Fierce Protector: Hard to Handle trilogy, Book 1

by Kane, Janine

  I could barely stand it, believe me, Eva didn’t say. “Well, that’s good news,” she said, pulling her bra strap back up and snapping the catch closed once more. “Thanks so much for checking.”

  “No problem,” he said, and as he stood, Eva could have sworn – on a stack of Bibles – that saw a large bulge in his sweatpants. It was only for a second, and then Zack headed for the shower. For ten long minutes she sat on the sofa, breathing slowly and deeply, restraining the urge to peek around the bathroom door. She willed her overactive sex-drive to leave her be, reminding herself that this lovely man was, among other kindnesses, going to help to save her brother’s life. Idiot though he was, and drain on her sanity he had recently become, he was family and she’d never look at herself in the mirror the same way again if she allowed mindless criminals to hurt him.

  Zack transited from the shower to his bedroom wearing only a towel and a shy smile.

  “Sweet Jesus, help me,” Eva breathed, and then stopped short. “And Hank.” Her brother needed his soul saved more, but Eva would certainly have appreciated some divine support in calming her raging desire. “But first, Jesus, help me.”

  Chapter 7 – Fierce Protector

  Sutherland, TX

  Monday

  Curt sat in his car, feeling oddly uncomfortable. He changed the radio station a few times, played around with the sedan’s air conditioning and adjusted his seat, but he couldn’t quite scratch the itch. There was something . . . well, inhuman about trusting the word of a machine. Not only relying on its findings, but acting on them. Risking lives because of them.

  He had developed a healthy distaste for all things technological when, as a teenager, he had watched the space shuttle Challenger self-destruct over Florida, only forty miles from his boyhood home. It engrained in him a life-long skepticism, and contributed (so said his shrink) to college-age depression and maladjustment, which was just another way of saying he was pissed all the time and hated everyone. Some things never changed and, while he’d mellowed as he approached 40, he carried a lingering mistrust of both man and machine. A litany of disappointments – in work, in love, in business – had fossilized his views. So, his vigil outside the motel was marked by an almost childish squirming. He couldn’t wait to get out of the car and hit something.

  Deliverance arrived as his target departed, taking with it the tiny GPS transmitter he’d placed in its trunk, weeks ago. Curt made a note of the time, and then strode with carefree nonchalance into the lobby. “Say, I’m an idiot, but I think I left my key in the room. Would you mind?” The receptionist was only too willing to help and, within five minutes of his mark leaving the hotel, Curt was beginning the process of thoroughly ransacking the absent man’s hotel room. It was a search which was as efficient as it was fruitless, to Curt’s immense frustration.

  “Cocksucker,” he spat, and decided to leave a calling card. He grabbed a bottle of shaving gel from by the bathroom sink and slowly spelled out his message on the mirror: “PAY NOW, OR DIE”.

  ***

  Cheryl was working on her third and fourth theories about Eva’s sudden bruises as she coaxed six loaves of incredibly fragrant rosemary focaccia from the oven. Her young employee had been hit. There was no sense in denying it, nor in entertaining the alternative which Eva had offered – that she had walked carelessly into a kitchen cabinet door – which was so clichéd, Cheryl wondered if it had been a plea for help. Her spirits were high enough this morning, the older lady noted, but underneath there was a deeply worrisome sense that Eva’s world had suddenly become a much scarier place.

  “They’ll cool for five minutes, then slice ’em for the lunch crowd,” Cheryl said. “Is that friend of yours still at the window table?”

  Eva glanced through the circular windows of the bakery’s double kitchen doors, although she hardly needed to; Zack would keep watch until her shift finished, he had said, and then drive her home. He had read both local newspapers from cover to cover, and was now paging through the first of three novels from the town’s little library. “He sure is. Just loves your coffee, Cheryl.”

  The proprietor grunted mildly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were some kinda royalty and he’s your bodyguard, or something.” Eva laughed easily, aware that Cheryl was twice as worldly as she’d ever be, and ten times as observant. “Well,” she conceded, “provided he ain’t the one who . . .”

  “No,” Eva interjected, with the feeling that her boss deserved some honesty. “No, it wasn’t him.”

