Bodyguards In Bed

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  Still, it wasn’t every day the federal government filed criminal charges against one of the country’s largest and most prolific pharmaceutical companies. While the plant facilities were located in North Carolina, the company’s corporate headquarters was housed on the thirty-fifth floor of the ARCO Towers, thereby allowing the trial to be set in Los Angeles.

  Alyssa stood on her toes to peer over the shoulder of an uniformed chauffeur, to no avail. She stepped to the side in time to see the crowd coming toward the drivers, but couldn’t find a single guy who resembled what she thought an accountant should look like. It didn’t matter. At this rate, buried behind a sea of uniformed drivers, he’d never find her.

  With a bit of force and apologies raining from her lips, she pushed her way to the front of the crowd, careful to keep the hurried CHARLES ROLSTON placard she’d made in view. As she elbowed her way around a three-hundred-plus-pound bodyguard, she stumbled. A pair of warm, strong hands reached for her and kept her from falling flat on her face. She murmured a quick “thank you,” then looked up and locked gazes with the most gorgeous specimen of male flesh she’d ever seen.

  Oh. My. God. He had the greenest eyes on the planet. And a near-perfect face. His thick, sable hair was cropped short in an executive style, just long enough for her to run her fingers through. She would’ve drooled, but thankfully her mouth went as dry as the sand in Desert Hot Springs. Gracious. She hadn’t even dipped her gaze to take in all of him.

  Yet.

  “I’m sorry,” she managed to croak. She regained her balance and straightened. A quick sweep down his body and back up again nearly gave her heart failure. He was tall, easily over six foot, with wide shoulders, like one of her treasured 49er linebackers. And solid muscle. Like a man should be. “Thank you.”

  Whether she was thanking him again for keeping her on her feet, or for being so freaking drop-dead stunning, she didn’t much care. She just wanted another look. And another.

  “You looking for Charles Rolston?” he asked.

  Her eyes widened. He was the nerd-ball accountant from Bastard Pharm? Not possible. Geeks didn’t have voices like melted chocolate poured over silk sheets. They sounded . . . geeky. Nerdy. And certainly not the stuff fantasies were made of—at least her fantasies. Besides, she just didn’t have that kind of luck.

  Ever.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she told him.

  . . . my entire life, she finished silently.

  She tossed the placard at a nearby trash can and didn’t look to see if it made it in, then slipped her hand around his arm. Struggling not to hyperventilate, she marveled at the feel of his muscles bunching and jumping beneath her fingertips.

  She way too easily imagined the rest of him.

  Naked.

  She cleared her throat, but that did squat to dispel the delicious image of a very naked, well-muscled witness for the prosecution from her dirty mind. “I was worried I might have missed you.”

  Good God, she’d hit the freaking lottery. Her job was to pick him up and take him to a hotel where she’d have to babysit him until tomorrow morning, when he’d meet with the prosecutor to go over his testimony. Then, back to the hotel with him until he was called to testify at the trial, one or two days max.

  Heavens. Her guardian angel had obviously ended her strike and was working overtime to kiss her ass today. Suddenly, she decided she liked hazy days, after all. Well, this one, anyway.

  “My car is out front.” She talked as they walked, her hand still wrapped around that spectacular muscled arm. “All the town cars were out, so I hope you don’t mind. It’s small, but runs fine, and the A/C works. Some of the time.”

  He stopped. “Wait a minute—”

  “You have more than a carry-on?”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s just that—”

  “You’re hungry,” she said, giving his arm a tug as she guided him toward the exit. “I get it. The food in coach sucks.”

  He looked down at her and frowned. Stopping again, he said, “I think you have—”

  “Come on. I’m in a no-parking zone and don’t want to get towed.”

  His frown deepened, and for a split second, she thought he might try to fire her. She understood. What kind of bodyguard parked in a no-parking zone? One who had exactly twelve dollars and thirty-two cents in her wallet and couldn’t afford to pay the ridiculously high airport parking fees, that’s who, but she kept that bit of information to herself.

