Men of Danger

by Lora Leigh

  Between the industry sharks, the guys who were married or otherwise living with a woman and lying, to the ones who’d have a hidden camera posted in their apartments to sell her image into Internet porn, what was a girl to do? The horror stories were rampant; the lengths people went to in order to make a quick buck on somebody else’s back were notorious.

  That still didn’t stop the dull throb that had taken over her clit or the sudden ache that prickled across her skin. It had been so long since she’d been touched . . . Zachary Mitchell had great hands. Clean, long, well-kept square fingers, but not manicured in a metrosexual way. Just remembering his mouth made her part her lips and pull in a shallow sip of air. She could only imagine what his kiss could do, and her mind began to feel the hot daydream play out across her belly, flowing down over her navel as her valley plumped and spilled liquid heat into her pan ties.

  She smoothed her moist palms down her jeans legs, envisioning him pulling her jeans down over her hips. This didn’t make sense, but her mind was on fire just thinking about the way he’d crossed that lobby like a man on a mission— it seemed like a little more than a job. It seemed personal somehow. It made her wonder what a kiss from him might taste like . . . what his mouth against her shoulder might feel like.

  To have a man like him want her . . . to trail kisses down her body until he discovered her mound, to find that sweet spot between her thighs . . . to take his sweet time, sweet Jesus . . . to lick a slow, lazy trail along her slit, gently parting the fat, engorged lips of her flower with his tongue. Sucking her bud just right . . . a gentle finger finding her rim, finding the beat, finding the tight circle.

  Anita squeezed her legs together tighter; she had to stop. This was pointless she told herself firmly. But right now would be so perfect to feel skin-against-skin, the simplistic beauty of human touch. In her daydream, she didn’t need a condom . . . she could let the tip of her tongue travel up his shaft to revel in the spongy texture of its head, then she could envision sliding her hand back down his thick, heavily veined shaft.

  Stop it, stop it, stop it, girl, you’ve been watching too much late-night TV.

  Her brain wouldn’t turn off. Each time she tried to jettison the images out of her head they came back with a vengeance. Her mind seized on that one part of his anatomy she’d become fixated on until she couldn’t help fantasizing about how his excitement would release pearling fluids that would make his wondrous male organ glisten. Then her attention would release the pumping motion of his hips in anticipation, would release that fabulous baritone she’d just heard outside the limo window . . . but this time he’d say her name, “‘Nita.”

  Soon that impossible-to-replicate part of him would be inside of her, welded deep within her flesh, opening her thighs, opening her lungs, making her see stars, making her weep. Her girlfriends had all lied; a pocket rocket or a full-sized battery-operated boyfriend could never replace that natural male resource . . . if the man knew what he was doing . . . if he were gifted and talented. Zachary Mitchell seemed like he was both.

  Oh, yeah, it had been way too long, if she was thinking about this. Anita stared at the divider glass that separated her from pure sin— Zachary Mitchell. No. The last thing she needed was to get caught getting all hot and bothered. She’d be at the pent house the label had leased for her soon enough, alone, and in her own space that she trusted. Anita sat up and fetched a bottle of spring water from the fridge. This limo was sent and could have been wired, for all she knew. A tiny camera could be anywhere.

  She placed the cool, wet bottle against her throat and closed her eyes again, stifling a quiet moan. Her canal begged for penetration, needed more than what a finger or daydream could provide— but she wasn’t about to let her ex laugh at her. She could just see the front page of a tabloid now: STAR FINGERS HERSELF IN HER LIMO JUST BEFORE THE R&B MUSIC AWARDS. Never happen.

  So what if she had to go to the awards solo and come home that way? It didn’t matter that her nipples had now become so hard that it felt like little needles were grazing them each time she inhaled and exhaled. Anita popped the seal on her water and drank it down greedily. It wasn’t just about raw sex— that was easy to find. She was searching for a real relationship anyway. Good-looking men were a dime a dozen. She just needed to calm down and shake this fine specimen out of her thoughts.

