by Tara Wyatt
No. No, no, no. She couldn’t do this.
A dizzying swirl of emotions crashed into her, and for a second, she forgot how to breathe. Anger, fear, disappointment, lust, and anxiety all wove together into a fucked-up tapestry, wrapping her in its unwelcome fabric. She suddenly felt cold, despite the trickle of sweat working its way between her breasts at the sight of him. Glancing over her shoulder at the door, she wondered what they’d all do if she bolted, just got in the Corvette and drove away. But instead, she stood where she was, pinned by the weight of it all.
“What the fuck?” She didn’t realize she’d spoken the words out loud until Jeremy shot her a puzzled glance. Her skin tingled uncomfortably, a cold wave of dread crashing into her. She recovered quickly as Colt’s eyes met hers.
He wore beat-up jeans and a gray Henley shirt, his sleeves pushed up around his elbows, leaving a swath of those tantalizing feathers exposed. His jeans emphasized his muscled thighs, and suddenly she was looking at his package and remembering how freaking fantastic he’d felt inside her.
She snapped her eyes back up, and the confusing turmoil of emotions continued to churn through her, disorienting her. She hadn’t wanted to see him again, and now here he stood, staring at her with those gorgeous green eyes, and she knew she was in trouble. Because even though she’d had the sense to run after the intensity they’d shared, she still wanted him. Wanted his mouth on hers, his big hands on her hips, and everything that came after.
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and she noticed his knuckles, bruised and scraped. Her eyes darted back to his face, and she saw the black eye and the cut across his cheekbone that she’d been too stunned to notice at first. The obvious signs that he’d been in a fight sent another completely unwelcome ripple of arousal pulsing through her. He looked so damn sexy all scuffed up. She wanted to reach out and skim her fingers over the cut on his cheek, but instead, she curled her fingers into her palms, trying to shrink into herself and away from him. She wanted very much to pick up right where they’d left off, and that simply couldn’t happen. For her own sake, she had to fight this pull she felt toward him.
Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered the intensity in his green eyes as he’d asked her to come home with him. Being with Colt had been so much more than a simple distraction, and she knew that he’d consume her if she let him. Consume her like fire, and considering she was already ashes, she couldn’t let that happen.
She paused for a second, wondering why the hell she was so convinced that he’d hurt her if she gave him the chance. And then it hit her.
It was because he seemed too good to be true, and so had Zack. Colt was hot as hell, funny, kind, tough, and amazing in bed. But thanks to that experience with Zack, now she knew that if something seemed too good to be true, she needed to run.
She met his eyes again, and she felt pinned in place, naked and exposed. She opened her mouth, but then promptly closed it. What the hell was she supposed to say to him? Nice to see you again? Shit.
So instead, she caught Jeremy’s eye and cocked her head toward the door that led to the small office. She fought against the urge to keep staring at Colt, to keep drinking him in with her thirsty eyes.
“Can I talk to you?” she asked. Without waiting for Jeremy to respond, she grabbed him by the elbow, strode to the office and flung the door open, hoping no one would notice the slight tremble in her fingers.
“What?” he asked, leaning back against the desk, a puzzled look on his face.
“This isn’t going to work out.” She bit her lip and looked down at the floor.
“Why on earth not? You haven’t even spoken to him. Don’t you think you’re judging awfully fast?”
She resisted the urge to scuff her foot against the floor as hot tears pooled in her eyes. She let out a panicked laugh, and anger began to push out the initial shock at seeing Colt again. She clung to that anger, feeding off of it, letting it strengthen her.
“Because I don’t need a bodyguard. This is ridiculous. I’m exactly where I said I was going to be today, aren’t I? Give me one more chance, and I promise I won’t let you down.”
He laid a hand on her shoulder. “He’s here to stay. I’m sorry you don’t like it, but he and his partner have been contracted by the label. It’s done. There’s nothing I can do.” Jeremy arched an eyebrow, waiting for her to respond.
