Strong enough to protect her. Bold enough to love her.

When good girl Margo Connelly becomes Lamar “Striker” Jennings’s latest assignment, she knows she’s in trouble. And not just because he’s been hired to protect her from an underworld criminal. The reformed bad boy’s appeal is breaching all her defenses, and as the threats against her increase, Margo isn’t sure which is more dangerous: the gangster targeting her, or the far too alluring protector tempting her to let loose.

Though Striker’s now living on the right side of the law, he’s convinced his troubled past keeps Margo out of his league. But physical chemistry explodes into full-blown passion when they go on the run together. Surrendering to desire could be a deadly distraction—or finally prove that he’s the only man qualified to keep her safe, and win her love.

Praise for Brenda Jackson

“Leave it to Jackson to take sizzle and honor, wrap it in romance and come up with a first-rate tale.”

—RT Book Reviews on Temptation

“Brenda Jackson is the queen of newly discovered love... If there’s one thing Jackson knows how to do, it’s how to pluck those heartstrings and stir up some seriously saucy drama.”

—BookPage on Inseparable

“Welcome to another memorable family tree created by the indomitable Brenda Jackson, a romantic at heart.”

—USA TODAY on A Brother’s Honor

“[Jackson] proves once again that she rocks when it comes to crafting family drama with a healthy dose of humor and steamy, sweaty sex. Here’s another winner.”

—RT Book Reviews on A Brother’s Honor, 4½ stars, Top Pick

“This deliciously sensual romance ramps up the emotional stakes and the action.... [S]exy and sizzling.”

—Library Journal on Intimate Seduction

“Jackson does not disappoint...first-class page-turner.”

—RT Book Reviews on A Silken Thread, 4½ stars, Top Pick

“Jackson is a master at writing.”

—Publishers Weekly on Sensual Confessions

Forged in Desire

Brenda Jackson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the love of my life, my best friend and the wind beneath my wings, Gerald Jackson, Sr. I’m everything I am because you loved me.

To everyone who enjoyed reading about the Grangers, this one is for you!

“Happy is the man that findeth wisdom, and the man that getteth understanding.”

—Proverbs 3:13

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Extract

Copyright

PROLOGUE

“FINALLY, WE GET to go home.”

Margo Connelly was certain the man’s words echoed the sentiment they all felt. The last thing she had expected when reporting for jury duty was to be sequestered during the entire trial...especially with eleven strangers, more than a few of whom had taken the art of bitching to a whole new level.

She was convinced this had been the longest, if not the most miserable, six weeks of her life, as well as a lousy way to start off the new year. They hadn’t been allowed to have any inbound or outbound calls, read the newspapers, check any emails, watch television or listen to the radio. The only good thing was, with the vote just taken, a unanimous decision had been reached and justice would be served. The federal case against Murphy Erickson would finally be over and they would be allowed to go home.

As far as the twelve of them were concerned, the prosecution had proved, beyond a shadow of doubt, that Erickson was the leader of a ring of organized crime that had resulted in over a dozen deaths. The majority of them so brutal it had taken everything Margo had to sit there, trying not to show any emotion, while listening to endless testimony about the deaths in gruesome detail. There had even been a family of four that included two children. Innocent victims who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“It’s time to let the bailiff know we’ve reached a decision.” Nancy Snyder spoke up, interrupting Margo’s thoughts. “I have a man waiting at home, who I haven’t seen in six weeks, and I can’t wait to get to him.”

Lucky you, Margo thought, leaning back in her chair. She and Scott Dylan had split over a year ago, and the parting hadn’t been pretty. He liked reminding her that, as a financial adviser on Wall Street making a high six-figure salary, he could take his pick of women and she should be grateful. When she’d felt the relationship had run its course, he hadn’t wanted to end things and had made a damn nuisance of himself.

Fortunately, as a wedding-dress designer, she could work from anywhere and had decided to move back home to Charlottesville. And there was the bonus of being near her uncle Frazier, her father’s brother and the man who’d become her guardian when her parents had died in a house fire when she was ten. He was her only living relative and, although they often butted heads, she would admit she had missed him while living in New York.

“What about dinner tonight?” a deep masculine voice whispered close to her ear.

Margo didn’t have to turn to see who it was. Carl Palmer had made his interest in her known from the first. Because of that wedding band on his finger, she hadn’t reciprocated.

She shifted in her chair to look at him. To keep others from overhearing their conversation, he’d leaned in close as if he was checking out the papers in front of her. Carl was handsome, she would give him that, but she was not a woman who messed around with married men. “I would think after six weeks you’d want to get home to your wife,” she whispered back.

“Soon-to-be ex” was his quick, whispered comeback.

“Doesn’t matter. Not interested.”

Before he could give a retort, the knock on the door got everyone’s attention. The bailiff had arrived. Hopefully, in a few hours it would all be over and the judge would release them. She couldn’t wait to get back to running her business. Six weeks had been a long time away from it. Lucky for her she had finished her last order in time for the bride’s Christmas wedding. But she couldn’t help wondering how many new orders she might have missed out on while on jury duty.

The bailiff entered and said, “The judge has called the court back in session for the reading of the verdict. We’re ready to escort you there.”

Like everyone else in the room, Margo stood. She was ready for the verdict to be read. It was only after this that she could get her life back.

* * *

“FOREMAN, HAS THE JURY reached a verdict?” the judge asked.

“Yes, we have, Your Honor.”

The courtroom was quiet as the verdict was read. “We, the jury, find Murphy Erickson guilty of murder.”

Suddenly Erickson bowled over and laughed. He actually laughed, and it was the kind of laugh that made the hairs on the necks of everyone in attendance stand up. The outburst prompted the judge to hit his gavel several times. “Order in the courtroom. Counselor, quiet the defendant or he will be found in contempt of court.”

“I don’t give a damn about any contempt,” Erickson snarled loudly. “You!” he said, pointing a finger at the judge. “Along with everyone else in this courtroom, you have just signed your own death warrant. As long as I remain locked up, someone in here will die every seventy-two hours,” Erickson threatened at the top of his voice while looking around at the members of the jury, the prosecutors, the clerk reporter, the defense attorneys, media and all others in the courtroom. It was as if his gaze didn’t miss a single individual.

Pandemonium broke out. The judge continued to pound his gavel, trying to restore order. Police officers rushed forward to subdue Erickson and haul him away. But even then the sound of his threats could still be heard.

Margo glanced around and saw everyone was just as stunned as she. She breathed in deeply, trying to control her racing heart. The judge finally established order in the courtroom and began thanking the members of the jury for their public service. His words were lost on Margo. Erickson’s threats were echoing too loudly in her ears.

CHAPTER ONE

LAMAR “STRIKER” JENNINGS walked into the hospital room, stopped and then frowned. “What the hell is he doing working from bed?”

“I asked myself the same thing when I got his call for us to come here,” Striker’s friend Quasar Patterson said, sitting lazily in a chair with his long legs stretched out in front of him.

“And you might as well take a seat like he told us to do,” another friend, Stonewall Courson, suggested, while pointing to an empty chair. “Evidently it will take more than a bullet to slow down Roland.”

Roland Summers, CEO of Summers Security Firm, lay in the hospital bed, staring at them. Had it been just last week that the man had been fighting for his life after foiling an attempted carjacking?

“You still look like shit, Roland. Shouldn’t you be trying to get some rest instead of calling a meeting?” Striker asked, sliding his tall frame into the chair. He didn’t like seeing Roland this way. They’d been friends a long time, and he couldn’t ever recall the man being sick. Not even with a cold. Well, at least he was alive. That damn bullet could have taken him out and Striker didn’t want to think about that.

“You guys have been keeping up with the news?” Roland asked in a strained voice, interrupting Striker’s thoughts.

“We’re aware of what’s going on, if that’s what you want to know,” Stonewall answered. “Nobody took Murphy Erickson’s threat seriously.”

Roland made an attempt to nod his head. “And now?”

“And now people are panicking. Phones at the office have been ringing off the hook. I’m sure every protective security service in town is booked solid. Everyone in the courtroom that day is either in hiding or seeking protection, and with good reason,” Quasar piped in to say. “The judge, clerk reporter and bailiff are all dead. All three were gunned down within seventy-two hours of each other.”

“The FBI is working closely with local law enforcement, and they figure it’s the work of the same assassin,” Striker added. “I heard they anticipate he’ll go after someone on the jury next.”

“Which is why I called the three of you here. There was a woman on the jury who I want protected. It’s personal.”

“Personal?” Striker asked, lifting a brow. He knew Roland dated off and on, but he’d never been serious with anyone. He was always quick to say that his wife, Becca, had been his one and only love.

“Yes, personal. She’s a family member.”

The room got quiet. That statement was even more baffling since, as far as the three of them knew, Roland didn’t have any family...at least not anymore. They were all aware of his history. He’d been a cop, who’d discovered some of his fellow officers on the take. Before he could blow the whistle he’d been framed and sent to prison for fifteen years. Becca had refused to accept his fate and worked hard to get him a new trial. He served three years before finally leaving prison but not before the dirty cops murdered Roland’s wife. All the cops involved had eventually been brought to justice and charged with the death of Becca Summers, in addition to other crimes.

“You said she’s family?” Striker asked, looking confused.

“Yes, although I say that loosely since we’ve never officially met. I know who she is, but she doesn’t know I even exist.” Roland then closed his eyes, and Striker knew he had to be in pain.

“Man, you need to rest,” Quasar said. “You can cover this with us another time.”

Roland’s eyes flashed back open. “No, we need to talk now. I need one of you protecting her right away.”

Nobody said anything for a minute and then Striker asked, “What relation is she to you, man?”

“My niece. To make a long story short, years ago my mom got involved with a married man. He broke things off when his wife found out about the affair but not before I was conceived. I always knew the identity of my father. I also knew about his other two older sons, although they didn’t know about me. I guess you can say I was the old man’s secret.” Roland tried shifting in bed and suddenly let out a deep moan.

“You okay, Roland?” Stonewall asked in concern.

Roland nodded. “I’m okay.”

“You need to rest,” Striker said.

“The sooner I finish telling you everything, the sooner I can rest.”

“Then finish before we call the nurse to increase your pain meds,” Quasar said, leaning forward.

“One day after I’d left for college, I got a call from my mother letting me know the old man was dead but he’d left me something in his will.”

Striker didn’t say anything, thinking that at least Roland’s old man had done right by him in the end. To this day, his own poor excuse of a father hadn’t even acknowledged his existence. “That’s when your two brothers found out about you?” he asked.

“Yes. Their mother found out about me as well. She turned out to be a real bitch. Even tried blocking what Connelly had left for me in the will. But she couldn’t. The old man evidently had anticipated her making such a move and made sure the will was ironclad. He gave me enough to finish college without taking out student loans with a little left over.”

“Good for him,” Quasar said. “What about your brothers? How did they react to finding out about you?”

“The eldest acted like a dickhead,” Roland said without pause. “The other one’s reaction was just the opposite. His name was Murdock and he reached out to me afterward. I would hear from him from time to time. He would call to see how I was doing.”

Roland didn’t say anything for a minute, his face showing he was struggling with strong emotions. “Murdock is the one who gave Becca the money to hire a private investigator to reopen my case. I never got the chance to thank him.”

“Why?” Quasar asked.

Roland drew in a deep breath and then said, “Murdock and his wife were killed weeks before my new trial began.”

“How did they die?”

“House fire. Fire department claimed faulty wiring. I never believed it but couldn’t prove otherwise. Luckily their ten-year-old daughter wasn’t home at the time. She’d been attending a sleepover at one of her friends’ houses.”

“You think those dirty cops took them out too?” Stonewall asked.

“Yes. While I could link Becca’s death to those corrupt cops, there wasn’t enough evidence to connect Murdock’s and his wife’s deaths.”

Stonewall nodded. “What happened to the little girl after that?”

“She was raised by the other brother. Since the old lady had died by then, he became her guardian.” Roland paused a minute and then added, “He came to see me this morning.”

“Who? Your brother? The dickhead?” Quasar asked with a snort.

“Yes,” Roland said, and it was obvious he was trying not to grin. “When he walked in here it shocked the hell out of me. Unlike Murdock, he never reached out to me, and I think he even resented Murdock for doing so.”

“So what the fuck was his reason for showing up here today?” Stonewall asked. “He’d heard you’d gotten shot and wanted to show some brotherly concern?” It was apparent by Stonewall’s tone he didn’t believe that was the case.

“Umm, let me guess,” Quasar then said languidly. “He had a change of heart, especially now that his niece’s life is in danger. Now he wants your help. I assume this is the same niece you want protected.”

“Yes, to both. He’d heard I’d gotten shot and claimed he was concerned. Although he’s not as much of a dickhead as before, I sensed a little resentment is still there. But not because I’m his father’s bastard. A part of me believes he’s gotten over that.”

“What, then?” Striker asked.

“I think he blames me for Murdock’s death. He didn’t come out and say that, but he did let me know he was aware of the money Murdock gave Becca to get me a new trial and that he has similar suspicions regarding the cause of their deaths. That’s why when he became his niece’s guardian, he sent her out of the country to attend an all-girls school with tight security in London for a few years. He didn’t bring her back to the States until after those bad cops were sent to jail.”

“So the reason he showed up today was because he thought sending you on a guilt trip would be the only way to get you to protect your niece?” Striker asked angrily. Although Roland had tried hiding it, Striker could clearly see the pain etched in his face whenever he spoke.

“Evidently. I guess it didn’t occur to him that making sure she is protected is something I’d want to do. I owe Murdock, although I don’t owe Frazier Connelly a damn thing.”