  Still, the condition of being alone was not the preferred option— that she couldn’t deny. But if a person who’d already reached her status of fame was suddenly single, then how was one to trust that a man just cared for her because of who she was inside, not because of her fame and fortune? Add that issue to wading one’s way through the booty-call players. Anita stared out the window, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

  It wasn’t like she could just go out to a club and meet someone, or even use an online dating ser vice. Anyone she met and slept with had to be checked out eight ways from Sunday, and then they could always write a tell-all book after it was all said and done. Paparazzi would scare off anyone decent, and the only reason they probably hadn’t shown up in the hotel lobby this afternoon was because she’d had the foresight to ask her label, as a condition of her tour, to always send a drone limo away earlier with a look-alike in it, and the cameras probably chased that up the highway like a pack of rabid dogs.

  Her head hurt and her body hurt. Frustration was making her crazy. Anita slumped back against the seat and considered the champagne. She needed to focus on the show she had to do tonight.

  “Damn . . .” she whispered to herself and then became mute again. All she could do was put on some soft music and shake her head. It was going to be a very long ride to New York.

  IT WAS ALL he could do to focus on the road. He hadn’t been this messed up by a woman in a very long time. Come to think of it, he really couldn’t recall a time when a woman had dissected his brain like this one had. He was never so glad in his life to see a Central Park West building.

  In and out, he told himself. Just come around the vehicle, get the package out, get her up to her place, sweep it, bring up the rest of her bags, and be out.

  Zachary squared his shoulders and came around the side of the limo and then opened the door. This time she reached for his hand and the buttery softness of it connected to something within him that ignited in his palm. She looked up, and he could really see her gorgeous hazel eyes for the first time as she peered over the top of her huge sunglasses.

  Graceful and light, she glided out of the limo with ease and offered him a half-smile as she bit her bottom lip. It was the sexiest thing to watch . . .

  “I’m sorry I was such a trip when you first picked me up,” she said quietly. “Like I said, it was a bad morning. That wasn’t your fault.”

  “No offense taken, ma’am.” He closed the car door behind her and tried to keep his tone professional.

  “Are you from the south?” she asked as he went to the trunk to get her luggage.

  “No, ma’am, why do you ask?” he replied, ushering her toward the doorman.

  “You keep calling me ma’am.”

  He tilted his head as the uniformed doorman greeted them with a smile and opened the door. “Guess it’s force of habit.”

  “Makes me feel old,” she said and then smiled broadly.

  He’d kept walking, but he was the walking wounded. Her smile had hit him in the chest like an RPG round. The way her lush mouth turned up in earnest joy to expose perfect pearl-white teeth, made her already pretty face absolutely angelic. There was no possible way for him to sync up the image of the woman he’d picked up in the limo to the shrew portrayed in the rags on the newsstand. This could not be Queen B— the diva, the scandalous heartbreaker, and stage vixen who’d gone from R&B to rap, back to R&B again in a tumultuous path.

  “You’re definitely not old,” he said after an awkward moment, standing by the elevator and adjusting his hold on her multiple bags.

  From the corner of his eye he saw her swallow a smile.

  �
�We used to call my mama and grandmama, ma’am.”

  He had to smile. “Yeah,” he said with a slight chuckle. “I guess you’re right . . . but it’s just respect, Ms. Brown.”

  “Anita, since you’re driving me to the awards tonight and will be the closest thing I have to a date.”

  He gave her a quick glance, glad that the elevator had arrived. “Yes, ma’am,” he said in reflex, and then wanted to kick himself when she smiled and simply shook her head.

  She stepped in and he followed her, not knowing how to process her statement. This woman didn’t have a date? How in the hell . . .

  Okay, maybe she had issues. Maybe the stuff in the tabloids was true. He just needed to stay in character, do the job Lowell had asked, and keep his mind from wandering. He was Delta Force—Hoorah.

