would be the only true answer, of course, unless he forced the truth from Randi’s lips. Gorgeous lips. Even when she was angry. Her mouth would twist into a furious pout that Striker found incredibly sexy.Which was just plain nuts. He couldn’t, wouldn’t let his mind wander down that seductively dark path. No matter how attractive Randi McCafferty was, he was being paid to protect her, not seduce her. He couldn’t let it happen again.
He felt a bit of hardening beneath his fly and swore under his breath. He shouldn’t get an erection just thinking of the woman… Hell, this was no time. None whatsoever for ridiculous fantasies. He had a job to do. And he’d better do it quickly before there was another unexplained “accident,” before someone else got hurt. Or before the would-be murderer got lucky and this time someone was killed.
Six
S he pushed open the revolving glass doors and found him just where she’d expected him, on a rain-washed Seattle street, looking damnably rough-and-tumble and sexy as ever. Obviously waiting for her. Great. Just what she didn’t need, an invitation to trouble in disreputable jeans and a beat-up jacket.
Yep. Kurt Striker in all his damn-convention attitude was waiting.
Her stupid pulse quickened at the sight of him, but she quickly tamped down any emotional reaction she felt for the man. Yes, he was way too attractive in his tight jeans, leather jacket and rough-hewn features. His face was red with the cold, his hair windblown and damp as he leaned a hip against the bricks of a small shop, his eyes trained on the main door of the building.He was holding a paper cup of coffee, which he tossed into a nearby trash can when he spotted her.
Why did she have a thing for dangerous, sensual types? What was wrong with her? Never once in her life had she been attracted to the boy next door, nor to the affable, respectable, dedicated man who worked nine to five, nor the warm, cuddly football-watching couch potato who would love her to the end of time and never once forget an anniversary. The very men she lauded in her column. The men she advised women to give second glances. The salt-of-the-earth, give-you-the-shirt-off-his-back kind of guy who washed his car and the dog on Saturdays, the guy who wore the same flannel shirt that he’d had since college—the regular Joe of the world. One of the good guys.
Maybe, she thought, crossing the street, that was why she could give out advice to the women and men who were forever falling for the wrong kind. Because she was one of them and, she realized, skirting a puddle as she jaywalked to the parking lot where Striker was posed, she knew the pitfalls of hot-wired attraction. She bore the burn marks and scars to prove it.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she said, clicking her Jeep’s keyless remote. “You just don’t seem to get it, do you? I don’t want you here.”
“We’ve been through this.”
“And I have a feeling we’ll go through it a dozen more times before you get the message.” She opened the car door, but he was quick, slamming it shut with the flat of his hand.
“Why don’t you and I start over,” he suggested, forcing a smile, his arm effectively cutting off her ability to climb into the Jeep. “I’ll take you to dinner—there’s anice little Irish pub around the corner—and you can fill me in on your life before you got to Montana.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Like hell.” His smile slid away. “It’s time you leveled with me. I’m sick to the back teeth of the clamped-lip routine. I need to find out who’s been trying to hurt you and your brothers. If you weren’t so damn arrogant to think this is just about you, that I’m only digging into all this to bother you, then you’d realize that you’re the key to all the trouble that’s been happening at the Flying M. It’s not just your problem, lady. If you remember, Thorne’s plane went down—”
“That was because of bad weather. It
He felt a bit of hardening beneath his fly and swore under his breath. He shouldn’t get an erection just thinking of the woman… Hell, this was no time. None whatsoever for ridiculous fantasies. He had a job to do. And he’d better do it quickly before there was another unexplained “accident,” before someone else got hurt. Or before the would-be murderer got lucky and this time someone was killed.
Six
S he pushed open the revolving glass doors and found him just where she’d expected him, on a rain-washed Seattle street, looking damnably rough-and-tumble and sexy as ever. Obviously waiting for her. Great. Just what she didn’t need, an invitation to trouble in disreputable jeans and a beat-up jacket.
Yep. Kurt Striker in all his damn-convention attitude was waiting.
Her stupid pulse quickened at the sight of him, but she quickly tamped down any emotional reaction she felt for the man. Yes, he was way too attractive in his tight jeans, leather jacket and rough-hewn features. His face was red with the cold, his hair windblown and damp as he leaned a hip against the bricks of a small shop, his eyes trained on the main door of the building.He was holding a paper cup of coffee, which he tossed into a nearby trash can when he spotted her.
Why did she have a thing for dangerous, sensual types? What was wrong with her? Never once in her life had she been attracted to the boy next door, nor to the affable, respectable, dedicated man who worked nine to five, nor the warm, cuddly football-watching couch potato who would love her to the end of time and never once forget an anniversary. The very men she lauded in her column. The men she advised women to give second glances. The salt-of-the-earth, give-you-the-shirt-off-his-back kind of guy who washed his car and the dog on Saturdays, the guy who wore the same flannel shirt that he’d had since college—the regular Joe of the world. One of the good guys.
Maybe, she thought, crossing the street, that was why she could give out advice to the women and men who were forever falling for the wrong kind. Because she was one of them and, she realized, skirting a puddle as she jaywalked to the parking lot where Striker was posed, she knew the pitfalls of hot-wired attraction. She bore the burn marks and scars to prove it.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she said, clicking her Jeep’s keyless remote. “You just don’t seem to get it, do you? I don’t want you here.”
“We’ve been through this.”
“And I have a feeling we’ll go through it a dozen more times before you get the message.” She opened the car door, but he was quick, slamming it shut with the flat of his hand.
“Why don’t you and I start over,” he suggested, forcing a smile, his arm effectively cutting off her ability to climb into the Jeep. “I’ll take you to dinner—there’s anice little Irish pub around the corner—and you can fill me in on your life before you got to Montana.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Like hell.” His smile slid away. “It’s time you leveled with me. I’m sick to the back teeth of the clamped-lip routine. I need to find out who’s been trying to hurt you and your brothers. If you weren’t so damn arrogant to think this is just about you, that I’m only digging into all this to bother you, then you’d realize that you’re the key to all the trouble that’s been happening at the Flying M. It’s not just your problem, lady. If you remember, Thorne’s plane went down—”
“That was because of bad weather. It
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