Under the Tycoon's Protection (7 page)

He handed her the cup and then sat on the side of the bed. “Cream, no sugar.”

She sipped. “Mmm. Excellent. How did you guess?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “There are a few things I've picked up about you over the years. One of them is how you like your coffee.”

“Part of your dossier on me?”

He looked at her enigmatically. “You could say that.”

“Hmm.” She lowered her eyes and sipped. “Thanks for bringing the coffee. It really wasn't necessary.”

She again felt the same uncharacteristic shyness with him that she'd felt last night, before…before… As she felt herself start to blush, she yanked her mind back from that trail of thought.

“Actually, it was necessary,” he said matter-of-factly.

She quirked a brow, struggling for the casual, un-caring attitude that had been so easy to adopt where he was concerned—before last night.

“I'll admit to a selfish desire to see how you looked lying in my bed this morning.”

She couldn't resist asking, “And how do I look?”

“Like a woman who's been thoroughly made love to.” His eyes were hot. “Just like I imagined.”

She felt herself heat. “You're crazy.”

He nodded. “Yep, crazy for you. Though I have to admit jumping your bones last night was a good antidote for that. At least temporarily.”

Oh, boy. Somehow Connor's new sexually tinged teasing was more dangerous than his old sarcastic tone.

“May need to inoculate myself every day though,” he mused, making a show of rubbing his chin in thought. “Strikes me as the kind of thing that wears off easily.”

She nearly choked on her coffee. Every day?

He looked amused as he caught her reaction. “Don't worry, petunia. If last night was any measure, you're more than up to the task. I guess it shouldn't have come
as a surprise that we'd be dynamite in bed together, given how we're used to ripping into each other.”

“Hmm,” she said, shrugging as if he'd just told her nothing more significant than what the weather was outside, “I guess I should be flattered.”

He stood up, grinned. “Get dressed before I'm tempted to give you another demonstration of how flattered you should be.”

 

Allison cupped her chin in her hand and stared out at the rain from her kitchen window. She knew she probably had a dreamy, dopey expression on her face but it had been a week since they'd gotten back from the Berkshires and the week had been close to idyllic.

Her relationship with Connor had settled into a better routine, one tinged with tentative exploration. After Connor picked her up at the office, they usually cooked dinner together and then worked or watched a movie. She was pleasantly surprised to discover Connor's skills in the kitchen extended to more than cooking pancakes and grilling.

“Necessity,” he'd said with a grin. “Single guy living alone either cooks or goes hungry. After a while, it gets boring eating food straight from a can.”

She'd made a face and he'd laughed out loud.

She'd also discovered that their taste in movies differed. He liked action-adventure flicks while she
preferred romantic comedies, so they'd settled on legal dramas with a romantic subplot.

Their evenings had usually ended in her candlelit, floral-scented bedroom with its pointelle-blanket-covered brass bed. It had been amusing to watch Connor invade such a wildly feminine room and she'd laughed as he'd gingerly settled in.

Despite the threats looming over her head, the past week had left her with a feeling of contentment and sense of well-being she'd never experienced before.

She knew she was in danger of falling in love with Connor. Rather than feel alarm, however, she felt joyously happy.

There was no doubt that Connor wanted her. Her face heated as she recalled how many different ways he'd demonstrated that. And—as she'd once told her sister-in-law Elizabeth when she'd thought she'd been having trouble with Quentin—want was often the road to love.

If Connor didn't love her yet, he nevertheless could come to realize he had deeper feelings for her. Especially if the future was anything like the past week.

She glanced up at the late-Saturday sky again. The rain hadn't let up and Connor still hadn't returned from his business meeting. She'd been expecting him an hour ago so they could run some errands, the most important of which was to pick up some more groceries.

She'd been planning all day for a candlelit dinner.
Just the two of them, clinking wineglasses, tasting her pear salad, and then dining on a meal of pheasant with pecan stuffing, creamed spinach, and roasted tomatoes.

The salad was in the refrigerator, the ingredients for the creamed spinach ready to be combined on the stove top, and the pheasant and tomatoes prepared and ready to slide into the oven as soon as Connor got back.

She looked at her watch. Six-thirty. Where was he? His meeting with out-of-town clients must be running late.

She wondered whether she had time to run out before he got back. Most of the groceries she needed could wait for tomorrow, but she'd discovered an hour ago that she was a few ingredients short for the pie she'd been planning to make for dessert.

She glanced at her watch again and bit her lip. She could dash out to the supermarket and be back in no time. Connor wouldn't even have to know.

