“I do remember more than a few things about you, Shel.”
Including how she kissed, how her skin had felt under his hands . . .
Steady, boy.
He shouldn’t have started with the personal talk, because she tensed up. Shit. It was so simple with other women—bringing a smile to their faces, seducing them into at least liking him. Why didn’t things ever go right with this one?
Why did it matter, though? He’d never been good enough for the city girl, and the story would always be the same. He’d had one chance to win her over, seventeen summers ago, and that was it.
He opened a manila folder, which he pushed toward her, ending the niceties or whatever you wanted to call them. Ending everything but the business, because that’s the only thing that’d ever be between them now.
“Let’s talk terms,” he said. “And let me see if we can get your cousin Buzz on the phone since he was my first contact.”
If she noticed that he was suddenly cooler, she didn’t remark on it. He was nothing but thankful for the reprieve because without emotion he really would do his job that much better.
As she looked at the contents of the folder, he settled into what he was—her bodyguard, an employee who wasn’t here to please her on a personal level.
Because, Lord knew, he’d already tried that and failed.
3
After Gideon, Rochelle, and her cousin Buzz got the wheels of business in motion, Gideon called up another buddy to work with him, in spite of the late hour. But since the economy had been tight, Harry McClure jumped at the work. They were used to crazy shifts anyway, and his colleague said he would meet him at Rochelle’s rental mansion as soon as he could.
So Gideon drove her home, toward the McCullough Mountain Range, holding back a smile at the sight of the fancy lady in his rattrap pickup. He put the stereo on high, blasting country music all the way.
Once, he even noticed her rhythmically tapping her fingers to some badass groove from Rebel Meets Rebel, but the cab was dark and so was the night. He wouldn’t have called her on it.
He turned down the music before they came to the guard at the gate, where Rochelle left Harry’s name, then they drove through streets lined with spotlighted palm trees and bird-of-paradise flowers, circular drives, and Tuscan architecture.
Rochelle’s place was at the top of a hill with a view of the valley below and a golf course. Once inside the mansion, with its umber tones and arches, he checked out the wood ceilings and stone floors, catching a glimpse of an infinity pool, cabana, and spa out back through the floor-to-roof windows.
No doubt this was a mansion.
“How many bedrooms does this have?” he asked, taking off his Stetson. This was the type of place where a man needed to do that.
“Six,” she said like it was no big deal.
“I see. Probably about fifteen bathrooms, too.”
“No.” She laughed. “Just eight.”
“Oh, just.”
She shrugged. He’d never known someone who seemed kind of embarrassed about being well off. Then again, Rochelle had never talked much about the affluent home she’d grown up in with her dad, an investment banker who’d come from the same humble roots as his ranching brother, Dennis. But maybe she still never chatted about her pop because she’d never known him that well, just like she’d told Gideon all those years ago.
Poor little rich girl.
It was almost as if she wanted to make an excuse for renting such a big place. “I figure the rent will pay for itself in entertainment value when my cousins crash here. It’s like a vacation for them, a way for us all to get together.”
“And what else does this place have?” Gideon asked, dropping his duffel bag to the ground. “I’ll be securing it when Harry gets here, so I’d like a better idea.”
“You already know about the security system and cameras.” She took the sunglasses off her head, folding them as she furrowed her brow in thought. “But I just moved in, and I haven’t acquainted myself with everything else yet. I know there’s a little theater where my cousins will probably watch their ultimate fighting shows or Cinemax at night or . . . whatever. There’re balconies, a gourmet kitchen and a wet bar, a couple of laundry rooms, an elevator, an office . . .”
Hellfire. “How about a ballroom, too?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “At least three of those. And a roller coaster in the backyard besides.”
At least they could still joke around. That’d make watching over her a little easier. “Anything else?”
“Just a casita and cabana near the pool. Suzanne is staying in the casita.” Before they’d left his house, she’d called her manager to see how she was feeling, and Suzanne had said she was going to sleep and not to bother waking her when they arrived.
Rochelle motioned toward a curvy staircase with a detailed railing and Italian Renaissance-like art decorating the walls. “I can take you to your room now, unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
She tucked a long, dark wave of hair over her ear, and Gideon’s stomach clenched with lust.
That hair, bunched in his fingers once upon a night . . .
“Unless,” she said, bringing him back to reality, “you’d rather stay in the casita. Suzanne can move out of it, no problem, because I know it’s normal for a bodyguard to stay somewhere close, not necessarily in the same house, right on top of the client.”
On top? Shit, he wasn’t even going to think about that image. Unfortunately, the rest of his body did, and it fisted in all kinds of dangerous areas.
He gripped his hat. “I don’t need to kick Suzanne out of her nest. Any room will be fine for me.” And since Harry would be there only half-days, taking over for Gideon when he needed a break and doubling up with him at public events, he wouldn’t need a room.
An awkward silence slid between them, and Gideon looked around, his gaze snagging on the sight of some boxes, halfway opened like someone had started to unpack them and had deserted the task.
