Dangerous Lover

by Lisa Marie Rice

  She was looking good, she knew that. She’d showered and taken special care with her makeup and put her hair up, with a few tendrils left down to caress her shoulders.

  She had on one of her mother’s Armanis. There was no way on this earth she could afford a cocktail gown like the one she had on, never in a million years. But she still had her mother’s wardrobe, and a rich and varied one it was, too. Monica Lake had had excellent taste, with a wealthy and indulgent husband who loved to shower her with gifts and show her off.

  In an effort to raise her spirits, Caroline had decided to dress up for the evening. Damn it, it was Christmas Eve, and instead of spending it alone in a cold house, she was spending it with a very attractive man and—wonder of wonders—the boiler hadn’t broken down yet so she could wear the black off-the-shoulder cocktail gown without feeling like an idiot.

  It almost felt like a date.

  When was the last time she had been on a date? Long before Toby’s last collapse. September, maybe?

  She’d gone to Jenna’s bank to pick her up for lunch and Jenna had introduced her to the new vice president, George Bowen. He was blond, handsome, thirtysomething, and he was immediately smitten. He got her number from Jenna and called that very evening for a date.

  George took her to an upscale Japanese restaurant, cool and elegant. It was a wonderful September evening, warm and ripe with promise. George was smart, funny, romantic. Charming company. Sexy in a low-key way. Caroline was seriously thinking of sleeping with him after a couple of dates, wondering how it would be, when her cell phone rang. Toby’s nurse. Toby was having an attack.

  George insisted on accompanying her home and watched, horrified, as she dealt with Toby.

  She never heard from George again. She never even saw him again. It was embarrassing the way he avoided her.

  He managed never to be around when she picked Jenna up for lunch, and he never responded to the one message she left on his answering machine. Caroline didn’t need to be hit over the head to understand that he didn’t want to be part of her life in any way. Her life was way too harsh for him.

  After that, she and Jenna had lunch at her bookstore, First Page, taking turns paying for the Chinese takeout. It was easier on everyone that way.

  Jack put down his fork and took a sip of wine. “Wow. I can’t remember a better meal. Actually I can’t remember my last good meal at all. It was definitely before Afghanistan.”

  Caroline watched Jack eating. He had excellent table manners, though she quavered every time he picked up his wineglass. His hands were large and rough-looking. They were capable of delicacy, though. His movements were precise and controlled. Maybe her wineglass was safe, after all.

  George had had small, soft, white hands. She tried to imagine him as a soldier in Afghanistan and failed miserably.

  “What exactly were you doing in Afghanistan?” she asked, piling more food on Jack’s plate and smiling inwardly at his grateful nod.

  “I went twice, once for the government, once for the company. The first time was a six-month rotation right after I got my Ranger Tab. We were on winter patrol in the Hindu Kush. The second time was after I resigned my commission to help my dad run his company. We landed the contract to protect Habib Munib. I just got back a couple of weeks ago.”

  Caroline blinked, fork halfway to her mouth. “Habib Munib? Isn’t he—heavens, isn’t he the president of Afghanistan?”

  “Yeah. Sort of. That’s the theory, anyway.” Jack’s hard mouth lifted in a half smile. It didn’t soften his features but it softened her a little. “Truth is, Habib isn’t president of much these days beyond the Presidential Palace in Kabul and about a ten-block radius around it. Any warlord up in the mountains has more real power—and certainly more firepower—than Habib does. And every warlord in the country—and believe me there are a lot of them—is gunning for him. Keeping him alive is…a challenge. We managed mainly by creating the sandbag capital of the world around him.”

  She’d seen photographs of Jack! She must have. Habib Munib was often in the news and the pictures showed him surrounded by his American bodyguards. Big beefy guys, mostly, with beards and sunglasses, cradling alarmingly large black guns. She’d imagined them to be U.S. officers, but apparently they weren’t.

  “Did you enjoy the challenge?”

