazed woman in front of him. He had come so close to kissing her. Too close. When he’d pressed against her, her eyelids dropped to a half-open, seductive expression nearly undoing him. Her lips parted, ready to receive his, and he’d started falling into the burning fire of lust. Or was it love?
He’d been in lust before and this was different. Or maybe his crazed worry about what had happened to her drove him to want to crush her to him. Press her into his body so she couldn’t run away.
He spiked up his crew cut. Thank God he’d come to his senses before he asked if he could kiss her.
He stepped backward in an effort to get away and cool the inferno burning in him. “Put the car away, Fiona. We’ll talk in the morning before you go to work.”
“It’s Sunday,” she said. “I don’t go to the office on Sunday.”
“Good. Then we’ll go to the target range. I want to see whether or not you can really handle your gun.”
The talk about guns dropped his raging senses a notch. There was nothing sexy about cold, hard metal. Then he thought about how she looked when she’d leveled her gun at him and everything hardened. He willed his disobedient body to normal. She’d even spoiled his love of weapons.
“Seven sharp,” he ordered.
“Nine,” she replied, “and we’ll start with skeet shooting.”
“You look like crap,” George said when Mike entered the guest cottage. “Did you read her the riot act? Was she a handful of trouble?”
“Yes I did, and yes she is. The woman is nothing but trouble.” A handful of trouble that fit so right in his arms.
“Oh shit,” George said, “you kissed her, didn’t you?”
Mike bristled. “I did not kiss her.”
George’s gaze swept over him. “Little Mike says you did.”
Mike yanked his shirt out of his trousers and over the zipper. “I don’t always do what little Mike wants.”
“Since when?”
“Don’t you have rounds to do, or something?”
“Sure, boss. Whatever you say.” George clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. “I still say you should just do her and get it over with.”
“I am not screwing my client!” Mike roared.
“Yet.” George slammed the door before Mike could throw something at him.
“Keep it up,” Mike yelled, “and you’ll be out of a job.”
George opened the door and stuck his head in. “I’m not worried. You can’t do without me, buddy.”
“Watch me,” Mike threatened. But he knew there were no teeth in the warning. Fiona had spent so much time with George she trusted him. If he was going to get her to cooperate, George would stay, especially since he had to find the missing children. Maybe Fiona would be more willing to listen to a bodyguard who didn’t have making love to her on his mind, because she sure as hell didn’t pay attention to what he said.
He flipped open his computer and checked his email for the list of shell companies Rhys had promised. Digging into work had always distracted him. If he ever needed distraction it was now.
Chapter 20
“It’s been a while since we’ve seen you at the club,” said the clerk at the sign-up desk. “How many shooting today?”
“Just two.” Fiona handed the clerk the money for their round. Mike had insisted on paying, but since skeet was her suggestion, she wanted to pay. He could pay at the target range.
They carried their shotguns, ammunition, and protective gear out to the semicircle range where Fiona instructed Mike in the basics.
“The targets will come from those building at the ends of the target range. One shoots a skeet from the high house from ten feet high, the other from the low house at about three and a half feet high. Both skeets will rise to fifteen feet at the center of the field.”
“Got it,” Mike said.
“We’ll get twenty-five targets per round, with seventeen shots as singles and eight as doubles. If you miss one, you repeat the shot immediately. That’s called an option. Don’t feel bad if you miss and I don’t. I’ve been doing this since I was old enough the hold a gun.”
“And bragging about it just as long, I’ll bet.”
She chose to ignore his dig. “We’ll move around this semi-circle from station to station finishing in the center at the end of the round. If no targets are missed during the round, the last target is shot from the last station, low house eight. Questions?” she asked as she put on her eye protection.
“What’s the bet if I beat you?” He put on his protective glasses.
“You won’t.”
“If I do?”
“I rarely miss. It wouldn’t be a fair fight.”
“Neither do I.”
“You said you never played skeet. Were you hustling me?”
“Nope. But I’m a quick study.” He laid his shotgun over his arm, the barrel hanging open.
Fiona inserted her ear protection.
“How about you tell me where you were last night?” he said, his voice raised so she could hear him.
“What would I get if I win?”
“Name it,” he said.
Her tongue darted out and she licked her lips. She knew what she wanted. The kiss he didn’t give her last night. But it wasn’t worth telling him about Falhman. “New deal,” she said. “If I win we’ll go to dinner. Your treat. If you win I’ll cook dinner for you. Whatever you want.”
“I’ve got a pretty fancy palette. I might want to start with oysters Rockefeller, followed by linguine with black truffles and a green salad garnished with pomegranates followed by chocolate mousse, all served with a delicious red wine. Can you handle that?”
Fiona stifled a snicker. He’d just named five of the most well-known aphrodisiacs. Oh, yeah. She could handle that . . . and more, if he’d give her the chance.