Her mind made up, she grabbed a sheet of paper and scribbled a note just in case Connor got back before she did: “Out to the supermarket. Back soon.” She used tape to attach the note to the mirror by the front door, then grabbed her purse.

As she'd thought, it took her no time at all to get to the supermarket and through the check-out line. The rain meant the store was more empty than usual.

When she got outside again, the rain had stopped,
but the overcast sky and fog made everything look dreary and dark.

She started across the parking lot to her car, juggling her two bags and purse.

Spotting her car, she noticed again that the new paint job—which had cost a mint—had fortunately covered up the graffiti that had been spray-painted several weeks ago.

Something looked strange however. Drawing closer, she realized the back of the car was tilting downward.

Darn. Had she gotten a flat?

Dropping her bags on the ground, she walked between her car and the one parked next to it and bent to inspect her back tire.

A clean slice through the rubber.

Her heart began to thud.

Someone had slashed her tire.

She heard a car coming toward her and automatically straightened up.

A gunshot sounded, followed quickly by another. She ducked just as the windshield of her car cracked and splintered.

Her mind raced frantically as she tried to figure a way out of the situation. Whoever had fired the bullets had sped past her, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be turning his car around for another pass.

She straightened up a little, risking a glance over her
car to try to get a look at the color and model of car that the gunman was driving, but didn't see anything.

“Help! Someone call the police!” she screamed even as she dug into her purse for her cell phone.

At the sound of feet pounding the pavement, she crouched down.

“Allison! For God's sake, stay down!”

It was Connor's voice shouting to her as he seemed to run past, even as she heard a car speed out of the parking lot with a shriek of tires.

“Dammit!” Connor said.

He cursed some more as Allison heard him coming back toward her.

She straightened, pushing her hair out of her face, and stepped from between the parked cars.

“I tried to get a shot at him, but he was too far away,” Connor said, breathing heavily.

Her eyes shot downward and she gaped as she noticed the gun that Connor grasped in his hand. Where had
that
come from?

When her gaze moved upward again, she focused for the first time on the expression on Connor's face.

He looked mad as hell.

W
hile they drove back to the townhouse, Connor kept a grip on his temper. But only because he had to.

They'd just finished talking to the police, who'd recovered a couple of unusual-looking bullets—or slugs, in police lingo—from the scene around the parking lot. With any luck, the police would have a theory soon on the caliber and model of gun that the perpetrator had probably used in the shooting.

Unfortunately, the parking lot—at least the part around Allison's car—had been empty of people at the time of the shooting, probably due in no small part to the bad weather. Of the two people whom the police had interviewed who had seen the perp's car
speed away, one had sworn the car was gray while the other had called it blue.

In any case, Connor doubted that the gunman was stupid enough to use a vehicle with plates that could be easily traced back to him, though he'd make sure that the police and his own people nevertheless looked into it.

And that was the other thing: the profile of Allison's unknown harasser that he and Allison had constructed could be thrown out the window.

The assailant had now done more than merely threaten and vandalize property. He'd shown he was desperate enough to try a direct attack on Allison. Not only that, but, chillingly, he'd apparently slashed Allison's tire before the shooting in order to make it hard for her to flee by car.

Still, Connor wasn't convinced that the signs pointed to a member of Taylor's gang rather than a white-collar criminal such as Kendall. Allison's assailant had proved—fortunately—not to have very good aim. While it was possible that the incident in the parking lot had been intended as a gang-inspired drive-by shooting, the fact that the job had been so botched raised questions in Connor's mind.

The minute he'd gotten back to the townhouse and found the note Allison had left behind, he'd taken off after her, trying to reach her on her cell phone and
not succeeding. When he'd gotten to the parking lot, he'd pulled up right at the curb in front of the supermarket. He'd been getting out of his car when he'd heard the first shot ring out. Icy fear had wrapped itself around his heart as he'd reached for his own gun.

He gave a quick glance at Allison sitting in the passenger seat next to him. She sat looking straight ahead, still appearing shaken by what had transpired in the last couple of hours.

Silence reigned between them until they got into the townhouse. At which point, Connor decided it was time to get some answers. “I have a distinct memory of telling you to stay put,” he said tightly. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but running out to the supermarket does not count as staying put.”

“You were delayed,” she responded, irritation lacing her voice. “And, anyway, I refuse to be a prisoner in my own home.”

“Right,” he said harshly as he followed her into the living room. “It appears you'd rather be dead.”

