His Kind of Trouble

by Samantha Hunter

  “In Mexico, it won’t be any problem—clearly he’s not following me there. The note even indicates that,” she said, returning to her first instinct that she didn’t need his services. “And now that I am less panicked, I can see he’s probably not still in my apartment, either. He just left this there.”

  Though maybe when she came back she wouldn’t argue about having some protection until this was settled. And maybe she would stay with one of her friends for a while.

  “Give me your keys,” he said, and she did.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “You wait here, lock the doors and do not open them for anything. If there’s trouble, hit the horn. I’ll be right back down,” he said, exiting the car.

  Ana watched as one light after another was turned on in her apartment until the whole place was lit. Chance’s tall silhouette moved slowly past some of the windows, stalking.

  Checking.

  Ana waited, as she was told. It was too late, and she was too tired and too relieved to have someone making sure her home was safe.

  Minutes later, Chance came back down, opened the car door and ushered her out, beeping it to lock the car behind him.

  “Everything’s clear. I couldn’t find any other signs of intrusion, though maybe you’ll notice something. Good thing you were wearing gloves—maybe we’ll find some prints on the letter or the rose petals. Those were pretty creepy. No wonder you freaked out,” he said easily, making her feel less stupid about her fear as they headed up the stairs together.

  “Thank you for checking the place out. I was calling the police to do just that,” she said, taking her key from him.

  “No need to give them more work to do. That’s what I’m being paid the big bucks for,” he said lightly with a smile as she opened the door.

  She looked at him furtively from the door; the rose petals had all been picked up. He probably only did that to save them as evidence, but it still made her feel better.

  “Thank you, Mr. Berringer. I’ll be fine now. Good night,” she said, starting to close the door.

  “Call me Chance. If you need me, I’ll be right downstairs,” he said, turning away.

  Ana paused. “Downstairs? Aren’t you going home? I understand you followed me home to make sure I got here safely, and I appreciate it, but I’m fine now. Safe and sound,” she said. “My landlady lives right below me, and I doubt whoever left this will be back.”

  Chance nodded. “You’re probably right about that, but no, I’m not going home. I’m your bodyguard, and that’s 24/7. No going home until the job is done. I checked out your building earlier, and the front entrance is the most viable entry point. The windows on the lower floor are barred, and the back door is hooked up to an alarm. Mostly likely your landlady inadvertently let in your stalker, or he picked the front lock. I’ll talk to her in the morning.”

  “So you’re going to stay in your car? All night?” Ana asked incredulously.

  “It won’t be the first time. Comes with the job. Let me see your cell phone,” he said, and Ana found herself handing it to him. “My number is the first one on your quick dial if you need me. ’Night,” Chance said as he left.

  She stood in the doorway for another stunned second and then shook her head.

  “Well, if he wants to sit in his car all night, in the dead of winter, then fine,” she said aloud to no one, closing the door. She hung her coat and tried to recapture the peace and happiness that she always felt when she came back here every night.

  The apartment was small, not even the entire second floor of the building, but that appealed to her. She liked the cozy space with its freshly painted gold walls and bright hardwood floors. She had layered hand-loomed rugs from Mexico all through the apartment, had decorated it with as many things from the Yucatán as she could. Dense plants and large potted palms and ferns stood underneath warm lights and in front of the windows in every room, giving the apartment a lush, warm presence. Family pictures and art from a small gallery in Merida that she supported hung on the walls. Ana felt her muscles relax as the panic subsided, the threat gone.

  She tried not to think about a stranger being in her home—two of them in one night, if she counted Chance Berringer. She surveyed the space carefully as she moved through it, checking to see if anything had been tampered with or touched. Nothing that she could tell. Somehow, that was even more disturbing. If not for the note, would she have even known someone had been here?

  Changing into a soft nightgown and a matching robe, she poured a glass of wine and paused at the window, looking down at where Chance’s car was still parked. Lights off, there was no exhaust. Had he shut the ignition off completely? How would he stay warm?

  Ana stepped back from the window, closing the curtain. Not her problem. He was the one who insisted on camping out in front of her building, so it was his problem.

  She grabbed a book she had been meandering through for several evenings before bed and shut off the lights in the rest of the apartment, heading to bed to read, finish her wine and hopefully to sleep.

  She pulled the large quilt that her mother had made up over herself and settled in, comfortable and warm, and opened her book.

  Still, minutes later, she found herself reading the same page. Her mind wouldn’t adhere to the words, her eyes drifting to the window as she noticed through an opening in the curtain that snowflakes were falling; they danced in the light that streamed down from the nearest streetlamp.

  It was supposed to be extremely cold tonight.

  But Chance Berringer was a big boy. No doubt he had done this many times before. She didn’t need to worry about him. Maybe he’d get cold enough to finally give up and go home.

  Ana dropped the book with a frustrated sigh. No. She didn’t know him well, but she was astute enough to know that men like Chance Berringer didn’t give up on anything. He’d sit out there all night and freeze, but he’d stay and watch. Making sure she was safe.

  She felt the weight of disapproval from her upbringing. Her parents would be ashamed of her lack of hospitality for someone who had helped her.