“Frazier Connelly?” Quasar said, sitting up straight in his chair. “The Frazier Connelly of Connelly Enterprises?”

“One and the same.”

Nobody said anything for a while. Then Striker asked, “Your niece—what’s her name?”

“Margo. Margo Connelly.”

“And she doesn’t know anything about you?” Stonewall asked. “Are you still the family’s well-kept secret?”

Roland nodded. “Frazier confirmed that today, and I prefer things to stay that way. If I could, I would protect her. I can’t, so I need one of you to do it for me. Hopefully, it won’t be long before the assassin that Erickson hired is apprehended.”

Striker eased out of his chair. Roland, of all people, knew that, in addition to working together, he, Quasar and Stonewall were the best of friends. They looked out for each other and watched each other’s backs. And if needed they would cover Roland’s back as well. Roland was more than just their employer—he was their close friend, mentor and the voice of reason, even when they really didn’t want one. “Stonewall is handling things at the office in your absence, and Quasar is already working a case. That leaves me. Don’t worry about a thing, Roland. I’ve got it covered. Consider it done.”

* * *

MARGO CONNELLY STARED up at her uncle. “A bodyguard? Do you really think that’s necessary, Uncle Frazier? I understand extra policemen are patrolling the streets.”

“That’s not good enough. Why should I trust a bunch of police officers?”

“Why shouldn’t you?” she countered, not for the first time wondering what her uncle had against cops. On more than one occasion he’d made that quite obvious.

“I have my reasons, but this isn’t about me—this is about you and your safety. I refuse to have you placed in any danger. What’s the big deal? You’ve had a bodyguard before.”

Yes, she’d had one before. Right after her parents’ deaths, when her uncle had become her guardian. He had shipped her off to London for three years. She’d reckoned he’d been trying to figure out what he, a devout bachelor, was to do with a ten-year-old. When she returned to the United States, Apollo remained her bodyguard. When she turned fourteen, she fought hard for a little personal freedom. But she’d always known the chauffeurs Uncle Frazier hired could do more than drive her to and from school. More than once she’d seen the guns they carried.

“Yes, but that was then and this is now, Uncle Frazier. I can look after myself.”

“Haven’t you been keeping up with the news?” he snapped. “Three people are dead. All three were in that courtroom with you. Erickson is making sure his threat is carried out.”

“And more than likely whoever is committing these murders will be caught before there can be another shooting. I understand the three were killed while they were away from home. I have enough paperwork to catch up on here for a while. I didn’t even leave my house today.”

“You don’t think a paid assassin will find you here? Alone? You either get on board with having a bodyguard or you move back home. It’s well secured there.”

Margo drew in a deep breath. Back home was the Connelly estate. Yes, it was secure, with its state-of-the-art surveillance system. While growing up, she’d thought of the ten-acre property, surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence and cameras watching her every move, as a prison. Now she couldn’t stand the thought of staying there for any long period of time...especially if Liz was still in residence.

Her forty-five-year-old uncle had never married and claimed he had his reasons for never wanting to. But that didn’t keep him from occasionally having a live-in mistress under his roof. His most recent was Liz Tillman and, as far as Margo was concerned, the woman was a real work of art with the words gold digger written all over her. Margo knew her uncle was a smart man and would eventually figure that fact out for himself. But right now it seemed he was quite taken with Liz’s looks and body.

“It’s final. A bodyguard will be here around the clock to protect you until this madness is over.”

Margo didn’t say anything. She wondered if at any time it had crossed her uncle’s mind that they were at her house, not his, and she was no longer a child but a twenty-six-year-old woman. In a way, she knew she should appreciate his concern, but she refused to let anyone order her around.

He was wrong in assuming she hadn’t been keeping up with the news. Just because she was trying to maintain a level head didn’t mean a part of her wasn’t a little worried. She could still recall the threat Murphy Erickson had made in the courtroom that day. Each time she remembered it chills would go through her.

Her uncle walked over to the window and looked out. It had snowed earlier. He stood there for a long moment, just staring out at the snow. She’d known that taking on the responsibility of raising her after her parents’ deaths hadn’t been easy for him. Not that he had ever complained. He’d always been there for her, although at times, especially during her teen years, she’d thought he was a little too controlling.

“What are you thinking about, Uncle Frazier?” she asked, getting up and joining him at the window to look out as well. Light snow was expected in Charlottesville during the end of January, but the snow that had fallen earlier had been heavier than usual, just like the forecasters had predicted. In the distance she could see it covered the top of the mountains.

“Too much snow for you?” she asked. Margo knew how much he hated cold weather. The times he’d visited her in New York had been during the summer months.

He chuckled, something she liked hearing since he rarely did it. Sometimes she wondered about him, especially when he got into one of his pensive moods. It was as if he was trying to deal with some major regrets. What were they? Would he ever share them with her?

“I was just remembering a day similar to this one,” he finally said. “There was a lot of snow. And your father talked me into going outside and building a snowman with him.”

Frazier chuckled again. “Crazy me, I did it, instead of refusing and throwing my weight around as the oldest. Your dad had that ability to convince me to do something I really didn’t want to do.” He got quiet for a minute and then said, seeming thoughtful, “At least with most things.” He paused a moment. “Anyway, we had fun that day, although afterward I caught a bad cold and had to stay out of school for a week.”

Margo smiled. She loved whenever he shared fond memories with her. He and her father had been close at one time... At least that was the impression her uncle gave when he reminisced about their childhood. She knew something happened to the brothers as adults that had placed a wedged between them, and to this day she had no idea what it had been. She’d asked, but he refused to say. In fact, he dismissed her assumptions as untrue.

“I have to be honest—you had me worried there for a minute, Uncle Frazier.”

He looked down at her. “About what?”

“The reason for your preoccupied expression. I thought you were about to break the news that you’ve decided to get married or something.”

He snorted and said, “Not hardly.”

His words, especially the way he’d said them, made Margo wonder if there was trouble in paradise. He’d been with Liz for over a year now, longer than any other woman. After he moved Liz into his home, Margo rarely visited him at the estate, and he knew why. It was obvious whenever she and Liz were in the same room that they couldn’t get along. Heaven knew she’d tried, but it was as if the woman saw her as competition. Liz wanted Frazier for herself and didn’t intend to share him with any woman. Not even a niece. How crazy was that?

“I’m glad you’re going along with me about the bodyguard, Margo.”

She frowned as she glanced up at him. Had she really agreed? In a way she guessed she had. The last thing she wanted was for him to worry needlessly about her. “I’ll give one a try...but this bodyguard better be forewarned not to get underfoot. I have a lot of work to do. An order came in while I was sequestered and the woman will be dropping by tomorrow morning for measurements. Although it’s a September wedding, I want to get started right away.”

“Why the rush?”

“I’d like to take this summer off. Possibly visit Apollo and his family in London.”

“That would be nice.”

She wasn’t finished yet. “And another thing, Uncle Frazier,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I think you forget sometimes that I’m twenty-six and live on my own and am very independent. Just because I’m going along with you on this, I hope you don’t think you can start bulldozing your way with me.”

He glowered at her. “You’re stubborn like your father.”

She smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Dropping her hands, she moved back toward the sofa and sat down, grabbing a magazine off the coffee table to flip through. “So, when do we hire this bodyguard?”

“He’s been hired. In fact, I expect him to arrive in a few minutes.”

Margo’s head jerked up. “What?! You hired him without consulting me?”

“I saw no need. He came highly recommended, Margo. I understand he’s good at what he does and that’s what I want.”

That wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted to vet her own bodyguard. The last thing she needed was someone breathing down her neck, watching her every move and telling her what she could and could not do, which was exactly what the sort of man her uncle hired would do.

“And I hope you follow his orders, Margo. His job is to keep you alive.”

She scowled at him. “Since he came so highly recommended, I’m sure that he will.”

Margo drew in a deep breath. She hated being a smart mouth; however, the thought of another man crowding her space for any reason—even to keep her alive—didn’t sit well with her. She and Scott had lived in separate apartments and had tossed around the idea of moving in together. He was more for it than she was. During the weekends he had stayed over at her place, she’d been more than ready for him to leave on Monday morning. He never picked up after himself and depended on her to do practically everything. She’d begun to feel like his personal assistant rather than his lover.

She leaned back against the sofa. Her uncle moved from the window to take the chair across from her. “So what do you know about this person whose presence I have to put up with for no telling how long?” she asked. “Who recommended him, Uncle Frazier?”

There was a long pause. Hadn’t her uncle heard her question? Just in case, she repeated it.

“Someone I know.”

“So this person has used him before?”

“Not sure.”

She lifted a brow. “Yet you’ve taken his word for it?” She could tell her questions were agitating him. She was ready to dig deeper when the doorbell rang.

“I hope that’s him,” her uncle said, standing quickly.

She stood as well. A part of her hoped it wasn’t him. Why did she feel certain her life would be changing? Probably because it would. A madman was on the loose. A killer for hire. Did Murphy Erickson really think he would be set free from prison? If nothing else, these additional deaths were on his hands. Had the man forgotten that Virginia was a death-penalty state? Did he care?

Margo moved toward the door, her uncle right on her heels. She started to say something and decided not to waste her time. What was the point? Her uncle had arranged for her to have a bodyguard regardless of whether she wanted one or not.

Upon reaching the door, she turned to her uncle. “Like I said, I won’t have him underfoot, Uncle Frazier.”

“If it means keeping you alive, I don’t care if he’s underarm,” he responded tersely.

She rolled her eyes before turning back to the door. “Who is it?”

“Striker Jennings.”

Striker? What kind of name was that?

She turned to her uncle, who nodded and said, “That’s him.”

She wanted to see what kind of guy went by the name Striker. She stared through the peephole and, as if he knew what she was doing, he looked directly at her. The moment their gazes connected, something—she wasn’t sure what—made her breath catch.

Her uncle heard it and quickly asked, “What’s wrong?”

Margo drew in a deep breath as she pulled away. “Nothing.” She was lying. Who was this man? Why did just staring into his eyes have such an effect on her? The thought that he would be sharing her space...for who knew how long...was rather unsettling.

“Well, aren’t you going to let him in?”

Instead of answering her uncle’s question, she opened the door. And there he stood. The man named Striker Jennings. Instead of focusing on his eyes like before, she took in the entire man. And what a man he was. He was tall, way over six feet. And he was big. Muscular in a dark business suit and looking totally professional and serious. Why was her gaze intrigued by his broad shoulders, bulging biceps and flat abs? And those heavily lashed, dark eyes, the same ones she had stared into just moments ago, seemed to say, “Go ahead and try me.”

Try him? Margo swallowed deeply while thinking, How? With what? And for how long? She snapped back to her senses when her uncle came around to verify the man’s identity and said, “Show me credentials.”

Although the man gave her uncle a look that all but told him what he could do with the credentials he’d asked for, the man shifted his duffel bag into the other hand before pulling an identification card from his jacket pocket. She and her uncle looked at it. Lamar Jennings. So Striker wasn’t his real name. And he worked for a Summers Security Firm. There was a nice picture of him, but the real thing standing in front of her was so much better. Almost too much. Far too pleasing on any woman’s eyes. His nutmeg-colored facial features were way too mesmerizing. Way too captivating to even be considered merely handsome. Definitely riveting. She noted there was nothing soft about him and detected a hardness that would kick ass first and ask questions later.

Her uncle handed the ID card back to him. “Come on in, Jennings.”

“Striker,” he corrected him, not moving an inch. It was as if he needed to establish a few things up front and what he wanted to be called was one of them.

Her uncle didn’t say anything, and she wondered if he would. Although he often accused her of being stubborn, Frazier Connelly could be just as stubborn. Even more so. The two men stared hard at each other, and then, as if her uncle had decided it would be in his best interest to be the one to concede, he said, “Okay. Come in, Striker.”

She stepped aside when he walked past her and she closed the door behind him.

“You come highly recommended,” her uncle was saying, extending his hand out to the man.

“Do I?” Striker replied, accepting her uncle’s handshake.

“Yes, and this is my niece, Margo Connelly. The woman I’m depending on you to keep safe.”

He turned his dark, penetrating eyes on her. She could feel a deep stirring in the pit of her stomach when he extended his hand out to her. “Ms. Connelly.”

Margo accepted his hand and suddenly an intense rush of desire tore into her. It took everything she had not to snatch her hand back. She’d never met this man before. Didn’t know a thing about him other than that he’d been hired by her uncle. Yet she was attracted to him. She’d heard of sudden attraction but had never been the recipient of it, until now.

Even though he was impeccably dressed in a business suit, she detected a rough edge. And she suspected if the need arose, he could be lethal. As far as she was concerned, lethal and good-looking was one hell of a combination. She was a woman and there was nothing wrong with appreciating a well-muscled, nicely built man when she saw one.

“Mr. Jennings,” she said, pulling her hand from his.

“Striker,” he corrected her.

Instead of acknowledging his correction, Margo didn’t say anything, not sure she could find her voice even if she’d wanted to. At that moment a semblance of heated desire fanned low in her stomach. On top of that, her mind was still reeling from the sensations caused from their handshake. She felt irritated wondering what in the world was going on here. Putting the appreciation thing aside, it was totally unlike her to be this affected by any man. Although she relished eye candy like any other female might, she’d never let a man bring out the lustful side of her. In fact, to be totally honest, she hadn’t been aware she had one until now. She hadn’t been involved with a man since Scott. And that had been her choice. Her passion was her work and it superseded any intimate feminine needs. She’d learned not to place any man at the top of her pedestal.