Rochelle noticed where he’d focused, and she went over to a box and started to press the flaps back into place. “Way to make a nice place into an eyesore, right? I didn’t have time to put some of my things away before we got the call about the vandalized poster from the bookstore.”
“Is that Cherry’s book?” He’d caught a glimpse of the same cover he’d seen on Rochelle’s phone, but instead of the creeper’s message scrawled across the poster’s artwork, there was only a softly drawn, colorful image of Cherry Chastain, lips red and parted, eyes sex-drowsy and flirty—a sixties wannabe starlet who might’ve looked right at home as a cigarette girl in a nightclub.
Rochelle held up a book and smiled. “If you keep me alive all week, I’ll even give you a free signed one. These are promotional copies.”
“Hell, that cover’s almost enough to persuade me to take up reading.” Privately, he thought it actually might be a good idea to check out the book so he could get a feeling for the creeper, Cherry’s big fan.
Amused, Rochelle rolled her eyes, stowing the novel back in the box. He couldn’t help but notice that her fingertips brushed the cover like she was fond of old Cherry.
Curiosity pushed at him, and on a whim, he asked, “Why write about her?”
Rochelle stood, straightening out the wrinkles in her pants until she was perfect again. “She was a southern California girl like me. She came from a well-heeled household, too, but boy, was she wild. I suppose I was fascinated with the fact that she didn’t repress it, either.”
Blushing, she stopped just short of saying, unlike me. They both knew that she’d given in to her own wild hair one night in particular.
It took all the strength Gideon had to keep himself from commenting. Damn, did it ever.
“At any rate,” she said, “the more research I did, the more I realized that Cherr
y was a narcissist, and even though they can be extremely annoying, I also found that interesting. That’s why she went off to find fame and fortune—because she was sure that the world revolved around her, and how could it not love her? Talk about setting yourself up for a dramatic fall.”
Narcissists. Yeah, Gideon had never met any of those in his line of work. Not that he would say that to Rochelle. And not that Rochelle was one, although he wondered if a writer needed to be a little like that every time they put some of themselves into a book.
“There’s another reason I always wanted to write about Cherry, though,” Rochelle said. “She was a legend around Rough and Tumble, even if she was just in a painting. No one really knew all that much about her except that she was in a couple of scenes behind Elvis and Ann-Margret in Viva Las Vegas and that she partied with the big men in town. But when she didn’t reach the heights of fame she thought she would, she burned out in the end.”
“Literally,” Gideon added. “You said before that there’s no solid evidence, but the official word is still that she burned to death when the house she was partying in went up in flames.”
“Well, they couldn’t match any forensic evidence to her, not even a set of teeth. In general, there were a lot of bodies crowded in that house, and there wasn’t anything that identified Cherry except for a purse that was miraculously intact. But Cherry herself wasn’t ever heard from again after that, so everyone assumed she went down with the house. I mean, why would someone who loved to be so visible just disappear?”
“And you made that into a book.”
“How could I not?” Her gaze went wistful, just like it used to when they were teens and she’d talk about the latest story she was writing—usually about movie stars or glamour. “I really felt for Cherry, related to her. But maybe that’s just because, during my research, I found out that she and her mom didn’t have much of a relationship and . . .”
She drifted off, just like she used to whenever the subject of parents came up. All he knew was that Rochelle didn’t know her mom at all, thanks to how the woman had run off with another man, deserting her daughter and husband when Rochelle was a toddler.
“Well,” she said, lifting her hands in a poised shrug, “I guess you have it now. My Cherry story.”
Jesus, did she have to keep saying things that had double meanings? Because he’d been a big part of her cherry story—the popping of it, to be exact.
Thank the powers above that the doorbell rang just then, signaling Harry’s arrival. Rochelle even seemed relieved as she went to let in Gideon’s backup, who had a ginger crew cut and was wearing a black ensemble. Altogether, he was a Humvee of a man with square edges to his face and a blocky body. And at least it was no effort for him to act like a true professional with Rochelle.
After the greetings were out of the way, she took them around the mansion to familiarize them with the layout.
Harry, who’d spent years as a cop and had honed instincts, kept sliding weird glances at Gideon, like he’d caught the tension in the air and was wondering why it was there.
Things got even worse when Rochelle eventually brought them into her bedroom. Yeah—the place where she’d be laying on that king-size mattress tonight, her hair spilled over the pillow, moonlight washing over her as she kicked the covers off and . . .
Can it.
Gideon somehow made it to the end of the tour without his cock exploding, and fortunately he and Harry didn’t need her around as they began to secure the place.
But then his partner had to go and flap his gums.
“Man,” he said after they were walking out of Rochelle’s room. “You’re sure itchy tonight.”
“She’s an old friend, and I’m worried about this creeper. I already told you that.”
“Old friend,” Harry said as though he was chewing on the last word.
But Gideon didn’t mind him, and they went about their business without another comment. Harry was usually good at dropping a subject, and it was one of the reasons Gideon had asked him to join up. He’d never been fond of big talkers.