  He paused to think. “Yeah, I did. A lot. We had to outthink some pretty inventive and seriously nasty bad guys. It helped that Habib’s one of the good guys. Studied at CalTech, got himself an engineering degree that he doesn’t use and solid poker skills, which he does. The man’s got a good head on his shoulders. He’s his country’s best hope for a future that isn’t grinding poverty and crazed fanatics out on the streets killing people to keep the country safe from women who wear lipstick and nail polish. We worked really hard to keep him alive.”

  Caroline watched his face as he talked. She’d forgotten to turn the overhead chandelier on, so most of the light came from candlelight. It turned his darkly tanned skin a deep bronze, the flickering flames alive in his dark eyes.

  The house was lukewarm at best, but Caroline wasn’t cold. He was sitting at right angles to her, their elbows almost touching, and he seemed to be radiating heat. She felt enveloped by it, the very molecules of air between them speeded up and hot.

  “If you liked the work so much, why did you leave?”

  “I got word that my dad was sick. He didn’t tell me he was feeling bad—didn’t want to worry me. It was his secretary who told me. She called and said that Dad was vomiting blood. I flew straight back. I bullied him until he went to the doctor.” A faint smile creased his face—a second and it was gone, like a shadow of a smile instead of the real thing. “He was stubborn, my dad. Hated doctors. It took some doing to get him to one. And when I finally dragged him in for tests, we found out he had stomach cancer. I couldn’t leave him while he was sick. The cancer was very advanced. He only lasted a few weeks. After he died, I decided to do something else.”

  Caroline rested her chin on her fist as she looked at him. “Why?”

  He put his fork down, thoughtful. He took his time answering. That was something Caroline liked. She disliked glib quips, ready-made answers. He was clearly struggling to find the right words. It was entirely possible that words weren’t his medium. He was a soldier, after all.

  Finally, he spoke, his deep voice quiet. “My father was a soldier all his life. When he retired, he founded a company where he could use his special skills. I loved my time in the Army, but I know now that, in a way, I enlisted in the Army to please him. When he needed me for the company, I resigned my commission to help him. I was happy to do it. If he were alive, I’d still be in Afghanistan, still with the company. But after he died, I realized”—he stopped and struggled for words—“I—I realized that the company was his dream. Not mine. I have another dream, another plan for my life. And much as I miss him, my father’s death set me free to pursue it.”

  There was silence in the big room. Through an archway was the living room where she’d lit the fire. It crackled and popped.

  He was comfortable with silence. Caroline liked that. “So tell me, what is this dream?”

  He hesitated. “I have—some special skills. Some the Army gave me, some I was born with. They were useful to my father, and I was happy to place them at his service and at the service of the company’s clients. But he’s gone now. I think I want to use my skills for other kinds of people. The kinds of people who can’t go to a security company and have their problems solved by buying what they need.” His teeth clenched, the strong jaw muscles flexing under the dark skin. “Security companies protect the kind of people who already have the means to protect themselves. They’re usually rich or at least have enough money to buy themselves the protection of a whole company. A lot of them have companies of their own, with employees to stand between them and danger. Hiring extra security is sometimes just icing on the cake, and sometimes, frankly, a status symbol. I think what I’d r
eally like to do is teach people who need it self-defense skills. People who need to know how to defend themselves but can’t afford professional security staff.”

  “And is that what you want to do here? Start a—a what? Self-defense school? Here in Summerville?”

  He nodded. “I wanted a fresh start. I…passed through here with my father when I was a child. I liked the place. I just always had it in the back of my mind that I’d like to settle here.”

  “There are worse places to live.” A huge gust of wind rattled the windowpanes, and Caroline gave a wry smile. “And then, of course, there’s the delightful, balmy weather.”

  He gave another half smile. “I’ll confess I didn’t plan on arriving in the middle of a blizzard.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t. Summerville’s a nice enough town, but I have to warn you that sometimes the winters can be vicious. The weather forecasters are predicting a particularly cold and long one this year. Is that going to scare you off?” It wasn’t entirely an idle question. It would be a pity if he went. He was going to make a nice boarder, and the steady money would be very welcome.