  Cheryl carried the loaves through to the broad countertops they used for slicing and packaging the popular bakery’s breads. “’Kitchen cupboard,’” she harrumphed skeptically, drawing an apologetic face from Eva. “Honey, I seen women beat by every object found in a modern home, and that one,” she said, pointing to the embarrassed girl’s face with the handle of her bread knife, “is found on the end of a deadbeat’s arm.” Eva nodded sheepishly. “Old Cheryl’s too wise for you, darling,” she said, tapping her temple. “Been too many places and seen too many things. You won’t ever hide the truth from me again, now will you, honey?”

  Eva gave her motherly boss a squeeze on the arm and sidled back into the kitchen to bring out yet more trays of outstanding breads. She could no more admit to Cheryl that her own kin had inflicted this bruise than she could sign up for the weekend’s martial arts fights; Cheryl was a cherishable institution in this close-knit town, but news flowed through her like she was Reuters. If Hank was to be kept safe, discretion was everything.

  There was laughter from the window table. Zack had been spotted by an old school friend, and was catching up. It wasn’t the first time, either; his extraordinary service to his country, and his equally staggering Mixed Martial Arts record, had earned him fame and respect in this community. The more Eva saw, the more she recognized that this was a young man who had, according to these warm and sincere people, never put a foot wrong. His combat achievements, so went the lore, had been curtailed only because a dumbass pilot had bombed his camp; but for that setback, he’d have tackled the Taliban single-handed and brought home Bin Laden’s head in a box. The stoical way he bore his injuries was merely further proof of his considerable – hell, near superhuman – strength in the face of adversity. Texans loved a fighting hero, and a level-headed, not to mention outrageously good-looking one, had all the characteristics of a genuine local legend.

  And I very, very nearly caught a sneak peek of his cock this morning. Eva’s mind had spent her shift wandering between three very different fields of thought: worry about her brother and whether he might not come, or whether he would and might hit her again; worry that Cheryl – or a well-meaning customer – would over-react and call the cops on account of Eva’s bruises; and worry that she’d think too much about Zack in his bath towel and wind up with either a sliced open thumb or distractingly moist panties. Or both. It was an exercise in mental control to which her tired mind was hardly equal.

  “I ain’t never seen chocolate chips muffins with raisins in, sweetie,” Cheryl exclaimed.

  Eva blinked. Shit! “Oh, Cheryl I’m sorry, I guess my mind isn’t in the right place today.”

  “Don’t you worry, little thing! We’ll name them ‘Muffins Eva’, like the French do. Very classy,” she added, scribbling the new name on the bakery’s chalkboard.

  “I’ll get it together, I promise,” Eva assured her, red-faced.

  Cheryl knew when to cajole, when to hustle someone along, and when simply to let it be. “We all do it, hun. I work you hard, and I know you’ve had a tough few days.”

  Eva said nothing, determined not to be drawn out. She turned her attention to Zack who continued to sit by the window with Sphinx-like patience. For the eighth time that shift, she walked over to pour him more coffee and see if he wanted anything else. “How about a couple of ‘Muffins Eva’?” he asked with a wry grin.

  “My own invention,” she said with mock pride, setting down his plate. “It’s not every day yo
u witness genuine creativity.” He chuckled again but, as he did so, Eva noticed his eyes sweep the street outside, almost as if drawn there by an invisible force. “Something wrong?”

  “No, no,” he said, waving away her concern. “Just an old habit.”

  It was only half a lie. SEALs were trained to habituate hyper-observant behavior, but a retired one, sitting in a bakery, hardly needed to call on such skills. Unless, that is, he was watching a car, its driver similarly hyper-alert, pass the bakery for the fifth time since lunch.

  ***

  “So, what’s going on round here tonight?” Zack asked as he brought the car to a smooth halt outside Trish and Tyler’s place.

  “I think it’s date night,” she answered. “It’s their way of softening the impact of an unwelcome Monday, Tyler told me.”

  “There’s nowhere in the world that Mondays are welcome,” Zack agreed, laughing. “But what about you?”

  Eva shrugged. If anything, she would work a little on her novel and maybe watch a movie. “Not much.”