Not keen to share her one-night stand with Colt and further emphasize her recent track record of less-than-stellar behavior, she simply shook her head.
“Good. I have to go; I have a meeting. Play nice.”
She closed her eyes and took a breath, pulling herself together. She could do this. Somehow, she’d find a way to cope being around him. She’d focus on her music. She’d ignore him. She’d pretend that night had never happened.
And then, like a bolt of lightning, an idea charged through her, hot and searing. She could drive him to quit. Push him away and make him regret ever signing up for this job. She’d kill two birds with one stone: she’d protect herself, and get rid of the studio’s insulting bodyguard in one fell swoop. She’d keep her heart to herself and channel her anger. It was win-win.
She took another deep breath, walked back into the studio’s main area and picked her guitar back up. She sank down onto one of the leather sofas and began fiddling with the tuning keys.
“Hey. Are you okay?” It was the first time Colt had spoken to her.
Unable to help herself, her head snapped up, and she asked the question that had been spinning through her mind for several minutes now. “Is this some kind of joke? Had you already taken this job before we…the other night?”
His eyes widened for a second, and then he shook his head slowly, watching her with a wariness that hadn’t been there before. “No. I didn’t. I wouldn’t have kept this from you. I learned about the job after.” He sat down on the sofa opposite her. “And I took it because I wanted to see you again.”
Her stupid, traitorous heart fluttered in her chest at his words, but she stomped down the flutters, still clinging to that anger. To the idea that he couldn’t be here. “Well I didn’t want to see you.” Her mouth moved before she could stop it, and at the fleeting flash of pain in his eyes, she wished she could call the words back.
He cleared his throat and leaned forward, his forearms braced on his thighs, his green eyes flashing with an undercurrent of danger. “That why you stole my T-shirt? Because what happened meant nothing to you?”
“I just really like Led Zeppelin,” she said, struggling to keep her tone flat and her face neutral.
Colt rubbed a hand over his mouth—a mouth that she knew could make her moan, could make her wet, could make her ache with need—and exhaled loudly. “Why are you being like this? I thought we…”
“We what?” She blinked at him. “It was one night, Colt. That’s all.” She paused for a second. “Did you take this job thinking you’d get another chance to…” She swallowed, struggling to maintain focus with all of the tiny, fleeting thoughts flickering through her brain, each one bouncing up against the other, but nothing joining together to make a cohesive picture.
He closed his eyes for a second. “Of course not. I’m here to help you.”
She didn’t say anything, unable to make her mouth work, and just kept fiddling with the tuner keys, needing something to do with her hands, otherwise she’d grab him and kiss him, and completely ruin the progress she’d already made at shoving some distance between them.
He sat back on the couch, and she tried not to pay attention to the way his forearms flexed when he crossed his arms, or to the way his low voice sent dangerous ripples of lust chasing one another over her skin. Tried to ignore the way his face attracted her eyes like a magnet. She’d only seen him in dim light the night before, and she hadn’t noticed the faint dusting of freckles across his nose. Paired with the slight scruff highlighting his perfectly formed jaw, he looked rugged and sexy, with the tiniest hint of pretty. With his wid
e shoulders, strong arms and sturdy frame (not to mention the black eye and the tattoo), he didn’t look like someone you’d want to mess with.
He was strong, and sturdy, and completely off-limits.
* * *
“Taylor,” Colt started again, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. He’d known just showing up was a risk, but he hadn’t expected her to react like this. She didn’t look at him when he said her name, just propped the guitar on her knee and started playing easy, slow scales, gradually speeding up. She didn’t watch her hands as she plucked gracefully at the strings.
“Hey, hand me that capo.”
“What?” He frowned. Those were not the words he’d been expecting to come out of that pretty mouth.
“That black thing on the table. Toss it.”