She stopped and whirled back to face him, temper flaring in her eyes. “That's blunt,” she fired back. “Anyway, even if you'd been with me, I might still have gotten shot at.”

“True, but it's all about the odds, princess, and it would have been less likely,” he snarled back. “He, or whoever it was who took a shot at you, would
have thought twice about it if you looked as if you had security.”

“Since when do you carry a gun?” she demanded abruptly.

“What do you think being in the security business means, petunia?” he said, his tone scornful. “Of course I've got a gun.”

He didn't add that he was considered an excellent shot, keeping his skills honed at a shooting range. His clients expected him to provide top-notch security and that included using a gun if necessary. Fortunately, it had never been necessary—until today—because he was adept at using other means to get results.

“And I can't believe you chased that nut,” she continued. “You could have been killed!”

Worried about him, was she? Under different circumstances, he'd have been pleased, but right now he was still furious about the way she'd completely disregarded his instructions. “So why did you run out?” he asked. “What was so important you couldn't wait for me to get back? Or give me a call on my cell, for God's sake?”

She went still, looking away, then glancing back.

She appeared embarrassed, though that didn't make sense. “What?”

“I was planning a romantic dinner,” she said finally. “For two. I needed some ingredients.”

Her admission floored him. That was it? That was the important errand she'd told the police she'd had to run? He'd have been happy munching on cardboard if it had kept her inside!

The only good thing that had come out of the shooting was that the police would now be stationed outside the townhouse whenever Allison was home. They were taking the threats against her even more seriously.

Still, Allison's admission brought home an unpleasant truth: they'd both gotten more focused on exploring the new-found physical chemistry between them than on keeping her safe.

Instead of thinking of him as a bodyguard whose orders should be followed to a T, Allison had been thinking of him as a lover who wouldn't necessarily get furious with her for disregarding what he'd said. She'd gone out and risked her life because she'd been planning to surprise him with a romantic dinner, for God's sake!

For his part, as much as he'd tried to convince himself otherwise, sleeping with her had changed everything. He wasn't the cool-headed expert he needed to be in dangerous situations. Instead, he was running on emotion because the thought of anything happening to her tied him up in knots.

Aloud, he said, “That's it? You ran out to the store so you could cook dinner?” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Where was your judgment?”

She folded her arms. “Obviously, in the wrong place,” she said sarcastically, “if I was thinking of cooking dinner for you. Clearly I was wasting my time.”

Anger battled with relief inside him. “You're still the rash, headstrong princess, aren't you? When are you going to learn to think before you act?”

“Well, I'm thinking now,” she said coldly, dropping her arms. “And what I'm thinking is that taking our relationship to a new level was a mistake.” She flashed him a look of disdain. “I should have known.”

She should have known? Heck,
he
should have known. He should have known better than to get involved with her.

He and Allison came from different worlds and he was a fool to have forgotten that for even a minute. She was the sheltered daughter of a wealthy family and he'd always be the guy who climbed out of rough-and-tumble, blue-collar South Boston.

Even after Harvard, even after more than ten years building a multimillion-dollar business, he was still rough around the edges. His South Boston accent trickled in when he wasn't careful. And, frankly, he didn't blend with the country-club set and never would.

Still, the fact that she'd brought up their different backgrounds in an argument riled him. “You can try chalking me up as a mistake,” he said silkily, “but we're dynamite in bed together.”

“Go to—”

“I'm betting,” he said, cutting her off, “that the pretty boys over at the country club haven't done nearly as good a job of satisfying you, have they, petunia? Otherwise you wouldn't still be looking for a roll in the sack with a guy who's seen the seedier side of life.”

Her face had gone pale with anger. “That's right, Rafferty, and I'm glad you realized it, because that's all you were. A nice little frolic,” she said, her voice haughty with disdain, “but certainly not someone I'd contemplate having a real relationship with.”

He grabbed her arm as she stalked by him, whirling her to face him, but she shrugged off his hand.

“Give it up!” she said, her eyes flashing.

Ignoring her request, he followed her down the corridor toward the back of the house. They weren't done, not by a long shot. That she'd even try to dismiss him as nothing more than a quick fling had him seething.

Entering the kitchen, she went over to the sink.

“Dammit, we're not done.”

“Oh, we're done all right,” she said without turning around, starting to rinse a glass. “Done, over, finished.”

He laughed derisively. “If you believe that, petunia, then leprechauns live at the end of the rainbow.”

“What I believe, Rafferty,” she said, turning around, “is that you need to cool off!”

