The Unlikely Bodyguard

He held her by the arms to his eye level. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

His eyes were like shaved ice. Scary. “Of course not.”

“Then what the hell were you doing?” He shook her and one of her shoes plopped to the ground.

“That’s not your business, now is it, Angel?” Where he got that name, she couldn’t begin to wonder. He was more like Lucifer. Dark, lean, with lots of muscle beneath that jean jacket. She felt it when he’d carried her so humiliatingly from the bar. She saw it now in his hauntingly pale eyes. God, they were like crystals, sparkling with secrets. The power of them worried her.

“Do you mind?” She brought her shoeless toe to the crotch of his jeans.

“Don’t play there, little tigress,” he rasped, and something ignited inside Calli.

“I hadn’t planned on it. Well-placed kicks work so much better.” She tapped him lightly and his eyes flared. “Put me down.”

He did, abruptly, releasing her as if his hands were burned, and stepping back.

Jamming on her loose shoe, she slid back into her car. She didn’t look at him, but she could feel him; his stance casual, his hips slanted, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. And those eyes. “I don’t know what possessed you to interfere in my life, Angel Whoever-you-are, but I can take care of myself.” Where was that car key?

“I’ll remember that when I’m reading about your murder in tomorrow’s paper.”

“You’re being a tad possessive toward someone you don’t know.” She found the key.

Angel watched her search for the ignition, three times. “You’re drunk. Miss Thornton.”

She held up her hand. “Let’s not beat around the bush, shall we? I’m smashed.”

“And who will you kill on the road just to spite me?”

She sighed, slowly lowering her head to the steering wheel. The horn beeped and she flinched. He was right, of course. Pride and rebellion could be taken only so far. Removing her keys, she swung her legs to the left and climbed from the BMW, closing the door. The following silence hung like a knife between them, sharp and dangerous.

She stared up at him. His face was expressionless. She didn’t think anyone could do that, wipe every ounce of emotion from his face, but he had. She staggered a bit, then bent and took off her shoes. Angel’s eyes flared as she straightened.

She was just a little thing.

“Don’t let my size mislead,” she said, recognizing his surprise. “I really am tougher than I look.”

“Same goes here.”

She let her gaze rip and slide over him, down to the dark, snakeskin boots, then back up, smiling at the gold loop in his ear. “I can’t imagine how.” She turned and pointed her oblong key chain at the car. The lights went off, the locks snapped and the alarm set with a double beep. She leveled a side glance at him. “Bet you wish you could lock me up that well, huh, Angel?”

Yes, he thought. He did. But what he wanted was to lock himself up with her.

“G’night, Angel, honey.”

She brushed past him as she headed straight to the hotel, her shoes dangling from her fingertips like dainty slippers. His gaze swept her, clinging to her behind shifting inside the leather until she slipped into the hotel room. God, she was one wild number, he thought No, he corrected, she was playing at being wild. That she hadn’t bothered to set the car alarm outside the Nail told him she’d no idea where she was sticking that pretty nose and was damn lucky that her car hadn’t been stripped when they’d come out. If she knew anything about The Rusty Nail, she wouldn’t have set one polished toe in there. He’d read her instantly when she had. Her clothes were too expensive, too tailored. They spoke of money. And her white BMW screamed it.

He leaned against a street lamp, watching until her lights went out. Then he hitchhiked a ride back to the Nail for his bike. Go home, Calli Thornton., he thought with a ride past the hotel and a final look-see for her car. A good woman like that didn’t belong here. Ever. And certainly not near him.

Gabriel “Angel” Griffin knew he shouldn’t get too close to her. Just her perfume drove him mad. God, everything about her drove him nuts. She was sensual energy and didn’t realize it. He’d spent the past two nights trying to reason her into a neat isolated corner of his mind. He had to, had to go back to feeling the way he had before he’d laid eyes on her.

Like nothing.

Feeling old and empty at thirty?