  They rode up in relative silence, and when the elevator doors opened, there was only one other door on her floor. Her apartment took up half a city block . . . whoa. Okay, now it was time for a reality check. This woman was loaded, he was military and did all right by normal folks’ standards, but this was over the top. Anita Brown was way out of his league.

  She walked ahead of him digging in her purse. He told himself that he had to stop studying her delicious posterior. But his training kicked in when she reached for the door.

  “Please, ma’am, let me go in and sweep it for you first,” he said in a low, firm tone. He set her bags down by the door, then took her keys from her hand, managed the locks and entered her apartment, senses on full alert.

  Anita placed her hand over her heart and leaned against the small crescent table that was littered with mail, almost taking out the large vase of calla lilies. The way that man said ma’am just ran all through her. It was the way he dropped the end of the word, had an interesting Midwest something to it that was mixed into his New York sound, and was all male. Up close, he was a presence that could not be denied . . . and the way his hands felt— good Gawd. Had just a slight callous to them, like a guy who labored for a living. But the strength in them . . . when he’d helped her out of the limo she thought she’d faint dead away.

  Fanning her face for a moment, she peeked into the apartment, listening to him go room by room and suddenly trying to think of anything she could to get him to stay for a little while longer.

  “All clear,” he finally said, coming back to the door. “Where would you like your bags?”

  “My bedroom,” she said as quietly and sexily as possible.

  She watched the muscle pulse in his jaw as he gave her a curt nod, extended his arm with a sweep to invite her in, and then did what almost looked like an Honor Guard three-point turn before collecting her bags and heading toward her bedroom. Never in her life had a suit looked so frickin’ good on one man’s body. She generally didn’t go in for the Wall Street-banker style, but this guy made a plain white Oxford button-down shirt and a basic rep tie transform into something exotic by any woman’s standards.

  “I will be back at nineteen hundred hours, sharp, ma’am,” he said.

  “In plain English, sir,” she said with a wide grin. “And will you cut the ma’am and just call me Anita?”

  “Six pm, Ms. Brown.” He smiled.

  “Okay, I’ll take Ms. Brown for now. Wouldn’t wanna get you in trouble with your boss,” she said, glimpsing him over her shoulder as she turned to walk back down the hall toward the front door. “It’s black tie, I hope Lowell Johnson told you.”

  She chuckled when she heard Zachary’s footfalls hesitate behind her. “Guess he didn’t,” she said turning to face him. “That’s cool . . . I’ll give my stylist a call and see what Javier can rustle up.”

  “Ma’am, you don’t have to—”

  “It’s part of the job, we expense that kinda stuff all the time,” she said quickly and then folded her arms over her chest. “So, how tall are you?”

  “Six-four,” he said in a low rumble and then looked out of the expansive bank of windows.

  “Shoe size?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Are you serious?” she said and then covered her mouth, laughing. “TMI!” Laughing harder as he shifted uncomfortably, she waved her hands and then hugged herself. “I’m sorry, that was inappropriate and really bad . . . all right, all right . . . what’s your inseam?”

  “Now you’re really getting personal, ma’am,” he said, beginning to chuckle with her. “I take a forty-two long, all right?”

  “Six o’clock,” she said, walking away from him and fanning her face with a way-too-big smile.

  She opened the door and closed it still laughing. He couldn’t kill the half-smile that was permanently etched on his face.

  As he waited for the elevator he had only one question— what the hell had Lowell Johnson gotten him into?

  CHAPTER 3

  BROOKLYN, NY, CROWN HEIGHTS

  ZACH WAITED ON the huge St. Marks Avenue brownstone steps juggling supermarket bags along with his suit bag and waiting for his three godsons to open the front door. He had questions for his buddy Lowell and a short two-hour window to shower at Lowell’s apartment, shave, change into the fresh suit he was gonna wear, before he had to be back on his post at Anita Brown’s apartment by nineteen hundred hours. Now Lowell was sick and possibly couldn’t do the security detail? That cell phone call while he was driving almost made him veer off the road.

