by Lora Leigh
She was a woman who enjoyed life. It sparkled in her eyes and showed in her smile. She was a woman guaran-damn-teed to drive him insane and he wasn't even officially her bodyguard yet. He was just the dumb shit ordered to follow her and her present bodyguard around until gears were put into motion and Durango Team could be rounded up from their various locations. God help him when he had to stay in her home under the cover his commander had informed him he would be using.
Because he had lusted after Miss Emily Stanton for seven years. The only thing that had saved her was the fact that he was rarely around her. Living in her home, sleeping under the same roof with her, pretending to be her lover was going to break him and he knew it. Soon, he would have her in his bed; the only battle would be keeping her out of his heart.
As he fought to keep up with her in the traffic, Kell found himself cursing along with all the other men in vehicles around them. If he hadn't been trying to follow her, he would have acknowledged her cunning and daring. But he was trying to follow her, and she was making it damned hard to do so.
It happened every time he trailed her anywhere. He cussed her for hours. Swore he was going to tie her up and stuff her in a closet. That he would find a nice little uninhabited island to stick her on where she couldn't endanger herself or others.
It made a man glad he had a will, even if he didn't have an heir.
Who knew an SUV could move like that? He was on his Harley and he couldn't gain the momentum she had on an interstate packed with four lanes of prerush-hour traffic.
He was reciting every curse he had learned, in Arabic, in a Middle Eastern prison three years ago. Then he tried the Russian versions that he had learned in a cold little jail in some back mountain province he didn't want to even think about.
But he made it, with only inches to spare between the back tire of his precious Harley and a four-by-four pickup as wide as a barn.
But he was back in place on her ass, and snarling as she zipped and whipped through the inner-city traffic.
Because it was obvious her bodyguard couldn't do a damned thing with her. He wasn't even smart enough to call in backup to contain her. As though backup could do anything with a slippery little fox, he thought with a spurt of amusement.
Keeping a careful distance between his Harley and her SUV, he flattened his lips once again and promised himself that the minute he took over her security he was locking her in a room with no escape routes and throwing away the damned key.
Then his lips quirked in amusement. Hell no, he wouldn't lock her up. The first thing he was going to do was see how damned fast he could get all that restless fire and passion between the sheets.
He had waited long enough for her. She was older now, mature. She could go to bed with him and not be destroyed when it was time for him to walk away.
As she pulled into the back lot of a strip club, he amended the previous idea. He wasn't locking her in a room. A room was too good for the hell she was getting ready to put him through when he pulled her out of Timbo's. He was locking her in chains and finding a hole deep enough to contain the little witch. Because sure as hell, if he dragged her out of this place, he was going to end up pissed off. bruised, bloody, and maybe with a few bones broken. And for that, he was going to demand a bit of satisfaction.
No, not just a bit. A lot. And likely more than either of them needed. Definitely more than he should be thinking. Because he kept imagining her, not in a hole, but in a bed, her arms stretched over her head, her legs spread, open and inviting. And that lush little body panting for him.
Damn, a hard-on sure as hell wasn't what he needed right now.
He pulled the Harley into an alley alongside the back parking lot, concealing it behind the trees that struggled to live amid the rot and decay that surrounded them, and watched as Emily and her bodyguard moved from the vehicle.
He was going to end up in a fight before this was over with.
Not that Kell cared to fight. Hell, he loved to fight. But he didn't think the senator would appreciate the feet that his little girl had been to a strip club, not with the danger facing her now. And the senator wasn't going to be happy either.
Kell wondered about Emily's present bodyguard and his obvious lack of sanity.
Chet Dyson was a former marine, tough, supposedly fearless, but that was fear Kell saw on his face. Desperation. He was looking around for an escape route, not an attacker, even as he argued with his charge.
Kell shook his head. He had heard the other man arguing with her as they left, demanding her keys, threatening to call her father, cursing. But the dumb ass had parked it right in the passenger seat anyway and let Emily have her head.
They disappeared in the back door of the strip club and Kell sighed wearily. He was going to have to go in there and find out what the hell she was up to. That was something he had hoped to put off, because knowing the research habits he had uncovered so far, he had a feeling it could be control destroying. It was his luck she was researching the criminal underbelly of Atlanta, a move guaranteed to get her pretty little head shot off her shoulders.
Shaking his head, he started the Harley and pulled around to the front lot where he parked it beneath the eagle eye of Timbo's doorman. Kell snorted at the title. Tiny was no one's idea of a doorman. He was seven feet of hulking muscle and an expression that made a grizzly look nice. Narrow black eyes watched him silently as he swung off the Harley and powerful black arms crossed over his wide chest.
"What kind of trouble are you stirring up here, Kreiger?" Tiny asked suspiciously as he neared the door.
