by Anna DePalo
His lips thinned. “Yeah, and you haven’t seemed to have learned a lesson from it either.”
“Oh, I learned,” she countered. “I learned I couldn’t trust you.”
“You were a naive seventeen-year-old kid who’d started hanging out with the wrong crowd. What did you think? That biker boy in that bar was coming on to you because he wanted to take you home to share a root beer?”
“And you weren’t my keeper!” She didn’t add that one of the reasons she’d been in the bar that night was because she’d been hoping he would turn up. She’d briefly—very briefly—in her teenaged years had what some might have called an infatuation for Connor. But that was before he’d proven, by betraying her faith in him, that he’d seen her only as a pesky kid.
She could still recall the waves of embarrassment and humiliation she’d felt when he’d dumped her over his shoulder in the bar and marched out to his car, heedless of her kicking and yelling.
As if that weren’t enough, despite promising her that, if she kept still, he wouldn’t give a full report to her parents, he’d gone ahead and ratted her out anyway. She’d gotten a long lecture about underage drinking and sex, been grounded for a month, and had her comings and goings forever questioned after that.
Aloud, she said, “I’d say you’re just as guilty as I am, Connor, of not learning lessons from the past. You’re still acting like my keeper when you’re not.”
He finally seemed to be pushed over the edge. “Dammit! Are you so stubborn that you won’t accept help even when you need it? When your life may be in danger?”
“Stubborn?” She tilted her head to the side. “Seems to me you could write a magnum opus on that subject.”
She started to brush past him but he grabbed her arms and forced her gaze to his. His expression was stormy, his brows drawn together and his lips compressed. “Stubborn, thickheaded…”
She braced her hands against his chest. “Likewise,” she retorted. They were practically nose to nose, and beneath the adrenaline pumping through her veins, a little thrill of excitement intruded at having finally shaken his control—his years-old control.
His head swooped down then, cutting off her gasp of surprise as he seized her lips in an angry kiss. His lips moved over hers with hard pressure, and, when she would have jerked away, his hand came up to the back of her head to anchor her in place.
“Mmm…!”
Back when she’d been seventeen, she’d often daydreamed about what it would be like to be kissed by Connor Rafferty. But none of the scenarios had been like this. He kissed the way he did everything: with a cocky confidence that took no prisoners.
When he finally pulled away, their breathing was rapid as their eyes met. His hazel ones held a challenge, as if he was daring her to make some flippant comment about what he’d done and what invisible line had been crossed.
Her mouth opened, but when his gaze shot downward and narrowed, she clamped her lips together again. The tense moment stretched between them. She was acutely aware of how close he was, of the leashed energy emanating from him.
And then, without knowing exactly how and why it happened, she was in his arms again and his lips were on hers in an instant and she was responding the way she used to dream about, except now she could do a little real-life comparison.
His lips, for one thing, were softer and smoother than they looked. They slid over hers, molding and caressing, coaxing a response. His hands didn’t roam, instead they exerted a subtle pressure between her shoulder blades and at the middle of her back.
He didn’t make a sound, but focused all his concentration on giving and receiving pleasure from the stroke of his lips against hers. Whereas his first kiss had been angry, this one seduced.
Her lips parted beneath his and his tongue slid inside her mouth to stroke against hers, inviting her to respond. The evening shadow that darkened his jaw was a rough caress against her soft skin.
He pulled her closer, flush up against him, as she was caught up in the rush of feeling that had burst between them.
She might have been able to chalk up the first kiss as a fluke, but this second kiss…well, Connor Rafferty was the best kisser behind the best lips she’d ever encountered—and that included Ben Thayer in high school, who’d read and mastered 100 Creative Kisses: Smooching with Confidence.
When his hand slid down and cupped her bottom to pull them closer together so their bodies were in intimate contact, alarm bells went off in her head. She grasped his shoulders, intent on pushing him back, when she realized the ringing wasn’t only in her head.
The phone rang again, insistently, and Connor set his hands on her shoulders to steady her as they broke apart.
Flustered, she glanced around the living room to determine where the ringing cordless was located.
She spotted it peeking from under a throw pillow on the couch and hesitantly picked it up. “Hello?” Her voice was still husky with arousal.
“I’m coming for you.” The voice at the other end of the line was raspy and hoarse.
“Who is this?”
“Lay off your cases at the DA’s Office or you’ll end up dead.”
Her hand tightened on the receiver. She knew she had to keep him talking to get more clues. “I don’t scare easily.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Connor tense and his brows draw together. She turned away as he strode toward her.
There was a grim chuckle on the phone line. “I’m willing to bet Daddy would pay a nice little sum to get you back—dead or alive.”
Suddenly, the receiver was torn from her hand. “Touch her and I’ll obliterate you like the scum you are.” Connor’s voice was clipped and deadly. “You won’t be able to walk down the street without watching your back.”
Allison guessed the line must have gone dead because Connor punched a few buttons on the receiver, listened for a few seconds, and then tossed the phone onto a chair with a disgusted look on his face. “Should have known it wouldn’t be that easy to trace.”
“Why did you do that?” she demanded, bracing her hands on her hips. “You didn’t even give me a chance to try to draw him out.”
