Bodyguard Daddy (8 page)

“You’re safe now,” Milek assured her—just as he had when he’d opened the door to that closet back at the hotel.

Just like then, she wanted to believe him but she couldn’t bring herself to trust. She couldn’t trust him or the situation—not completely. She shouldn’t have agreed to come back to River City with him. And she really shouldn’t have agreed to come back to his condo.

But would it matter where they were? The killer had found them and was more determined than ever to kill her.

She shook her head.

He moved his hand, finally, but just from her lips. That big palm cupped her cheek. And he continued to lie partially on top of her, one heavy thigh covering both her legs, his muscled chest pushing against her breasts.

She didn’t remember him being so big. He’d always been tall, but he was broader—with bulging muscles. He was a bodyguard now. The man she’d known and loved had been an artist—sensitive and moody. She wasn’t sure who this man was. Yet her body didn’t react as if he was a stranger. Despite his new muscular build, despite the years they’d been apart, her body recognized his. Her skin flushed with heat, and she began to tremble with desire.

He must have mistaken her trembling for fear, because he assured her again, “You’re safe...”

She didn’t feel safe. She felt betrayed—even by her own body. How could she want a man who had hurt her so badly? But she couldn’t deny the desire building inside her. She wanted to kiss him, to touch him...

Her hands were trapped, though—beneath him. She couldn’t move them. But she could feel his heat—his strength. He was strong, but he wasn’t invincible.

“How can you say we’re safe?” she asked. “You were nearly killed.”

“I’m fine.”

“You were hit.”

He touched his fingertips to the cut on his chin. “It was just flying glass.”

“It could have been a bullet.” So many of them had been fired. She shuddered now as she thought of it, thought of how close she’d come to losing Milek. “You could have been killed...”

He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t look fine. Dark circles rimmed his eyes. Stubble darkened his jaw. And that cut marred his chin. He must have seen the doubt in her eyes, because he chuckled. “Maybe I look like death,” he said, “but I’m alive.”

Those silver eyes darkened with emotion and his fingers stroked along her cheek. “And so are you...” His breath shuddered out on a ragged sigh of relief. “You’re alive.”

“Because of you,” she said. And finally she was able to wriggle her hands around, so she slid them up his chest. “You risked your life for ours.”

He shrugged those broad shoulders. “That’s what bodyguards do.”

She tensed beneath him. Of course it hadn’t been personal. She was only another assignment to him. He would have risked his life for any other client. While she had been hiding the past year, he’d been willingly putting his life on the line for others.

“I can’t believe you’re a bodyguard,” she mused.

“A lot of people can’t,” he said, his voice gruff with bitterness.

“Why not?” she asked. “You saved me and Michael from two attempts on our lives.”

“A lot of people suspect a Kozminski to make attempts—not stop them.”

She snorted. “A lot of people are idiots.” And Stacy and Garek had never cared what those people thought. Milek had cared, though, and apparently he still did. Too much...

He laughed, though. Maybe in agreement, maybe just in amusement. “You’re not an idiot,” he said.

She wasn’t always so sure about that.

“So why can’t you believe I’m a bodyguard?” he asked.

“You never expressed any interest in it,” she said. “Not like your art...”

Now he tensed and pulled away, rolling onto his back beside her. “My art never saved a life.”

She wasn’t so sure about that, either. She had seen his work and, while she was no expert, art critics had agreed the work was powerful. But he hadn’t had a show for years—not since he’d broken their engagement. Maybe he didn’t paint anymore.

“Thank you,” she said. She couldn’t remember if she had said that when he’d pulled open the door to the janitor’s closet. He’d explained he had picked the lock because he hadn’t been sure if it was she and Michael hiding inside or the killer. So while he’d assured her she was safe then—with him—he’d rushed her and Michael from the shot-up hotel. There hadn’t been time to thank him then.

And during the drive in the vehicle he’d bought from the room service waiter, he’d been so focused on the road behind him—on making certain no one had followed them—she hadn’t dared to speak. He probably wouldn’t have been able to hear her anyway, since the rusted old truck had lacked a muffler. He’d bought it before looking at it, before he’d started walking her and Michael across the parking lot. He had been that desperate to get them away from the hotel and from that town. But the killer had already found them.