“Deal,” she said. She’d throw a target or two just to feed him and get him in the mood. “Ready to lose?” she asked.
“Ladies first.”
Fiona took her position at station one, her feet planted on the concrete pad, and dropped one round into each chamber of her double-barrel shotgun. After swinging the barrels up, closing and locking the breech, she raised the weapon to firing height and shouted, “Pull!”
The target flew out of the high house. Fiona followed its course, leaned slightly forward, and squeezed the trigger. The clay disc burst into pieces, exploding in the air like brown fireworks. She called for the second target from the low house, and smashed that. Then she reloaded her gun and called for the high and low house targets. They shot out simultaneously. Her gun popped two shots off and both targets broke.
“Your turn,” she said to Mike.
“Pretty good.” Mike’s eyebrows arched in amazement. “I expected you might miss.”
She made a face at him.
Mike took his position and matched her shots. As they moved to station two, he said, “Can you keep the pace? I’m getting hungry thinking about those delicacies you’re going to cook for me.” His eyes twinkled mischievously.
He was baiting her. Her mind wandered of its own accord to the affects she hoped his aphrodisiacs would have on him. As she loaded her gun, her hand trembled.
He’s playing a macho mind game with you. Don’t let him psych you out.
She missed the next target, and called for her option. The bottom of the target broke as
she barely hit it. His psychological game worked. Concentrating, she broke the next two targets, but he’d already done damage to her game. He was ahead now. She fished around in her brain for something to throw him off as well.
“What do you say to double or nothing if we tie?” she asked.
He grinned at her. “Feeling the pressure?”
“No. I just thought we could up the stakes. If we tie at skeet, then target shooting will be the tiebreaker.” She was pretty darn good at making bull’s eyes.
“And the bet?”
“Dinner and dancing, if I win.” If he held her in his arms for any length of time, maybe she’d get him to kiss her.
Mike loaded his shotgun without answering and called for his targets, hitting all four. He could hit most any moving target. It wasn’t going to be an even battle. She’d already missed one. Losing might be the only way he could get her to open up to him. But dancing? Way too dangerous for him. He’d barely kept his distance last night when he’d been furious with her. Soft music, dim lights, and a curvy woman in his arms was a straight road to romantic disaster.
“What if I win both bets? Will you tell me where you were last night?” It was a safe option. She’d never agree.
She stood silent, her open shotgun laid over the crook of her arm. Mike thought he’d never seen a woman look so sexy holding a firearm. Her lips parted and her tongue darted out sweeping across the soft flesh. Need crushed him as he envisioned holding her. His trigger finger jerked involuntarily, the motion traveling along his arm, causing a tremor in his muscle. He prayed she’d back down from their secondary bet, because he didn’t think he could hold his gun steady.
“Deal.” She strode to station three, loaded her gun, and broke both targets.
Mike missed the low house target. Behind him, he heard Fiona’s giggle of glee. He broke his option and tied the game.
They made the rest of the rounds in silence, Fiona’s concentration so thick it hung like a fog around them. At the last station, Fiona got her high house target but missed the low target.
Mike stepped onto the target pad, loaded his gun, and smashed his first target. If he got the next one, he’d get dinner, but no answers. He exhaled to calm himself. Dinner was way better than risking holding her. He had to make the next target.
“Wait,” Fiona cried as he lifted the weapon. “You’ve got a huge spider on you. I’ll pick it off.”
He stiffened as she brushed his back with a swift motion, sweeping up the collar of his shirt.
“Sorry,” she said. Soft fingers caressed his neck as she folded the material.
A shiver ran over Mike at her touch, and little Mike started moving. He lowered his weapon and huffed out a breath, trying to get control, willing his body to calm. His erection lessened, but his insides shook like a spider web in the wind. An eternity seemed to pass.
“You okay?” Fiona asked.
“Fine,” he said, positioning his gun. “Pull!” he shouted louder than necessary. The target flew out of the house. Mike followed the trajectory and jerked off a shot. The clay disc soared over the center and to the ground unbroken.
Fiona grinned at him as he wheeled around. “Looks like we might go dancing.”
“Or you’ll be confessing,” he retorted. “I hope you’re better at targets than you are at skeet.”
She gave him a wicked smile. “I never miss at target practice.”
Mike swallowed the lump rising in his throat. Hitting moving objects was his forte.
Mike shoved the necktie against his collar and checked his appearance in the mirror. After beating him at target practice, she’d chosen some posh dinner dance club, with a suit-and-tie-only policy. She’d insisted he dress in this monkey suit. One lousy shot was all she beat him by. If she hadn’t pulled another oh-you’ve-got-something-on-you scam he would have beaten her. But she touched him, and he went to pieces like bone china on concrete.
He ran his finger around the edge of the dress shirt. Then he shrugged into a jacket Fiona had found in her dead father’s closet. Mike left it unbuttoned since it was a tad snug in the chest.