  This wasn’t like Lowell and this whole thing was spinning off course, he could feel it. The first problem was the tux thing. Now he’d have to get there fifteen minutes early to change into what ever Anita Brown’s stylist had found, which had never been a part of the program— he was just a driver.

  Truthfully he’d planned on staying in Manhattan, grabbing something to eat there, and just looping back to pick Anita up. What was this tux thing? Now he was an escort? Although he had to admit that wasn’t a completely bad thing, he didn’t like sudden itinerary changes. And if he was going to add security to his list, then he really needed to sit with Lowell, see the layout of the exits at the Apollo, figure out how to maneuver Anita through the crowd, then there’d be paparazzi to contend with. This was not a simple thing, especially if she was being stalked.

  He was just glad he’d had the foresight to bring enough clothes with him and stuff for the kids that he was able to stash in the limo before he’d left for AC to go get Anita, which saved yet another stop to go pick up his gear at some hotel somewhere.

  But there was no getting around the fact that he didn’t like how this woman had totally jacked him up— he couldn’t stop thinking about her, couldn’t stop picturing her walking through her apartment in the buff . . . which was like something out of a magazine. Yeah, stop thinking about her body and think about the apartment. That would keep wood at bay.

  Floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides, a breath-taking view of the park like he’d never seen. Insane art, flowers all over the place. The joint was spotless, seemed like a hotel, like no one ever really lived there. Baby grand piano, pieces of furniture that looked like one-of-a-kind pieces— this was how she lived? What man could compete with that? It was sobering and definitely a wood killer.

  But the sound of children dragged him away from his careening thoughts. He laughed as he heard the commotion of three sets of impatient little feet running down three flights of stairs to greet him.

  Sure, Anne Marie had buzzed him in, but there was a ritual to be observed; the kids wanted to jump him and hang all over his body like extra appendages as he trudged up to their apartment. The ten-year-old would be on his back, the five-and seven-year-olds clinging to his already overburdened arms, with their mother standing at the top of the stairs yelling for them to get off their uncle while he made wrestling growls— much to the children’s delight.

  Junior, LaVon, and Terrence were a handful. He didn’t know how his buddy, Lowell, and his wife, Anne Marie, handled it all. They made raising a family look so easy— but to his mind, being in Delta Force was a much less scarier prospect. Being there
for kids to provide for their every emotional, physical, and even spiritual need . . . making sure they grew up right in a crazy world, making sure that no one hurt them in the thug-infested streets; that was the war that his buddy and his wife fought every day. And they fought it admirably. It was a helluva challenge, one that took discipline, courage, steadfastness, and honor . . . and earned his ultimate respect.

  Bringing some groceries to a friend’s house when he had the flu was the least he could do. He’d already gotten the toys before he’d even thought about getting on a plane yesterday, but he would have come sooner, flown in a few days earlier, if he’d known that Lowell was seriously sick.

  Zach stared at the door, the sounds of children flowing into the background of his mind. Lowell had to know he couldn’t cover even his basic clients. There was something in Anne Marie’s voice the day before— she never called him out of the blue the way she did without Lowell being on the other line. That’s what had prompted him to come for a visit, to just follow his gut and get a flight that same day. His plane had landed that same evening, but it was too late to stop by— then this morning his cell phone rang. The only thing that his buddy had said was that all his men were busy with other jobs, he was a little under the weather and was going to try to cover this important client, but then asked if it would be possible for him to get to New York by tomorrow. Zach shook his head. He was already there and Lowell had given him the job. That’s how he knew how bad things really had to be.

  It wasn’t until he was back in the limo that the second call had come in from Lowell, who didn’t sound good at all. Lowell hadn’t told him that he’d need him to be more than a driver until late this afternoon— then again, that was just like Lowell to tough it out till he was at the point of no return.