Frustrated, he ran a hand through his already messy hair. “So you were just going to stand there while that idiot tried to kill you?"
The careless shrug she gave almost stopped his heart.
"Woman, you are not right in the head."
The remark earned him another throaty laugh, along with a lifted brow. “Like I've never heard that before."
Seeing he couldn't change her opinion on the potential seriousness of tonight's events, Garen blew out a long breath, then checked the time on his watch. Since it wasn't too late he unclipped his phone, which by some miracle had remained attached to his belt. Hitting the third name on his favourites list, he relaxed enough to lean back against the sturdy pillar supporting the wide porch.
"Hey, who are you calling?"
Ignoring her seemed to be the lesser of two evils so Garen pulled the notebook out of his pocket along with the pen and started adding items to his list for tomorrow. His stomach clenched in familiar misery at having to alter his final permanent list. He really hated rearranging his closely ordered life. There was a time, place and order to everything in his world. Toss in one raving knife-wielding sex goddess with a death wish and everything neat and proper in his life flew out the window.
The phone rang twice. “Yeah."
"Nice phone manners, Cage."
Recee's head flew up at the name of her friend's fiance and his partner. “You called Brock!"
Desperate to protect his remaining eardrums Garen moved farther down the porch, balanced the phone between his neck and shoulder, then opened his notebook.
"Who was that? Shit, man, you aren't with psycho chick, are you?"
Rather than answer, Garen grunted before flipping pages until he reached the last one he'd written on.
Brock let out a tortured groan. “Flash,” he said, using Garen's name from their military service. “You cannot be around that woman. She's so not normal."
"That's my best friend you're talking about, Brockston Cage!” Garen smiled to hear the pissed-off note in Emma's tone as she gave the man she loved hell. Emma might have been the most relaxed and easygoing of the five friends, but when riled, her temper matched or exceeded Recee's. The couple bickered while he waited with impatience.
What Garen wouldn't give to have such a loyal woman in his life. A sharp slap on his arm and he turned around to raise an eyebrow at the female fury standing at his side. When she hit him again he huffed a sigh of resignation, snatched her wrists and held them securely behind her back. “Hush, I'm doing grown up work."
Recee remained quiet as her mouth flapped open and closed before her power of speech kicked in once more. “Let me go, you overgrown son of a troll.” With her hands immobile she lashed out with her bare feet and knees.
Brock finished fighting with his woman, so Garen ignored the slight stings of Recee's attack and returned his focus to the most important problem at hand. He flattened his palm against her forehead keeping her attack to a minimum, but revving up her temper.
"What do you want?” Brock asked.
"The Spurs to win the NBA championship, world peace and honest politicians, but in the real world I need you to run standard background on some loser that tried to run your girl's best friend over."
"Aww, fuck,” Brock muttered and Garen guessed his buddy was picturing his bout of make-up sex flying out the window. “Some shmuck thought he could actually kill the queen of darkness?"
"Brock?” Emma's strident angry tone came over the line loud and clear.
"Shit, I mean why oh why would someone want to hurt an innocent such as our delicate flower Recee?” Brock's voice went high, feminine and, for some strange reason, British.
Garen wondered exactly when his friend had lost his mind, then answered the question himself. Pretty much when he hooked back up with Emma and the Oestrogen Loon Gang.
"Look, can you hurry this up? My schedule is already pretty much trashed for the night. I'd like to recoup what I can of the evening.” Sadly he saw the many items that had been crossed off his precious list. Never in all the years he'd been making his lists had he been forced to cross off so many, and in pen, no less. Shivers of distaste ran up and down his spine.
Brock drew in a sharp breath, but remained silent for several significant moments. “You've messed up the holy schedule...for a woman...for Recee?” Disbelief clouded his friend's voice.
"There was no other alternative, but I'd like to move this along, if you don't mind.” He stole a quick look at his own familiar handwriting, checked the time and knew if he got a move on only part of his evening would be ruined.