If Milek hadn’t acted as quickly as he had...

She trembled as she thought of what would have happened to them all. The least she owed him was her gratitude. So she said it again now, “Thank you for protecting our son and me.”

But
words
of gratitude didn’t seem enough for his saving their lives, so she pushed herself up on her elbow and leaned over where he lay on his back next to her. And, giving in to the desire she could no longer deny, she pressed her mouth to his.

The minute their lips met she realized the mistake she’d made. While she’d wanted to kiss him, to touch him—he obviously didn’t feel the same way. But then he never had or he wouldn’t have broken their engagement.

His big body tensed even more than it had when she’d mentioned his art. He froze beside her...until she tried to pull away.

Then his fingers tangled in her hair as he held her head close to his. And he kissed her back. He kissed her thoroughly and passionately, his lips pressing tightly against hers before parting them. Then he slid his tongue into her mouth—tasting her, teasing her.

Desire overwhelmed her, and she moaned. She had missed him and not just the year she’d been dead. She had missed him all the years they’d been apart. But he wasn’t back with her. He was only protecting her. He was only doing his job.

She needed to find her pride and pull away from him. But she’d missed him too much—because once she had loved him too much. And when he had broken their engagement, he’d nearly destroyed her. She had survived the attempts on her life and creating a new life more easily than she had survived losing Milek. Her heart began to pound, but not just with passion. She felt a fear nearly as intense as when those shots had been fired at her and Michael.

Because if she kept kissing Milek, it wasn’t just her life that would be in danger; her heart would be, too.

* * *

His face flushed with anger and pain, Frank Campanelli stared into the mirror over the double sink in the spacious bathroom. He looked like hell and had nearly wound up there. During the first shoot-out, a bullet had grazed him. But the second one in the hotel parking lot hadn’t. It had hit him. The son of a bitch had shot him.

Milek Kozminski.

Frank knew the name. Anyone who’d ever lived in or had passed through River City knew the name. The kid’s old man and uncle were renowned jewel thieves. The old man had gunned down a cop and spent the rest of his life in prison. If Frank remembered right, the kids were killers, too. They’d just been too young at the time they had killed to do hard time. They’d also claimed they had only killed in self-defense.

Frank snorted. He doubted that. Milek Kozminski had taunted him in the parking lot. Then he’d shot him. He pressed his hand to the bandage on his shoulder. Blood was already seeping through the white gauze, and the flesh beneath it throbbed painfully.

“Don’t touch it,” the doctor advised. He straightened up from mopping Frank’s blood off the marble tiles of the opulent bathroom.

They weren’t in a hospital. Or even a clinic. The doctor had let him into his house—into his damn mansion—and patched him up in one of the bathrooms. Dr. Gunz wouldn’t have had that mansion if Frank hadn’t helped him out—hadn’t taken care of a couple of witnesses in a potential career-ending lawsuit. So he owed Frank—like so many other people did.

That was why the doctor had taken care of Frank—because Frank had taken care of him. Now Frank had to take care of Milek Kozminski. He had made it a rule to only kill if he was getting paid for the hit. It was never personal for him. He never killed out of anger or passion.

Until now...

He wanted Milek Kozminski dead and not just so he could get to the little redheaded assistant district attorney. He wanted him dead because Kozminski had shot him. Despite his dangerous job, Frank had never been shot before. The only real danger he had faced was getting caught. But no one had ever come close—until Milek Kozminski in the hotel parking lot.

“You’re lucky,” the doctor said. “A few more inches and that bullet would have struck your heart. You’re lucky to be alive.”

Frank was lucky.

But Milek Kozminski wasn’t. Frank wouldn’t miss the next time he shot at the younger man. He would make sure he put a bullet right through Kozminski’s heart.

* * *

A twinge of pain struck Milek’s chest as he remembered how he’d spent the past year, thinking he would never see Amber again. That he would never be able to hold her. To kiss her...