Doing as he was told, he picked up the small black clamp and lobbed it to her. She caught it easily in one hand. He watched with a mixture of curiosity and lust as she shoved her guitar pick between her lips and began fastening the capo over the guitar’s neck, securing it behind the second fret. She swung the guitar back down over her knee and began strumming the opening riff of “Smoke on the Water.” Strumming her gleaming acoustic guitar and ignoring him. Trying and almost succeeding at looking as though seeing him meant nothing to her. Her eyes darted up and caught his, and there was a guardedness that hadn’t been there the night before.
The certainty that someone had hurt her—badly—settled over him like a blanket. He studied her intently. He could see the tension coiled her shoulders, the stiff tilt of her neck.
She chewed on her lip as she strummed, and he clenched his jaw at the intense urge to trace his tongue over the indents left by her teeth, to soothe the bite before maybe replacing those marks with some of his own. He stirred in his jeans at the thought and clenched his jaw even harder, his back molars squeaking under the pressure.
For whatever reason, she was throwing up walls around herself, trying to keep him out. And if that was what she wanted to do—what she needed to do, for whatever reason—he’d let her. But he also wasn’t going anywhere. He knew, without a doubt, that he’d done the right thing taking this job. He’d been carrying around an uneasiness since he’d woken up alone, her side of the bed cold, and it had only lifted when he’d set eyes on her again. So she could keep him out, but meanwhile, he’d keep her safe.
Long moments went by and she just kept strumming. Not looking at him. Not talking to him. Not giving him anything. She sighed and her shoulders slumped a little. Finally, she spoke. “So. Just how short is my leash?”
“Your leash?”
She set the guitar down beside her. “How does this work? What are the rules?”
“Pretty simple, really. Your label’s hired me and Roman—who you’ll meet later—to be your bodyguards, so wherever you go, so do we. I’m sure you’ve had a bodyguard before.”
“Uh huh. And how is this 24/7 thing going to work? You’ll be in my house?” She pushed up off the couch and walked to the stainless-steel fridge near the office door. Reaching inside, she pulled out two bottles of water. Striding toward him, she tossed one to him.
“Yeah. We’ll be in your house.”
Her delicate features tightened. “So I guess I should just call you warden, then.” She blew out a breath and twisted the cap off of her water.
“It doesn’t have to be that way. Roman and I are here to help you. We can deal with the paparazzi and make sure there are no other threats to your safety while you’re working on this album. You asked me why I took this job, and I told you it was because I wanted to see you again. That’s the truth. I also took it because when I heard your label was hiring security for you, I didn’t want to leave it up to anyone else.”
Raising her eyebrows, she plopped back down in the chair, letting his words hang between them. Setting her water on the floor, she picked up the guitar again, removed the capo, and tossed it down beside the water. She began playing “Blackbird,” this time singing as well as playing, seeming to forget that he was sitting right in front of her. Soon, he found himself leaning forward, as if under a spell, as she sang. Her voice was beautiful, rich and strong, with a feminine rasp to it. He’d heard her music before—on the radio, on TV—but hearing her sing from only a few feet away was an entirely different experience. Her fingers moved easily over the frets, moving seamlessly from chord to chord. She leaned over the guitar, and her blond hair spilled over her slender shoulders, catching the sunlight that streamed in through the large windows and taking on a sheen like spun gold.
For the first time in his life, he understood why women threw their panties at rock stars. Watching her play and listening to her sing in person was a much bigger turn-on than he ever would’ve anticipated. He took a sip of his water, trying to taper the edge of his arousal.
She played the whole song through, and he sat and listened as he mentally replayed their night together for what had to be the five hundredth time. When she was finished, she looked up at him, her lips turned up in a sexy half smile, as though the music had somehow relaxed her. “How’d you get the black eye?”
“Just a little misunderstanding in a bar.”
“Looks like more than just a little misunderstanding.”
He returned her smile. “You should see the other guy.”