  “Look, we really do have to hurry.”

  Something about his demeanor changed, but she didn’t know him well enough to decipher his body language. He looked around, and then his body stiffened beside her. He muttered a soft curse, then asked, “Where are you parked, again?”

  Before she could answer him, he took her hand and started toward the exit. With her flip-flops slapping loudly, she ran to keep up with him, but ded that was okay. She’d follow this guy just about anywhere if it meant spending more time getting to know him—even if he was essentially, a rat. A gorgeous, make-your-heart-stop rat.

  FBI Special Agent Noah Temple had no idea who the two thugs were who’d picked up the name placard that the ditzy blonde following behind him had tossed aside. They weren’t the good guys, that much he did know. And neither of them was Charles Rolston.

  He snuck one last look over his shoulder before heading for the exit, in time to see the biggest of the two thugs approach the crowd of chauffeurs. When one of the drivers jerked his thumb in their direction, Noah held tightly on to the blonde’s hand and pushed through the door, but not before the shorter of the two goons spotted them.

  “I’m over there,” she said, pointing to a faded blue Honda that looked close to fifteen years old.

  He dragged her behind him to the car, praying the vehicle was more reliable than it appeared. “What’s your name?” he asked after tossing his bag on the backseat.

  She slid behind the wheel and slammed her door shut. “Alyssa Cardellini.” She stuck out her hand in his direction. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rolston.”

  “Mr. Rolston?” No, he wasn’t, but he’d straighten that out later. All she needed to know was that two hired guns were barreling toward the exit.

  “Charles, then,” she said, her hand still extended.

  He gave her hand a cursory shake. Otherwise, he had a feeling she’d never start the car and get them the hell out of there. “You need to go. Now.”

  She gave him a curious look, then flashed a smile at him. If he wasn’t worried about the two hired thugs, he would’ve found her smile appealing, but for the moment, their continued survival outranked an interesting female.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “The reservation is paid for, so there’s no late check-in penalty to worry about. We have plenty of time.”

  He reached over and took the keys from her hand, then shoved them in the ignition. “No, we don’t,” he said, and turned the key. The faded blue Honda fired up on the first try, for which he was grateful.

  “Hey!”

  “See those two guys by the exit?”

  She turned in her seat to look behind them. “Yeah. So?”

  “So, they’re after us. Pull out slowly,” he said. “Don’t draw too much attention.”

  She nodded briskly and snapped her seatbelt into place. “Got it.” She jammed the car into drive, hit the blinker, then pulled away from the curb and snaked her way into traffic.

  Noah used the side mirror to keep his eyes on the pair of muscle. They looked directly at the car. Before he could pull in his next breath, the pair took off at a dead run in the opposite direction.

  Shit.

  He didn’t know who they were, but he suspected they were the muscle of some top-level Bastian Pharmaceuticals exec, hired to silence Charles Rolston. Wherever the hell he might be.

  CHAPTER 2

  Noah had two questions—who exactly was Alyssa Cardellini and what the hell did she have to do with Rolston or Bastard Pharm? She might have the
sweetest ass he’d seen in a while, but he really wanted to know who exactly was this hot mess of blond curls with the skills of an Indy race car driver. Barreling up the North 11O Freeway like a bat out of hell, she dodged cars and wove in and out of traffic like a pro.

  He braced his hand on the dash after a particularly sharp lane change. “You do know those speed limit signs are more than just a mere suggestion, right?”

  She smiled, but kept her eyes on the roadway. “Just hold on.”

  He was. For dear life.

  Why had he thought letting her believe he was Charles Rolston was a good idea? He hadn’t, not really. She’d assumed and he hadn’t bothered to correct her. He should say something. Now might be a good time, except they had two seriously dangerous-looking goons on their ass, who might or might not be hired guns from someone high up on the Bastard Pharm food chain. Now didn’t quite seem like the right time to bring up the fact that the one person they were both interested in was God knew where.