A spray of cold water hit him square in the face before he could react. “What the—!” Raising his arms to shield his face, he stalked toward her.

They wrestled with the hose from the sink, water dousing them both, until he was able to yank the nozzle out of her hand.

He was about to let her know exactly what he thought but then his gaze dropped a notch, connecting with the front of her white shirt, which was plastered to her, her nipples clearly visible through the clingy fabric of her wet bra and shirt.

His blood heated.

She raised her arms to shield herself.

“Don't,” he muttered.

She went still. “Damn you, Rafferty,” she whispered. “I don't want this.”

He raised his gaze, meeting her eyes. “Whether we want it or not seems almost beside the point,” he said in a bemused voice. “It's there between us and always has been.”

She tossed her head, wet strands of hair sending droplets onto them both. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Liar,” he chided softly, moving before her.

They were practically toe-to-toe now. He let his eyes drop down to her mouth, which parted on a soft breath.

“That's right, darling,” he taunted. “Let me see how you feel.”

Her eyes sparked fire. “Go to—”

His head swooped down then and he swallowed
the end of her sentence in a kiss that was searing and desperate—as searing and desperate and hot as his need for her.

He was still running on the remnants of the adrenaline that had started earlier in the parking lot, except that now the reality of their near brush with death, mixed with relief, was channeling that energy into a need for sexual release. Even understanding what was provoking him, however, was not enough for his intellect to overcome his baser instincts.

She moaned in his arms, meeting him kiss for desperate kiss, her hands tangling in his hair, anchoring him.

He lifted her up onto the kitchen counter, sandwiching himself between her legs as her skirt rode high on her thighs.

The need to affirm life, to stamp her as his, was overwhelming.

Hot mouth met hot mouth in desperate, soul-stirring kisses. He hungered to be inside her, to give vent to his frustration by seeking the release he knew awaited him there.

He lifted his head and yanked her shirt out of the waistband of her skirt, popping the buttons on the front of the garment in his haste to rid her of it.

When he'd peeled the shirt off of her, he bent his head to close his mouth over the peak of one breast through the fabric of her bra.

She made a sound that came out as half laugh, half gasp. “Connor!”

He shifted his mouth to her other breast, his hand at her back to urge her forward toward his mouth.

He felt her fingers threading through his hair, her breath coming rapidly. “Please,” she gasped.

Her need inflamed him.

Raising his head, he let her tug him back to her as she pulled at the bottom of his shirt to loosen it from his jeans.

Their movements were jerky and desperate as they both attempted to rid him of his wet shirt.

As the shirt dropped to the floor, he realized they weren't going to be able to wait much longer. “Hang on,” he said roughly, unsnapping his jeans and tugging the zipper downward.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly.

He fumbled with a foil packet from his wallet. Then his fingers pushed aside her underwear. Testing and finding her warm and wet, he groaned.

“Connor,” she said, her voice cloudy with passion.

He shifted, pulling her forward to the edge of the counter, and then over, sliding her down on him even as he pushed upward.

She gasped. “Please, yes.”

He took up a rhythm then, abandoning himself to turbulent sensation and fiery passion as she clung to him, her legs wrapped around him, her
head nestled in the curve of his shoulder and her breathing rapid.

His muscles strained, and his breathing grew more labored as the tension mounted. She moaned, and arched in his arms.

Their mutual release when it came was quick and powerful. He felt her tense, gasp, call his name, seconds before he lost himself in oblivion.

 

Tap, tap, tap. Realizing she'd again been lost in thought, Allison put down the pencil she'd been tapping against the desk that she sometimes called hers in the District Attorney's Office.

The events of Saturday night replayed themselves in her mind.

What had he called her?
A rash, headstrong princess.

How dare he! He'd spoken and acted as if he thought she hadn't changed much, as if she were—still—a naive, wayward teenager. Even now, having a deeper appreciation for how his protective instincts had developed, she couldn't excuse how he'd dismissively labeld her

His words and actions rankled all the more because this time, instead of merely visiting a bar because she harbored a secret crush on him, she'd actually slept with him. She'd let him strip her bare
both physically and emotionally. The betrayal this time was oh so much worse.

She'd begun to think they had a new understanding, one based on mutual respect. Instead, he'd apparently been thinking of her as nothing more than a spoiled little heiress, albeit one with whom he enjoyed amazing chemistry.

In fact, after the shooting, he'd acted just like her family with his overprotectiveness. He'd lit into her as if she were still an underage teenager lacking judgment.