She picked her bottle of water up off the floor, peering down and hiding her smile. But he saw it anyway, and it caught him right in the chest. She stood again, and walked to the guitar rack behind him, her loose Guns N’ Roses T-shirt hanging from her shoulders and gathering around her hips. As she paced by him, he watched her legs, once again clad in black denim, and he was hit with the memory of just how fantastic they’d felt wrapped around his hips.
“I saw your Charger out there. It’s…pretty nice,” she said from behind him.
He nodded. “Thanks. Restored it myself.” He looked up at her as she resumed her seat opposite him, resting a white-and-gold electric guitar across her lap. “You’re into cars?”
“Fast ones, yeah.”
“What do you drive?”
“I have a ’seventy Stingray.”
He let out a low whistle. “Nice. Automatic?”
She looked at him like he was crazy. “Course not.”
He smiled and then swallowed thickly. Damn. Just when he couldn’t be more attracted to her. She was gorgeous, and talented, and a hundred other things.
She was everything he had no fucking right to want, and he’d do them both a favor if he remembered that.
* * *
Ronnie sat on the floor of his apartment, the parquet squares hard and cool against his naked flesh. The door to the linen closet sat open in front of him and he stared blankly ahead, trying to sift through the emotions tugging at him. He didn’t know what to do with those emotions. They crawled over his skin like bugs, skittering over him in different directions. Tiny and ugly and worthless. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and one by one, he picked up the bugs and crushed them between his fingers, savoring the crisp crunch of shell and legs.
The power to destroy something was a beautiful thing. Destruction was control. It was ownership. There was a succulent completeness to ending something’s existence, to witnessing the moment something ceased to be. To own that last moment…there was nothing more intimate. More divine.
He opened his eyes and focused on what was in front of him. Over a year ago, it had started with pictures from websites he’d printed off, or cut out of old magazines he’d stolen from the library, and it had grown into something special. A symbol of his devotion. A shrine to the woman he loved. He’d covered the inside of the linen closet with pictures of Taylor, both professionally taken ones and ones he’d taken himself starting several months back once he’d found her. She’d been surprisingly easy to find—there was information on fan websites about her studio, and by searching real estate records at the library, he’d quickly figured out which building it was. He’d only had to stake it out for a c
ouple of days before she made an appearance, and he’d followed her home that night.
He’d been following her ever since, and the other night at the Rainbow, he’d finally worked up the courage to talk to her, only to have that fucking brute ruin everything. If it hadn’t been for him, Taylor would’ve been his that night, and she never would’ve left. He would’ve kept her. Forever.
And then the brute had shown up again this morning at her studio.
He was a problem. One Ronnie knew Taylor needed his help with.
With a frustrated snarl, he returned his attention to his shrine. He’d scoured eBay for Taylor Ross paraphernalia—T-shirts she’d worn in concert, guitar picks, signed CDs. The items lined the shelves, and he reached out a hand, running his fingers over the cool glass of a signed, framed concert picture of Taylor.
He took a deep breath and soaked it all in, waiting for it to replenish him as it always did.
But this time, it wasn’t enough. Not after he’d had his hands on her. Not after he’d smelled her hair, felt the warmth of her skin.
He needed more. He needed to be closer to her.
He would continue to watch, but he knew he needed to figure out how to take what belonged to him. To win her over and get rid of the brute, as he knew she wanted him to.
To take her and keep her and love her and own her.
Chapter 6
The scent of grilling meat and fresh-cut grass filled Colt’s nostrils as he walked through the open gate and into his sister’s backyard. His eyes scanned the space, darting over the patio table and chairs, the play set, and the bench nestled under the ash tree in the corner. Lacey had sworn up and down she hadn’t invited her, but it wouldn’t be beyond her to trap Colt and their mother into spending time together. He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Uncle Colt!” A small body barreled into him, wrapping skinny arms around Colt’s legs.
Smiling, Colt ruffled his five-year-old nephew’s hair. “Hey, Ben. Good to see you buddy.”