“Draw him out?” he asked incredulously. “Forget it, honey. You may work for the DA, but take it from someone who’s had a lot more experience with criminals. This guy’s a wily bastard. He’s only going to be drawn out when he comes for your pretty little neck.”
“There’s no need to be crude,” she snapped.
“What did he say?” he demanded.
“He warned me to back off the legal cases I’m working on.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What else?”
Seeking a distraction, she adjusted a pillow on the couch. “And he implied that kidnapping was in the cards.” She didn’t add the part about a ransom to get her back—dead or alive. No use adding even more fuel to Connor’s bonfire.
Two
Connor cursed. “I’m bunking down here.”
“What?”
“You heard me. My job starts now.” He cast a skeptical look at her tiny, chintz-covered couch. It looked about as comfortable as a linoleum floor. “I don’t suppose that couch converts into a sofa bed?”
“It doesn’t convert into anything. It’s an antique.”
He could almost hear her mentally add, “And if you’d grown up with some class, you would have known that.”
In his line of work, he’d become accustomed to spoiled, born-rich types who looked down their noses at him and the shadings of a Boston accent that still caused him to drop his r’s on occasion.
He’d long ago mentally filed Allison Whittaker under the heading Pampered Debutante. In return, she treated him with a haughty disdain that was so cool it could give polar bears frostbite.
True, he’d long ago sparked her ire by hauling her butt out of that rough-and-tumble bar, but he’d been fully justified. She’d been too much of a sheltered and naive princess to know what she was getting herself into.<
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When she’d announced after law school that she was joining the District Attorney’s Office, he’d figured she’d last about a nanosecond. She’d surprised him by hanging on for four years, but he’d always thought—despite his taunt about her aversion to the country-club crowd—that it was only a matter of time before she threw in the towel to marry a guy named Sloan, or, God forbid, Blake, and raise little Ralph Lauren-clad infants in an upscale suburb.
He glanced at the clock on the mantel. Since she looked ready to argue with him again, he decided to change tactics. “It’s nearly two in the morning. I’m beat and in no mood to drive back to my place. So, why don’t you show some mercy here?”
He watched the fast-moving emotions on her face as she debated what to do. When she seemed to come to a conclusion, he knew he’d won, but he carefully schooled his features into a bland expression.
“Fine,” she said reluctantly. “But only for tonight.” She moved toward the doorway. “There’s a guest bedroom. I’ll just go up and make sure it’s in shape.”
As he watched her leave, he figured he’d deal with the morning when it arrived. Allison was in over her head here, and, whether she wanted to admit it or not, she needed him.
He moved around the room restlessly. He’d gotten a call that morning from Allison’s brother Quentin. Naturally, all the Whittakers were concerned that Allison was being harassed and that it might be connected to one of her cases at the District Attorney’s Office. But Allison—not being one to be cowed easily, a trait he normally would have admired—had insisted she could handle matters by herself and no one should overreact.
His natural reaction had been to volunteer his security services. And, because Quentin was an old friend and the Whittakers had been good to him, he’d insisted on taking this matter on personally—with no fee.
He hadn’t divulged that to Allison, of course. He figured it would be easier if she thought he was a hired hand rather than some quasi–big brother trying to step in and do the right thing.
And the truth of the matter was, whatever he felt these days, he was damn sure it wasn’t brotherly. True, she drove him nuts, not the least because of her open disdain for him. But, as much as it irked him, they hit sparks off each other whenever they were in the same room.
He had enough sexual experience to recognize that for what it was. The signs were all there and too obvious to ignore. He was acutely aware of her—the light, flowery scent that clung to her skin, the startlingly brilliant blue of her eyes, the thick mass of dark-brown hair cascading past her shoulders.
She was curvy, too, her nicely rounded figure making her neither voluptuous nor willowy, but just right for making his body tighten whenever he was around her. He’d nearly blown a fuse when she’d opened the door in that short and silky slip, its matching robe gaping open above its loosely and obviously hastily tied belt.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. If he didn’t watch it, he’d get aroused right now, just thinking about her, and he couldn’t afford another lapse.
The long-simmering kettle of tension between him and Allison was getting harder to ignore and living with her under the same roof was going to try his self-control to the limit.
He’d kissed her, for cripes’ sake. Sure, he might try to rationalize it, but he knew the truth was more complicated than that.
What’s more, she’d kissed him back. Now that was an interesting little reaction for him to puzzle over. She’d been all fiery passion, just as he’d thought she’d be, and he, Lord help him, had been more than ready to be consumed by the heat.
He wondered what would happen if he tried to kiss her again…. He started to grin, then stopped short. Get a grip, Rafferty. You’re here to protect her.
True, Allison had grown from a pesky kid into a beautiful, desirable woman. But they didn’t get along well enough for anything longer than a fling, and anything shorter would feel as if he were betraying his friendship with the Whittakers. And that went a long way toward explaining why his attraction to Allison had lain dormant, never acted upon—until tonight.
So, protect her he would, his raging hormonal reaction to her be damned. Just thinking about someone trying to harm Ally had made his blood boil. She might send his libido into overdrive, but she also had some jerk trying to spook her.