"Nothing too messy, Tiny." Kell grinned. "Let me in for a drink. My pigeon just walked in the back door and I need to keep an eye on her."
Amusement flickered in Tiny's eyes. "That little thing Cherry's giving dancing lessons to?" If Kell wasn't mistaken an edge of affection crept into the big man's voice. That was scary. Predictable, but scary nonetheless. She had a way of drawing people to her, of making them care whether they wanted to or not.
He sure as hell hadn't wanted to. But from the moment he had met her fifteen years before, only weeks after the death of his young wife and their unborn child, he had found himself looking into her too perceptive gaze and knowing that if he wasn't careful, she would make him care.
"Yeah," Kell drawled, narrowing his eyes. "Why?"
"She's doing a lap dance this afternoon. For me."
Every bone and muscle in Kell's body tightened as rage flickered across his senses.
"She's doing what?"
Tiny grinned down at him. "She's been taking lessons from Cherry this week. Today's test day. She's doing her moves and Timbo said she could do them for me."
Like hell. As Kell stared back he moved his hand to his wallet, pulled it free, and knew he was in deep shit when Tiny glanced at it with satisfaction.
"Now how did I know you wouldn't like that?" The other man's voice filled with smug satisfaction. "Boy, you got the look of a man getting ready to drown. Maybe I should save you from yourself."
"How much?"
"I like you, Kreiger." He shook his head. "But she's damned pretty."
Kell pulled a hundred free.
"And I know what Cherry's been teaching her." Tiny's grin got wider.
Kell pulled free the second hundred.
"And she's just the prettiest little piece of candy."
Kell pulled the knife from his boot in a move so fast Tiny barely had time to blink before the edge was pressing against his throat.
He swallowed tightly. "But she ain't that sweet." He reached out and took the two hundreds from Kell's other hand with a tentative movement. "Better you than me. That woman's trouble."
Kell's lips thinned as he lowered the knife and slid it back into the sheath at the side of his boot.
"Don't let anyone else in," he ordered.
"I wasn't supposed to let you in," Tiny grunted.
Kell sliced a hard, killing look back at him.
"But, hey man, I k
now you and that knife." He grinned. "I'll keep the place clear. Those were the orders anyway. Better hurry, though, show starts soon. It's guaranteed to be a killer."
No shit. Kell was beginning to guess that if Emily Stanton was involved, then no matter what it was, it had the potential to kill.
Her father, a former SEAL, had made a grave tactical error in giving her a taste of excitement as a child before jerking it away from her and trying to marry her off to men determined to control her.
Kell had watched from afar for years, never interfering, despite his disagreement with the senator. He had watched the steady stream of men sent in to guard that delectable body with aspirations of marriage. Those aspirations never lasted long. A few weeks to a few months. They slinked out of her life with their tails between their legs.
Until two years ago. When she had put her foot down for the first time and refused another male presence in her home. Three months later, Fuentes had taken her. And she had only become more determined since then to learn how to protect herself.
This wasn't a woman who accepted limits, unless they were her own. She made her own rules. And Kell understood that. He respected that. Even if he was determined that before it was over, she would shape those rules to suit not just her needs, but his as well.
He had found a vixen. Taming her wasn't on the agenda, but touching her, tasting her was, and that would take careful planning. Because vixens didn't give in easily.
There would be nothing easy about Emily. But that was okay, because there was nothing easy about him either.
Chapter Two
Emily made certain the long, dark brown wig was firmly in place, the strands of hair hiding the fact that it was indeed a wig. Her makeup exaggerated the arch of her brows and the tilt of her eyes, and the slouchy clothes were nothing like the cool, comfortably loose clothes she normally wore.
Not that she thought Cherry the stripper was fooled. She knew Emily was in disguise. But she didn't know who Emily was and that was all that mattered. When a senator's daughter went for extreme research, she did have to at least attempt a measure of decorum. Especially when said senator's daughter had managed to totally screw up once before and get herself kidnapped.
Her father still hadn't let her live that one down, and he wasn't likely to forget it for a while. She wasn't likely to forget it either, her nightmares assured her of that. That didn't mean she intended to bury her head in her father's cocoon-wrapped hideout and forget about living.
If she did that, then Fuentes and the monster that haunted her nightmares would have won. She wasn't about to allow that to happen.
"So, which outfit?" The stripper Emily had hired to teach her the dance moves indicated a row of gaudy, sparkling material to choose from.
Emily glanced at the row of clothes on the racks as the dancer waved toward them negligently. Cherry Layne was tall, at least five eight without her high heels, and skinny to boot. Damn, Emily hated skinny women.
Long red-gold curls cascaded to Cherry's slim shoulders and framed a kittenish face that held a smile more often than not.