That decision had come about after her last two serious relationships had left a bad taste in her mouth. Her attitude was that she didn’t need a man to be happy since all they seemed to do was disappoint her anyway. She liked her life just the way it was. Uninvolved, unattached and drama-free. At least it had been drama-free before the Erickson trial.

As Margo continued to study the man who’d entered her home, she had a feeling she was in a heap of trouble that had nothing to do with any assassin’s attempt on her life.

CHAPTER TWO

STRIKER WONDERED WHAT the hell was happening as he dropped his duffel bag on the floor by the sofa. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt instant attraction to a woman. But he had with this one and could still feel the heat from their handshake. Roland should have warned him that Margo Connelly was such a looker. The woman standing before him was so incredibly beautiful he’d almost gone speechless when she’d opened the door.

The moment he had gazed into her face he’d been sacked by an intense desire that had somehow infiltrated his mind. That wasn’t good, especially when she was the woman he’d been sent here to protect. And, of all things, she was Roland’s niece.

He scanned his surroundings, needing a few moments to clear his head, specifically to unblock his brain. Doing so was a whole lot safer than looking at her again. He’d seen enough already, liked too much of what he saw. Besides striking features, she had a nice body—curvy hips, nice thighs, and the shape of her breasts outlined beneath her shirt was pretty damn appealing. And when she’d closed the door he had gotten a look at her tight and shapely backside. His gaze was also drawn to her mouth longer than it should have been, a mouth that appeared as lush as any he’d ever seen.

He’d known he was in trouble the moment he’d detected her staring at him through the peephole. A funny feeling had settled in the lower part of his body. The last thing he needed was a woman arousing him.

“How long have you been a bodyguard?”

He had no choice but to look at her since she’d just asked him a question. She stood there with a defiant expression on her face. He immediately knew it would be one of those kinds of parties. She didn’t want him there. Nothing personal. She just figured she didn’t need anyone protecting her gorgeous ass.

“I’m not a bodyguard,” he said, trying to keep his eyes trained on her face and not roaming the length of her body like they were tempted to do.

Her brow lifted. “Then what are you?”

Besides a man lusting after you at the moment... “I’m a protector. And my job is to protect you, Ms. Connelly, not guard you.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “And if I don’t want to be protected?” she asked in a rigid tone.

“Then I strongly suggest that you rethink that position. On my way over here there was a newscast on the radio reporting that another person has been killed. The foreman of the jury. The same jury you were on, Ms. Connelly.”

She gasped and for a minute it seemed as if she was about to pass out. Her uncle gave her his shoulder to lean on and led her over to the sofa to sit down. Striker watched the two and hoped the news had shocked some sense into her. What was that BS she’d been talking about not needing a protector? Even if this was the first she’d heard about the fourth killing, she had to have known about the other three. Had she assumed the killer would stop at three and call it quits?

“Jeffery Turner.” Margo spoke up in a rather soft voice. Definitely softer than the rough words she’d spoken earlier. “He was our foreman. He was a nice man. Married. Father of four. Two in college. He and his wife had been married twenty-five years.” She looked down at her hands and said, “Jeffery would shake everyone’s hands each morning. For six solid weeks. He hadn’t wanted to be sequestered any more than the rest of us, but he’d said it was the right thing to do. It was our civic duty.”

She paused a moment and then added, “He kept a level head at all times. And when some of the other jurors wanted to act like children, Jeffery knew how to handle them. He had experience. How dare someone take his life? Take him away from his family? Who would do that?”

“The same person who wouldn’t hesitate to blow you away if you don’t have any protection,” Striker said.

She popped her head up and stared at him. Her gaze was angry, so full of fury he could all but see smoke coming out of her ears. He was aware that only a portion of that anger was directed at him because of his flippant statement. The true target of her anger was a hit man she didn’t know. But like he’d just told her, whether she wanted to hear it or not, she could be the assassin’s next victim.

“I came here to protect you. With my life if I have to. However, if you don’t want to be kept alive, just say so. I have other things to do, Ms. Connelly,” he said in a hard tone, deliberately so.

“Of course she wants to be protected,” her uncle said rather quickly. “She’s just a little upset at the moment. Surely you can understand that.”

Striker didn’t say anything. If the man was waiting for him to say he understood, then he’d be waiting all night. Instead he said, “While she’s trying to compose herself, I’ll take the time to see just how secure this place is.” He turned to walk out of the room.

“Wait!”

He turned back around to face Margo. “Yes?”

“And what if you don’t think it’s secure?”

“If it’s not to my satisfaction, then I’ll make it secure if I can. Otherwise, we’ll relocate.”

She crossed her arms over her chest again, giving him that defiant look he had already come to expect. “This is my home. It’s also where I work. I’m trying to get caught up after being practically locked away for six weeks. I have a client coming to be measured in the morning. I have to—”

“You have to stay alive. I would think, Ms. Connelly, that would be your top priority.”

“I agree with him, Margo,” Frazier said. “I think you’ve exerted your rebellious side enough for one day.”

“Uncle Frazier, I—”

“No, Margo. You either let him keep you alive or you can move back home.”

“No,” Margo said, shaking her head. “I won’t move back home, Uncle Frazier. You know how things are with me and Liz.”

“Then I suggest you let this man do his job and keep you alive,” Frazier said. He then turned to Striker. “Go ahead and check out things. I’d like to have a private conversation with my niece.”

Striker looked from Frazier to Margo, and then, without saying a word, he turned and strode toward the kitchen.

Determined to put Margo out of his mind, Striker entered her kitchen. Whoa. Whose kitchen looked this neat and clean? Probably one that never got used, he thought, taking his cell phone from the pocket of his slacks and pulling up an app to take notes. His gaze moved to her back door. It looked sturdy enough, but of course he intended to make sure.

Moments later he’d verified that it was, but he wasn’t a fan of all these windows, although he could see why she was. There was a beautiful view of the Blue Ridge Mountains outside those windows. Nice but risky. The mountains could cast shadows on the rooftops of those homes. The perfect place for a sniper to take aim. And he’d noted the house next door was up for sale and appeared empty. He would make sure the office monitored any activities there.

Striker removed his tie and jacket and placed both across a chair before keying in information on the phone. And he definitely didn’t like that sliding glass door that led outside.

Walking over, he slid it open and stepped out onto a patio. Quality wicker furniture was arranged to take advantage of the view of the mountains. She had a nice-sized yard with hardly any trees or shrubs. That was a plus. He also noted the area where she kept her garbage can and barbecue grill, which was a dark corner of the yard. A motion light would do the trick not just there but at every corner of her home.

She lived in a fairly upscale community although it wasn’t gated. The homes were commodious and spaced a good distance from each other. According to Roland, she designed wedding dresses, and from what he’d heard, she had made quite a name for herself.

He also knew Margo Connelly was loaded, yet she lived modestly. Empress Lakes was a beautiful community of homes, but he had expected her to reside in one of those upscale neighborhoods like Oakwood Heights or Tamaquan Manor. And why not open a shop somewhere? Why would she even want to work from her home, where strangers would invade her personal space?

Earlier, at the hospital, Roland had asked him to stay behind after Stonewall and Quasar had left. Striker hadn’t wanted to hang back because he thought Roland had exerted himself enough already and needed to rest. But Roland had been insistent. For some reason, Striker had suspected there was more to the story regarding Roland’s relationship to his niece.

Although his niece didn’t know he existed, over the years he had kept up with her. He had attended the ceremonies when she’d graduated from high school and college, and he had even attended several of her games when she’d played soccer in middle school. He’d known that after college she’d gotten a job with a clothing design company in New York where she had worked for a few years before opening her own business. It was obvious that Roland cared a lot for his niece. What might have started out merely as a sense of guilt because of his brother’s death had turned into affection. He was the doting uncle—unseen and unknown.

Striker had never thought of Roland this way. The Roland he knew was an ex-cop, ex-con and loner. He rarely let anyone into his inner circle. Besides him, Stonewall and Quasar, there was only Carson Boyett Granger. Carson was the attorney who had risked her life getting Roland a new trial, and she was married to Sheppard Granger, a man Striker would be forever indebted to for helping turn his life around.

Striker guessed it wasn’t Margo’s fault that nobody had ever told her about Roland. And before their conversation ended, Roland had again stressed that he wanted the secret to remain just that. Striker had given Roland his word. If Margo found out the truth it wouldn’t be from him.

Striker had just reentered the kitchen and closed the sliding door behind him when Margo rounded the corner. He could only assume her private meeting with her uncle was over. He wondered how that had gone.

“Well, did you find anything, Mr. Striker?”

He stared at her, trying not to notice how good she looked in jeans and a pullover sweatshirt. When she’d opened the door, her striking features had taken him aback, but now it was her outfit...actually, her body in the clothes...that was grabbing his attention.

She was tall, but he figured at least five inches of that height were the result of those killer heels on the boots she was wearing. And she was curvy, which was why those jeans looked so damn good on her. There was no way she didn’t turn every man’s head when she walked by. It would be hard not to.

“Drop the ‘mister,’” he said. “It’s just Striker.”

Margo frowned at the man, wondering why he was so touchy with his name. And why her large kitchen suddenly felt smaller with him standing in it. She was attracted to him but felt that, except for trying to keep her common sense intact, there was nothing she could do about it. When a woman was being protected with a man who had the build of “The Rock,” Dwayne Johnson himself, there wasn’t much hope for her.

He had removed his jacket and tie, and she saw that a dark brown leather shoulder holster held his gun. The holster had a side compartment she guessed contained extra bullets.

Of course, she should not have been surprised that he was loaded down with such weaponry. He had been hired to protect her, after all. But still, seeing it was a stark reminder of her predicament. Her uncle had talked to her and she had promised to cooperate with her protector. With Striker. “Okay, Striker. Did my kitchen pass muster?”

“Not really. That’s a nice view out that window, but you’re going to have to keep the blinds drawn most of the time. I also noticed several troubling areas in your yard.”

“What?”

Glancing at his phone, Striker told her what he’d noted.

“I never had a reason to worry about any of that before.”

“Now you do. I’ll take care of it.” Striker moved around Margo to go back into her living room and she was right on his heels.

“So how long have you been a protector?”

Not long enough, he thought to himself. He didn’t want to think how different his life would be today if years ago he’d been there to protect the one person he should have been safeguarding. He wouldn’t be carrying around all this guilt if he had. “Several years,” he said, tossing the answer over his shoulder. He kept walking to check the front door to inspect the locks. She had an alarm system and that was good. He glanced around the room. Again there were too many windows. And she had stairs. There were also several rooms connected to her living room. He would check them out later after doing a walk-through upstairs.

“How many is several?”

He stopped walking long enough to look over at her and wish he hadn’t. She was leaning in the doorway that separated her living room from the kitchen. In that lazy, carefree pose, she looked good. Too good. There was something about her standing there with her hair tossed around her shoulders that made parts of his body ache.

“About eight years.”

“And what did you do before that?”

He could tell her that his past was none of her business. But he had no problem sharing what he did because that time—thanks to Sheppard Granger—had pretty much shaped him into the man he was now. He was alive when he could have been dead. And he was making something out of his life.

He looked her straight in the eye and said, “I was in jail serving time for manslaughter.”

CHAPTER THREE

MARGO’S BREATH CAUGHT as she stared at Striker. Had he just admitted to being an ex-con? Was he joking? From the intense expression on his face, she had a feeling he was dead serious. Did Uncle Frazier have any idea that the man he’d hired had a criminal record? For manslaughter?

“How many rooms are there upstairs?” he asked, picking up his duffel bag and moving in the direction of her stairs.

She jerked her head around. “Wait!”

Striker stopped and stared at her. Had hearing that he’d served time freaked her out? It wouldn’t be the first time that someone he had been hired to protect reacted that way to his past. Some saw it as an advantage, thinking that if he had a killer instinct, he had the ability to keep them safe. Then there were others who found it so repulsive they would ask Roland for someone else. Considering Quasar and Stonewall were ex-cons as well, that eliminated Roland’s top three protectors. Hell, that would even eliminate Roland.

Striker, Quasar and Stonewall had met when they’d served time together. From the first, he and Stonewall had been destined to be enemies. Quasar, the youngest of the three by only a year, had pretty much stayed to himself. It had been rumored Quasar had come from a well-to-do family and had confessed to some white-collar crime to keep a family member from going to jail. The three of them had been released from prison within months of each other and had hooked up with Roland, who had started a security business. Since neither Striker, Stonewall nor Quasar had known a damn thing about security, Roland enrolled the three of them into one of the top tactical training schools in the country. In addition, Roland managed to hook them up for a full year with former Secret Service agent Grayson Prescoli, who had a reputation as being one of the best in the business after serving under three presidents. Although they’d initially lacked in-depth knowledge in security, what the three of them possessed was an ingrained ability to survive and a drive to safeguard and defend anyone left in their care.

“You want something?” he asked in a tone that came out a little harsher than he’d intended. He was tired of her just standing there and not saying anything.

“I want to know what happened.”

Striker continued to stare at her. If she was asking for details, he wouldn’t be giving them to her. Instead he wrapped it up in a sentence that, as far as he was concerned, said it all. “Life happened.” At eighteen he’d been found guilty and sent off to prison. He’d lost people he’d cared about as well as a scholarship to play football at the college of his dreams. And he knew he only had himself to blame.

Evidently his answer stumped her, if her expression and lack of response were anything to go by. He continued up the stairs and left her standing there.