  Despite her valiant efforts to ditch the vermin on their tail, he still needed to find Rolston before those two thugs did. For now, the alleged bad guys were also operating under the assumption that he was Charles Rolston, not FBI Special Agent Noah Temple.

  God, how had he gotten into this mess? He’d told his superior he’d prefer to have a partner, but the request had been sharply declined. His assignment was simple—follow Rolston and make sure the guy testified at trial, then bring him in for questioning. The Justice Department had a few questions about some insider trading allegations, an SEC violation that often came with a hefty sentence—if convicted, of course.

  Yeah, he’d been given an easy enough assignment, all right. One that even a rookie agent should’ve been able to accomplish with his eyes closed. Except Rolston had managed to give him the slip during a brief stop in Kansas City. Now Noah was in L.A. and Rolston wasn’t. And then he’d gone and complicated matters by becoming involved with a sexy bodyguard who apparently had no clue what Charles Rolston even looked like.

  Yeah, that made a lot of sense. Not.

  “We probably shouldn’t go directly to the hotel,” she said abruptly. She looked in the rearview mirror, bit her lower lip, then flipped on the blinker and changed lanes. She stepped harder on the accelerator and buzzed around a Camry filled with blue-haired ladies, then floored it passed a big brown Ford crew cab.

  Noah looked back over his shoulder. The black sedan followed at a fast clip, gaining on them. Alyssa glanced in the rearview mirror again, then waited until the sedan was a mere two lengths behind them. Suddenly, she swerved, going two lanes over, then slowed, keeping pace so the brown Ford shielded them from the sedan driver’s view. Once the black sedan was ahead of them, she slowed a little more, slipped behind a bread delivery truck, then took the next exit.

  She blew out a stream of breath when they reached the traffic light at the end of the off-ramp. “Good grief.” She tossed a quick look in his direction. “My heart feels like it’s going to explode.”

  His was doing a nice job of hammering inside his chest, as well. “You did good,” he told her. “Exactly where’d you learn to drive like that?” The Bureau would have been proud. While he’d been trained to evade, being in the White-Collar Crimes Unit of the FBI didn’t allow for much practice. He was more analyst than field agent. Rarely did his job result in his drawing his weapon, let alone being involved in a high-speed car chase.

  The thousand-watt smile she flashed him momentarily blinded his common sense. So did the sharp tug low in his belly that sent his mind wandering down a sexy, dangerous path.

  He suddenly realized he was starved. And food was the last thing he was thinking of at the moment.

  “Don’t laugh,” she warned, a hint of humor lacing her voice. “But I was once graveyard shift supervisor for a rent-a-cop outfit. Talk about boring.” She shuddered and made a face, pursing her lips as if she’d just sucked on a lemon. “To stay awake, I watched a lot of late-night action flicks on television.”

  He had no idea what to say to that bit of information. His training with the Bureau no doubt cost thousands of dollars, and he couldn’t state with any degree of certainty he’d be anywhere near as effective as she’d just been. He had to hand it to her, she was a cool one. Under the circumstances, he’d half expected hysterical female; instead, he ended up with grace under fire.

  “Exactly where are we going?” he asked her. He’d never been to California, so he was completely at her mercy.

  Her lips curved into a small smile that was no less appealing than her full-wattage grin had been moments ago. Damn if he didn’t feel awareness stirring. Again.

  Dammit. What the hell was it about her that kept distracting him?

  How about everything?

  Yeah, that’s kind of what he was afraid of. Enough was enough. He had to stop thinking about the curve of her ass or how her full breasts would feel against his palms. Or how she would feel beneath him with her legs wrapped around his hips.

  “Pit stop,” she said, derailing his train of thought. “My place.”

  Noah shifted in his seat and frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She might have shaken the goons for now, but they’d been close enough to read her plate number. And there was that whole curve of her ass thing, too. In another situation, he’d probably have welcomed such a tempting distraction, but not when he needed to keep his senses sharp.

