THE UNLIKELY BODYGUARD

by Amy J. Fetzer

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

  Epilogue

  © 1998

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  One

  ^ »

  Gallina Canyon, New Mexico

  Every head in the joint turned when she stepped inside.

  She hesitated, surveying the dim roadhouse, the neon glare of bar lights illuminating her from behind, leaving her face cast in shadows. Women spared her a glance. Men strained for a better look. Angel set his glass aside and stared. She walked slowly to the bar, the click of her heels marking the sultry shift of hips wrapped in a tight, black leather skirt. She had muscular legs up the kazoo and when she propped her elbows on the bar, her short leather jacket creaked.

  From the description he had, he'd expected her to look like a schoolgirl. Not a centerfold. Black leather, tight and shaping her figure, told Angel and every man around exactly what was beneath. But even that body didn't compare to her face. A classic, pure beauty, he thought, like Snow White.

  Hell. He'd had stranger fantasies.

  She ordered a shot of tequila in a voice like rustling silk.

  A mirror, dirty and cloudy from nicotine, ran the length of the wall and in it he watched her slide folded bills across the beer-splattered wood to the bartender. She picked up the shot and tossed it back. The glass came away from her mouth slowly, her tongue sliding across her lips. Abruptly, she turned the empty jigger rim down on the bar and ordered another. While the bartender poured, she took a step back, her hands braced as she stretched a bit. Several men lining the wood rail leaned back to inspect the shapely curve of her bottom and the black stockings seaming her incredible legs.

  She didn't belong here. She stood out against the dingy bar like a baby in a wrestling ring. What did she hope to accomplish in The Rusty Nail?

  Dee Granson, a petty thief and dealer, moved close to her, his voice too low to carry as he slid onto the stool beside hers. She tucked jaw-length black hair behind one ear, cocked her head to look at him and smiled. God, what a smile, Angel thought, and let his gaze discreetly follow her as she joined the man on the dance floor. The haze of smoke hovered around them like a filthy curtain. Ike bent, his oily hair spilling over his face as he whispered in her ear, his hand groping her spine like a lazy masseur. She stiffened and stopped, then she reared back and made a fist. Great.

  Hail Mary, Calli thought. She was in trouble now. In over her head. Way in. She just had to go hunting for excitement, and as luck would have it, she'd picked the one club that promised a little too much local color. She'd never done anything quite this adventurous in her life and now that her first vacation in three years was swiftly going downhill, she wanted to just get away without getting her throat cut, or raped, or whatever. And not let anyone know how scared and stupid she felt. As casually as she could, she unfurled her fist.

  "Ah, no thanks, pal. I'm not looking for that kind of company." Not yours at least. Dee smelled of pot, B.O. and booze. But he looked even worse. Greasy. And she'd had enough of being pawed. Stepping out from under his groping, she turned and walked back toward her seat at the bar. He caught her wrist, yanking her into his arms. Her hair spread over her face and he stroked it back. Yuk. Even his nails were dirty.

  "You're out here showin' it off, slut, and I want some."

  He pulled her flat against his bony body, arms tight around her, his hot, foul breath in her face and whispered what he really wanted to do with her.

  Appalled, Calli asked, "Do you talk to your mother with that mouth?"

  He scowled. "Don't be talkin' 'bout my mother."

  Careful, a voice in her head warned, sounding too much like Sister Mary Elizabeth. "Look. What part of no don't you understand, so I can explain it?"

  His face glowed with anger, his hold tightened. Uh-oh. Her mouth was going to get her into bigger trouble, she thought as she tried to peel his hands from her waist. She couldn't get a good grip. Fear stung up her spine. She kept telling herself she could get out of this. She could.

  "I ain't never seen a woman turn you down that quick Dee."

  Dee's gaze slashed to an obese man lingering close. "And you ain't gonna."

  His one hand drove lower, cupping her buttocks, and Calli's stomach pitched.

  "I got a car out back. I can do ya quick."

  She struggled. "Your charm amazes me. Dee, is it?" He grew ruder, and since he wasn't getting the message, she smacked his cheek, hard. His hiss of pain sounded loud in the suddenly quiet bar. She could feel people staring, yet he didn't release her. Instead, he smiled. Good Lord, he liked it, she realized, shoving at his chest. When that didn't dislodge him, she resorted to the only thing possible in this situation. She ground her four-inch stiletto heel down on his instep. He howled like a coyote and let her go.

  So much for five years of karate, Calli thought, tugging at the hem of her jacket. "Now do you understand no?"

  But his friend, the rudest-looking man in the free world, decided it was his turn and pushed his huge self off the bar stool. The motion spread open his leather vest and Calli was surprised to see that his nipples were tattooed like eyeballs.

  "Good God. Did that hurt?" she asked, wide-eyed, then composed herself. "Of course it did." She met his muddy gaze. "It's not very attractive, you know."

  He had arms like ham shanks and she should shut up, she knew. Ike was still soothing his foot, his eyes threatening retaliation, and Calli decided that an excellent time to leave was five minutes ago.

  "I, ah, I've got to go," she said in a rush, easing back toward the door with tiny steps. "Ah—thanks for the dance," she said, peering around the fat man at Ike. The sisters of St. Andrew's Orphanage had insisted that saying please and thank you would always get one further than one thought. The good sisters needed a reality check, she decided.

  "You're not leavin', little girl," he threatened, advancing on her. Calli's wide gaze shot between the two men. She instantly weighed her options, and a knee to the groin in the hope that his descendants would come out his throat was not one of them. And with his mammoth arms, any victory she could manage would last about two seconds.