Margo watched Striker move up the stairs, momentarily distracted by how well his body fit a pair of pants. He didn’t just have a nice-looking tush; it was sexy and got sexier with his every step. When he was no longer in sight, she shook her head, trying to pull herself together.

His response to her question meant he had no intentions of telling her why he’d been sent to jail. Knowing it was for manslaughter was bad enough. Who did he kill? Why? She wanted to think it had been self-defense, but if that had been the case, then he wouldn’t have been sent to jail, right? How long had he been confined?

The key thing was that he was no longer in jail. He had served his time and she had a feeling rejoining society and rebuilding your life after prison couldn’t be easy. But it seemed like he was doing okay, and she wanted to believe he was good at what he did.

He looked to be in his early thirties, which meant he couldn’t have spent too many years behind bars. But then, how many were too many? How old was he when he’d gone in? When she heard him moving around upstairs, she decided to join him there as well.

* * *

STRIKER STARED AT the huge bouquet of yellow roses sitting on the desk of what appeared to be the room she used as an upstairs office. Telling himself that knowing who sent them was all part of his security measures to protect Margo, he pulled off the card and read it.

We need to get back together, Margo. Call me. Scott.

Striker shook his head, thinking, What a way to go, asshole. He was more than a little rusty in the romance department, but even he knew that using a few endearing words would have made an impression. Instead this guy Scott had issued an order that he’d expected her to obey.

Had she? Margo didn’t come across as a woman who would say “how high” after any man told her to jump.

According to Roland, Margo and this Scott guy had broken up and she’d left New York for Charlottesville. That had been over a year ago. Evidently Scotty-boy wanted her back.

“Just what are you doing?” Margo asked in outrage, rushing into the room and snatching the card out of his hand. “You had no right to read that.”

Striker had heard Margo coming up the stairs but hadn’t hurried to put the card back. Why should he? “As the man protecting you, I had every right.”

She threw the card on her desk and rounded on him. “You’re supposed to be protecting me from a crazy hit man. Not an ex-boyfriend.”

“And while I’m protecting you, I don’t want to have to deal with a boyfriend. Ex or otherwise.”

Anger flared in her eyes. “You won’t. Scott has a tendency of being overly dramatic.”

“For your sake, that drama better not happen on my watch.”

For a moment they just stood there, faced off. Why, of all things, was he consumed by her scent? A lush fragrance that was uniquely hers. It was undeniably woman. Oh, shit. Thinking this way wasn’t good. He backed up and turned to leave the room.

“Where are you going?”

“To continue what I was doing before you came up here—check out the place.”

He left her standing there and walked to another room. Her bedroom. It was the kind of bedroom he figured she would have. It wasn’t all that frilly, but it was feminine as hell. She was neat. Nothing out of place, no clothes lying on the floor or shoes thrown around. She’d decorated the bedroom in yellow and light gray, with a bedspread featuring yellow roses and matching curtains. Apparently she had a thing for yellow roses. In that case, it made sense for Scott to take advantage of that fact by sending her those flowers. And, damn, how many pillows did she have on that bed? Looked like a dozen or so.

“Is this really necessary?”

He didn’t turn when she entered. “Evidently it is or I wouldn’t be in here. I use all of my time wisely, Ms. Connelly.”

She placed her hands on her hips. “Margo. You want to be called Striker. I prefer being called Margo.”

He nodded. “Okay, Margo.” He moved to look into the master bath. When he returned moments later, he glanced around her room again. “I assume this is the room you sleep in.”

“Yes. Why?”

“Where is the guest room that I’ll be using?”

As far away from this one as possible, Margo thought. “I have a guest room downstairs.”

“Not close enough.”

She dropped her hands by her sides. “What do you mean not close enough?”

“Just what I said. The way things usually work is that a team of protectors will work in shifts to take care of a client. Since the demand for security is high right now, I’ll be the one protecting you morning, noon and night. Even when you sleep. I want to be close enough that I can hear you breathe, and I won’t be able to do that downstairs. What’s in the room next door?” he asked, already striding into the hallway.

He wants to be close enough to hear me breathe? The thought of any man, especially him, being that close to her at night made her go still. It then occurred to her just how underfoot he intended to be.

“Wait a second,” she said, rushing behind him. He had already opened the door to the other room.

“A guest room, I see.”

She didn’t say anything. To be honest, this was her only guest room. The third bedroom upstairs—where she found Striker snooping—was where she kept her work supplies and managed the accounting books. The room downstairs was her workroom where she did all of her fittings and sewing. Its sofa could be made into a bed, and that was where she had intended to put him.

“This is a nice room with its own full bath. It will work for me after I move a few things around.”

She released a resigned sigh. “I like the way the furniture is arranged.”

“I’ll put it back just as you have it when I’m all done.”

“And when will that be?” she asked.

“Depends on that crazy hit man.”

His words reminded Margo of the seriousness of the situation she was in. It just wasn’t fair. This was what she got for doing her civic duty. As if he’d read her mind, Striker said, “At least you’re alive. Can’t say the same thing for Jeffery Turner.”

Her thoughts immediately went to Jeffery and she remembered how the jurors had hugged each other before departing that final day. Each of them had tried to downplay Erickson’s threats, but deep down, they’d all been shaken up by them. She could tell. Nancy Snyder had been the only one to ask the FBI agent whether they should be concerned, and the man had assured her that they shouldn’t be. Well, undoubtedly that agent had been wrong.

When she saw Striker leaving the room, she followed. “Wouldn’t sleeping downstairs make better sense for you?” She was attracted to Striker and she wanted to put as much distance between them as humanly possible. She wasn’t used to a man sharing space with her, especially one who emitted sexual vibes with every step he took. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate on her work with him around. She wasn’t used to being drawn to any male this way and she didn’t like it. Found it downright irritating.

He surveyed the hall before checking out the bathroom. It was only when he came out that he responded to her comment by asking a question of his own. “Why would you think me sleeping downstairs makes better sense, Margo?”

She’d told him to call her Margo, but, with the huskiness of his voice, the name flowed from his lips with such an incredible sexiness. “Well, because you’d be closer to the front door. To protect me if anyone tries to get inside.”

He held her gaze. “My job is not to keep them from getting inside. My job is to keep them from getting to you. There’s a difference.”

Margo didn’t see the distinction. “They can’t get to me if they don’t get inside,” she argued.

“Not necessarily,” he countered. “Good assassins can get to their victims without setting foot inside their homes. They can use high-powered rifles with infrared beams to hit any target they want. Hell, if they are desperate enough they can blow an entire house up.”

That was the last thing she wanted to hear. “Then maybe I should leave town for a while.”

“That’s what he’ll anticipate you doing. I understand Turner was on his way to the airport to get lost. He never made it there. We’ll stay here until it’s decided that it is no longer safe to do so.”

Then, without saying another word, he walked off and left her standing there.

* * *

STRIKER FIGURED IT wouldn’t take Margo long to follow him downstairs. He was now checking out another room, where it was apparent she did most of her work. There were several huge sewing machines, mannequins, a worktable and bolts of fabrics neatly arranged in the room. No clutter. There was also a sofa, the kind that converted into a bed. Was that where she assumed he would be sleeping? Hell, that sofa bed wasn’t even big enough for half of him.

“You got a nice work area here,” he said, deciding to give her a compliment since she was hanging in the doorway and not saying anything. Just watching him. Knowing her eyes were on him was unsettling. Especially when he knew she was actually checking him out. A man could tell. Why did the knowledge that she was practically undressing him with her gaze make him want to smile...at least halfway?

“Thanks,” she said, coming into the room to stand by him but not too close. Did she think he would bite her or something? He couldn’t help grinning at that. He’d been known to leave a passionate mark or two on women. Why did the thought of leaving one on her do things to him? And why did he enjoy breathing her scent?

At that moment his cell phone rang and immediately he recognized the tone. Pulling it out of his back pocket, he answered the call. “Yes, Stonewall?” He nodded and then said, “I heard and I’m here. I’m forwarding my notes. Have Bobby pick up everything on my list. As soon as possible. Not taking any chances.” He then clicked off the phone and sent his notes to Stonewall.

Striker glanced over at Margo, and she looked at him expectantly, as if she was waiting for him to tell her about the call. Instead he asked, “Have you eaten yet?”

He could tell his question caught her off guard. “Have I eaten?”

“Yes, have you eaten? Almost dinnertime.”

“No, I haven’t eaten.”

He nodded before calling Stonewall again to arrange delivery of their dinner from the Bullseye.

After he ended the call, he looked over at Margo. She was staring at him. “What?” he asked her.

“Is it a coincidence or did you know that not only is the Bullseye my favorite place to eat, but what you ordered is my favorite meal from there as well.”

“No coincidence.”

“How did you know?”

“From my research on you. And just like I know what you like and don’t like, the places you like to frequent and other interesting tidbits, any hit man who has made you their target knows as well.”

“But you don’t know if I’m anyone’s target.”

“You’re right. I understand there were sixty to eighty people in the courtroom that day. Unless they catch this guy, there’s no telling who will be the next victim. My job, Margo, is to make sure it isn’t you.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“SO TELL ME some things about yourself, Striker,” Margo prompted. They were sitting at the kitchen table eating her favorite meal and things had gotten quiet. Too quiet. She had dismissed the sounds of the two men moving around in and out of her house. Striker had introduced them as Bobby and Bruce, and they were taking care of the items that bothered Striker, like the darkened areas of her yard. Bobby was outside installing floodlights and Bruce was upstairs putting in security devices that Striker wasn’t elaborating on.

“Why?” he asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

She ignored how her stomach clenched when she looked at his mouth. More specifically, those lips he’d just wiped. When had she ever been fascinated by the shape of a man’s lips? But there was just something about the shape of his—namely, that cute little dent in the center.

She jumped when he leaned over and snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Hey, you’re out there in la-la land. Come back.”

Gripes. He’d caught her staring. “I was just thinking about something,” she said, which wasn’t a lie.

“About what?”

He would have to ask, she thought. She couldn’t just come out and say your lips. Instead she said, “How much you know about me and how little I know about you.”

He shrugged massive shoulders and her gaze followed the movement. Was there anything about this man that didn’t get her attention? “It’s part of my job to know all I can about you.”

“Well, I don’t like it.”

He pushed his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair. “There’s nothing for you not to like.”

And as if that settled it, he stood. She couldn’t keep her gaze from roaming over him. There was no way he didn’t have a strict physical fitness routine with all those muscles. She hated admitting it, but she had enjoyed his company during dinner, although he’d sat there, eaten his food and hardly said a word.

It had been a long time since she’d shared a meal with a man. Her uncle didn’t count. To be honest, Scott didn’t count either since, toward the end of their relationship, he’d begun spending more time with his clients than he did with her.

She smiled when she thought of Scott assuming he was doing her a favor by being her guy, with him making a six-figure salary and all. He hadn’t known anything about her wealth.

“What’s the smile for?”

She looked over at Striker. “Just thinking.”

“Again?”

She frowned at him. “You got a problem with me thinking?”

He pushed his chair under the table. “If I ever have a problem with anything you do, Margo, you’ll be the first to know, trust me.” Then he said, “I recall you saying something about an appointment with a client in the morning.”

She drew in a deep breath, refusing to let Striker unnerve her. “Yes, Claudine Bernard. We met for coffee last week to discuss the details of her wedding. She hired me and I need to take her measurements tomorrow. Luckily her wedding isn’t until September, so I’ll have time to make her wedding gown after all.”

“You like doing that? Making wedding gowns?”

“If I didn’t enjoy it, then I wouldn’t be doing it, would I?” Okay, she’d gotten smart with him. Just like he’d gotten smart with her earlier. As if he realized this, a smile touched his lips. It was so quick that had she blinked, she would have missed it.

“I like you, Margo.”

“Don’t do me any favors, will you, Striker.” At that moment her house phone rang and she looked over at him as she got up from the table. “It’s my business line.”

“I know. It’s okay to answer it.”

She frowned. Did he actually think she needed permission to answer her own phone? As she picked it up, he took out his own cell. She wondered who he was calling as he moved to go back up the stairs.

When she heard one of the upstairs doors close, she answered the call. “Designs by Margo.”

“Yes, Margo. This is Claudine Bernard.”

Margo smiled. “Yes, Claudine?”

“I lost my appointment book and just wanted to verify what time we need to get together tomorrow.”

Margo nodded. “Our appointment is at ten in the morning.”

“Great! I’ll see you then.”

When she turned back around, Striker was putting his phone away as he came back down the stairs. He glanced over at her. “So Claudine needed to reaffirm your appointment time, did she?”

Surprise lit Margo’s face. “How did you know?”

When he just stared at her smugly, she scowled. “You listened in on my conversation,” she accused.

“Damn right.”

Furious beyond belief, she crossed the room to stand in front of him. “How dare you!” she screamed almost at the top of her lungs.

“Dammit, woman. Don’t burst my eardrums.”

“Or mine.”

They both turned and looked at Bruce, who was standing in the middle of the stairs. He was smiling. Margo didn’t appreciate being the butt of anyone’s joke.

“Everything’s all set?” Striker asked the man.

“Yes, both upstairs and downstairs. I just need to take care of the yard,” he said, coming the rest of the way down the stairs. He looked over at Margo, smiled and said, “Nice set of lungs, Ms. Connelly.” Then he moved toward the back door.

Alone again, Margo stared up at Striker. “I have questions and I want answers.”

He shrugged. “Only if I feel like giving those answers to you, Margo.”

Margo closed her eyes. Why did this man, of all men, have to be the one protecting her?

“Getting sleepy?”

She snapped her eyes back open. “I am not sleepy, Striker. Stop being a smart-ass.”