"This is insane."
"Yeah, I happen to agree. It's not every day some moron ties to take out Emma's girl.” Garen agreed while blocking the blow Recee attempted at his balls. Damn female, didn't she know he was trying to take care of her in the most expedient manner possible?
Brock laughed. “Hell no, man, I can easily believe Recee's got a hit list on her a mile long. That woman makes enemies the way Emma makes friends. I'm shitting bricks because you canned your schedule for a woman. You never deviate, never. When I was shot you told me to suck it, we had a timeline."
"We did,” Garen said. He remembered the event very well. Brock's wound had almost slowed them down and would have caused the whole team to miss their ride back to civilisation. “Are you ready to take this information or do I have to waste more time skipping down memory fucking lane with you?"
"Shit, take it easy, Flash. I'm ready. Let's hear the details."
Garen rattled off the details written in his precise, neat handwriting. When he finished reciting all the information he had, he looked down at Recee. “You got anything else to add?"
"Besides the fact that you're an uncouth, knuckle-dragging asshole with no manners who is not afraid to use his size and strength to take advantage of people smaller than you?"
"Yeah, besides that."
His answer only stopped her for a minute. “Thomas Morehouse, forty-three years old, lives on Marchmont Drive, a senior partner with West, Higgens, and Takers. Loves his mama, is terrified of his daddy and has a very intimate relationship with his executive assistant.” Her dainty hands reached up and tried to pull his hand away from her wrist, but Garen liked her somewhat powerless. It kept his balls intact and hope for future children alive.
"Huh. What's her name?” What kind of fool slipped some on the side when he had Recee waiting for him? Then again, he could pretty much answer his question. Morehouse was a hot-headed fool with little brains or common sense, as tonight's attack showed.
"His name is Roy Moats and my best guess is he's probably at the hospital or at the very least a quick care clinic.” She intensified her struggle to get free, but Garen easily ignored her feeble pulls as he related the information to his partner.
"Oh sweet heaven, do I want to know what she did to make medical intervention a necessity?"
Garen thought of the swollen blisters on Thomas’ mouth, the funny way the other man had walked and the very slow, tentative slide of his ass into the car seat. “No, you really don't."
"I didn't think so.” He heaved a put-out sigh. “Fine, I'll make a few calls to find out what's what. Think the viper is still in danger?"
Looking Recee up and down he couldn't see beyond her rounded curves, wide dark eyes and bee-stung lips. Shit yes, she was in danger. Was her danger from something lurking in the dark or the man holding her captive with one hand?
He blew out one long, frustrated breath. “I have no idea. Depends on what you find out, but my gut tells me this was more of a spur of the moment thing. I doubt he'll have the ability or balls to come back tonight."
"Got ya. Then I'll get to work and hit you back when I find something out. Until then back away from the devil's spawn and leave while your manhood is still intact."
Garen ended the call without bothering to reply. Yeah, he understood Brock's aversion to Recee, but from what he knew and saw of the woman her reputation wasn't an exact
fit.
Shoving the small phone in his pocket, he looked down at the woman staring daggers at him. “What the hell am I supposed to do with you now?"
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Four
* * * *
Recee had several really good ideas of what he could do, but none of them were legal. At least not in the States or Canada. Maybe she could convince him to take a quick trip to Taiwan.
"You are not going to do a damn thing with me or to me. I don't how the hell you ended up here in the first place, but you're on private property. I want you to get the hell off... Now."
A casual, dismissive shrug of those mountains he called shoulders almost pulled her arm out of its socket. “What will you do if the boyfriend comes back?"
A snort of disbelief escaped her pursed lips. “Yeah, right. He's not coming back. You said it yourself, this was a crime of opportunity. Thomas is too stupid and too concerned with his public persona to try anything this dumb again."
"Is that why you haven't called the police yet?” Why did he have to sound so calm and collected when she wanted to scream, punch and throw things?
