Forged In Desire. Brenda Jackson
three of them possessed was an ingrained ability to survive and a drive to safeguard and defend anyone left in their care.
“You want something?” he asked in a tone that came out a little harsher than he’d intended. He was tired of her just standing there and not saying anything.
“I want to know what happened.”
Striker continued to stare at her. If she was asking for details, he wouldn’t be giving them to her. Instead he wrapped it up in a sentence that, as far as he was concerned, said it all. “Life happened.” At eighteen he’d been found guilty and sent off to prison. He’d lost people he’d cared about as well as a scholarship to play football at the college of his dreams. And he knew he only had himself to blame.
Evidently his answer stumped her, if her expression and lack of response were anything to go by. He continued up the stairs and left her standing there.
Margo watched Striker move up the stairs, momentarily distracted by how well his body fit a pair of pants. He didn’t just have a nice-looking tush; it was sexy and got sexier with his every step. When he was no longer in sight, she shook her head, trying to pull herself together.
His response to her question meant he had no intentions of telling her why he’d been sent to jail. Knowing it was for manslaughter was bad enough. Who did he kill? Why? She wanted to think it had been self-defense, but if that had been the case, then he wouldn’t have been sent to jail, right? How long had he been confined?
The key thing was that he was no longer in jail. He had served his time and she had a feeling rejoining society and rebuilding your life after prison couldn’t be easy. But it seemed like he was doing okay, and she wanted to believe he was good at what he did.
He looked to be in his early thirties, which meant he couldn’t have spent too many years behind bars. But then, how many were too many? How old was he when he’d gone in? When she heard him moving around upstairs, she decided to join him there as well.
* * *
STRIKER STARED AT the huge bouquet of yellow roses sitting on the desk of what appeared to be the room she used as an upstairs office. Telling himself that knowing who sent them was all part of his security measures to protect Margo, he pulled off the card and read it.
We need to get back together, Margo. Call me. Scott.
Striker shook his head, thinking, What a way to go, asshole. He was more than a little rusty in the romance department, but even he knew that using a few endearing words would have made an impression. Instead this guy Scott had issued an order that he’d expected her to obey.
Had she? Margo didn’t come across as a woman who would say “how high” after any man told her to jump.
According to Roland, Margo and this Scott guy had broken up and she’d left New York for Charlottesville. That had been over a year ago. Evidently Scotty-boy wanted her back.
“Just what are you doing?” Margo asked in outrage, rushing into the room and snatching the card out of his hand. “You had no right to read that.”
Striker had heard Margo coming up the stairs but hadn’t hurried to put the card back. Why should he? “As the man protecting you, I had every right.”
She threw the card on her desk and rounded on him. “You’re supposed to be protecting me from a crazy hit man. Not an ex-boyfriend.”
“And while I’m protecting you, I don’t want to have to deal with a boyfriend. Ex or otherwise.”
Anger flared in her eyes. “You won’t. Scott has a tendency of being overly dramatic.”
“For your sake, that drama better not happen on my watch.”
For a moment they just stood there, faced off. Why, of all things, was he consumed by her scent? A lush fragrance that was uniquely hers. It was undeniably woman. Oh, shit. Thinking this way wasn’t good. He backed up and turned to leave the room.
“Where are you going?”
“To continue what I was doing before you came up here—check out the place.”
He left her standing there and walked to another room. Her bedroom. It was the kind of bedroom he figured she would have. It wasn’t all that frilly, but it was feminine as hell. She was neat. Nothing out of place, no clothes lying on the floor or shoes thrown around. She’d decorated the bedroom in yellow and light gray, with a bedspread featuring yellow roses and matching curtains. Apparently she had a thing for yellow roses. In that case, it made sense for Scott to take advantage of that fact by sending her those flowers. And, damn, how many pillows did she have on that bed? Looked like a dozen or so.
“Is this really necessary?”
He didn’t turn when she entered. “Evidently it is or I wouldn’t be in here. I use all of my time wisely, Ms. Connelly.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “Margo. You want to be called Striker. I prefer being called Margo.”
He nodded. “Okay, Margo.” He moved to look into the master bath. When he returned moments later, he glanced around her room again. “I assume this is the room you sleep in.”
“Yes. Why?”
“Where is the guest room that I’ll be using?”
As far away from this one as possible, Margo thought. “I have a guest room downstairs.”
“Not close enough.”
She dropped her hands by her sides. “What do you mean not close enough?”
“Just what I said. The way things usually work is that a team of protectors will work in shifts to take care of a client. Since the demand for security is high right now, I’ll be the one protecting you morning, noon and night. Even when you sleep. I want to be close enough that I can hear you breathe, and I won’t be able to do that downstairs. What’s in the room next door?” he asked, already striding into the hallway.
He wants to be close enough to hear me breathe? The thought of any man, especially him, being that close to her at night made her go still. It then occurred to her just how underfoot he intended to be.
“Wait a second,” she said, rushing behind him. He had already opened the door to the other room.
“A guest room, I see.”
She didn’t say anything. To be honest, this was her only guest room. The third bedroom upstairs—where she found Striker snooping—was where she kept her work supplies and managed the accounting books. The room downstairs was her workroom where she did all of her fittings and sewing. Its sofa could be made into a bed, and that was where she had intended to put him.
“This is a nice room with its own full bath. It will work for me after I move a few things around.”
She released a resigned sigh. “I like the way the furniture is arranged.”
“I’ll put it back just as you have it when I’m all done.”
“And when will that be?” she asked.
“Depends on that crazy hit man.”
His words reminded Margo of the seriousness of the situation she was in. It just wasn’t fair. This was what she got for doing her civic duty. As if he’d read her mind, Striker said, “At least you’re alive. Can’t say the same thing for Jeffery Turner.”
Her thoughts immediately went to Jeffery and she remembered how the jurors had hugged each other before departing that final day. Each of them had tried to downplay Erickson’s threats, but deep down, they’d all been shaken up by them. She could tell. Nancy Snyder had been the only one to ask the FBI agent whether they should be concerned, and the man had assured her that they shouldn’t be. Well, undoubtedly that agent had been wrong.
When she saw Striker leaving the room, she followed. “Wouldn’t sleeping downstairs make better sense for you?” She was attracted to Striker