“Okay,” he said smoothly, all but admitting that he had been.

Striker had to fight back a smile. There was something about Margo that made him want to distance himself from her one minute and enmesh himself in her the next. Unfortunately, putting distance between them wasn’t an option. Not when he was protecting her. Whether he liked it or not, until the hit man was captured, he and Margo were as entangled as any two people could be.

For some reason, he liked rattling her. Probably because doing so would keep her mind off her situation. Other women he’d protected would be all but hovering in a corner by now. At least those not brazen enough to think that protector also meant bedmate. Like that damn socialite who’d hired him when she discovered she was being stalked. She had invited him into her bed the first night. Of course he hadn’t taken her up on her offer, but it was still damn hard making the woman keep her hands to herself. He’d been so glad when the police had finally captured the prick stalking her. He definitely couldn’t see Margo behaving so inappropriately. Hell, she’d been ready to kick him downstairs to sleep on that tiny sofa bed.

“Look,” he finally said, deciding he’d rattled her enough. “Let’s go back to the table and sit down. You ask your questions and I’ll decide if I want to answer them.” His tone was deliberately clipped, letting her know up front what to expect.

He watched as she angrily strode back over to the table. If she’d known how much he appreciated seeing her backside just now, she wouldn’t have done that. He followed her to the table and sat down. “Okay, Margo. Let’s get it out. What are your questions?” Before she could open her mouth, he added, “And ask nicely.”

She glared at him while adjusting in her seat, resting her hands beneath her chin with her fingers entwined. Why did he find her so damn sexy? So incredibly desirable. He was a glutton for punishment even thinking that way.

“First of all, I want to know what’s going on. Here at my house? With my phone?”

He leaned back in his chair. That question was easy enough. “Bruce Townsend is a man-wonder, a technology whiz. He’s in hot demand and usually works with an exclusive clientele. Summers Security has a good relationship with him, and he’s been hired to install extra security in and around your home.”

“Like tampering with my phones?”

“Yes. All your phones—house, cell or otherwise—are now linked to mine. I can listen in to all your conversations.”

“And what if it’s a conversation I don’t want you to listen to?”

He held her gaze. “If you happen to get one of those, then I’ll get off the line to give you the privacy you need.”

He could tell from her mutinous expression she didn’t like it, so he said, “Relax. If Scotty calls you, I promise not to listen in.”

Her frown deepened. “His name is Scott, and he won’t be calling me. I told him not to ever again.”

Striker lifted a brow. “Oh? Is that the way it is? You accept his flowers but not his calls?” He shook his head. “Tsk-tsk. Margo, don’t you know that’s no way to treat a man?”

Her eyes filled with anger. “How I treat Scott is no concern of yours,” she said in a loud voice.

“I’ve warned you about my eardrums. And as far as your ex-boyfriend goes, if he decides to get dramatic, then it becomes my concern. Need I remind you that you’re the one who claims he has a tendency to get melodramatic? Okay, let’s move on. Next question.”

She got quiet. For a minute he wondered if she would even bother asking him anything else since it was apparent that she was pissed off with him now. But he should have known her silence wouldn’t last. “I want to know about you, Striker.”

He held her gaze. “All you need to know is that I am capable of protecting you.”

She leaned in closer to him, her eyes still filled with anger. “You’re wrong. That’s not all I need to know. You will be here with me morning, noon and night. Underfoot. Listening to me breathe. Sharing meals with me. Risking your life for mine. So just knowing you’re capable of keeping me alive is not all I need to know.”

She paused a minute and said, “Earlier you said you’d been incarcerated for manslaughter. I need to know who you killed and why.”

As far as Striker was concerned, she didn’t need to know a damn thing. Drawing in a strained breath, he then decided that maybe she did. How would she handle it if he were to tell her? Well, he was about to find out. Still holding her gaze, he said, “I killed a cop.”

He saw her throat move. Heard her stricken inhalation. “A cop?”

“Yes, a cop.”

He could see the question in the depths of her honey-brown eyes. Desperation to know why he’d done such a thing was gnawing at her. He could feel it and decided to help her out. “Go ahead and ask.”

She nervously licked her lips and he tried not to concentrate on the movement of her tongue. Not just the movement of her tongue but her tongue, period. She took him up on his offer. Not that he’d thought she wouldn’t.

“Why, Striker?”

Hearing her question didn’t do him in as much as hearing her say his name. Breathing deeply, he said, “I killed him because he raped my sibling.”

Margo’s stunned gasp filled the room, echoed off the walls. She threw her hand to her throat in disbelief and shock. “Oh my God! He raped your sister?”

Pain from years ago resurfaced, began surrounding Striker in a degree of agony he hadn’t felt in some time. “I don’t have a sister. It was my baby brother. Wade was thirteen and the bastard raped him.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THROUGH THE FOG of her traumatized mind, Margo was aware of Striker gathering the plates from the table before walking into the kitchen. She sat there in a daze. Totally stunned. Horrified beyond belief.

A police officer had raped Striker’s thirteen-year-old brother and Striker had killed him. Needing more answers and hoping he would give them to her, she slowly stood and strode after him.

Margo found Striker putting the dishes in the sink. She stood in the doorway not saying anything but watching him. She knew she’d lived a pampered life with private schools, a household full of servants and chauffeurs to take her wherever she wanted to go. But she had a feeling Striker and his family hadn’t had such luxuries. She could only wonder about his childhood. His teen years. His life before he’d been sent to prison and the life he had now.

He was moving around the kitchen as if he hadn’t unloaded all of that on her just moments ago. But he had. And then he had left the room. Was she supposed to act like he hadn’t told her anything? Fat chance of that happening. The enormity of what he’d shared with her had her head spinning. She might have lived a sheltered life, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t recognize an injustice when she heard one.

After a minute he sensed her presence and glanced over at her. The expression on his face all but told her he wouldn’t be entertaining any more of her questions. But hadn’t her uncle always said that she didn’t know when to stop being a nuisance even when it was for her own good?

She nervously bit her lower lip and then asked, “If the cop did that to your brother, then why were you sent to prison?”

He continued to stare at her, and then, as if he knew she wouldn’t let up until he answered, he said, “Because the law felt I should not have taken matters into my own hands. I should have called the authorities.” He chuckled derisively. “Yeah, right, go to the cops. Honestly? Like another cop would go against one of their own. I got fifteen years instead of life, so I guess I should be grateful. Especially since I only had to do seven of those years.”

She nodded. “And your brother? Wade?”

Striker broke eye contact with Margo. He should have known that particular question was coming. Didn’t she know when enough was enough? But it was his fault for even answering any of her questions and for telling her anything about his past life in the first place. Why had he felt the need to unload? To cleanse his soul? And with her, of all people? He’d told himself he hadn’t wanted her to be afraid of him. Afraid that he was a mass murderer or something.

“Striker?”

And why did it do something to him whenever she said his name? That didn’t make sense. He hadn’t known her, hadn’t even heard of her, until today. Yet Margo Connelly was getting under his skin. Why? It wasn’t like he lacked female company. Far from it. Hell, he had been in Deidra McClure’s bed when he’d received that call from Roland to come to the hospital. Deidra was like every other woman he’d messed around with before; the only thing between them was sex.

He turned and tried concentrating on Margo’s face and not her body. She looked so damn feminine standing there even when she was obviously upset. Upset on his behalf. That very thought was why he finally said in a firm voice, “Make this your last question, Margo. After this don’t ask me anything else about my life—past, present or future.” He paused for a moment and then asked, “Now, what do you want to know about Wade?”

She nervously licked her lips again and the gesture made his stomach clench. “How is Wade? I know what happened was years ago, but how is he now?”

Taking a calming breath, he tried dismissing the pain he always felt whenever he thought of Wade...no matter how much time had passed. “Wade was the defense’s star witness. It took a lot for him to get on the stand. His testimony about what that bastard did to him is why I got a lesser sentence. But Wade was just a kid and he needed extensive counseling after what happened to him. Unfortunately, there was no one there to make sure he got it.”

Striker paused a moment and then said, “The day before I was to be transferred to Glenworth Penitentiary, I got word that Wade committed suicide by hanging himself. Mom found him when she went into his bedroom to wake him up for school. It was the day before his fourteenth birthday.”

There. Now he’d told her all the gory details about his family. Well, not all of them. She didn’t need to know that his mom died a year later. With one son in jail and the other one dead, she’d gotten depressed and refused to eat and take her blood pressure medication. In the end, hypertension had done her in at the age of forty.

Glancing over at Margo, he saw her expression had gone from shock to empathy. Hell, the last thing he wanted was to start a pity party. He didn’t need her or anyone’s sympathy. Although the first couple of years in prison had been the hardest, he had survived. While locked up behind bars, he had met Sheppard Granger.

Shep, as the other inmates called him, was a lot older than most of them and was serving time for murdering his wife. It didn’t take long for anyone who hung around Shep to know just what sort of man he was: a natural-born leader—a positive one. Before being sent to prison he was the CEO of a major corporation, Granger Aeronautics. While in prison Shep had become a father figure for most of the younger inmates, a mentor and confidant. He gained the respect and admiration of many. Instead of being resentful for being locked up for a crime he didn’t commit, Shep used his time in prison to the inmates’ advantage by implementing such programs as Toastmasters, Leaders of Tomorrow and both the GED and college programs. Because of Shep, Striker’s life had changed forever. Shep’s encouragement had given Striker a reason to become a better person in spite of all that he’d lost.

The back door opened and Bruce and Bobby walked in. “Everything’s all set,” Bobby said, smiling. “I installed motion lights around the front and back of the house.”

“And you’ll get a signal on your phone as well,” Bruce added. “So you won’t be caught off guard. I understand that Stonewall and the others are also monitoring the property from the office. And I took care of everything else you requested in here.”

He nodded, giving Bruce the eye not to go into more detail. “Good. I’ll see you guys out.”

Leaving Margo in the kitchen, he walked Bobby and Bruce to the door. He glanced to where she stood and could see her staring at them. He kept his eyes on her as he locked the front door behind the men and proceeded to set the alarm.

“What are those other things you requested Bruce take care of?”

He held up his hand. “Please, no more questions. You’ve asked too many already.” And I’ve told you more than I should have.

She placed her hands on her hips. “I have a right to know.”

Striker rolled his eyes. They were back to that again, were they? “Listen, Margo,” he said in a voice that indicated he’d all but lost his patience with her. “Instead of asking questions of any real significance pertaining to your situation, your questions involved getting into my business. Your nosiness cost you and I’m not answering any more of your questions.”

Satisfied, he saw her anger escalating. An outraged Margo he could deal with. A compassionate one he could not. “And I need your schedule for tomorrow. I know about your appointment at ten with Claudine. What else is there?”

She narrowed her gaze. “No more questions, Striker. You’ve asked too many of them already,” she echoed. And then she strutted to her workroom and slammed the door shut.

Striker felt pressure seep into the back of his neck and he reached up to rub a knotted muscle there. Only for Roland would he put up with this kind of BS. If Margo thought she was calling the shots, then she was wrong.

Deciding it was time she knew that, he went after her.

* * *

MARGO JERKED AROUND when her workroom door flew open. Striker stood there with a fierce frown on his face, his arms across his chest and his legs braced. He was mad. So what? That was his problem and not hers.

“You have an issue with knocking?” She figured her words infuriated him even more, and from his expression, she saw they had.

“You stormed off like a child,” he snapped.

“Because you thought you could treat me like one,” she snapped back. “Do I look like a child to you?”

His eyes slowly moved over her and she felt heat flare in every inch of her body. “Well, do I?” she all but yelled, thinking he had inspected her enough. Her heart was thumping so hard that she could actually hear it.

“No. There’s nothing about you that resembles a child, but you’re certainly acting like one.”

Margo refused to go tit for tat with this man. If he wanted to throw his weight around, fine. She would simply ignore him. Sitting down to her desk, she focused on her computer screen.

Seconds ticked by and, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him watching her. She refused to look over at him for fear she would be tempted to check him out the way he’d checked her out moments ago.

“Stay away from the window.”

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a response.

“And I still need your schedule for tomorrow.”

She’d lifted her head to tell him once again she didn’t intend to give him anything when her cell phone rang. She looked at it for a second.

“Do you recognize the caller, Margo?”

It was a local number. “No. But it could be a potential client.”

“Do potential clients have your cell phone number?”

Now that he’d asked, she shook her head.

He nodded. “Go ahead and answer it,” he said, pulling his own phone out of his pocket and speed-dialing a number.

Drawing in a deep breath, she clicked on her phone. “Yes?”

She heard someone breathing, but no one said anything. “Hello,” she said.

When the person still didn’t say anything, she looked over at Striker, who silently mouthed for her to hang up. A chill ran through her as she did so. “Wrong number, you think?” she asked.

“Possibly,” he said, checking the caller’s number on his cell phone.

Margo didn’t think Striker sounded convincing. “So who do you think it was?”

Before Striker could answer her question, his cell phone went off. “Yes, Stonewall?”

Margo wondered if that was the man’s real name or a code name or nickname, like Striker.

“Okay. Thanks.” He then clicked off the phone.

“Well?”

He glanced over at her. “Well, I’ll leave you alone to do what you came in here to do. Remember not to go near the window.” He closed the door behind him.

Striker walked over to the sofa and sat down. With his gaze holding steady on the closed workroom door, he speed-dialed Stonewall’s number. “Did you trace where the call came from?”

“Yes. It came from one of those prepaid phones. And the caller was at the Leesburg Mall.”

“And the name of the person who purchased the phone?”