  He froze, as if she’d said something of unusual importance. “No, ma’am,” he said softly, watching her eyes. “A little bit of cold weather isn’t going to scare me off, believe me. I’ve been thinking about this for a long, long time.”

  Caroline was silent, watching him as he bent his head and finished off the last of his third helping of roast potatoes. Steadily, neatly, he’d tucked away an astonishing amount of food. Apparently what he’d said was true—he hadn’t had a good meal in months. “This meal was delicious, thank you.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I think a little extra effort is called for on Christmas Eve, don’t you? And I’ve got a nice meal planned for tomorrow.” She dabbed her mouth with one of the heavy linen Pratesi napkins she only took out on special occasions. “But I warn you, you won’t be getting fed like this every day.”

  He took in a deep breath, clearly searching for the right words. Caroline was distracted for a moment by the sight of his massive chest wall expanding with the breath. She could see his pectorals through the sweater. He probably had thick chest hair, judging from the wiry black hairs on his forearms. A sudden image of that chest without the sweater bloomed in her mind, and a surge of pure heat shot through her.

  It was so unlike her, she almost looked around to see if it was someone else who had turned hot at the thought of a man’s naked chest instead of her, Caroline Lake, Ms. Cool.

  “I won’t be complaining, ma’am,” he said finally. “I spent seven years eating MREs, and they taste like year-old dog food mixed with rubber. ’Bout as chewy, too.”

  “Well,” she answered, amused, “I’m not too sure what MREs are—sounds like some kind of a weapon, actually—but they must be dreadful. I’ll treat you better than the Army did, that’s for sure.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His dark eyes bored into hers. “I’ll just bet you will. I’m looking forward to it.”

  His words were completely neutral, polite, even. There was nothing suggestive in either his tone or body language. He kept his gaze strictly above her neck. But there was no mistaking the undertone of his words. Sex hormones suddenly swirled in the air, a little flurry of them, so powerful she was not only at a loss for words but could feel the air leave her lungs.

  Potent, dark, utterly male desire flared in the room, so powerfully she could practically see the waves of desire coming at her from across the shiny surface of the table. Caroline had been desired before, but she’d never felt this dark magnetic pull before.

  She should say something, something lighthearted to dissipate the tension in the air. But for the life of her nothing came to mind. She couldn’t even look away from him, his dark gaze so compelling it was like a punch to the stomach. Her chest felt tight, and she found it hard to breathe.

  It took Caroline a full minute to realize that it wasn’t just him. She was feeling desire back. It had been so long since she’d felt it she hadn’t even recognized it. Jack Prescott was so unlike the men she’d been attracted to in the past that it hadn’t even occurred to her that she could desire him.

  Caroline was attracted to men who were witty and sophisticated and worldly. Men who enjoyed books and the theater and had an ironic take on life. The little she’d seen of Jack Prescott showed that he was almost the exact opposite. She hadn’t seen wit—indeed, he’d been serious to the point of grimness. He didn’t look sophisticated, or worldly. True, he’d traveled, but to outposts of civilization, where an ability to wield a gun was more useful than a knowledge of the local museums.

  That was her head talking. The rest of her body simply wasn’t listening. It was completely taken over with hormonal overload, a reaction to the sheer…maleness of Jack Prescott. It was humbling to think that her body wasn’t paying any attention at all to what he was saying, what books he might have read, what his politics might be.

  No, her heart rate and breathing speeded up because he had the most magnificent male body she’d ever seen. Her knees trembled at the sight of his hands—large, elegant, rough, strong. His deep voice set off vibrations in the pit of her stomach.

  Oh, this was bad. Jack Prescott was her boarder. He was paying her an above-market price for life in her very beautiful but at times fiercely uncomfortable home. She couldn’t afford to be breathless when she spoke to him, or for him to catch her sneaking admiring glances at the breadth of his shoulders or the size of his biceps.