He jammed some bills into his wallet. She may have won, but he was going to pay. That was the gentlemanly thing to do. Besides, Kyle Morrison had footed the bill the last time she went dancing. He could do no less. The vision of Kyle Morrison holding Fiona in his arms flooded Mike’s brain, and a wave of jealousy washed over him.
She’s a job, he reminded himself. Just a job. You’ve got to use this opportunity to find out what she’s hiding from you and why. He’d ply her with wine and be witty, and when she least expected it, he’d ask the hard questions—and get some answers.
“Guess you don’t need me to tag along on your date,” George said as Mike entered the living area of the guest cottage.
“It’s not a date,” Mike growled. “I just lost a bet.”
George shook his head. “Not buying that. Whenever a beautiful woman wants a man to take her dancing it’s about more than winning a bet.” He grinned and relaxed on the couch. “Leave a sock on her doorknob when you two do the horizontal mambo. When I do my rounds, I won’t check that room.”
Mike balled his fist and shook it at George. “You’re asking for one of these.”
“Sorry. I’ll zip it now.”
“Smart man.” Mike retrieved his pistol from the kitchen counter and shoved it into his small-of-the-back holster. “We won’t be gone long.”
“Why? Does she turn into a pumpkin at midnight? Oh, wait, that’s you.”
Mike scowled at him, taking a step in George’s direction.
George hunched his shoulders into a protective position and made a zipping motion with his hand over his mouth.
Mike readjusted his jacket, yanking on the lapels, and left the cottage.
When Fiona descended the staircase in the mansion, Mike nearly lost it. The mid-torso “V” in the front of the dress left nothing to the imagination. At the bottom step, she rotated, reaching for a wrap she’d hung on the newel post. The fabric, cut to her waist in the back, exposed even more flesh.
Where did she expect him to put his hands when they danced? The thought of touching her bare skin sent a flame racing to the base of his spine, where it lit a smoldering fire in his groin. He moaned. She turned and stared at him, and he hoped she hadn’t heard.
“You are very handsome,” she said, her voice low and husky.
“Thanks, so are you.”
A smile lit her face. “I’ve been called good-looking and exquisitely beautiful, but never handsome.”
“Beautiful,” he said quickly. Damn, the woman was scrambling his brains. “Exquisitely beautiful. I’m not just saying it because Kyle Morrison did.”
“It wasn’t Kyle.” She tipped her head and studied him. “Are you jealous of Kyle? Because you shouldn’t be. He’s a business partner. Or he will be soon.”
Mike held his hands in front of his body, palms out. “Hey, none of my concern,” he said defensively. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Who you date is your call.”
She looped her arm through his, her touch sending shivers down the length of him. “Let’s not talk about Kyle tonight. Or assassination attempts or anything unpleasant. I want to enjoy the moment, the music, and the man I’m with.”
Ditto, said his heart. Damn, said his head. She would avoid the topics he’d want to broach.
She smiled at him, a glittering, openly seductive smile. The lady had one thing on her mind. Him. If he wasn’t careful he’d fall straight into her trap.
Chapter 21
“I love this song,” Fiona said, when the strains of Barry Manilow’s “Copacabana” floated on the air. She rose and tugged him to his feet. The beat of the cha-cha-cha picked up, and Fiona started shuffling, her hips swaying to the rhythm.
/> Mike watched her, his heart mimicking the shift and thrust of her hips. “I would have never taken you for a ’70s kind of music gal, much less Manilow,” he said over the sound of the band. He twirled her into his arms, and they stepped side by side, her hips bumping his.
“It was Mom and Dad’s song. She played it all the time. When Dad heard it, he’d run into the living room and dance Mom across the carpet. Sometimes he’d even put me on his feet and dance with me.”
Mike spun her in front of him and placed his hands on her hips as they moved forward and backward. “The song brings back good memories?”
“Which is odd, for such an unhappy story. Poor Lola, going mad after all those years without her lover, Tony.”
“Love is like that. It makes you crazy.”
“Is that why you never married?”
“Not the marrying kind.” He looked at the woman in front of him. What was he missing by making that declaration?
Something passed over her face akin to disappointment. Then she brightened, flashing him a smile that did not reach her eyes. She tossed her head, and he imagined yellow feathers waving in them, like those in the hair of the song’s heroine. His gaze dropped to the front of her dress, cut low. If she were his would he want more?
“Me either.”
Her words hit him harder than he imagined possible. He didn’t want the traditional life. A wife, two kids, a dog, and a cat. Hell, he didn’t even want the dog.
The chorus blared out, and Fiona raised her arms in the air, losing herself in the music, swaying so seductively Mike could not keep his eyes off her.
But he wanted this woman. What was happening to him? Maybe George was right. He should just do her and get her out of his system.