“Not sure we’ll be able to narrow that down since the phone was a burner, paid for with cash. But we’re still checking things out anyway. Don’t be surprised if it was a wrong number.”

Striker drew in a deep breath. “Might have been, but for some reason, I don’t think so. Although we could hear the person breathing on the other end, they didn’t say anything.”

“Could have been they were surprised to hear her voice since she was not the person they were calling. Not everyone has manners enough to apologize when they misdial a number.”

Striker knew that was true, but there was something about the call that bothered him. The caller had held on too long for a miscall. “Still, let me know what you find out.”

“I will. I understand Margo Connelly is a beauty.”

Striker didn’t have to wonder where Stonewall had gotten his information. When Bobby had seen Margo he had smiled all over himself. “She is that,” he said, knowing Stonewall had been waiting for him to state his own opinion. “And she’s Roland’s niece.”

Stonewall chuckled. “Are you reminding me or yourself of that?”

Striker frowned. There was no way he could forget. “I thought I’d remind you just in case.” He knew Stonewall could appreciate a beautiful woman just as much as any man.

“Don’t worry, I won’t forget. Besides, I’m still trying to get a date with Joy.”

Striker shook his head. He’d been with Stonewall at that charity event the night Stonewall and Detective Joy Ingram had met. He had picked up on all that sexual chemistry between the two. But he just couldn’t imagine his friend dating a cop. “Good luck with that.”

CHAPTER SIX

“GOOD MORNING, STRIKER.”

Striker raised a brow. He’d timed it so he was standing on the landing the moment Margo walked out of her bedroom. Was her greeting, which she had delivered with a smile, an indication that her attitude from yesterday had improved? “What has you in a good mood?”

She proceeded down the stairs ahead of him. When she reached the bottom stair, she said over her shoulder, “I’m always in a good mood when I start work for a new client.”

So that’s what has her all smiles? “I guess that means for you ten o’clock can’t get here fast enough,” he said, following her into the kitchen.

“You’re right. And it also means we need to talk,” she said, moving to the counter to start the coffee.

“About what? And, by the way, I ordered breakfast.”

She turned to him, surprised. “What do you mean you ordered breakfast?”

“First, what do we need to talk about?”

Margo’s frown indicated her annoyance. “I like cooking my own breakfast whenever I’m in the mood to eat breakfast, which isn’t every day. Only when I’m hungry. This morning I’m not.”

He nodded. “Well, I prefer not cooking my own, and I’m in the mood to eat breakfast every day. I happened to be hungry this morning, so if you’re not, I’ll eat yours.”

She scowled before turning back to the coffeepot, and Striker wondered what had happened to that better-than-yesterday attitude she had earlier. Was it something he said? Surely she wouldn’t get upset because he’d ordered breakfast.

She turned back, glowering at him. “How do you know what I’d want for breakfast? For all you know, I might be a cereal girl.”

“Are you? A cereal girl?”

“Sometimes.”

“To each his own. I am not a cereal guy and ordered a little bit of everything. Eggs, sausage, bacon, pancakes, grits and biscuits.”

“All of that?”

“Like I said, I’m not into cereal. So, what do you want to talk about?”

Margo was trying to keep her cool with Striker. She had told herself upon waking this morning that she intended to be polite and try not to cause problems. Especially after what he’d shared with her yesterday about why he’d been sent to prison. She couldn’t help but admire his overall attitude after what he’d gone through. Had it been her, she would still be bitter or, at the very least, still carrying a chip on her shoulder.

And then there was that call last night that had rattled her, set her nerves on edge and made her wonder if she was the assassin’s next target. Four people had been killed already, one of whom she had spent six weeks with. And now he was gone. Dead.

Fingers snapped in her face and she jumped. “Stop doing that!”

“Then stop zoning out on me. Are you okay?”

She glared up at him. “Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He shrugged strong shoulders. “No reason. Did you sleep well last night?”

“Yes,” she lied. She had tossed around a lot and it had taken her longer to get to sleep than usual. “What about you, Striker. Did you sleep well?” She poured a cup of coffee and poured one for him as well.

“Thanks—and, yes, I slept well.” Striker knew she wasn’t aware that Bruce had installed devices not only in her bedroom but in every room, which picked up every sound, movement or conversation. Striker’s concern for her well-being and the high level of security this job required made this level of personal surveillance necessary.

Striker had heard her showering and getting dressed for bed. He’d even lain in bed in the guest room and listened to her breathing when she slept. Although she claimed she slept well, he knew she had not. He’d known each and every time she’d tossed and turned, fluffed one of her pillows. That led him back to what he’d asked earlier. “What do we need to talk about, Margo?”

She sat down at the table and sipped her coffee as she looked at him over the rim of her cup. “You.”

“What about me?” Striker had a feeling he wouldn’t like whatever she was about to say.

“I need you to disappear when my client arrives.”

“Disappear?” Had he heard her right?

“Yes. The last thing I want is for anyone to know I have someone following me around and—”

“Protecting you.”

Margo blew out a breath in frustration. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate you protecting me, but I’m running a business. The last thing I want is for Claudine to think she’s not safe here.”

“For all intents and purposes, she may not be. And just how am I supposed to disappear?”

She nervously licked her lips, causing his stomach to knot and his sex to get hard. The thought that he was sitting here lusting after Roland’s niece didn’t sit well with him. But, damn, she looked beautiful this morning. She had soulful eyes and he wondered if they darkened during an orgasm.

“Just become scarce upstairs until she leaves,” she said, as if what she was asking wasn’t out of the question. “I’ll take her measurements, she’ll look through my fabric book to pick out the material she prefers, and I’ll work up a few sketches for different designs based on what she wants. Think of it this way—the fewer distractions, the quicker she’ll be out the door. You will be a distraction.”

The room got quiet as he took a sip of his coffee and she took a sip of hers. He figured the silence wouldn’t last for long. A minute later she proved him right.

“So, will you do it? Disappear for a little while?”

He took another sip of coffee, set the cup down and stood. “No.”

Margo tried telling herself not to get angry. That he was not trying to be difficult per se, that he was just determined to do his job. But the bottom line was that she was mad. Why couldn’t he bend just a little?

“You are interfering with my job,” she said, standing, pushing her hair back from her face. It angered her that he seemed unaffected by her words. And then he walked off to pour another cup of coffee. “Are you listening to me?”

After pouring his coffee, he returned to his chair and sat down. “You remember yesterday when you said you resented me treating you like a child?” he asked her.

“What about it?”

“You’re behaving like one again.”

She inhaled deeply, willing herself to calm down. “Why can’t you give us some privacy? What would it hurt?”

“Possibly you. And I won’t take that chance.”

There was something—the tone of his voice, the look in his eyes, the finality of his words—that told her something was going on here she didn’t know about. Something she felt she should. “What aren’t you telling me, Striker?”

He broke eye contact with her when he took a sip of his coffee. “What do you mean?”

“Why are you so protective?”

He gave her a look that said she’d just asked a stupid question. “Protecting you is my job.”

But it was more than that. She was sure of it. Did it have anything to do with that call that came in last night? The one she’d assumed was a wrong number? What if he knew for certain that it hadn’t been? He hadn’t mentioned anything about it this morning. Was that intentional? Convenient? Necessary? Would he tell her if there were new developments in the case? Although he was pretending otherwise, deep down, she knew he was intentionally keeping her in the dark about something.

She walked over to the coffeepot to pour another cup, feeling his gaze was on her. She knew she was frustrating him. She supposed most people who hired him to protect them were only too happy to do as he said and didn’t give him any lip like she was doing. But, then again, she hadn’t hired him. He and his protection had been forced on her by her uncle.

Returning to the table, she sat down with her mug in hand and asked, “So, what do you suggest?”

He lifted a brow. “About what?”

She hated when he acted dense. “About how we will handle questions about us?”

He leaned back in his chair. “About us?”

“Yes. Since you won’t disappear, how do I explain your presence at my house so early in the morning and the fact that you’re making yourself at home?”

He shook his head, seemingly amused by her question. “Why do you feel you have to explain anything? This is your house and what you do and who you invite, no matter what time of day it is, is your business.”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. But if you think you do, then tell Claudine, or anyone else who wants to know, that I’m the man you’re sleeping with.”

Striker was certain Margo would choke on her coffee. Had he known his words would get her all rattled, he would have thought twice before saying them. “What’s your problem? You’re twenty-six and you act like you’ve never had a lover before.”

She frowned at him. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point? What about Scotty?”

Her frown deepened. “Like I told you, his name is Scott. And my relationship with him is not up for discussion.”

“Suit yourself. But I still don’t see why you think you need to explain my presence to Claudine or anyone else. Do you know the woman? Did she come referred by someone you know?”

“No, but my business cards are everywhere and I run ads in several bridal magazines. She was one of several people who left messages while I was sequestered. That was before all this drama began with Erickson. The only reason I was able to take her on as a client and not some of the others was because she won’t need her wedding gown until September. The others either wanted them earlier or they wanted me to make the bridesmaid dresses as well. So if you’re thinking she’s connected to anything, then—”

“I didn’t say that she was.”

Her phone rang, and Margo immediately jerked at the sound. She looked over at Striker, and he nodded, pulling out his phone as well. She then pulled hers out of the pocket of her skirt and expressed a sigh of relief when she saw the number. Smiling, she said, “It’s Uncle Frazier.”

As if he hadn’t heard her, he hit a number. She glared at him. “This is a private call, Striker.”

He shrugged. “Not yet it’s not.” He pointed his head toward the ringing phone she still held in her hand. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

She glared at him but quickly answered. “Good morning, Uncle Frazier.”

“Margo! You okay? What took you so long to answer the phone?”

She peered over at Striker when she said, “I was preoccupied in the kitchen. What’s up?” She was glad Striker clicked off the call and placed his phone back in his pocket.

“I was just checking on you. How are you faring with Striker?”

Deciding she definitely needed privacy to answer that one, she was leaving the kitchen when Striker called out, “Only go where I can see you.”

She stiffened at Striker’s order and moved across the room to stand with her back to him. “I don’t know how long I can handle him here,” she whispered to her uncle. “He’s breathing down my neck and watching my every move.” Keeping me awake at night remembering how good he looks in his suit with those muscular shoulders and broad chest.

She heard Striker’s phone ring and refused to turn around. “Margo, we covered all that yesterday,” her uncle was saying. “Striker’s job is to keep you alive, and before I left yesterday you said you understood that.”

“I do, but—”

Suddenly she felt heat directly behind her and swung around to find Striker standing right there, an intense look on his face. She immediately knew something was wrong. “Uncle Frazier, I’ll call you back.”

Margo clicked off the phone. “Striker, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“The assassin has struck again.”

Her heart nearly stopped. “B-but it hasn’t been seventy-two hours since the last time,” she said, feeling weak in the knees.

“Apparently, he’s decided to play by a different set of rules.”

* * *

WITH HANDS CUFFED behind his back and chains on both of his legs, Murphy Erickson was led into the room by armed guards. He looked at the three men standing around the room. Federal agents. Men he despised and who probably despised him just as much. He had eluded them for years and had brought some of their fellow agents into his network, paying them well for their treachery.

The feds thought capturing him and putting him behind bars would be the end of it. Unfortunately, they’d found out it wasn’t—the last laugh would be his. He was showing them, shoving it in their faces quite nicely, that in jail or out he was still calling the shots. His loyal comrades were out there carrying out his orders.

“Unless you’re here to tell me I’ll be set free in a few hours, I have nothing to say to you bastards,” he said, knowing his words did more than piss them off.

“Sit down, Erickson,” one of the men ordered, and before he could tell the man to go to hell, he was shoved into a chair by one of the guards.

The federal agent who had ordered him to sit down leaned over the table, facing him. “You’re getting on our last nerve, Erickson.”

Erickson chuckled. “All of you can go fuck yourselves and your damn nerves.”

“Call off your assassin.”

“Not until I’m free. Like I said, everyone in that courtroom that day will die unless I walk out of here. And please don’t ask me to give a damn about the families of the victims because I don’t give a fuck about anyone but myself. Remember that. And, by the way, since it seems you guys are taking your time about giving me my freedom, the every-seventy-two-hours rule is no longer in effect. He can kill whenever he feels like it.”

“You’re a low-down, dirty bastard,” one of the agents said, losing his cool.

“Your mama,” Erickson tossed back and then added, “How is the lovely lady, Agent Flynn? I understand she likes living in Florida.”

At the surprised look on the agent’s face, Erickson laughed. “That’s right. I know about all of you and your families. Don’t tempt me to add their names to my hit list. I suggest you work out a deal. I won’t go along with anything where I don’t walk out of here a free man. Until then, the killings will continue.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I THOUGHT YOU weren’t hungry,” Striker said, watching Margo dig into the breakfast that had been delivered. It was a good thing he’d ordered as much as he had.

“I wasn’t at the time, but I have a tendency to overeat whenever I’m nervous.”

In that case, considering her size and curvaceous figure, she must not get nervous too often, he thought. “You have no reason to be nervous, Margo. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

That call from Stonewall only verified what he’d assumed. The assassin wasn’t an amateur. They were definitely dealing with someone who knew how to stay one step ahead of the law. So far none of the security cameras mounted around the crime scenes had picked up images of the killer. It made one wonder how the assassin knew when and where to make his hit. The feds weren’t happy they hadn’t captured the man, and the local authorities were dealing with a city on the edge of chaos.

“He asked me out.”

Striker raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I said he asked me out. Carl Palmer.”

Carl Palmer had been the assassin’s latest victim. Another juror. Striker frowned. “The news reports said he was married.”