  "I really must," she said to his beefy chest, and hated the tremor in her voice. Hated the fear beginning to settle in the pit of her stomach. When he raised his hand to grab or strike her, Calli back-stepped faster and right into an unyielding body.

  Just as quickly, a palm closed heavily over her left shoulder. Good God, she was surrounded. The fat man stopped, mid-grasp. Calli struggled under her captor's grasp, but she couldn't move, as if the hand was pushing her down into the concrete floor. I'm toast. She obeyed the silent command to be still, suppressing the fear singing through her body as the fat man's gaze shot to somewhere behind her.

  High behind her.

  And the angry flush in his face drained white. "Leave her alone, Tiny." The voice was whiskey-rough and low. Undeniably sexy.

  "She had it comin', Angel."

  There was a stretch of silence before The Voice said, "Try again."

  The unspoken threat hung in the dirty air. Tiny's lips thinned, his eyes narrowing to slits.

  "Step away from her."

  Tiny obeyed, moving back a bit.

  Very carefully, Calli turned her head and stared straight at a throat ringed by the collar of a dark T-shirt. She let her gaze climb, up the stubbled jaw and past the most incredible lips to a pair of frosty, mint-green eyes. He has the longest lashes, she thought absently. And a pierced ear. She wet her lips. This was Angel? He looked anything but. Tanned skin. Dark hair. Too pale eyes. He was danger. Real danger. There wasn't a sound in the bar except the jukebox and Calli shivered. Angel kept his gaze on Tiny, even though she
knew he was aware of her stare. Calli couldn't remember seeing him when she came in. Hard to believe she'd missed him. But she didn't need rescuing.

  "Back off, Angel."

  His gaze slid to hers and Calli felt a jolt of primal sexuality shoot down her body to her pumps. He arched a brow, sinister, like a wing lifting for flight. "You want to go with him?"

  God, that voice. She glanced at Tiny. "No."

  "Then I suggest you shut up."

  Her eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

  "You ain't takin' her," Tiny found the nerve to say.

  The liquor warming her veins made her bold. "And neither are you." She took advantage of his surprise and ducked under Angel's hold, slipped between the two men and walked back to the bar. Go! Leave now! a righteous voice screamed in her head. Instead, she fished in her purse, then slapped money on the counter to keep her hands from shaking. The bartender sloshed another shot into her glass, smirking to himself. In the mirror, she noticed that Tiny and Angel were still staring each other down like two gunfighters.

  Finally, Tiny backed off, walked to a booth and slid his big body behind the table, next to Ike.

  Angel turned his head to look at her. She met his gaze in the mirror, her drink stilling halfway to her lips. She felt like a fly caught in amber. Even from across the room it hurt to look into those eyes. A raw, hot feeling scrambled through her and the most erotic images came to mind. Then she blinked and shrugged away the playground of her imagination. Deliberately, she finished off the tequila. It burned all the way to her empty stomach. The nuns, no doubt, were saying novenas over her debauched soul now.

  She felt a man stop behind her. "Let's go," he said to her reflection.

  "Get lost."

  His eyes narrowed. "You either walk out with me now or your parents will be identifying you from a toe tag."

  "That would be hard," she said, facing him, "since I don't have any." She paused. "Parents, not toes."

  She didn't notice his hard eyes soften a fraction as her gaze slid beyond him to Tiny and Dee. They were glaring laser beams across the room and into her face, and she tried not to let it scare her. She didn't know if it was stupidity or nerve that kept her there, but she wanted to experience danger. Live a little on the edge. And this macho hunk in tight jeans wasn't going to stop her. Not tonight. She'd been a good girl all her life and look what it had gotten her. A nice apartment, even nicer friends and coworkers. And absolute, suffocating, boredom. At least this got her adrenaline running.

  She looked back at Angel. "Who made you my protector?"

  "Unfortunate timing." He ought to let her suffer with Tiny and Ike, but he couldn't. It meant her survival that he get her out of here. He took a step closer and she flattened her back against the bar, her elbows propped on the top. She gave him a bored look he didn't believe.

  "You want me to come with you?"

  His gaze slid suggestively over her and his chiseled lips quirked. "I haven't touched you yet." She inhaled, her gaze faltering, and he slipped closer, slapping his hands on either side of her and leaning down into her face. "And yes, I want you to leave with me."

  "No way." He could be an ax murderer for all she knew. Though some inner voice doubted it. Of course, that inner voice had told her this place would be tame.

  He gazed into her blue eyes and felt the entire bar watching them. "Are you that willing to die, lady?"

  She scoffed. "You're exaggerating."

  "Look at Tiny."

  She did. A switchblade lay on the table, Tiny's stubby fingers spinning it, yet his gaze was on her. Pride made her lift her chin, glance back to the bartender and order another drink.

  Angel's expression sharpened and before she reached for the fresh glass, he grabbed her hand, ducked and tossed her up across his shoulder.

  She shrieked.

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

  "Help! Kidnapping!"

  "Shut up." His tone was infinitely calm.

  "Rape!"

  "I've had sex in a lot of ways, baby, but this is next to impossible."

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

  "You son of a bitch!"

  "That's likely."

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

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

  "Happy?"

  "No."

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

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

  "Give those to me."

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

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

  He smirked. "Wild guess."

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

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

  "I should have you arrested."

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

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

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

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

  "Anyone ever tell you that you're a bully?"

  "Yeah."

  "Arrogant?"

  A pause, then, "Yeah."

  "A lousy conversationalist?"

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

  "Sexy?"

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

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

  "I could have thrown you to the wolves instead."

  "I would have survived."

  He snorted. "Tiny isn't so tiny when he's pushed, lady."

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

  "Hey, Calli."

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

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

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

  Calli smacked the dashboard.

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

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