  “Well,” Zack began, “if you’re not busy, maybe we could take ‘date night’ as our cue?” Eva stared at him, sure she had just been asked out, but somehow unsure what to say next. “I mean, we could grab some dinner and . . .”

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  Zack smiled broadly, as entertained by her quirky reply as he was relieved it was in the affirmative. “Great! May I pick you up at seven?”

  You can do absolutely anything you want to. “Sure. Seven.”

  “OK, see you then?” he said, amused that Eva was suddenly, hilariously dumb-struck.

  “Yup.”

  “Great.” Zack found himself grinning all the way back to his place.

  Eva had left the car, entered the house, undressed and was in the shower before her mind had become even slightly present. “I’m going on a date with Zack,” she said to herself, testing the notion against the stiff criteria of reality. “A date,” she repeated. “With Zack.” As the concept sank in, a flutter of excitement became an anxiety surrounding what she might wear, what she should do with her hair, whether or not she should shave . . .

  She reached for the razor and decided that it was simply neatness and comfort to tidy things up down there, not a prediction that anyone would be seeing her naked. “I’m going on a date,” she repeated. “With Zack.” She set down the razor, its task complete. “Holy fuck.”

  ***

  Getting ready to go out was a series of tasks which would, she knew for certain, fill all of the available time, plus ten percent. Having spent far too long trying on everything in her closet, and then far, far too long on her hair, she was up against it as the clock read 6.45. By the top of the hour, she was very stressed but looked fabulous in her favorite purple, ruched, strappy dress, just provocative enough without giving too much away. Her long, auburn hair was beautifully smooth, framing her pale face like a protective cloak. She fastened to her wrist a gold bracelet from her mother and then wound up endlessly dithering between her black lace panties and the matching purple thong, so that when the car horn sounded outside, she was still commando. Hurriedly pulling on the black panties from her webcam show, she checked herself in the mirror once more, took three deep breaths and headed outside.

  It was a cooler evening than the last few, perhaps sixty degrees as the sun set. Locking the door and turning, she found Zack leaning proudly against the gleaming hood of a silver 1960 Pontiac Bonneville, a stretched coupe which oozed glamour, its gorgeous, sleek lines glorified by swathes of impossibly lustrous chrome.

  “Your carriage awaits, M’Lady,” he said with a polite bow.

  Hold on to it, girl, cautioned Eva’s inner voice. I know he’s smoking, worldly, muscular and . . . oh, hang it, he’s perfect . . . just don’t go leaping before you look. Part of Eva knew it to be true, that discretion was the better part of valor, but other parts couldn’t wait to be as passionately, wetly indiscrete as any smitten girl ever had.

  “Good evening,” she purred. “This is some chariot!”

  He closed the door for her as Eva got comfortable in the roomy, leather interior. Zack took his place behind the almost comically giant steering wheel and confessed, “It’s not mine, just borrowed from Flynn’s dealership down the highway. But I love this car. If I ever make some money, I’ll have it sitting in my garage, with the greatest of pride.”

  “Excellent taste,” she said, without sarcasm. “I bet you show up to all your first dates in a classic car, though, right?”

  Zack raised an eyebrow, popped the car into gear and slid onto the main street, heading out of town. Did I just accuse him of being a serial womanizer? Eva hated silence after she’d said something she feared might have been dumb. “So, erm . . .”

  “You like Thai food?” he asked brightly. “There’s a new place about half way to San Antonio, it’s in this place that’s just a little backwater town like here,” he said, his haste revealing some date-night nerves. “Buddy of mine recommended it, and he’d know. His wife’s Thai.” He paused. “Or is she from Laos? Anyway, he says they have a great selection, so . . .”

  “Perfect,” Eva said, happy to cut off Zack’s endearingly nervous chatter. “And . . . Zack?” He turned to her. “You can . . . you know, relax. I’m not going to bite.”

  Zack dropped his shoulders with a little sigh and then laughed at his own edginess. “Good to know.” The countryside looked as pretty as rural Texas ever did, the fields bathed in a pre-twilight orange. “Say, I don’t want to talk about this any more than you do, but . . . have you heard anything from your brother?”

