Hot and Bothered

by Crystal Green

  It wasn’t that he felt anything for her besides good all-American, red-blooded lust, but . . .

  Rochelle Burton. Here. What the hell?

  The last night they’d seen each other had started out in the usual way, with them laughing and joking, flirting as they’d done every summer since they were fifteen. Cat and mouse, mouse and cat, they’d say saucy things to each other but never cross any lines. Her cousins would’ve kicked his ass if he had—or if they’d known.

  But that night, as they’d walked around the ranch, knowing that she’d soon be off to college in California, where she lived with her divorced dad, he’d noticed that the boundaries weren’t quite the same. The laughing had turned to tickling in an abandoned barn, and there on the hay, they’d started kissing.

  Feverish, sloppy, this-is-finally-happening kissing. With most girls, he needed something physical, never emotional—just enough screwing to soothe the teenaged hormonal aches that seemed to be hardwired in him. But with Rochelle? He’d wanted her more than any girl he’d ever met, and he wasn’t sure why.

  But that didn’t matter, because she wouldn’t be around soon—he’d probably never even see the college girl again after this summer. Yet instead of making him feel better about banging her and making the break between them easy, it almost made him feel worse. No more hanging out with her, no more laughing. No more trying to figure out just what she was to him.

  Before he’d known it, her clothes were off, then his. Fumbling, heavy breathing . . . it should’ve been the culmination of every fantasy he’d had about her, but she’d been so nervous, shaking, and he’d tried to please her but . . .

  Shit, even though he’d held up his end of the bargain, it’d been no good in the end, tawdry and empty and wrong. So wrong that neither of them had looked at each other afterward. And when he’d reached over to put a hand on her, to touch her because he wasn’t sure what to say for the first time in his life, she shut down. And when she’d kiddingly thanked him, trying to brush off the encounter with more jokes, her voice had been quivering.

  Had he hurt her somehow? He felt bad about that, because he hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. He never did.

  Before he could puzzle anything out, she’d left the barn. Then, early the next morning, her car was gone.

  She’d driven back to SoCal.

  They’d never spoken again, and he’d told himself it was for the best—he was a one-night kind of guy and she was off to college anyway. They didn’t fit into each other’s lives.

  So he’d left it at that, never knowing at the time that he wouldn’t be able to just let go of that night, that he would replay every caress and kiss and wonder how he could’ve done it better. He wasn’t used to being left—he always did the leaving—and the way she’d gone off without a word had stung. It had lingered, undefined, unfinished, a mystery that he couldn’t solve in himself.

  Even though he’d grown up, moved on, joined the Army, and come back here a few years ago, every once in a while he’d feel a flicker of her essence in him. That was especially true recently since his friends at the R&T began dropping like damned flies, falling in love, taking off, and leaving him behind.

  And behind for what? Poker games with tourists that supplemented his income? Whisky shots, Jell-O Fight Nights, and Tubs o’ Beer at the bar every weekend?

  But there was also his job—a job he was very shittin’ good at.

  Still, he wasn’t the only freelance bodyguard in the area, so why should he be bothered because her cousins wanted to hire him?

  “Vegas is crawling with BGs,” he said, tightening his arms over his chest.

  “The boys don’t want a random bodyguard.” Her voice was smoother these days, making her come off like a diamond-shiny city girl. He’d always known she’d be that someday, the Levis-clad teenager who visited summer after summer changing into what she was always meant to be.

  Had a part of him wanted to keep her in jeans and boots? Was that why he’d always carried that ridiculous torch that seemed to be flaring in his gut even now?

  She went on. “But before you start thinking that I’m in favor of hiring you, relax. I told them we should get someone we don’t know, someone who doesn’t have a history with us—a professional who can keep some distance. But they said our history was what would make you a great bodyguard for me.”

  Yup, the boys had no idea that Gideon and their “lil’ sis” had made quite a bit of history together. Gideon saw them around Rough & Tumble when they came in from their nearby ranch every so often, but Gideon always steered conversations away from Rochelle. Not unless the talk was about her newest best seller or how well she was doing in general.

  But a niggle of concern had already started eating at him. Damn his guardian instincts. “So why the hell do you need close-protection security?”

  She shrugged, as if shirking off the reason. He recognized the gangbusters girl, the one he’d kiddingly called “Boss” who would sit on the fence industriously scratching stories into her journal while he played hooky from his family’s own ranch next door and worked the cutting horses on her uncle’s spread. That had been before Bad Sex Night . . . and long before everything had really changed after his parents had lost the ranch and moved into Rough & Tumble, leaving him their house after they’d died a few years ago. And after his parents had left another dark mark on him that he didn’t like to talk about, either.

  “Rochelle,” he said, determined to get an answer from her. “People don’t generally just collect bodyguards for their amusement.”

  Her green eyes clouded, and she seemed to come to a decision, opening the designer clutch purse in her hand. “You’re right. They don’t. And just so we’re straight with each other, I’ve never needed a bodyguard before. I have a support system for my writing business, but I’ve never needed . . . this.” She took a phone out of her purse. “It seems I’ve attracted a creeper.”

