Backstreet Hero

by Justine Davis

  And even if it never went beyond that kiss, he’d carry the sound of that tiny moan she’d made to his grave.

  But it was that tiny moan that also gave him hope, hope that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t quite as far out of reach as he’d thought.

  …the only one keeping you in the league you think you’re in, is you.

  Her words came back to him as he stood in the doorway of the bedroom he still wasn’t going to let her sleep in. Was she right? Did he truly carry his past around with him like some baggage loaded with graffitied bricks? Had this woman, who had a different but just as heavy a load of memories to carry, in fact done a better job than he had of getting past them?

  You should be proud that you survived, prouder yet that you got out.

  He was proud, he thought. He’d never taken Josh’s generosity for granted. He’d worked hard, he’d been determined, had fought for this chance, knowing full well it would likely be the only one he ever got. He’d just never thought it had earned him the right to move in her kind of world.

  But was he wrong? Was it possible that it didn’t really matter, at least to her?

  He flicked a glance at that closed bathroom door, trying not to let his mind careen down the dangerous path of wondering what she wore to bed. Some elegant, lacy thing? Some swath of shimmering satin that would glide over her like that damned red dress he’d never been able to get out of his head? Or, aware of his presence, would she instead armor herself in something heavy and concealing? Not that it would matter; after that dress he was too well able to imagine the body beneath for camouflage to have much effect.

  He made himself turn his gaze to the sliding glass doors that led to that damned balcony. He was tempted to go over and open it, leave it open not for the cool breeze but as an irresistible temptation to whoever was after her. If she wasn’t here, he would do it.

  Grateful for the distraction as he waited for her to finish, he turned the idea over in his mind. He could enlist Mrs. Tilly; she clearly liked Lilith and would likely help. And Hill, although she probably wouldn’t be thrilled to work with him after he’d summarily dismissed her tonight. But she was Redstone, and she’d help, no matter what.

  He’d send Mrs. Tilly off to visit her daughter for a few days, he thought, courtesy of Redstone. Few people could resist a free trip, especially when it was on one of the Redstone fleet of Hawk jets. He knew that if he said it was necessary, Redstone would foot the bill for the whole trip without a question; it was part of the extreme trust Josh had in his people.

  That would give him a base to work from. Lilith could come home with Hill, as she had tonight, he thought. He would be next door, and would help Lilith make the too-easy climb from her own balcony to Mrs. Tilly’s. And then Hill could make a show of leaving, waving and talking as if Lilith were still inside, indicating she was now home alone.

  It might take a couple of days, but sooner or later that fish was going to bite. And he’d be waiting. He could take up a position here, or just stay on Mrs. Tilly’s balcony and wait.

  He was still considering all the possible facets to this plan when he heard the door open. He braced himself, then turned his head.

  No lacy, sheer thing. No sweep of red satin. Not even the flannel-type armor he’d imagined.

  Lilith Mercer, high-class, elegant, polished Lilith Mercer apparently slept in a hockey jersey.

  He nearly laughed at the incongruity of it. Would have, if it hadn’t bared so much of those long, luscious legs he’d imagined so often. Would have, if he hadn’t been able to tell, when she moved, that her breasts were free beneath the slippery fabric.

  Would have, if it hadn’t made her look so tiny, almost fragile.

  A sudden image of Daniel Huntington snapped into his mind. The man was as big as he was, and the idea of Huntington hitting this woman, of him using a crude, brutal weapon on her, striking what could so easily have been a fatal blow, made a protective urge that dwarfed everything he’d felt before nearly swamp him.

  No matter what it took, he would keep this woman safe. He couldn’t let himself be distracted from that task. Not by anything. And if that meant he had to keep his own feelings on a tight leash, so be it. He’d done harder things.

  Maybe.

  Chapter 20

  When the phone rang at three in the morning, it didn’t wake Tony. He was already awake. Had been, most of the night. It had nothing to do with the sofa in the living room he was lying on—it was actually comfortable—and everything to do with the visions of the woman sleeping just down the hall that he couldn’t seem to get out of his head.

  But when the phone stopped abruptly in the middle of the third ring, a different image of her suddenly flashed through his mind, the image of her picking up the cordless phone from her nightstand in the master bedroom and taking it with her to the guest room.

  He hadn’t said anything; she wasn’t arguing with him about sleeping in the other room, so he’d decided to leave well enough alone. Whether she just couldn’t bear to be out of touch, or whether she got late night calls from someone he didn’t know about, was something that was going to have to wait.

  But 3:00 a.m. didn’t qualify as simply late night.

  He was on his feet, kicking aside the blanket she’d given him. In seconds he was at the door of the guest room. He paused for a moment, listening, but heard no sound of voices through the closed door. There was, he’d noted earlier, no lock, as there was on the master, so he hadn’t had to bring up the possibly touchy subject of her locking it or not.

  He gave a courtesy tap on the door but didn’t wait to open it.

  The room was dark, but his eyes were adjusted; he hadn’t been foolish enough to turn on a light and destroy that. She sat up in the double bed that was the lower bunk of the childishly decorated room, looking sleepy and puzzled. He could see that the phone receiver sat quietly on the bedside table. If he hadn’t been certain, he might have thought he’d imagined the ring.