  Eva stiffened slightly but remembered that Zack only wanted to help. “No, nothing,” she answered. The driver nodded slowly. “Do you think that’s good news, or bad?”

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” Zack opined. “Grayson is looking into things, and I’d trust him with my life if I had to. We just need to put the two of them in a room, and Gray will be able to make some things happen.” Eva felt another wave of reassurance calm her nerves. It was like an extra-sensory ability; she heard his voice and she immediately felt better, safer, more protected. She looked across at him, his hair waving in the breeze, a wonderfully fitted white button-down shirt accentuating the best parts of his physique. She tried not to glance at his dark blue jeans, remembering the warm thrill she’d felt at the impressive bulge under his towel . . .

  “Here’s our turn,” he said, pulling the Pontiac off to the right and slowing for a stop sign. He copied Eva’s sideways glance, turning to take in her outfit. “You look great,” he said quietly, and immediately wanted a do-over, to frame it more articulately, with a soupçon of romance if at all possible, but she grinned happily and he considered the compliment well-delivered after all.

  “Thanks, you do too. It must be hard to find shirts that fit as well as that.” Crap, too much?

  Zack loved it. “Well, that’s twenty agonizing minutes in front of my mirror well spent.”

  “I see your twenty and raise you ten more,” she said, and the two laughed together at the unavoidable conventions of ‘date night’, . . . “And that was just my hair.” Fishing now, are we? Eva shushed her avid self-critic and tried to relax.

  “I do like auburn,” Zack said tentatively. “With your complexion it’s . . .”

  “Insanely pretty?” she tried, and then nudged him in the ribs.

  “Insanely, yeah. That, or a little more.” Eva smiled beautifully, shyly, a winsome look which could melt any man’s heart and stir his desires. Zack found that he loved Eva’s cute half-confidence, her down-home ‘aw shucks’ pragmatism. Not to mention her invitingly curvy shape in that gorgeous purple dress. At ease, Petty Officer Norcross; just drive the damned car.

  Both were aware, though, as the Pontiac was steered neatly into a parking spot behind the little restaurant, that their banter was a flirty façade to avoid talking about Hank, or Grayson, or goddamned drugs gangs. This wasn’t the night for earthly cares, but for so
me heavenly Thai entrees and the chance to unselfconsciously laugh. Just to be together for a while.

  If she had been a betting girl, Eva would have laid money on what happened next. “Mister Norcro’?” said the bubbly, animated proprietor as they were being seated. “You still fight Muay Thai, yes?”

  “I’m surprised you remember,” Zack answered mildly. “Eva, I want you to meet Khun Klerkkiat,” he said, using the formal Thai moniker, “sponsor of Texas’ only Thai boxing team which actually has Thai boxers in it”.

  “Must be the best,” Eva said, extending her hand and receiving a kiss from Mr. K, as any non-Thai speaker knew him.

  “No’ better than Khun Norcro’,” he said, waving a cautionary finger. His accent took a moment to grasp, infused as it was with the abruptly chopped word-endings of Thai English and the song-like, tonal style of Thai itself. “Khun Norcro’ beat many Thai boxer. You wan’ special shrim’ starter? On da how’ for Khun Norcro’,” he said, waving to his staff without waiting for an answer. He then left the couple and effusively welcomed two more guests to his tiny eatery.

  “What was that last thing he said?” Eva asked, finding Mr. K, and the restaurant, just delightful.

  “He said the shrimp would be on the house,” Zack answered, somewhat embarrassed by the unavoidable attention his achievements so often brought.

  “But didn’t he say you beat up his fighters?” Eva said.

  “Beat,” Zack corrected, “not beat up. In Muay Thai you can win without really hurting the other guy. If you know what you’re doing.” He smiled as he remembered the wild party after the bout, some eight years ago now. “That was before I was a SEAL,” he recalled. “I thought those guys were going to take me apart.”

  Their promised starter arrived, sizzling hotly, and Zack politely slid the succulent shrimp off their skewer and onto Eva’s plate. “You seemed to understand his crazy accent,” she observed. “Have you travelled in Asia?”