  Caroline had to get a grip on herself now.

  She had to put this back on a landlady-tenant basis. Cordial and impersonal.

  She pasted a polite smile on her face and made polite landlady-talk. “Would you like some more roast beef?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said, unsmiling. “I’m fine.” His eyes never wavered from hers.

  They were so dark. She’d rarely seen eyes that dark, with only a hint of a distinction between the pupil and the iris…

  She shook herself.

  “I hope you saved some room for dessert. I made chocolate mousse. We can take it in the living room with the coffee, if you’d like.”

  He became, if possible, even more still. His eyes probed hers, as if she’d said something compelling.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’d like that very much.” He rose before she did, in a smooth, graceful motion, and pulled her chair out as she stood up. When was the last time a man had done that?

  Caroline pointed at the living room. “Go on ahead, I’ll bring in the coffee and the mousse.”

  When she walked into the living room carrying a tray with two bowls of mousse and two cups of coffee, she saw him crouching beside the fire, feeding a log, stoking the wood with the poker. Sparks flew up the flue. A log fell, bursting into red-hot flames, outlining his broad back in a rim of fiery red. The tight black jeans showed the long, massive muscles of his thighs, flexed in the crouch. He rose easily and turned.

  “Here, let me get that.” He took the tray from her hands and put it on the coffee table.

  The fire rose, renewed, great rolling flames greedily licking at the wood, filling the room with heat and the friendly crackle of the flames. It was like a third person in the room with them.

  Caroline sat back on the sofa, sipping her coffee. As so often in difficult times, she tried to count her blessings. She was in good health. January’s bank payment would be made. February’s—well, that was in the future, wasn’t it? Jack said he was staying. He didn’t look like the kind of man who’d run screaming from a temperamental boiler. She might make it through February. She might not. One thing the last six years had taught her was not to sweat the things she couldn’t influence or change. And to make the most of things, thinking resolutely positively. She’d trained herself to do it.

  Unfortunately, frantically thinking happy thoughts didn’t always work as well as she wanted. Tomorrow was Christmas Day, when the world as she knew it had come to a crashing end. Christmases were always so hard.
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br />   There were so many memories of happy Christmas Eves in this room. Mom and Dad and Toby, music and laughter and firelight. She remembered a Christmas Eve with Sanders, before the accident. Toby’d been, what? Seven? She’d started dating Sanders—the first of their many stop-and-go affairs—and she’d invited him over for Christmas Eve. Her parents had been charmed by Sanders’s good manners and adult conversation. That was before they got to know him. Later, her father had grown to despise him. But that first evening they were all smiles.

  She—well, she’d been blindly infatuated. So blind that she lost her virginity to him a couple of months later.

  That evening, Mom had filled the living room with candlelight. Her mother had loved candles. She lit them on every possible occasion and sometimes just because she felt like it.

  The memory of that evening could warm her still. She could even remember the sharp smells of that evening melding together—Mom’s Diorissimo, hot candle wax, woodsmoke, the cook’s cakes and scones, Earl Grey tea and Dad’s bourbon. A heady scent of joy and celebration.

  She’d played the piano and they’d sung Christmas carols. She’d played—

  “…play?”

  With a wrench, Caroline brought her mind back to the present. Her boarder was sitting next to her. Not so close it made her uncomfortable, but close enough so that she could feel his body heat and feel the air move and the sofa dip as he leaned forward to put his cup on the coffee table. Seeing him this close, she felt slightly overwhelmed by the sheer size of him. It seemed his shoulders took up half the sofa.

  Her perfectly normal-sized coffee cup looked tiny in his hands. His hands were compelling, unlike any other male hands she’d ever seen. Though they were huge, the skin visibly rough, as if he worked with them a lot outdoors, they were also naturally well shaped, long-fingered, elegant and strong, with a light dusting of black hairs on the backs. The nails were clean but clearly unmanicured, so very unlike Sanders’s hands, which were pale and soft, with perfect, buffed nails.