  And then her expression changed, and she pulled the covers closer around her, as if they were that armor she’d not put on. And he realized she was wondering exactly why he was in her doorway.

  In her room, he corrected himself silently, only now realizing he’d taken a couple of strides past the door.

  “Who was it?” he said.

  She moved then, reaching up to click on the bedside lamp. He instantly missed the intimacy of the darkness, then wondered if that was exactly why she’d done it.

  She squinted against the flare of light, looking up at him. “No one.”

  “Lilith, I can’t do my job if you—”

  “It was a hang-up call,” she said with an air of strained patience.

  He didn’t like that answer, either. “Were you planning to tell me about it?”

  She lifted a brow at him. “At a decent hour in the morning, yes. Wake you up to tell you at 3:00 a.m.? No.”

  “I was awake.”

  “I’m sorry it woke you.”

  “I was already awake,” he amended.

  “I offered you the other bed,” she pointed out.

  She had. If she was going to sleep in here at his order, he then was welcome to her bed, she’d said. The only conditions under which he’d make it to her bed, he was sure.

  Fortunately for his sanity, his newly discovered masochistic streak hadn’t run to subjecting himself to a night in her bed without her. He could only imagine what it would be like to slip between those sheets that likely smelled of that damned gardenia stuff. His dreams were out of control enough already.

  He looked at her now, sitting there in that jersey, looking a world removed from the woman she was during the day. Whatever she’d felt when he’d kissed her, she was obviously over it now.

  Which fit neatly into his new resolve to keep this hunger he had for her on its chain.

  “It’s not the couch,” he said. “It’s fine.”

  He stopped himself from adding, “It’s you.” That wouldn’t fit at all into his
new resolve.

  He yanked himself back to business. “They said nothing? At all?”

  “No. Not a word.”

  “Could you hear anything?”

  “I could tell it was an open line, that’s all. No background noise if that’s what you mean.”

  “Breathing?”

  “No. Heavy or otherwise.”

  If it was an attempt at a joke, he didn’t smile. But neither did she, so perhaps she was merely reporting.

  “Caller ID?”

  “Restricted number,” she said. He frowned. She picked up the phone and held it out to him. “Check for yourself.”

  He believed her, but he took the phone anyway. When he didn’t even glance at it she gave him a questioning look.

  “The next middle-of-the-night caller is going to get me, not you,” he said.

  He half expected a fight over this, too, but she merely shrugged. “Fine. But if you decide to answer it in daylight, let me know first. The shock might kill my mother when she calls.”

  He blinked. That had to have been a joke. Didn’t it? He couldn’t seem to stop himself from asking, “Would the idea of a man answering her daughter’s phone really be such a shock to her?”

  “It would.”

  He studied her for a long, silent moment. Then, against every bit of his better judgment, he asked softly, “Have you been…with anyone since your ex?” He saw her go still.

  “Are you asking that professionally or personally?”

  “Whichever will get me an answer.”

  “Is that how it works? That charm of yours? If you can’t get the answer asking honestly, you make it seem personal and hope no woman can resist?”

  He frowned again. This frontal, almost snappish attack wasn’t her usual approach. It occurred to him to wonder if it was his question, or simply the setting, being alone with him in a bedroom, while he was fully dressed and all she had on was that silly jersey with the big 66 on it, that had her on edge.

  “I still need that answer,” he said, ignoring her dig. “Make it a professional inquiry if you want. Because it is that as well. If there’s somebody else in this mix, like a disgruntled ex-boy-friend, I need to know.”

  “How convenient,” she muttered.

  “Lilith,” he began, but stopped when she held up a hand as if she were too weary to argue with him.

  “No,” she said. “There’s no one. Beyond a lunch now and then, or a date for an official function, there hasn’t been. Satisfied as to the pitiful state of my social life?”

  I was more concerned about your love life, he thought.

  Did the two even intersect, in her world? Or did women there keep a very presentable man like Daniel Huntington around for show, and then turn elsewhere for sex? He couldn’t imagine Lilith doing that, but some of the others he’d seen at that fund-raiser? Absolutely.

  Hell, maybe he was wrong about all of them. Maybe Lilith was right, and even his perceptions were weighed down by all that street-level baggage he seemed to be lugging around.

  And maybe all his thoughts were clouded by the gut-level realization that even if Lilith were like that, he’d want to be the one she turned to for sex. Even if she would never be seen with him in public.

  It was going to be, Lilith thought, a very long weekend at this rate.

  After that 3:00 a.m. interruption—and the unsettling conversation with Tony Alvera—she hadn’t gone back to sleep until nearly five. She’d then slept until just after eight, and still felt groggy.

  At least, she had until now, but Tony’s calm announcement that he was glued to her hip for the remainder of the weekend shocked her out of the fog and left her gaping.

  “I have plans,” she snapped. “Not everything requires a man around, you know.”

  “Fine,” he said, unruffled. “Continue with them. I’ll drive.”

  “I’m going shopping,” she threatened, although she’d had no such plan.