And now she was here—in his arms, in his bed. Emotions overwhelmed him: relief, joy and passion. And love...

He had never stopped loving her. Even when he’d believed she was dead. His hands shook as he held her head, his fingers tangled in her hair. He moved his mouth over hers, deepening the kiss—parting her soft lips. He slid his tongue inside her mouth, tasting her sweetness.

She reached out, pressing a hand against his chest. But she wasn’t pushing him away. She was caressing him, tracing his muscles through the thin material of his T-shirt. He wanted to take it off—wanted to take off her clothes, too.

He wanted nothing between them. No clothes. No secrets. No resentment or guilt.

The only thing he could realistically manage was to remove the clothes. He’d hurt her too much to expect anything more. He hadn’t even expected her kiss. She’d meant it only as a thank-you, though.

Nothing more.

He knew that, but he couldn’t summon his better judgment. It was gone. And he was barely hanging on to his control. He couldn’t pull back. He had missed her too much and for far too long.

When he reached for her sweater and started lifting it up, she didn’t stop him. Instead, she raised her arms so he could pull it up and over her head. Damn. She was beautiful—more beautiful than he’d even remembered. And he’d thought of her so often—like this. In his bed, her skin flushed with desire. Her breasts threatened to spill over the cups of her bra. They were fuller than he remembered. He reached behind her and released the clasp, setting them free. Then he touched them. With just his fingertips first, sliding them over the silkiness of her skin the way he sometimes slid them through paint on the canvas when he couldn’t get just the effect he wanted with a brush.

But no matter how hard he’d worked on his art, he’d never created anything as beautiful as she was. Her nipples swelled and distended even before he brushed his thumbs across them. When he did that, she moaned and bit her lip. He leaned down and brushed his mouth over hers.

She parted her lips for him and her tongue darted out, across his lips. But he didn’t deepen the kiss. Instead, he lowered his head to her breasts. He pressed kisses against the swells before closing his lips around one of those tight nipples.

A soft cry slipped through her lips, and she arched her back, pressing her breast against his mouth. He flicked his tongue over the point, teasing her.

She reached out and grasped his T-shirt again. Then she pushed her hands beneath it, sliding them over his chest and then lower when she reached for the buckle of his belt. His body tensed, his erection pressing painfully against his fly. He had to have her—had to be inside her.

It had been too long. So long that his need for her had built to a level of desperation.

Her hands trembled against his buckle, so he gently pushed them aside. And he stood up to deal with his clothes, pulling off the T-shirt and undoing the belt to drop his pants next to the bed. When he turned back to her, she’d done the same, so she lay naked before him.

“This is a bad idea,” she murmured—almost as if she were talking only to herself.

But Milek knew it was a bad idea, too. She was in danger. He could afford no distractions. But the condo was safe. He and Garek had installed the highest tech security system available—one even they hadn’t been able to crack. And his gun sat on the table next to the bed—within reach if he needed it.

He didn’t need it.

He only needed her.

His voice gruff with desire, he forced himself to ask, “Do you want to stop?”

He regretted the question the minute he’d uttered it. He didn’t want her to change her mind. He wanted her to want him as much as he wanted her.

She bit her lip again. Apparently she had changed her mind. Despite the tension painfully gripping his body, he forced himself to step back. He understood why she couldn’t make love with him; she couldn’t trust him—not after how badly he’d let her down.

But then she reached for him. Rising up on her knees on the mattress, she slid her arms around his neck and tugged his head down for her kiss. Her lips clung to his, nipping at them—teasing him until he opened his mouth. Then her little wet tongue slid inside, stroking over his.

He fought to hang on to his control so he wouldn’t ravage her. But his body was tense to the point of breaking. He had to have her.
Now.

But he wanted to know she was certain—that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. So he kissed her back, sliding his tongue in and out of her mouth the way he wanted to slide his erection in and out of her body. He throbbed and pulsed, demanding release.

But he summoned patience. And tenderness.

He caressed her, trailing his fingertips along her shoulders and down her back to the sweet curve of her hips. They were fuller now than they’d once been. He found her even sexier.