Or keep worrying over a black-haired beauty with a sultry walk and eyes as bright as a New Mexico sky? He wished he could dismiss her from his mind, but he couldn’t. He’d made a promise.

And as he relaxed on the seat of his bike, boots propped on the handlebars, he kept one eye peeled on the entrance to Damien’s Haven. She was really pushing it this time. Damien’s looked like the average yuppie nightclub on the outside; tasteful decor, a bouncer and a line to get in. But inside, it was a designer-draped cesspool. More drug traffic went through that place than a Colombian cartel, bringing out the wired and weird. And Calli was in the center of it.

Last night it was the streets, conversations with people who would sell their souls—and hers—for a few bucks. He’d been there, too, she just hadn’t known it. For three days he’d watched her push the limits of her safety, a couple of fairly harmless admirers getting a little too familiar with that sweet behind, a kid trying to snatch her purse, unsuccessfully. So far nothing serious, not that every man within sight came to her rescue just because of her looks and the payback they might receive. The paybacks brought him out of hiding and under her nose tonight.

Rooting in his pockets, he found a half-crushed cigarette and slid it between his lips. Then he hunted for a match, lit it, cupping the flame and squinting through the smoke at the entrance to Damien’s It was wide and he could scrutinize at least two-thirds of the club from here. And her. Or he would be inside right now. He drew on the smoke, exhaling in a short stream, then made a face at the stale taste and pitched it into the street. He saw her move through the club and his chest tightened unfamiliarly as she neared. She paused at the entrance, shaking her head to someone he couldn’t see, then left. She maintained even steps and Angel wondered if she’d had anything to drink tonight. She hadn’t the past two nights.

She strode toward her car and he enjoyed the sight of those high-heeled legs. It was leather night again. This time, flame red. He liked it. Then she saw him and stopped in the center of the street. Horns beeped and traffic moved around her. The streetlights showered a dingy yellow over her and she continued, pausing briefly to let a car pass.

“How much do you get for baby-sitting?” she called.

He arched a brow, his gaze gliding heavily over her. “You’re no baby.”

She cocked her hip and smiled “Nice of you to notice.”

“Hard not to.”

He liked the faint blush stealing into her face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen one. A real one.

“You’re.becoming a pest. Don’t you have a life, a wife, or somewhere else to be?”

Slowly he shook his head. She walked toward him and stopped beside the bike. She planted one hand on her hip and looked him over so thoroughly, Gabe felt his groin tighten. God. Did she know what she did to a man? She was temptation incarnate and Gabe knew he couldn’t do what he was thinking. He swung his boots off the handlebars and sat upright.

But just the same, he let his thoughts multiply. And he ended up with her image parading through his mind without a stitch of clothing.

“You’re cramping my style, Angel.”

He didn’t like that she called him that. It wasn’t his real name. Some whore on the street gave it to him after his first lay when he was fourteen and he could never shake it. After so many years, he let it ride. But right now, he hated it and wanted to hear her call him Gabe. He shifted, straddling the bike. “Get on.”

Her look was bland. “Get real ” She moved toward her car, turning off the alarm and opening the locks. He started the motorcycle, riding up beside her and blocking her from opening the door. The noise of the engine settled low.

She sent him an annoyed look. “I don’t need rescuing ”

“Are you admitting you did the other night?”

“I’ll admit to being drunk and nothing more.”

“Puked all night, did you?”

She blinked, all innocence and smiles. “My, how attractive of you to mention it.”

He smirked, looked away for a second, then stilled, his gaze somewhere beyond her. “Make some interesting friends tonight?” He inclined his head to Damien’s and the three men hanging around the doorway. She looked.

“Damn!” Pear—real fear—colored her voice as two of the three men pushed away from the wall and headed toward them. One took a drag on a joint, then snuffed it in his palm and shoved it into his pocket before stepping off the curb. Real bad company, Gabe thought, remembering one of them from the newspaper. But Gabe recognized the look as their eyes traveled over her, her expensive car. She was ready cash for them and nothing more. Then they spotted him.