A Siren for the Bear (Sarkozy Brothers Book 1) (4 page)

She got in a few hours of practice, going over the songs in their latest album since that would be the one they were touring. She was good with words, and it didn't take long before she was familiar enough with more than half the album to sing along with confidence.

The ringing of the phone disturbed her as she was hunting in her closet for her heels. I was Miss Annoying Raspy Voice advising that
Carson
hadn't left an address for the car.

Carson gave it to her through gritted teeth. The woman put the phone down before Carson could even say thank you. For the second time in one day, Carson wanted to smash the phone. Who was she, this woman who had the ability to rile Carson up with one misplaced husky breath? And why the hell was she allowing her to do it?

Carson slid into the dress, adjusting the generous cleavage so it wouldn't look too much like her boobs were overflowing from the neckline. A light dusting of makeup later, she slipped on her heels and had just picked up her clutch bag and the contract when the doorbell rang.

Carson grabbed a brilliant aquamarine silk shawl from behind the door and was throwing it over her shoulders when she opened the door to find herself face to face with Marek Sarkozy.

"You." The word slipped out of her mouth before she could stop it.

"Yes. Me." His lip curled up in one corner, although the amusement didn't reach his eyes.

Oh, boy.

"Sorry, I thought..." She decided to stop talking because she had to close her mouth or she'd be gaping at how good he looked. A black tailored jacket hugged his broad shoulders, and he'd deigned to wear a tie tonight. She imagined it must be uncomfortable for him, considering the last time she'd seen him he'd been unbuttoned and untied.

He nodded briskly. "Normally I would have sent the driver up, but this isn't normally. You're to be a member of our team and you will be treated as such. The contract may be temporary, but you are far from the inadequate understudy in this equation."

Nice of him to say so.

Carson merely nodded, unable to come up with a suitably gracious response.

Had she known she'd be sitting in the back of a car with this man, she would have chosen the red dress, not for its provocativeness, but for the fact that it had a long skirt that didn't have a super sexy slit that came all the way to upper thigh.

It was the only thing she hated about the dress, but she usually got away with it during performances because standing in the dress didn't show too much leg.

But sitting in this dress was a dangerous thing.

W
HY
THE
HELL
WAS
HE
picking her up from her door, Marek asked himself for the tenth time.

He'd rung the doorbell, his feet sinking into the deep lushness of the pale carpet in the hall.
 

Nice digs.

And when she'd opened the door, she'd taken his breath away. Even with the scant makeup, she was beautiful: deep blue eyes, generous lashes, tan skin, not to mention that cleavage.

She'd thrown that damn blue silk thing over her shoulders all too soon, and his view of that delicious flesh had disappeared.

Now, she sat across from him in the back of the limo, the fabric of the dress cascading to the floor, exposing a great deal of creamy thigh. More than she was comfortable with.

Not that she showed it.

Her face had remained serene as she slid along the seat and shifted her legs so they tilted left, allowing the fabric to part along the edge of her leg. Still, an intriguing view left so much to his imagination that Marek was contemplating doing something there in the back of the limo that would have crossed the line into unprofessional
 

But he held himself in check, amazed at how much it took to restrain himself.
 

What the hell is wrong with me? She isn't much different than all the other women I've known. And yet...

The car slowed as it reached the restaurant, which Marek was now considering an error in judgment. He should have done the normal thing. Met her at Rafe's offices, signed the deal in the boardroom, and sent her on her way. He couldn't recall what, but something had made words pop out of his mouth that he hadn't expected.

Monica, Rafe's assistant, had looked suitably surprised, her raised eyebrow clearly disapproving as she made the arrangements. He'd stood there, feeling an inexplicable rush of anticipation at seeing her again.

Get over it, Marek. Soon you'll be seeing her for days on end. You'll get tired of her soon enough.

Greg drew to a stop and cut the engine, and Marek stepped out onto the sidewalk. He leaned back inside to grab Carson's hand and help her out. She stepped out, sadly making use of the unexposed leg, and straightened her spine and her dress, while Marek shut the door.

With a hand at the base of her spine, he walked her to the door where the doorman awaited, hand reaching out to open it for them.

A shot rang out, echoing around them as Marek dove to cover Carson. They fell to the concrete just as something smashed into the wall beside the door, an inch from where he'd been standing a second ago.

It tinkled as it smashed to the concrete, glass and metal a deadly combination.

Carson gasped, then after Marek had waited for more gunfire that never came, she wriggled and let out a grunt. "You want to get off me now? Before you finish what the sniper started?"

Marek swallowed a bark of laughter, and said, "Not until I'm sure the coast is clear. I'll be sure not to kill you in the process, though."