She released a deep breath. “He was...which is why I wouldn’t go out with him, although he claimed he was getting a divorce. Men lie a lot.”

Had she caught her Scotty lying? “Some do and some don’t.”

She pushed the empty plate aside. “And some like to be evasive.”

Did she think that was what he was doing because he refused to tell her everything she wanted to know? She had the right to think whatever she liked because it wouldn’t change a thing with him. He looked at his watch. “You sure you’re still up for Claudine’s visit this morning?”

“Yes, now more than ever. I need to stay busy and keep my mind occupied.”

He understood. An idle mind was not good. Five people were dead and two of them had been jurors. How many others would lose their lives before the assassin was apprehended? “You want some more?” he asked, indicating her clean plate and the food he still had on his.

She gave him a wry smile. “I thought you were the one who liked eating a big breakfast. I feel bad that I ate most of it.”

“Don’t. As you can see, it wouldn’t hurt me to miss a meal or two.”

Margo thought he had to be kidding. Striker Jennings was in great shape. Too great. The man had a body that would make any woman drool. He even had beautiful hands. She couldn’t help noticing them when he was spooning food off his plate onto hers. At one point her gaze had been practically fixed on them. When had calloused fingers become sexy?

She then thought of something she hadn’t asked him but wanted to know. “Are you married?”

He looked at her over the rim of his coffee cup. “Where did that question come from?”

“Just answer, Striker.”

He didn’t say anything for a minute. “No. I’m not married and never have been.”

She nodded. “Do you have a steady girlfriend?”

“Why? Are you interested in applying for the position if there’s an opening?”

She rolled her eyes. “No.”

“Then why is it any concern of yours?”

Margo wondered what type of woman could handle all that alpha-ness. All that testosterone. “I just want to know.”

He put his cup down and stared at her for a minute. Then, as if he’d made his mind up about something, he said, “No, I don’t have a steady girlfriend. Just unsteady ones. And that’s the way I like it. No promises and no entanglements.”

“So you’re one of those men who specialize in bed partners only.” It wasn’t a question and she made sure he knew that.

“You shouldn’t be so nosy, Margo.”

She shrugged. “I can’t help it. You’re such an interesting character.”

Striker’s cell phone rang and he quickly pulled it out of his pocket. He recognized that ringtone. “Why are you calling? Shouldn’t you be resting?” From Striker’s earlier conversation with Stonewall, he knew Roland had been released from the hospital with instructions from his doctor to get some rest.

“How is she, Striker?” Roland asked.

Striker knew Margo was listening to every word he said. “Okay. And I told you I would handle things.”

“And I know that you can, but I heard about the recent hit. Do you think we need to move her to another location that might be safer?”

“Not yet. Stonewall is my backup and, thanks to those security measures Bruce put in place, Stonewall is keeping an eye on things from where he is.”

“It’s a good thing I called Bruce in,” Roland said. “According to him, the security system she was using was a joke. Anyone could have disarmed it with no problem.”

“So I heard.” Striker had been told the same thing from Bruce. “I’m ending this call now, Roland. Get some rest, will you?”

“I will. Carson wouldn’t let me go to my place to recuperate. I’m at Sutton Hills.”

Sutton Hills was the Grangers’ estate that encompassed over two hundred acres near the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. “Talk to you later, Roland. And do like I said and get some rest.” He clicked off the phone and waited for the questions he knew were coming.

“Who’s Roland?”

If only you knew. “Roland Summers is my boss.”

“Sounds like he’s more than that. I can tell that he’s someone you care about.”

Striker lifted a brow. She’d deciphered that after eavesdropping on his conversation? “Yes, he’s more than my boss. He’s a friend. A good friend.”

“What’s wrong with him? Is he ill or something?”

Taking a sip of his coffee, Striker felt his neck get warm. She was asking too many damn questions. “What makes you think that?”

“You told him to get some rest. What’s wrong with him?”

There was no way he would tell her that Roland was recuperating from a gunshot wound. Instead he said, “He’s a little under the weather.”

“In that case, why would he take the time to call? He doesn’t think you can handle this assignment?”

Striker frowned. “Roland knows I can handle things. Once in a while he likes to be kept in the loop. My goal is to keep you alive.”

She leaned over the table. Something flashed in her eyes he hadn’t seen before. Fear. “That’s it, isn’t it?” she asked him quietly. Almost too quietly, to the point he had to strain to hear her. “You know for certain I’m on the assassin’s list.”

He sighed. “You were in the courtroom that day, so you’ve always been on his list, Margo.”

She slanted him an annoyed look. “You know what I mean. You think I might be next.”

Striker wondered where in the hell she had gotten that idea. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel frightened. A frightened person had a tendency to let fear control them and the first thing to go was their common sense. A lack of common sense could bring on mistakes. Costly ones. What he wanted was for her to be alert and cautious.

“Hold on, Margo. All I know is that two jurors have lost their lives, but I don’t know anything about you being next. All I’m doing is taking precautions. Don’t start freaking out on me.”

She stiffened. “I won’t.”

“Good.” He checked his watch, deciding to change the subject. Hopefully Claudine would be on time and keep Margo occupied while he talked to Stonewall. He’d gotten his friend’s text request that he call. Had it been of major importance, Stonewall would have called him instead of texting, but Striker couldn’t help wondering what Stonewall wanted.

He moved over to the coffeepot to pour another cup. “So, Margo, since you’ve asked a lot of questions of me, I have a few for you.”

What on earth did he want to ask her? Margo wondered. She twisted in her chair and studied him while he poured his coffee. Even from the back the man was very impressive. She’d never been a woman who enjoyed checking out a man’s backside until now. He was definitely a hottie by any woman’s standards. Her heart nearly skipped a beat when he shifted to reach for the container of sugar. Heat she’d tried keeping at bay was now flooding her. All she could do was sit there, totally mesmerized by him. No man should be as handsome as Striker or as ornery. Or was it that she had the ability to bring out the touchiness in him?

Moments later he rejoined her at the table.

“Why would you want to ask me any questions?” she asked him.

“Trust me, I have my reasons.”

She couldn’t help wondering what those reasons were. There was only one way to find out. “So what are your questions?”

Margo couldn’t help staring into his eyes while thinking how gorgeous they were. Her gaze shifted from his eyes to his mouth. Not for the first time, she thought he had a pair of lips that were downright sensuous.

“It’s not that this isn’t a nice community, but you’re wealthy. Why not live in one of those pricey penthouses in Cumberland Landing? And why are you self-employed and not running one of your family’s foundations?”

Margo pushed her fingers through her hair while thinking it wouldn’t be the first time someone had asked her that. “I went to college to become a fashion designer and I enjoy what I do. I worked with a major designer in New York for a while, but all the politics it took to move ahead turned me off. I like being my own boss and answering to no one. I guess you can say I work better by myself.”

She took a sip of her coffee and continued, “And this house suits me just fine and is just what I need. It’s my belief that just because a person has money, there’s no reason to flaunt it or use it unnecessarily.” That was one of the reasons she’d canceled her memberships at several of the country clubs. She’d discovered that some people with money could be total snobs.

“And what did Scotty think of you being loaded?”

“Scott,” she said, placing emphasis on the name he was intentionally getting wrong, “didn’t think anything about it because he didn’t know. I never told him my financial worth. I saw no reason to do so. It wasn’t about my money but about me.” At least it should have been, she thought. However, with Scott, it was about his money and how appreciative she should be that he made so much of it.

“Do you think the two of you will get back together?”

Margo couldn’t help wondering why Striker would want to know if there was a chance she and Scott would get back together. But then, he might think he had a right to ask since she’d just finished delving into his personal life. “No. There’s no way Scott and I will ever get back together and he knows my position.” And he hadn’t liked it. Scott quit women. They didn’t quit him. His ego had gotten more than bruised, but, as far as she was concerned, that wasn’t her problem. She had refused to take any more of his chauvinistic ways. In addition to that, he had begun spending less and less time with her.

Margo was spared finding out what Striker’s next question would be when the doorbell rang. He quickly stood and eased into his jacket. At least with his jacket on it wouldn’t be so obvious that he was wearing a gun. “I’ll get that,” he said.

She was right on his heels. “I think I’m capable of opening my own door, Striker.”

He stopped walking and Margo almost ran into him. He glanced down at her with that deep, dark scowl. “Too dangerous for you to do that. Stay right here while I open the door. And I suggest you figure out how you intend to introduce me.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“HI, I’M CLAUDINE BERNARD and I have an appointment with Margo.”

“I know,” Striker said, looking at the young woman who stood on the doorstep with a perky smile on her face. “Come in. She’s expecting you,” he said, closing the door behind her.

Margo quickly materialized by his side. “Claudine, it’s good seeing you again.” And then she turned to him and smiled. “Thanks for opening the door for me.” To Claudine, she said, “I’d like you to meet my good friend Lamar.”

Striker fought back a frown when Margo deliberately introduced him as Lamar instead of Striker. He reached out and shook Claudine’s hand, ignoring the way the woman was looking at him. Margo might have introduced him as nothing more than a good friend, but he could clearly see the wheels turning in Claudine’s head.

“If you’ll follow me, Claudine, we can get started with those measurements.”

“Alright. It was nice meeting you, Lamar.”

“Same here.” He watched the women disappear into Margo’s workroom and close the door behind them. He couldn’t very well follow them in that room, not when Claudine would be undressing for measurements. But he could certainly make himself comfortable right here on the sofa where he had a good view of that door. He decided to use that time to call Stonewall.

His friend answered on the first ring. “What’s up?” Striker asked.

“Just need to bring you up to date on a few things. First, we still haven’t figured out who actually made that call last night. But we checked the phone records and it seems that Margo’s number is the only one that’s been made from that phone.”

“And when was the phone activated?” Striker asked.

“A couple of days after Erickson was sentenced.”

Striker rubbed the back of his neck. There had to be a connection. “Is there anything else I need to know?” he asked.

“One other thing. I understand the FBI has asked for the assistance of one of the nation’s top psychic investigators to work on the case.”

“A psychic?”

“Yes. They’re hoping the person they’re bringing in will be able to assist them in some way. Right now the authorities don’t have a clue about anything. It’s obvious they’re up against a professional who seems to be one step ahead of them. They don’t even know if they’re looking for a man or woman. So far they haven’t received any good leads.”

Striker nodded. There was no doubt in his mind, and, he suspected, in a lot of other minds as well, that Erickson had people on the inside who were on his payroll. Spies. Traitors. Collaborators. Each hit was too tidy and tight for there not to be. “Thanks for the updates. Need I ask how you know so much?”

“No.”

Striker chuckled. Although Stonewall and Detective Joy Ingram might not have gone on their first date yet, evidently they were talking. It was obvious she’d become his unofficial contact in the police department.

After ending the call with Stonewall, Striker glanced at Margo’s closed office door and thought about all the questions he’d asked her before Claudine arrived. Mainly about her relationship with Scott Dylan. The one question he’d wanted to ask but had known better was when she’d last had some hot, mind-blowing sex.

He shook his head, knowing he had no right to even wonder about such a thing. But his curiosity would get the best of him each and every time he looked at her body, especially her mouth. The woman was pure sex on legs.

Suddenly he realized he didn’t hear any sound or movement behind Margo’s closed office door. He quickly pulled out his phone and speed-dialed the number connected to the audio monitoring device Bruce had installed in each room. Striker relaxed when he picked up conversation. That meant everything was okay.

Striker was about to click off the phone when he heard his name mentioned. He raised a brow. Since he was the topic of their conversation, part of him felt he had every right to listen in. But, then again, he knew that he didn’t. Doing so would be invading their privacy and crossing a line. It took everything he had to deny his curiosity, but he clicked off the phone.

* * *

MARGO PUT ASIDE her sketch pad. Every gown she designed was unique, and Claudine had given her full details as to what she wanted. Margo had offered Claudine advice on the best types of fabric to use to get the most stunning effect. That was the part of Margo’s job she enjoyed the most, when she would pull out her pad to make sketches based on her clients’ wants and desires. They’d gone through a number of them before Claudine selected one they thought would flatter the woman’s curvy figure, especially with the alençon lace she wanted. The only thing they hadn’t decided on was the material to use for the lining. Claudine wanted additional time to look around before making a decision.

“He’s hot.”

Margo raised a brow. “Who?”

“Your Lamar. Who else?” Claudine asked, laughing.

My Lamar? Margo thought. Now, that was truly a laugh, although she could see how Claudine thought Striker was hot. But hers? Not hardly.

“How did the two of you meet?”

Margo hadn’t expected the question and knew she had to come up with an answer quick. She decided to go with how she and Scott had met. “At a party.”

“Have the two of you been seeing each other long?”

“No, only a few months.”

“I can see the two of you getting married one day.”

Married? It was a good thing she was already sitting. Otherwise, Margo was certain she would have fallen flat on her face. “Trust me. Getting married is not anything I want to do.”

“Oh.”

Margo hoped she hadn’t offended Claudine since it was obvious that getting married was something Claudine wanted to do. “What I meant is that marriage isn’t for everyone.”

“Yes, but I’m sure you’d feel differently if someone like my Stan came along. He is simply wonderful.”

So she’d heard. Plenty of times today, Margo thought. The woman had been singing Stan’s praises since she arrived. It was Stan this and Stan that. It was apparent Claudine thought her fiancé was the perfect man. “Yes, you’re probably right.”

“I know I am. When I met Stan, marriage was the last thing on my mind as well. I bet in another month or so, you’ll begin thinking of marriage.”

