The Unlikely Bodyguard

The club rumbled with low amusement, as if this occurred every night. Angel clamped a hand familiarly on her upper thigh, grabbed her purse and strode to the door, kicking it open and leaving The Rusty Nail. She fought him every step, wiggling and pounding his back, pushing up and doing everything she could to get free. But Angel just kept walking, a slow saunter. His long stride pounded the breath from her lungs.

“Help! Kidnapping!”

“Shut up.” His tone was infinitely calm.

“Rape!”

“I’ve had sex in a lot of ways, baby, but this is next to impossible.”

The gravel of the parking lot crunched beneath his boots and he kept walking.

“You son of a bitch!”

“That’s likely.”

He stopped and hoisted her off his shoulder, letting his hands smooth provocatively over her thighs and buttocks as he lowered her to her feet.

Calh stumbled on the uneven ground, red-faced with outrage as she drew back her arm. She slapped him, hard. He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink as her handprint blossomed on his face, and Calli realized he’d allowed her to do it.

“Happy?”

“No.”

Without taking his gaze from her, he opened her purse and rummaged for a key. She gasped, trying to take it back, but he held it out of her reach.

“Behave,” he warned, her hotel and car keys in his hand. He tossed the purse at her chest and she caught it.

“Give those to me.”

He didn’t, and moved beside her, hunching down to unlock the car door. His face was inches from hers. “Get in.”

Calli blinked, then looked down. “How did you know it was mine?”

He smirked. “Wild guess.”

Angel walked around to the driver’s side and opened the door. When she didn’t move, he propped his arm on the door frame and studied her. She was fire-breathing mad; her small fists clenched, her features tight. He couldn’t resist goading her. “Hey, I can drive away in this fifty-thousand dollar car, alone, or you can come with me.”

She yanked open the door, glaring at him as she dropped into the seat, venting her anger by slamming the door. He’d ruined everything. She’d just wanted to cross the line into the danger zone and he was bent on playing chaperone. Terrific. At this rate, her tombstone would likely read, “Here lies the vestal virgin, untouched by any man.” Or by any excitement.

“I should have you arrested.”

“Good luck finding a cop around here.” He started the engine and left the lot, swinging by a motorcycle long enough to lock it down and unclip the helmet from the seat. He tossed it into the back of the car and drove away.

Calli huffed and stared out the window. She wasn’t afraid of him. Maybe because he had come to her defense, even though she’d had the situation under control. Calli sunk into the seat a little, the truth finding her. Who was she fooling? Outnumbered to start with, Tiny would have pounded her into the concrete like a toothpick into a stick of butter if Angel hadn’t stepped in. The fact irked her.

She slanted a quick look at her rescuer. He was so annoyingly calm when she wanted to kick something, preferably him. Well. There was always tomorrow, Sir Galahad. She hadn’t come all the way from Texas just to spend her time watching TV. She could go back to the Nail or some other dive anytime.

He drove without talking, but Calli could hear his breathing, smell the scent of him. Not cologne, but a fragrance like nothing she knew. Wind and freedom—and risk. She cast a look at him. He was glancing at her legs. She inched the skirt down.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a bully?”

“Yeah.”

“Arrogant?”

A pause, then, “Yeah.”

“A lousy conversationalist?”

He slanted her a quick glance, the hard line of his mouth quirking a fraction.

“Sexy?”

His lips tightened. “I don’t want anything from you—” He shot her a confused look. “You got a name?”

“Should have asked that when you decided to play Tarzan and throw me over your shoulder.”

“I could have thrown you to the wolves instead.”

“I would have survived.”

He snorted. “Tiny isn’t so tiny when he’s pushed, lady.”

She caught the demand for her name. She ignored it. He grabbed her purse, yanking it when she tried to take it, digging one-handed until he found her wallet. He flipped it open, sliding a glance at the name, then her.

“Hey, Calli.”

Oh, God, that voice was to die for, low and raspy. Annoyed by the thought, Calli grabbed back her things, wishing she could hit him. But he was driving. And she wasn’t stupid enough to get herself killed because she was feeling manipulated. Feeling? It was more like being bulldozed by a rampaging demigod of badness.

He slowed the car to a halt and shut off the motor, removing the key and tossing it, with her hotel key, into her lap. He grabbed his helmet from the back seat and met her gaze. “Stay out of the Nail. You don’t belong.”

Before she could respond with something scathing, he left the car, slamming the door before walking quickly away. She watched him, admiring his taut behind in tight jeans, the long lope of his stride, then she dragged her gaze to her surroundings. She was at her hotel. She looked down at the label on her hotel key.

Calli smacked the dashboard.

God, she hated being patronized by men. Every man at the factory, even Daniel O’Hara, her boss, liked playing a father figure. If she’d had parents, they would likely have done it, too Her seven chefs hovered over her as if she couldn’t get dressed without help and if any man became interested in her and wasn’t the epitome of quality, The Boys did their best to destroy him.

People looked at her and saw a “good girl” raised by nuns, with the morals of a saint, though the latter was a slight exaggeration. Obviously the dark Angel had seen it, too. Though one look at him and any morals she’d learned had gone straight out with the used holy water. Oh, she was grateful that men didn’t think she was easy, and she supposed there were still some women who wouldn’t mind the Goody Two-shoes, picket fence, P.T.A.-domestic goddess image. But Calli loathed it. She hated how guys cleaned up the conversation when she entered a room, the jokes dying before the punch line. Or worse, clammed up altogether. She wanted people to say exactly what they were feeling.

Even the men she’d managed to find the time to date recently were agonizingly polite, obsequious. And painfully dull. They didn’t talk to her, they chatted, as if she couldn’t handle anything remotely stressing. If they only knew her past, she thought with a flash of memory. Calh wanted more. Of what, she wasn’t sure.

She felt extraordinarily restrained by the image she needed to project for her career and the one struggling for escape. She looked down at her clothes and smirked. This wasn’t exactly her usual style, but she felt incredibly daring and lush in leather. And beneath it all was a wild assortment of Brazilian lingerie that made her feel gloriously wicked. That was her only private justice, like snubbing the world when she wore tailored designer suits. For beneath every one of them was unchained seduction in lace and garters.

For an instant, she wondered if Angel knew, since he’d had his hand halfway up her skirt when he’d carted her out of the bar.

She slid over the gearshift and jammed in the key. The engine revved and she was turning to look behind her when the car door suddenly opened. Before she could speak, he reached across and turned off the car, then pulled her too easily from behind the wheel.

Where had he come from? she wanted to know. She’d watched him walk away!