"Promises, promises," she grumbled, and Marek wondered if being shot at brought out her sass.

She remained still as he eased his weight onto his arms and scanned the sidewalk. At the corner, two men paused to watch Marek. Dressed in dark suits, they could have passed for FBI or Secret Service, but Marek knew better.

They stared at him, eyes cold, assessing the situation. Then they turned and left the way they'd come, disappearing around the corner before he could so much as boost himself to his knees.

Greg, his driver, was on the ground beside the car, his gun in hand as he snuck a peek over the hood at the building across the street. His deep brown complexion didn't reveal a hint of stress, unlike the doorman who was crouched beside Marek and Carson, his pale skin even paler than the Siren's.

Greg gave Marek a nod. "Get in, I'll cover you."

Marek lowered his lips to Carson's ear and said, "When I get up, move with me. We need to get back inside the car, so stay behind me." As he lifted his body off hers, he reached for the remnants of glass and metal that lay a foot from him, slipping them into his pocket before Carson's head rose.

They duck walked to the car, and something in his consciousness registered the satisfying rip of that damned slit in her skirt.

He had to force the smile from his lips as Greg opened the back door. Once they were covered by the car, Marek moved aside for Carson to climb in. Her face was flushed, and she was glaring at the torn fabric as she scurried inside the limo and slid onto the seat.

"Stay low. The car's bulletproof, but stay down just in case."

"The car is bulletproof?" she asked, although from her expression he could tell that she cared little for a confirmation.

Marek held out his hand to Greg, who frowned as he took the remnants of the dart from his palm. Greg nodded and scurried around the car while Marek got in behind Carson and sat across from her, closing the door. The doorman had long since disappeared inside the hotel, and the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance; as usual, the city's finest would be late to the party.

With the cops on the way, it was unlikely that the shooter, or shooters, had hung around, but it wouldn't hurt to be careful. Especially since he'd seen more of them at the corner of the street. Likely many more in the area. They seemed to travel in packs.

"Greg, get us back to the hotel and go straight into the parking garage."

Greg gunned the engine and slid into the traffic, and Marek let out a small breath of relief.

She was safe.

But when he looked at her, the expression in her eyes was one of fury. "Who the hell was shooting at us?"

Marek forced his features to remain calm and shrugged. "They could have been shooting at anyone. And even if they were aiming in our direction, I'd hazard a guess it would be me they want dead."

She shuddered. "How can you be so blasé about someone taking potshots at your head?"

"Not blasé. Just realistic." Marek found he was unable to concentrate. His eyes had traveled up her now very much exposed thigh, the rip in the fabric having made its way so high up her leg that it revealed a tantalizing glimpse of hot pink lace panties.

Marek was enjoying the view when she shifted her legs, angling them toward the door before giving him a disgusted glare. But nothing she was able to do covered her thighs. Suddenly she was twisting in her seat, not caring that her actions gave him an even better view, as she searched around for something.

"You dropped it outside the restaurant."

"What?" she snapped, pushing her hair away from her face, her eyes flashing.

"The shawl. You dropped it when you fell."

"You mean when you dropped your body on top on me?" Her eyes sparkled, an angry blue. And Marek discovered that he'd never found her so alluring as in that moment.

"Excuse me if I was trying to protect you." He managed to keep his mouth from turning up in a grin. Instead he ended up performing somewhat of a smirk.

Which irked the furious Siren. She raised an eyebrow. "I thought you just said it wouldn't likely be
me
in danger?"

Marek lifted a shoulder, nonchalant now that he was enjoying both her fury and the view. "Instinct. Can't blame me for wanting to protect you."

To his complete disappointment, she placed her hands in her lap, obliterating his view. His dismay was so intense that he had to stop himself from joining her on the other seat and pulling her hand away so he could get a closer look.

He shook his head. Not the time or the place.

"We're heading to my hotel. We'll get the concierge to send someone up to repair the dress."

She nodded.

"And while you wait, you can sign the deal and we'll get this show on the road."

G
OOD
G
OD
,
HE
WAS
A
mercenary bastard.

They'd almost been shot and all he could think about was the damned paperwork.

And trying to get a peek up her dress. Not that the damn dress was hiding much anymore. The look on his face when she'd noticed the direction of his gaze had done strange things to her. Instead of building her fury, it made her decidedly hot and moist in certain places.
 

And that made her very angry. With herself.

The man was a cad, getting his eyeful when all hell was breaking loose. And only thinking about the contract when her heart was going a mile a minute. Adrenaline had coursed through her body when the shot rang out, and she had to admit she appreciated that his first thought had been to protect her. But the ripped dress pissed her off. And so did the lost shawl.