Don’t hold your breath for that to happen, Margo thought, but to Claudine she said, “Maybe.”

Claudine laughed again. “No maybe about it. I have a feeling I’ll be hearing about your wedding by the end of the year. This is February, so you have ten months to work on him.”

It was apparent to Margo that Claudine was a romantic. Margo didn’t want to burst the woman’s bubble. Although she couldn’t speak for Striker, she could definitely speak for herself—she didn’t have a romantic bone in her body. At least that was what her boyfriend in college had claimed. Brock Ford had been the romantic one and loved watching television while holding her hand. And he would often text her sappy romantic messages during the day. She had fancied herself in love with Brock until she’d discovered his true reason for romancing her. He’d found out about her family’s wealth and decided marrying her would assure him part of that wealth. That was the main reason she’d never divulged anything about her family’s wealth to Scott.

Now she was back in Charlottesville and focusing on doing the things that made her happy. And she was determined never to forget the lessons she’d learned from both Brock and Scott. They were different but life-learning lessons just the same. She had dated a few times since returning home. Most of the men she considered nothing more than friends who were her escorts to various charity events for the Connelly Foundation. The last thing she wanted right now in her life was any serious involvement. She refused to ever get tangled up with a man who wanted her money or thought she wanted his. Until she met someone who truly knew the meaning of love and commitment, she’d rather not bother. If Claudine thought her Stan was such a man, then Margo was happy for her.

“I need to run,” Claudine said, interrupting Margo’s thoughts as she stood. “I’m meeting Stan for lunch and I don’t want to be late. That’s the one thing he’s a stickler about—timeliness.”

“Okay, I’ll see you out,” Margo said, standing as well.

“How long will it take to make my gown?”

“If everything goes as planned, your dress will be ready in twelve weeks. Maybe sooner. I only take on one client at a time, so your gown will get my full attention.”

“That’s great. I’ve hired this photographer who wants to take a ton of photographs of me before the wedding. I’m glad my dress will be ready for him to do so.”

When they opened the door, Striker was standing right there. Margo frowned up at him. “Yes, Lamar?”

“I started a fire in the fireplace and was about to knock to see if you wanted me to order lunch.”

“Oh, how thoughtful of him. Eating in front of the fireplace is so romantic,” she heard Claudine whisper behind her.

Whatever. “Thanks for getting the fire started and, yes, ordering lunch now is fine. Claudine is leaving and I was about to see her out.”

“I can do that,” he quickly said, offering Claudine his arm. “I’m sure you want to finalize your notes from today’s meeting, Margo.”

Margo tried keeping the glare from her eyes when she said, “Yes, of course, Lamar. Thanks for being so thoughtful.” Turning to Claudine, she said, “You’ll call and let me know if you come across any material you see that you like for your lining?”

“Yes, most definitely.”

Margo then watched as Striker walked Claudine to the door.

* * *

“I’M GOING TO let you introducing me as Lamar slide.”

Margo glanced across the table at him as they ate lunch. “I assume that’s your name since it’s on your driver’s license. If you don’t like it, then change it.”

“Trust me. I would if I could.” He knew Margo was annoyed at him for how he’d handled Claudine. “You do know pouting won’t get you anywhere, don’t you?” he said, before taking a huge bite of his sandwich.

She narrowed her gaze. “You could have compromised my relationship with a client.”

“How?”

“You were wearing a gun.”

He rolled his eyes. “Since I was wearing my jacket, how was she supposed to know what I had underneath it...unless she copped a feel. Were you expecting her to do that?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay, then. You’re getting all worked up for nothing. You need to just chill.”

When she didn’t say anything, he shook his head. Getting up from the table, he stretched his body before tossing the trash into the garbage container. He then leaned a hip against the counter and watched her.

Striker let the silence stretch between them, knowing he wouldn’t have to wait too much longer. She jerked around and glared at him. “Just what are you staring at?”

“So, you can talk? For a minute there I thought that maybe you’d lost your voice.”

She clenched her teeth so hard he swore he could hear her doing so. Instead of their working relationship moving forward, it was going backward, real fast. “Look, Margo. Don’t you think at some point we need to reach an agreement to get along? You can’t keep fighting me at every turn. Whether you like me or not, whether you like the situation you’ve been placed in or not, I’m not going anywhere. My job is to protect you and I intend to do that, regardless of how you feel about it.”

“Fine. And you need to not be so unbending and show flexibility with some things. I’m aware of the danger I’m in, Striker, and I do appreciate you protecting me, but do you have to be so dogmatic?”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

Okay, maybe he was. He had given Roland his word to protect her and he took his promises seriously. “Alright, let’s agree on a truce,” he said. “I promise to try to be more flexible if you’ll stop resisting me all the time. Agreed?”

For a long moment their gazes held and then she said, “Yes, I agree. Considering everything, I know I need to be protected, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t.” He didn’t say anything for a few moments and then added, “Trust me, Margo, I know exactly how it feels to get your freedom taken away.”

She frowned. “No. Don’t compare my situation with yours, Striker. What I’m going through is nothing compared to what you had to endure all those years. I can’t possibly imagine.”

She was right. She couldn’t. But neither would he lessen what she was dealing with. “So, from here on out, we’re good?”

“We’re good,” she said, standing and sliding her chair under the table.

Striker covered the distance separating them. “Let’s shake on it,” he said, offering her his hand.

She looked at his hand. “Shake on what?”

“On our truce.”

“Really? Is that necessary?”

Striker forced a smile to his lips. She was hesitating and a part of him knew why. He wasn’t made of stone and remembered what had happened the last time they shook hands. The moment their hands had touched yesterday, a pang of intense desire had shot through him. He’d felt it and had known she’d felt it as well. “I believe a person’s word is their bond, and we need to shake on it.”

“I said I agreed to a truce, Striker.”

“I know you did. But why are you against sealing the deal with a handshake?” He knew he was playing with fire, but he didn’t care. A part of him enjoyed pushing her buttons.

She lifted her chin. “I am not against it.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Narrowing her gaze at him, she took the hand he offered.

CHAPTER NINE

JUST LIKE IT HAD YESTERDAY, an intense rush of yearning tore through Margo the moment her hand touched Striker’s. But unlike yesterday, now she did not want to snatch her hand back. She needed to know, to understand, why there was this powerful desire whenever they touched. If she was truly honest with herself, she would admit the desire was also there whenever she looked at him.

While she had dated a few times, she hadn’t been intimate with a man since her breakup with Scott; however, she doubted that could be it. Sex between her and Scott hadn’t been all that frequent and it definitely left a lot to be desired. Could it be that Striker was such a dominant male in looks, build and sexuality that all that raw desire oozing from him had an effect on her whether she wanted it to or not?

She wasn’t pulling her hand from his, but why wasn’t he ending the handshake? And was she imagining it or was the air surrounding them suddenly charged with an electric awareness? The man and woman kind? A mere touch from Scott had never affected her like this. Not only was she fully aware of this man, but she was responsive to the intense heat he generated.

She continued to hold his gaze. Call it woman’s intuition, but she had a good idea of what he was feeling. And the look in his eyes was definitely telling her what he was thinking. The gaze roaming over her was blatant, sexual and bold.

Her nipples tightened to hardened buds. When had they ever done that? Definitely not whenever Scott was looking at them the way Striker was doing. He was arousing her as no other man had before.

Margo felt a gentle tug on her hand and realized he was slowly easing her toward him. Now was the time to yank her hand free, but for some reason, she couldn’t. And when he tightened his hold on her hand and continued to stare down at her with a gaze that almost took her breath away, she felt her senses infused with mind-numbing desire.

He shifted his stance to lean closer to her and began lowering his head toward hers. He started nipping lightly at her mouth. She could no longer deny what was taking over her mind and her body. Nor could she dismiss the hungry throb of her lips that wanted to be fully taken by his.

The tiny nips continued. Was he intentionally trying to drive her crazy by playing with her mouth instead of giving her a full, heated kiss? Surely he could hear her tiny moans, the way her breath was being forced from her lungs. Then finally with a confidence that shot arousal through every part of her body, he fully covered her mouth with his.

Margo felt his tongue enter her mouth, glide slowly around before finally touching hers, capturing it and proceeding to suck on it. She’d barely gotten the chance to familiarize herself with Striker’s taste when his phone rang. Muttering a curse, he released her mouth to answer. Margo drew in a deep breath while thinking she should be thankful for the intrusion; it had shocked some sense into her.

She needed to get away from him, escape into her workroom, try to forget all about that short—yet satisfying—kiss and begin work on Claudine’s wedding gown. She wanted to be any place but here when Striker ended the call. But the tenseness in his voice and his glance her way told Margo the call was about her, so she decided for the time being to stay put. He was no longer saying anything. Just nodding every so often while keeping his gaze firmly on her.

The call lasted a few moments longer and then he said, “Okay, keep me posted,” before clicking off the phone.

“What was that about?” she asked, taking the chance he might tell her that it wasn’t any of her business.

He rubbed his face as if he was frustrated about something. “An arrest has been made.”

She threw her hand to her throat. Surprised. Elated. “They got the assassin?”

He shrugged. “The federal agents think so.”

She studied his expression and saw the definite lack of jubilance. “But you don’t?”

“Let’s just say I choose to err on the side of caution. I’m willing to wait it out and see.”

Wait it out? For how long? Did that mean he had no intention of packing up and leaving based on the assumption she was now safe? “So, what do you suggest we do now?”

He rubbed his face again. “The final decision will have to come from your uncle, but I suggest we continue as planned until we know for certain they have the right guy.”

Continue as planned? Margo wanted to ask exactly how long that might be, but she didn’t. Instead she began backing up, needing time by herself to think. And give herself a good scolding for letting him kiss her.

“Fine. I’ll go along with whatever you and my uncle decide. In the meantime, like you suggested, I will err on the side of caution. Now I need to go online and order the materials for Claudine’s wedding gown. And before you remind me, I know to stay away from the window.”

And then she turned and hurried out of the kitchen.

* * *

STRIKER FOLLOWED HER as far as the living room and stood by the sofa. From his position he could see her sit down at her workroom computer. It was only then that he crossed to the fireplace and stared at the flames. What the hell had happened in her kitchen? The desire he’d felt for her had shocked him to the core. And when he’d kissed her, he hadn’t wanted to stop. The kiss had packed a wallop but had been way too short.

When had a woman—a woman he was protecting—made him lose control? What was there about her that whenever he touched her, something inside of him would snap, make him even more aware of her as a woman? A woman he wanted.

With that admission, he drew in a sharp breath, clenched his jaw and tightened his hands into fists at his sides. He needed to start thinking with the right head and not the one that wanted like hell to get inside of her. It wasn’t that kind of party, especially with her. He needed to rope in his horny thoughts and concentrate on what he promised Roland he would do—protect her.

Needing to see her again, he walked back to the sofa and stared into the workroom. She hadn’t moved. And at that moment, as if she felt his gaze on her, she looked up from her computer. Damn. He felt it again. Desire so intense it was like a living element, stirring across his skin, being inhaled through his nose and getting absorbed into his body. That was the last thing he wanted or needed, and he immediately broke eye contact with her and walked into the kitchen for another cup of coffee.

What the hell had happened to bring on this turn of events? They had been at odds until agreeing to a truce. In this case, a cease-fire between them might not have been such a good idea after all. Once their hands had touched to shake on it, some sort of dam had broken and it was on. He didn’t want to think what would have happened had he not gotten that call, and was thankful for the interruption. By rights, he should have known better. But deep down, he knew why he’d done it. He’d needed to see if the desire he’d felt when he touched her yesterday had been real or a figment of his imagination.

It had definitely been real.

He was trying to hold on to his sanity where Margo was concerned. The last thing he needed was to let her become his passion. Something he thought he couldn’t do without. He thought of something else that used to be his passion. Football.

It had been his dream to one day play for the NFL. Chances were he would have done so, but he hadn’t followed his mother’s orders about Wade. She didn’t care how much he loved football, didn’t care how much it had become his passion. She felt that the important thing was for him to look after Wade while she worked nights. Not wanting to miss any football practices, he’d thought that he’d found the best solution. In the end, he’d lost his brother because he had refused to give up something that had become a passion of his. Never again would he let something like that happen. Roland had entrusted Margo to him...just like his mother had entrusted Wade to him. Although his mother never blamed him for anything, he’d always blamed himself.

Striker knew that he and Margo needed to talk. Set things straight. What had happened in her kitchen couldn’t happen again. No touching. No kissing. Yes, definitely no kissing. He was here to protect her, not lust after her. And the last thing he could do was let her get under his skin and start thinking foolish thoughts about her. Hadn’t he promised himself years ago to never get attached to a woman? If he ever fell in love, he’d be risking losing her the same way he’d lost others that he’d loved.

Raising the coffee cup to his lips, he was about to take a sip when his phone rang again. He pulled in another frustrated breath when he saw the call was from Frazier Connelly.

“This is Striker,” he said into the phone.

“Striker, this is Frazier. Not sure if you’ve heard, but the authorities got their guy, which means your services are no longer needed.”

Striker shook his head. He’d been afraid Connelly would think that way. “An arrest means nothing, Frazier. Too early.”

“The FBI just ended a news conference. They seem confident they have the right guy.”

Don’t they always? Striker thought angrily. He could clearly recall men he’d befriended while in the slammer, who were innocent. The situation involving Sheppard Granger quickly came to mind. Shep had been locked up for fifteen years for killing his wife, and the real murderers had still been out there killing others.

“I feel confident the FBI knows what they’re talking about, so I’m relieving you of your services and—”

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