  Shit. “You mean a stalker? An obsessive fan?”

  “He or she isn’t quite that. Not yet anyway.” She fiddled with her phone then handed it to him. “This picture was taken a few hours ago.”

  Their fingers brushed. Sparks seemed to burst through his veins, traveling straight to his groin.

  He cleared his throat, hoping to God she didn’t notice how attracted he still was to her. Was she sitting there thinking of their Bad Sex Night, too, and wishing it could’ve been so much better?

  Hell, if it had been good, he would’ve gotten her out of his blood that night, and he wouldn’t be reduced to a hormone-throbbing and flailing-around teenager right now.

  Collecting himself, he took his time perusing the picture on the phone: a poster at a bookstore featuring a vintage image of the sultry, cat-eyed Cherry Chastain—a book cover. Scrawled over it was a message written in red pen.

  CHERRY IS AN ANGEL, YOU BITCH!

  In the corner was a photo of Rochelle, and it was crossed out with the same angry red ink.

  “Clearly,” Rochelle said in a level voice, “someone got hold of an advanced copy of my book or they heard about what I did with Cherry from reviews, and they weren’t happy with my portrayal of her. It looks like they took it out on the poster for a book signing I’ll be having. Everyone knows Cherry wasn’t an angel in the social sense, so I have to wonder if Superfan here is telling me that Cherry’s literally an angel in heaven. Maybe they’re upset that I wrote she didn’t die in the way local lore says she did.”

  “In a fire.”

  “There was never any solid proof that she did.”

  Gideon kept hold of the phone. He didn’t care so much about some minor starlet whose biggest claim to fame was as an extra in Viva Las Vegas in the sixties and partied with the mob boys. “This creeper’s on your case because they’re upset with the ending of your book?”

  “I know, right?” There she was—Rochelle, the spunky girl again. It was
nice to see her take over from the designer woman. “It’s fictionalized history—operative word being fictionalized! Also, artistic license?” She calmed down, going back to the woman wearing a cool white spring suit, the woman he didn’t know anymore. “In any case, this is the first I’ve heard from Superfan, and we suspect they’re someone local. I’ll be doing a lot of promo here during the next week and continuing a book tour out of state after that, so I have to agree with my cousins—I’m better off safe than sorry with some protection.” She paused and then said, “With a bodyguard who’s better suited for me, that is.”

  He ignored the comment. “Why not cancel the events in this area and play it real safe?”

  He hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but just the thought of her in danger prodded him. After all this time and he still cared beyond what a professional would. Go figure that, too.

  She looked him straight in the eye without even flinching. “I’m not running away from anything, Gideon.”

  Like you ran away after that night?

  He didn’t say it, because saying it would mean it mattered.

  Also, he had the feeling that she might karate chop him if he dared. She seemed like the type of affluent woman who took classes at the gym in her spare time.

  She was obviously ready to wrap this up. “So that’s why I’m here. I had a good idea of where you might be. The boys mentioned you like it at the saloon.”

  “You’re dismissing me then?”

  “For a job, yes.”

  Was he really going to hand this over to another BG, though? If Gideon said so himself, he was the best in the area, and to give her over to someone else . . . Damn, if anything happened to her, he’d never forget that. He’d also never forgive himself, because long ago, the Burtons had been like family. Rochelle’s uncle Dennis, rest his soul, had taken Gideon under his wing whenever his idiot parents were fighting and throwing shit at each other. What would he say to Gideon now?

  Why’re you even hesitating, kid?

  “Listen,” Rochelle said, “if you’d just recommend some other bodyguards, I’ll contact them. I only wanted to give you a heads-up because the boys have no idea about . . .”

  “Us. I figured. And they’d thrash me good, even retroactively, if they knew.”

  “This way, they won’t ever have to know.”

  As she looked at him with those green eyes and long lashes, his cock pulsed. Damn cock.

  She was getting to him, all right, and in more than one way. It didn’t seem right that someone else would watch over a woman—a girl—he’d done so much watching over during those summers long ago.

  If he could get her to hire Boomer, his private investigator buddy, they could easily access security footage from the mall and hopefully track down this creep right away. Meanwhile, all Gideon would have to do was keep Rochelle safe until she left town. Hell, he didn’t have any gigs until late next week anyway.

  Besides, no matter how drawn he was to Rochelle, good BGs didn’t get involved with their clients.

  It wouldn’t even be a factor.

  She was so close that he could smell what was most likely an expensive perfume on her skin. It was a new perfume or lotion, and he missed the way she used to smell like honeysuckle, even if this scent was stirring up his blood, making it simmer.

  “So I’ll let the boys know you’re too busy to take this on,” she said, reaching for the phone that he was still holding.

  But when she grabbed it, he didn’t let go. His skin burned against hers, and when she looked into his eyes, there was fire there, too.

  He didn’t want to back off. He wanted to put that torch inside of him out, this time for good, crushing her against him, tearing at those fancy clothes to see if his summer ranch girl was anywhere underneath. He wanted to touch her all over, pet her until she made the kind of soft little sounds every other woman had ever made with him, then he wanted to thrust inside her, bringing out cries and pleas for more.