  “I’ll carry bags.”

  She thought of adding “for lingerie,” in the hopes of embarrassing him, as it would many men, but she had the sinking suspicion he’d just grin at her and give her an enthusiastic “Good!” Instead she went for the worst female cliché she could think of, even though it was one she’d never been prone to.

  “Shoes,” she said. “I’ll be trying on dozens of shoes.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Lord, the perfect man, she thought. For many women, anyway. She didn’t find the idea at all appealing, but then, she didn’t find the idea of an entire day spent shopping appealing, either; she’d often been teased about being a disgrace to her gender.

  Desperate, she tried another tack. “I’ll be getting my hair done.” Another ruse, she’d just gotten a trim, but worth a shot. “The smells of a salon. You’d hate it.”

  The grin she’d thought of before unexpectedly popped out now. “Grew up with it. My mother was a hairstylist for years.”

  She blinked. Distracted, she asked, “What does she do now?”

  “Manage my father. Tries to manage me.”

  “Tries?”

  The grin widened. “If I let her, she’d have nothing to complain about.”

  It sounded so normal, she couldn’t help smiling back at him. And realized that this was Tony Alvera’s real charm, not the surface teasing that made Liana call him an incurable flirt.

  “I really wasn’t planning on doing any of that,” she confessed.

  “I know.”

  She drew back slightly in surprise. He shrugged.

  “You were just trying to scare me off.”

  “And with most men,” she said dryly, “I would have succeeded.”

  “I’m not most men.”

  “No,” she said, “you’re not.” And then, as the reality of their connection flooded back, she added, “You’re a man on a mission.”

  “That, too,” he said easily.

  He’d meant it when he’d said he’d be glued to her for the weekend. He’d been looking forward to it, despite—or perhaps because of—the fact that it made her nervous. He wanted to probe that reaction, wanted to poke at it until she admitted again that if not for all the things that made it impossible, she’d want him.

  He was editing what she’d actually said, of course, jumping ahead a step, but he didn’t care. The next step would be editing out those things that made it impossible.

  Yeah, right, he told himself as he drove, like you’re suddenly, magically going to fit in her world?

  But here he was now, on Saturday night, headed back into those mean streets. True, they had spent the day together, but it had been impossible to needle her about anything when she was working. He had a suspicion she did that a lot on her weekends; her devotion to Redstone was as deep and genuine as his own, and for similar reasons. And her focus on her work was…well, admirable, he supposed. She’d barely seemed aware he was there after she’d gone into the den, booted up her computer and logged on to her office workstation.

  “Why don’t you just go in to Redstone?” he finally asked when she emerged after a couple of hours for a cup of coffee.

  “Because Josh told me not to on the weekends.”

  “So you work here instead? Do you really think that’s what he meant?”

  “I’m not there, am I?”

  “So you’re a letter-of-the-law kind of person?”

  She had looked at him over the rim of the mug she was sipping from. “I am a person who owes Josh Redstone more than I can ever repay.”

  As am I, he’d thought.

  “I thought you’d understand that,” she’d said, and moments later returned to her den and her work, leaving him to spend an afternoon doing what little work he could from his cell phone, including arranging to have her car towed and repaired, and then trying again to read while the woman who seemed able to distract him from anything was in the next room.

  They’d ordered in—she loved pizza, another surprise from the elegant Ms. Mercer—for dinner, and he’d met the del
ivery car down in the parking lot, after having given them a bogus address that was close, and his own cell number. They’d barely talked as they ate, and after they’d cleaned up—why was he working so hard to show he was domesticated?—she’d finally left her home office long enough to settle in and look at a magazine that had been in the mail he’d picked up late this morning.

  A gardening magazine, he’d noted, and wondered why a woman who lived in a condo without a square foot of dirt would subscribe to such a thing.

  She hasn’t always lived here, he reminded himself. She’d probably lived in some huge, fashionable house with carefully landscaped grounds. He could just picture her with one of those straw garden hats he’d seen in photographs of women showing off their prized…gardenias, he finished on a sour note.

  He’d been left to do nothing but try not to stare at her; she seemed determined to pretend he wasn’t there.

  Or rather, to treat him like what he was, her bodyguard, worthy of politeness, but nothing more.

  And then just after dark Rico had called, saying he’d come up with something else. Something worth another face-to-face, and maybe, Rico had suggested, even more money than before.

  He’d called in to Draven, who had sent Hill out to stay with Lilith. Tony had waited for her, and while not chewing her out as he once might have, had pointed out what she’d missed with the brake fluid. The young woman was properly chagrined, and Tony knew she’d be hypervigilant now to make up for it. Which had been his point.

  She’d also handed him an envelope from Draven; paying for information was getting expensive, and he’d already given Rico most of his cash kept back for just that purpose.

  “I’ll be back, and then you can go home,” he’d told her.

  “I can stay tonight, if you want a break.”

  He’d nearly snapped at her then, but stopped himself, wondering what had made her say it. Her expression was utterly guileless—too guileless, he wondered?—and he finally gave it up. He was walking too close to the edge when such a simple thing could set him off, he thought.