By the time they were done and Harry had taken a closer look at security outside the house, Gideon fetched his duffel from where he’d left it in the foyer and went upstairs to the guest room Rochelle had said would be his for the time being. It was a pretty straightforward rendition of what a Tuscan bedroom might look like, with earth tones, brick, marble, wood, and even a wrought-iron chandelier. Best of all, it had a massive bed decorated with a silk draping and a connected bathroom, making him feel like king for a day.
With an off-limits queen right down the hall.
Blowing out a pent-up breath, he set his duffel on the leather wooden chest at the foot of his bed, but before unzipping it, he heard light footsteps outside his door, which he hadn’t shut.
Bare feet on carpet. A woman’s steps.
He turned around just as Rochelle appeared in the double doorway. She was still dressed in her vest and those crisp ankle-skimming pants from earlier, like she would rather die before she appeared before him in her PJs.
Hell, she’d look good in PJs—long, short, striped, or silk.
Or satin. Or see-through . . .
“You have everything you need?” she asked.
He ignored the steam gathering in his veins. “And then some. Thanks.”
Earlier, she’d gone over the week’s schedule with him, but if she needed sleep for the release-day signings she’d be having at small independent bookstores tomorrow, she didn’t show it. She seemed as wired as he was.
And as hyperobservant.
She was looking at him again. Hell, she’d been doing it all night, mostly as if she were trying to figure out who he was or what he’d become over the years. More than a few times, he’d even caught her focusing on the gunpowder burn just below his cheekbone, like she was doing now.
“Too polite to ask what this is?” he said, gesturing to what some of the guys called his “beauty mark.”
“I was wondering. But I figured I shouldn’t . . .”
“Get too personal?”
It seemed as if she was debating whether to stay or go. And, dammit, there was no question what he wanted, even if it was out of the question.
He reflexively thumbed his mark. “It’s a gunpowder burn. Even people at the R and T don’t know how I came to have it.”
“No one’s ever asked?”
“Boss,” he said, “we don’t ask each other a lot of questions in that place.” Everyone just gravitated there, mostly for good times, company, the feeling that you weren’t so alone.
She laughed softly. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the Rough and Tumble guys gave it to you.”
Back to joking. Fine by him. “You sure didn’t seem afraid to be in the saloon tonight.”
“Oh, I wasn’t. Not entirely. But then again, I like to observe, take things in, and I tend to forget just how dangerous some places can be. I mean, I always have that in mind, I just . . .”
“You feel like a visitor,” he said. Hadn’t she always been, though? A visitor every summer to her uncle’s ranch, a visitor just passing through Nevada now . . .
His gut was telling him that she wasn’t standing here for no reason, though. She was reluctant to leave. A fellow didn’t need a sixth bodyguardlike sense to realize that.
But the novelty of having him around would wear off soon enough for her. And, by that time, it’d be the end of the week, the end of his personal obligations, because, even if she needed an out-of-town BG, he didn’t travel. Besides, Boomer was going to identify whoever had angrily crossed Rochelle’s face out on that poster.
Gideon could last until then.
He extracted his shaving kit from his bag, tossing it on the bed. “Anyway, the saloon ain’t dangerous. Not unless someone’s looking for trouble.”
“
Okay,” she said, tilting her head, checking out his gunpowder spot again. “We’ve established that no one there gave that mark to you. So how did you get it?”
“You gonna write a book about it?”
“If the story’s interesting enough.”
It was, but he’d told only two people how he’d gotten the mark—Kat and Boomer. Rochelle wasn’t about to be another. “What if I told you it’s from a woman who got riled up because I left her high and dry, and then she drew a firearm on me?”
Her eyebrows shot up, and he laughed. Right away, she laughed with him, not missing his innate talent to bullshit his way through life.
“And what if,” she said, firing right back, “I guessed that this ‘woman’ probably wasn’t the first to use you for target practice?”
“Not the last, either, I’m sure.”
She smiled, and all the kidding died down. He reached into his duffel, continuing to unpack.
“Seriously, Gideon,” she said. “How did you get such a mark there?”
He clutched a pair of sweatpants. She wasn’t about to let this go, was she? Then he’d do what he had to do. Lie.
And put the real reason in a box in the back of his mind.
“All right then. I got it on the job, wrestling a firearm away from a client’s disgruntled business associate who paid him a surprise visit. He was a lawyer, and his buddy thought he did him wrong. Anyway, during the struggle, the barrel got too close to my face, and when he fired, I got some residue scorched onto me.”
That was close enough to the truth, at any rate.
She didn’t gasp like a lot of people would’ve. She didn’t even offer a “wow.”
“I did end up getting a real nice bonus on that job,” he said wryly, “so it was worth it.”
“Why didn’t you ever try to get the burn removed?” she asked.
Research. Was he about to become a character in a book? “Because it adds character to my face.”
“That’s not the reason, and you know it.”
“Okay. Would it make more sense to tell you that I don’t give a shit if I’m pretty? Also, women seem to like it. Makes me seem dangerous.”
Hot and Bothered Page 4