"How about the schoolgirl outfit?" Cherry indicated the little plaid skirt and white top she had hung on the rack. "Men just go wild for this one."
"Eww, Cherry. That's just wrong." She couldn't go there. She was a teacher, for pity's sake. At least, she would be a teacher again after summer break. That was close enough.
Cherry's grin was wicked. "Sweet girl, you don't know the fantasies you're missing out on."
Emily shuddered and shook her head with a grimace. "Not me. No, thank you."
The stripper only laughed and fingered through the outfits again.
"Cheerleader?"
"Ugh." Emily grimaced. "Keep going."
"There's not a lot here that will fit you." Cherry frowned as Emily cast her a mocking glare.
"You don't have to rub it in." She sighed.
"Sweetie, you got curves," Cherry said. "I'd love curves, but some of these outfits just trash a solid body."
She held up a pair of thongs and wispy bra as an example. "Not exactly curvy material." She laughed.
"Not exactly my material either." Emily shook her head. "Let's keep it simple."
Very simple. She didn't want to flash every inch of skin, just see how sexy it felt to do the dance. Kira swore it would awaken hormones she didn't know she had. Cherry promised it would make her feel hot and desirable.
"Hmm. How about this one? It would go perfect with your figure as well as your personality. Nice and sweet on the outside and all slut on the inside."
"Slut?" Emily lifted her brows, not knowing if she should be offended or amused.
She had never been considered slut material in her entire life. Prude. Ice queen. Frigid. But never slut. Maybe she should just take it as a compliment, she thought, amused.
"On the inside, sweetie." Cherry's eyes sparkled with mirth. "Men love the public good girl and the private whore. Haven't you figured that out?"
No. She hadn't. But she admitted, her education was lacking.
"Interesting," she murmured, wondering if she had managed to hide the fact that she didn't have a clue what the stripper was talking about.
"Now, some of the highbrow types like to pretend they don't want it." Cherry shrugged. "Men like that come here. They have their little madonnas they married, and they have their hot little tarts on the side. But some men, men who know how to treat a woman, now, they understand it."
And she was supposed to find one of those where?
"Here, try it on." Cherry handed her the outfit.
It wasn't exactly a costume; rather it looked more like a simple business skirt and white cotton blouse. But it would work.
"Did you get the sexy undies I told you to pick up?" Cherry asked as she laid the skirt and blouse on the chair beside Emily.
"Wearing them now." Emily grinned at the thought of the sexy, lacy underwear she was wearing. "Are you sure this is going to work?"
"Perfectly." Cherry waved a manicured hand negligently at Emily's question. The owner was supposed to arrange for one of the bouncers to be available for her lap dance. "Timbo doesn't cheat his customers. He'll have someone out there and you'll knock them dead."
What was the point in going to the trouble to learn the exotic dance steps and, specifically, the lap dance if she couldn't try it out on someone? The research she needed was specific. And if she didn't find a way to convince her agent that her characters could and would get nasty, then her writing career was over before it ever even truly began.
"Get hot!" Cicily had told her. "Get nasty. Show the editors that your women know how to be women and your men know how to love them, or you 're not going to sell."
She rolled her eyes at the thought of it as she dressed in the short skirt and blouse. Get hot. Get nasty. She needed to get sex before she dried up and turned into an old prune.
Her bad-boy heroes weren't bad enough and the women they loved were cardboard characters. Perhaps she was the problem. The cardboard writer. How did one write hot when one never had a man desirable enough to get hot over?
Biting her lip, she stared back at the woman in the makeup mirror. Herself. She could do this. Her friend Kira said dancing for a man would make her feel hot. That tempting him, seducing him, was a major turn-on. Unfortunately, so far, it had just been work.
"Ready?" Cherry tilted her head to the side, her long red hair falling over her shoulder, as she gave Emily an encouraging look.
As ready as she would ever be after nearly a week of instruction by the drill sergeant Cherry had turned out to be.
"Ready." Yes. She could do this.
Emily slid her feet into the ridiculously high black heels Cherry had placed on the floor in front of her then pressed her hand to her stomach before following the other woman from the dressing room.
"I'll be watching you," Cherry assured her. "And remember, the guy Timbo got to practice the lap dance is not allowed to touch you. I'll be watching and s
o will David. If he tries, he's hamburger meat. Okay?"
David was the ridiculously large bouncer who adored Cherry. They were the oddest couple, but Emily had to admit, they seemed to match.
She paused at the side of the dance stage as Cherry moved across it, her long legs eating the short distance until she stepped into the sound cubicle. Seconds later, the music began.
Emily sauntered onto the stage, moving in time to the music, hips swaying, counting beats to movements, wondering where the pumping adrenaline was that Cherry talked about. The need to feel sexy. The need to ...