"And tell them what, exactly? That the deacon from the biggest Baptist church in town tried to mow me down in his fine luxury automobile?” She gave a sniff of disdain. “Where's my proof? The only thing hurt in this whole disaster is his precious car.” The thought gave her something to smile about.
Thomas loved his car almost as much as he loved himself. The impact against her reinforced stairs must have put a hell of a dent in the peacock's vehicle, not to mention his paint job.
"So you have no problem staying here all by yourself?” The heavy layer of doubt in his voice made her want to kick him again. Except her foot still hurt from her last attempt. If she'd broken bones she'd find a way to break a few of his.
"Of course I don't have a problem staying the night...alone...in...my...own...home.” You moron.
Garen didn't say a word, so Recee didn't know where he thought this was going. Did he know about the ‘play or pay’ bet going on with the girls? Could that be why he showed up out of nowhere like some fabled superhero, thinking he could get a little head start?
But that didn't make any sense. Olivia, Briley, Emma and Trinity would rather break their mani-pedi date than give some man the advantage over her. A slight shake of her bound hands brought her back to her present large unmoving problem.
"You still with me, Rocky?"
"Huh? Rocky?"
A sexy smile curved his lips as he looked down. “Yeah, Rocky. You remind me of the movie character. You get knocked down, but you keep getting back up again. It's either Rocky or Weeble, you pick."
"Weeble? Did that really come out of your mouth?” She didn't know if she should laugh or fight. The man had her flying from one emotion to the next.
A startling thought blazed through her mind. Would he be able to bring that same talent into the bedroom?
Studying him in the soft porch light of her family home, Recee saw a strong man with sun-darkened skin and high proud cheekbones proclaiming his Native American heritage. With his long thick hair the colour of midnight and eyes to match she couldn't deny his sensual appeal. Nor her desire to experience everything this man could give her.
It wasn't as if she really had a choice, right? The game demanded results and Recee was nothing if not an honest competitor.
Yeah right her conscience snorted in derision. You haven't cared about honour or fairness since you were sixteen years old.
Honour and fairness had been easily-disposed-of commodities until she'd met her friends, the sisters of her heart who'd become her family. Olivia, Emma, Briley and Trinity had saved her life, her sanity and her soul, but they would never know. So only for them, for those four amazing women, would she keep her word.
"What's going on inside that head of yours? Probably a tilt-a-whirl gone crazy, huh?"
She jerked her gaze back to him. “Kindly remove your hands from my person, then yourself from my property."
This time he did as she asked. The loss of his touch sent a wave of neediness through her, but Recee squashed it with the ease of long practice.
Again he flicked a glance to his expensive and technical-looking watch. The man was obsessed with time. Did he have some sort of hot date planned for later? If so, why the hell had he showed up here?
"Look, if you've got better places to be then by all means scoot off. I'll be fine here.” And she meant it, too. She knew how to take care of herself. She'd been doing just that for years.
"It's not necessarily someplace better, but it's on my schedule."
Her eyes grew wide as his words and actions sank into her brain. “Oh damn it, you're one of those people."
"One of what people?” Confusion shadowed his serious black eyes.
She lifted her brow lifted as she pointed to his watch, then to the back pocket where the tiny notebook had disappeared. “One of those people with lists, schedules and appointments all the live-long day. I bet your home is so clean I could eat out of the toilet."
Garen's cheeks might have turned red. She really couldn't tell in the dim porch light. But he said, “It's not a crime to be organised,” sounding defensive, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his well-worn jeans. “I like everything in its place. That way I don't waste time searching for something when I need it."
The closet in her bedroom mocked her...loudly. If she had half Garen's OCD issues the portal of doom wouldn't threaten to take over her room. As it was Recee could never find half her shoes or if she found one, then the other had mysteriously disappeared. The closet, she suspected, had a leather fetish and was eating expensive footwear sole by sole. Before long the only things protecting her feet from the ground would be her flip-flops.