  Ana knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep unless she at least made the offer, and she did have a comfortable sofa. It wasn’t much, but it was better than sitting out in his car on the street. She wrapped herself in her robe again and headed back downstairs. She’d offer Chance her sofa, and if he turned her down, then her obligation was fulfilled.

  Somehow, she knew it wasn’t going to be as easy as that.

  * * *

  HOT COFFEE AND EQUALLY HOT thoughts kept Chance awake, but they didn’t mean he was comfortable as he shifted in his seat again. Every now and then he stretched his legs by getting out of the car and checking the perimeter of the building. This wasn’t his first rodeo, and as he worked through the stash of chocolate and extra-strong coffee he’d brought along for the night, he couldn’t help but think of Ana, upstairs, sleeping.

  He’d followed the progression of lights on and off in her windows, until only one soft light stayed on. Her bedroom. It was still on. Had she fallen asleep that way, with the light on? Still afraid.

  He didn’t blame her. She was a strong, gutsy woman, but having a stranger in your house was enough to shake anyone up. Chance almost hoped that the creep came back so he could settle this here and now. He’d like nothing better than to end this for Ana.

  Well, there might be a few things he’d like better. Like knowing what she wore to bed, if anything, and how firm her mattress was.

  He’d had a peek when he’d checked out the apartment, and liked her sense of decor, obviously inspired by her home country. She loved strong colors, textures, and everything about her screamed passion.

  The entertaining thoughts were simply a way to keep himself occupied while he watched and waited. Sipping his coffee, his tired brain suddenly perked awake and took notice as he saw another light come on and then one more in the hall. Two seconds later, Ana was standing in the doorway of the brownstone, wavin
g to him.

  Chance was out of the car and by her side in the blink of an eye, his eyes searching behind her.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, standing close, protecting her with his own body, though he couldn’t figure out what he was protecting her from.

  She sighed. “I was just coming down to get you, to tell you to come in. I can’t believe you’re still out here. It’s freezing!” she said, stepping back into the warmth of the hallway.

  Chance looked at her, absorbing what she’d said. “You’re okay?”

  She nodded impatiently. “Yes, I’m fine, but close the door and come on up. You’re letting all the cold in,” she said and went to climb the stairs.

  Chance’s gaze honed in on slim calves and ankles exposed as she moved up the stairs, holding the flannel robe around her curvy form. His pulse had spiked from the adrenaline, and it wasn’t settling down any as his eyes took in the nice curve of her behind.

  He shook himself out of it, looking away, beeping his car lock and closing the door, as she’d instructed.

  She was asking him upstairs.

  Not a romantic invitation—in fact, she looked more irritated than anything—but Chance wasn’t going to say no, anyway. Taking the steps two or three at a time, he was by her side as she opened the door.

  It was considerably warmer inside, he had to admit. Even his jangling caffeine-and-sugar-fed nerves were settling once he stepped into the refuge of Ana’s apartment.

  “Thanks. This is a lot nicer than the car.”

  “The couch is yours. I’ll get you some blankets and sheets. You know where the bathroom and the kitchen are from when you looked around earlier. You can use the bath out here. I have my own. Help yourself to anything you want,” she said, her tone coolly polite, but as her eyes met his and locked on for a second, a flicker of heat betrayed her. She felt it, too.

  Chance ignored it. This was difficult for her, he could tell. Her apartment had been invaded by some stranger, and her life was being invaded by, well, him. To take advantage of that, of her vulnerability, that wasn’t just against his professional reputation—it wasn’t his style. He was here to make her feel safe, and that was what he intended to do.

  “Thank you, Ana,” he said sincerely, hanging his coat neatly over the back of a chair. “I’ll be fine. You get some sleep. Long day tomorrow.”

  The change in his tone seemed to throw her, and he wondered what she had expected. His eyes measured the generously cushioned sofa. It would be plenty comfortable for him, while allowing him to stay close and hear anything that happened throughout the apartment. Maybe he’d even sleep a little.

  “Long day?”

  “You have meetings and then your flight early the next morning.”

  She closed her eyes. “Of course, you know my schedule.”

  He shrugged. “Part of the job.”

  She nodded, pushing a hand through her hair and suddenly looking weary and a little fragile. “We’ll talk about that tomorrow.”

  He wasn’t going to argue, but set to pulling out a few blankets from the pile she’d stacked at the foot of the long sofa. “Good night, Ana.”

  Pausing, she returned the sentiment and walked quietly into her room.

  Chance made the sofa up for something to do and even laid down on it, though he had no intention of sleeping, even if he could. He’d primed his body and mind for staying awake all night, and if the sugar and caffeine weren’t enough, all he had to do was think about Ana only yards away, in bed.

  Still, rest would get him through the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours until he could get Ana safely to Mexico.

  Lying back into the soft blankets and pillows, his body remained tense, his mind alert. He closed his eyes, taking some smooth, relaxing breaths, and then opened them again. It was no use.

  Sitting back up, he studied the room and got up to poke around a little. Several bookcases were jammed with volumes of fiction, nonfiction—a lot of travel writing—and what had to be hundreds of cookbooks. Including four written by Ana.