  Her gaze had gone wide, her long lashes—a girl’s lashes—dark and full. Her lips parted like that was the only way she could breathe.

  “Don’t make that call, sweetheart,” he said. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

  2

  Rochelle had no idea what she was doing with Gideon right now.

  One second, they’d been talking about business and body guarding, and the next . . .

  The next, she was feeling like a teenager again, swept up in the erotic energy that always seemed to pull her to him, making her wonder what it’d feel like to have him kissing his way down her skin, touching her breasts, stroking between her legs.

  As he kept hold of her phone—and her hand—her body became a mass of heartbeats, chasing each other on a ragged course, crashing against her chest and sparking over every inch of her.

  “I think we’re done here,” she whispered.

  “Not quite.”

  The calloused skin of his hand was abrasive against hers, rough and primal, so unlike the men she knew in the city or on her travels.

  He lowered his voice. “What did you think I’d do when you mentioned a creeper? Leave you alone?”

  Good question, and she wondered if, all along, she’d known Gideon wouldn’t abandon her. He was a man now, a responsible professional. He’d also been a good friend of the family—a favorite of Uncle Dennis and childhood friends with her cousins—and those kinds of ties never broke here in Rough & Tumble.

  They kept facing each other, his hand tightening over hers, her heartbeat pressing through her, every second expanding between them until—

  The door opened behind Rochelle, and at the blast of rock music, she startled, then backed away from Gideon, clutching the phone. He raised his hands in front of him as he retreated, a slanted grin on his mouth, darkness in his gaze.

  “Quick-draw,” bellowed a man. “you got some girls waiting in the backroom for you, fanning their hot pussies with poker cards.”

  Gideon sent a lowered look to the potty mouth. “Mind your tongue, Beetles.”

  Pulse still rocketing, Rochelle put away the phone and adjusted her vest, hoping no one had seen how close she’d been to Gideon. Then she glanced over her shoulder to find a scuzzy biker with a dirty blue bandana on his head and a leather jacket that’d been cut off at the arms and whose front barely covered an ample gut. His bushy, dust-speckled beard hid the lower half of his face but not the yellowed smile that peeked through the hairs.

  Another bearded man, this one with actual gold teeth and a flannel shirt, scooted into the courtyard behind the biker, gaping at Rochelle. There was also a woman with short, badly cut hair the color of desert sand, wide blue eyes, and a misting of freckles over her nose that she’d tried to cover with makeup. Rochelle had seen her working the bar when she’d first come in to ask if Gideon was here, and she was pretty sure this was Kat Jenkins, whose family had owned the saloon since way back. According to town history, her dearly departed grandpa had won the painting of Cherry Chastain from a gambling artist in a card game.

  Kat merely surveyed Rochelle, unsmiling. Oookay. Rochelle wasn’t sure what that was about.

  The first man—was his name Beetles?—stuck out his hand for a shake. “Well, oil my bike and call me a Harley. You wrote a book, did ya?”

  As Rochelle greeted the guy—she was always appreciative of anyone who had something nice to say about her books—the second man interrupted.

  “She’s written a few novels, Beetles. And they are amazing.” Gold Teeth turned to Rochelle. “I always knew you’d grow up to be famous—your uncle Dennis used to come in to the General Store and brag about his writerly niece all the time.”

  “Thank you.” She recognized Gold Teeth now—Clancy DeForge. Somewhere along the line, he’d gained two tooth caps and lost a few pounds. She used to go into his store, which was connected to this very courtyard, and
buy hard candy every summer weekend.

  He nudged Beetles, as if to let the biker know he was an uneducated dolt. Beetles gave Clancy an unappreciative look that put Rochelle on notice. Even if he was amusing, he carried the stink of bad news with him, so she was going to stay on his good side. His leather cut, which had a strip that said “Nomad,” didn’t exactly scream “Trust me!” either. He was probably a one-percenter—another name for the minority of outlaw bikers who weren’t good citizens like the other ninety-nine percent. His type had been hanging out at the R&T for decades.

  Kat was still clearly unimpressed with Rochelle. “You should’ve talked to some of us about Cherry before you put that book out. I hear there’re things in your story that’re far from the truth.”

  Rochelle had been through publicity training and routinely handled similar comments after she’d published her books on other, more famous actresses, all who had controversy or scandal in their lives just like Cherry.

  So she merely smiled. “Cherry’s existence was full of speculation, Kat. Plus, she lived most of her time in Vegas itself, not here. But no one seems to know the real truth about her, although I did my best to be respectful.”

  Kat was apparently surprised that Rochelle remembered the quiet younger girl who’d swept the planked boardwalk every morning, running errands for her grandpa and washing dishes in back of the saloon. She seemed even more surprised when Gideon spoke.

  “It’s fictionalized history, Kat,” he said. “Don’t ya know?”

  She traded a dry look with Gideon. “All I’m sayin’ is that if Dillinger were on shift, he’d be all over Miss Author Pants here. He fancies himself the Cherry Chastain expert and would’ve liked to have been consulted.” She tossed a bar towel over her shoulder and turned around, returning to her station.