"You have problems with being organised and on time?” He rocked his big frame back on his heels, those dark eyes never once leaving her face.
She shrugged. “Shit happens, then I scramble to keep up."
He looked appalled with his mouth halfway open, eyes wide and one hand pressed to his chest over his heart. “You don't have a plan? An alternate way of getting somewhere or getting something done?"
His tone made the questions sound more like “You eat newborn puppies raw with mayonnaise?"
"What's the big deal? Not all of us can live in your dictator-like world order. I like surprises."
This time, instead of grabbing his heart Garen shoved his hands into his hair and pulled. She wondered if he did that a lot. If so why wasn't he bald by now? “How do you live like that?” he asked.
Recee opened her mouth to blast him that she lived very well, but his phone rang before she could release the words.
He tapped the phone. “Swifthorse,” and shifted away from her. Great. The giant troll didn't want her hearing anything that might have to do with her attack? Hell, no.
Recee marched around him, planted both feet solidly on the wooden porch and crossed her arms. Many people, men included, had fallen by the wayside underneath this particular glare.
Garen just lifted a dark brow, held up a finger and turned away from her again.
Again!
What kind of mojo did this guy have? No one walked away from her especially when she gave them the flying-monkeys-of-death stare.
Drawing her foot back Recee stopped right before the point of impact, the low light catching and glinting off the bright yellow polish, not to mention the red swollen area.
Had she chipped her big toe? Catching her right foot in her hand she hopped around attempting to get a better look.
Damn it, less than a week and already her pedicure had chipped. She blamed the big lug ignoring her. Only a man could do this much destruction in such a short amount of time. That she'd kicked him of her own volition was a fact she dismissed as easily as she ignored the fact that so far everything but the attempted murder had started because of her actions.
Righteous in her fury, Recee dropped her foot
back to the porch, grabbed the fly swatter from the railing and whacked one of the finest asses she'd ever had the pleasure of viewing.
"Son of a bi—” Garen roared and swung around, fist raised to strike. Stopping just short of her quivering chin he bit back another curse. “You psychotic house-cat, what the hell is the matter with you?"
Fear and rage swallowed her words. Instead she pointed to her right foot with all the justification of a murder victim. Why was it that something didn't hurt until you became aware of it?
"What?” His hand cupped the phone, preventing their conversation from being overheard. “I don't have time for your drama."
"You chipped my toenail polish.” Recee found her voice, low and mean. “And I think there's more than one broken bone in my foot. See, it's red and puffy."
Nothing for a few heartbeats. Then those black eyes narrowed. “Don't say another word, woman, not one word. Or else I promise you on every clock in the country I will put you over my lap and spank your ass. Then the swelling on your foot won't matter in comparison to your butt."
"I need therapy because there is something so not right with my head,” she muttered, but moved away from him all the same.
Garen shot one last glare in her direction before returning his attention to the phone. “Go ahead."
Standing around all night didn't make her list of favourite activities. The former solider could posture and pose all he wanted, but she refused to stand there like a twit and take it.
Too bad getting into the house involved walking right past him, but with his attention on everything but her she might be able to slip past. Acting as casual as possible, Recee limped across the smooth wooden floor, but her attention was diverted by her new, sexy guardian angel threatening the security and privacy of her home.
Almost there. Recee wrapped her fingers around the worn knob of the screen door and pulled. The heady feeling of victory filled her with righteous power.
Except the door didn't open. The harder she pulled, the less it moved. With no lock on the inside of the door she didn't fully understand the problem until she looked down.
On the left side of the wooden panel, a yacht-size brown hiking boot kept the door shut. Recee tilted her neck to follow the leg attached to the boot, deliberately skipping the more interesting parts, up past a flat stomach, wide shoulders, thick neck, sensual full lips, arrogant Roman nose, all the way up to jet black eyes.
Romancing Recee Page 4