  Chance loved food almost as much as he loved women. His extreme-sports lifestyle allowed him to eat pretty much anything he wanted, though he rarely cooked for himself. It wasn’t at the top of his list of skills, for sure. Spotting a shelf of DVDs, he thought he might find something to watch and noticed several hand-labeled Ana’s Kitchen. Ana’s cooking show that she’d filmed herself. Some early college-age episodes and some later, from her network show.

  Curious, Chance took one and put it in the DVD player, lowering the volume. He had to grin at the perky Mexican music that introduced the clearly amateur-filmed episode, but as soon as Ana appeared on the screen, he was rapt.

  He had no idea what she was cooking, but he loved watching her do it. She was so young then, more relaxed, though just as beautiful. She wore a crisp white shirt, a yellow apron and had a flower in her hair. Her friends from the dorm would pop into the kitchen and help her, and Ana practically burst with energy and spark as she cooked and explained step-by-step how to create what she was cooking in her small kitchen.

  Chance studied her expressions, her movements, how she laughed freely with her friends. She was so much more open. Happier.

  “What are you doing?”

  The fact that her question made him jump proved how absorbed he was in his observations. She stood in the doorway, wrapped in the same flannel robe, her arms crossed in front of her. She looked tired, her eyes sleepy, hair mussed. No makeup.

  Still sexy as hell.

  “Couldn’t sleep. Watching some of your old shows that I found in the bookcase. Is that okay?”

  It hadn’t occurred to him that she might not want anyone to see them—it had been a broadcast show, after all.

  “It’s fine,” she said with a yawn. “I just heard sounds, and I didn’t know what it was. I forgot you were here for a second. I’m not used to anyone being in the apartment at night. It startled me before I remembered.”

  “Sorry about that. I tried to keep it low,” Chance said, watching her as she moved closer and sat with him, curling her feet up under her in that feminine way women did. He’d always liked that, how they could fold themselves up like cats, unfold like flowers.

  He blinked at the TV, surprised by his own late-night poetry. Maybe Ana brought it out in him. There was something comforting and intimate about sitting with her like this on a sofa covered in blankets and pillows. He’d kept his jeans and T-shirt on, but it felt...homey.

  “It’s a great show,” he said, following her gaze to the TV. She smiled to herself as she watched. “How many of these did you do?” he asked her.

  “Two years in college, then one after, before I was picked up by the networks. Sixty-seven episodes in all. We didn’t follow any particular plan. I just cooked a lot, and when my friends were free to film, we did. It was fun.”

  “And by the looks of it, you paid them with the results,” he said. Every show ended with the group diving into whatever dish Ana had made.

  “Pretty much. It wasn’t about money. We didn’t care about that, though the show gave us all our start, in a way. Alan, the guy who did the video, went on to be a cameraman on several popular TV shows, and Patty—that brunette right there—she’s a writer now. They were the main ones in it with me, and others just joined in spontaneously.”

  “You were amazing on camera then, too. A natural,” Chance said, and he meant it.

  She shook her head. “I never imagined any of this would happen. I wanted to keep doing the show and the cookbooks.”

  “That’s unusual,” Chance said. “Most people want to be famous.”

  “A generation of cooks before us came up from family restaurants, small kitchens, and they knew food better than they knew anything else. I try to honor that knowledge on the new show as much as I can. Not everyone needs to have studied at Le Cordon Bleu or the Culinary Institutes. Some of the more creative chefs never have formal training, though it’s not a bad thing to have. I ju
st got very lucky.”

  “I’d say instead that you are just very, very good at what you do.”

  Ana switched her gaze from the TV to meet his. “Thank you. I think I am, though I’m always learning. I think if I spend my whole life doing this, I will never learn all there is to know about food. It’s one of the things I love about it. The challenge. The simplest dish can be the hardest to perfect.”

  Chance watched her face light up as she talked about her craft, her profession. She really did love it.

  “You miss it,” he said. A statement, not a question. He could see it in her eyes.

  She nodded. “Sometimes, yes.”

  He reached out to push back a stray curl that had fallen forward into her face. She sucked in a tiny, surprised breath as his fingers drifted over her cheek and the back of her ear—so soft—but she didn’t pull back. It would be so easy to let his fingers slip into that mass of silky hair and draw her close, get tangled in the blankets and sheets together.

  Instead, he dropped his hand, smiling slightly.

  “Maybe we should try to sleep again,” he said, taking a breath. “I’ll turn this off now.”

  She stood, looking as disconcerted as he felt. Because what he’d done was out of line, or because she felt the same tug of desire?

  “Yes, of course. Good night, again.”

  Without another look, Ana padded back to her bedroom, closing the door with a definite click. Chance could imagine a hundred other ways that moment could have ended, but this one was the right way. For now.

  But if he had his way, when things were better, he might try to steal that kiss—or more—from Ana and see what happened. It was a thought that followed him into his dreams.

  3

  ANA SLIPPED INSIDE her dressing room and locked the door. She leaned back against it, letting out a sigh of relief.