Fortunately, he’d been able to persuade her to let him spend the night at her place. But bigger battles lay ahead. She thought she was getting rid of him this morning, but she had another thing coming.
In the morning, Allison dressed for work and got downstairs only to discover Connor was already in the kitchen, dressed in last night’s form-fitting black jeans and white T-shirt—which, to her chagrin, outlined the lean but hard-looking muscles of his chest.
He looked up from tossing a pancake and nodded toward the coffeemaker. “Help yourself.”
She guessed she wasn’t getting rid of him just yet. She didn’t have it in her, however, to be irritated about it. “Thanks for making breakfast.” The aroma of the coffee and the smell of pancakes were already seducing her taste buds.
His lips quirked up, as if in acknowledgement that her statement was dictated only by good manners. “You’re welcome.” He slid a pancake onto a waiting plate. “I never leave the house in the morning without a shot of carbs,” he added, as if by way of explanation for his presence in her kitchen.
When they’d almost finished breakfast, she decided to tackle the bear in the room that they were both ignoring. “The threats are ridiculous. I mean, whoever is making them has to know that even if he gets me off my cases, they’ll still go forward. The DA’s Office will just get another prosecutor to handle them.”
Connor took his time answering, wolfing down the last of his pancakes. “That’s true. But no one knows your cases as well as you do. Whoever is threatening you is probably betting the DA’s case will be a lot weaker with a prosecutor who has been substituted midstream.”
“But that’s crazy!”
“Yup.” Connor nodded. “Crazy and desperate.”
Was he purposely trying to scare her?
As if reading skepticism on her face, he continued, “There’ve been plots in the past to knock off judges. A defendant may figure he can get a more sympathetic judge if he succeeds in getting rid of the first one.” He shrugged. “It isn’t a big leap to think someone’s guessed a similar strategy could work with an overzealous Assistant DA.”
She felt a prick of annoyance. “I’m not overzealous.”
Connor leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, but you’re doing your job too well and it’s scaring this guy. When I called you overzealous, I was just conjecturing about what our Mr. Nice on the phone could be thinking—and what might be motivating him. Maybe the next Assistant DA won’t care as much about your cases or won’t have your determination and brains.”
She couldn’t help the frisson of happiness that went through her at his offhand compliment.
Connor leaned forward and shoved his empty plate aside. “Is there one case you’ve been working on a lot?”
She gave him a sardonic look. “I only wish there was just one.” She knew she should be standing up right now, thanking him for his concern and showing him to the door, just as she’d promised last night. Yet, she supposed, she owed him some satisfaction in return for his concern, however misplaced, not to mention for cooking breakfast.
“All right, what’s a major case you’re working on?”
She considered a moment, then said, “One of them is the Taylor burglary case.”
“That one hasn’t made the papers.”
She nodded. “It wouldn’t, but Sam Taylor has a rap sheet that’s long and interesting, including drug dealing and misdemeanor assault and battery. This time he’s charged with burglarizing a home.”
“Is he out on bail?”
“No, he’s behind bars awaiting trial.” Then she added, by way of explanation, “He’s only in his early twenties, so there’s still time for him to move on to mo
re serious crimes even if he gets off for this one—or even if he doesn’t but gets out of prison in a few years.”
Connor nodded curtly. “Drug dealing. Was he a neighborhood pusher?”
“Basically.”
Connor drained his coffee cup, taking his time asking his next question. “Has anyone linked him with a gang? He’s the right age and corner-dealing is the bread-and-butter of gang business.”
His perceptiveness surprised her. “Some of his neighbors have more or less said so. Off the record.”
His face gave away nothing. “So, some gang members may be harassing the Assistant DA who’s trying to put their old buddy Taylor in the slammer for a long while.”
A chill went through her as he gave voice to the fear that she refused to acknowledge, but she forced herself to nod in agreement. “All right, I buy that logic.”
“Any other prosecutions you’re handling?”
“There’s the Kendall case.”
“Okay, what’s the Kendall case?”
She shrugged. “Business executive accused of embezzlement. Part of it is what accountants know as a lapping scheme. Basically, stealing and then hiding the fact by applying subsequent revenue to cover the missing money in the company’s accounts receivable.” She paused. “At least that’s what we’re trying to prove.”
“Kendall. Name sounds familiar.”
She nodded. “He’s high profile. Sits on a bunch of charitable boards. A big social climber.”
His lips twisted. “Great, my favorite type.”
She pasted a look of mock surprise on her face. “What? You dislike the social climbers as much as the born-rich types? Are there any types you do like?”
He gave her an inscrutable look before mentally seeming to shift gears back to the issue at hand. “Those white-collar crimes often settle. Just the thought of landing in a cell next to your run-of-the-mill burglar or drug dealer is usually enough to get these guys’ defense attorneys to talk settlement.”
“True, but, in this case, Kendall doesn’t want to admit any wrongdoing.” She was surprised by Connor’s knowledge of law enforcement. She supposed she really shouldn’t be though. His father had been a cop and Connor had in all likelihood worked with the police and prosecutors on numerous occasions on behalf of his clients.