  “But I need to pick up a couple of things.” She stepped on the accelerator as the traffic in her lane finally moved forward. “When I left for work this morning, I didn’t exactly know I’d be spending the next two or three days in a hotel room. I need clothes and . . . stuff.”

  The stuff had him curious as hell. “Better err on the side of caution,” he said. “If those two dirtbags managed to get your plate number, it’s only a matter of time before they track down your home address and place of employment.” Unfortunately, the good guys weren’t the only ones with resources at their disposal.

  Slowly, she nodded as she pulled into the turn lane that would take them back the way they’d just come. “Dammit,” she said, smacking the steering wheel. “What do we do now?”

  Good question. Finding Rolston needed to remain his number-one priority. Instead, he was driving around Los Angeles in a beat-up Honda with a cute, sexy blonde at the wheel, and a pair of hired guns on their tail. He didn’t know how to begin to put that information in his field report.

  “Never mind.” She laughed suddenly, the sound more nervous than joyous. “I don’t know why I’m asking you. You’re the client.”

  The client? Not exactly.

  “Not even the FBI could get my address that quickly.”

  Actually, they could, but he kept that truth to himself.“I live like ten minutes from here,” she continued. “If I have to play bodyguard until you testify before the federal grand jury, I at least need clean underwear.”

  Red lace. That’s what he imagined. A dark red lace thong and one of those bras that barely covered her nipples. One he could easily push aside to expose her breasts. His gaze dipped to the anatomy in question, and the view had him pulling in a long, slow breath in an attempt to regain control of the situation.

  He cleared his throat.

  She shot him a curious glance, then turned her attention back to the freeway on-ramp. She easily merged into traffic, this time driving only a few miles over the speed limit. “You know,” she said, “you don’t look like a Charles to me.”

  Probably because he wasn’t. “Oh, yeah?” he asked, his tone loaded with enough caution that she cast her gaze in his direction again. “Who do I look like, then?”

  She shrugged. “I dunno.”

  With her attention back on the cars ahead of her, Noah breathed a quiet sigh of relief. God, he was a lousy liar. He’d never have made it as a spy for the CIA. Good thing he’d followed in the footsteps of the Sebastian side of the family and joined the FBI.

  “No, you’re definitely not a Charle
s, even with the dark suit,” she said. “A Chuck, maybe. Or Charlie.”

  Not even close. Noah Sebastian Temple, fourth-generation FBI on his mother’s side, and named after his great-grandfather, Noah Sebastian, an agent handpicked by J. Edgar Hoover himself in the 1920’s. On his father’s side, he was third-generation chef. Well, not really, more like a pretend sous chef, since the Bureau forbade moonlighting. But, he did occasionally spend time at Temple’s, his father’s Washington, D.C., restaurant, just to keep his skills sharp.

  “Don’t call me Chuck,” he said. “Chuck is a cut of beef.”

  She giggled. “How about Chaz? Or perhaps you prefer the Scottish version, Chay?”

  A long look out the back window assured him they weren’t being followed. “What are you? A walking dictionary ?”

  She laughed again, a sound so sweet he’d swear his heart hitched. “I was a document clerk at the hall of records downtown for a while. A lot of names crossed my cubicle.”

  Document clerk, rent-a-cop night supervisor, bodyguard. Interesting.

  The chorus of a Beach Boys song suddenly blared inside the small car. Alyssa reached into the ashtray, filled with loose change and a hands-free device for her cell phone. She quickly slipped on the small unit and pressed the button.

  “Hello?”

  Noah took another long look out the back window to make sure they still weren’t being followed, then fished his BlackBerry from the inside pocket of his jacket. He powered up and within seconds he had notifications of two e-mails, half a dozen text messages and a voice-mail message.

  “No, he’s here,” Alyssa said. She glanced in his direction, then turned her attention back to the freeway.

  He zipped through his text messages and answered two from his immediate supervisor, letting S.S.A. Abbott know about the current situation and how he’d lost Rolston before ever setting foot in Los Angeles.

  “We were being followed. I lost them, though.” A hint of pride crept into her voice.

 

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