Forged in Desire Read online

  CHAPTER TWO

  STRIKER WONDERED WHAT the hell was happening as he dropped his duffel bag on the floor by the sofa. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt instant attraction to a woman. But he had with this one and could still feel the heat from their handshake. Roland should have warned him that Margo Connelly was such a looker. The woman standing before him was so incredibly beautiful he’d almost gone speechless when she’d opened the door.

  The moment he had gazed into her face he’d been sacked by an intense desire that had somehow infiltrated his mind. That wasn’t good, especially when she was the woman he’d been sent here to protect. And, of all things, she was Roland’s niece.

  He scanned his surroundings, needing a few moments to clear his head, specifically to unblock his brain. Doing so was a whole lot safer than looking at her again. He’d seen enough already, liked too much of what he saw. Besides striking features, she had a nice body—curvy hips, nice thighs, and the shape of her breasts outlined beneath her shirt was pretty damn appealing. And when she’d closed the door he had gotten a look at her tight and shapely backside. His gaze was also drawn to her mouth longer than it should have been, a mouth that appeared as lush as any he’d ever seen.

  He’d known he was in trouble the moment he’d detected her staring at him through the peephole. A funny feeling had settled in the lower part of his body. The last thing he needed was a woman arousing him.

  “How long have you been a bodyguard?”

  He had no choice but to look at her since she’d just asked him a question. She stood there with a defiant expression on her face. He immediately knew it would be one of those kinds of parties. She didn’t want him there. Nothing personal. She just figured she didn’t need anyone protecting her gorgeous ass.

  “I’m not a bodyguard,” he said, trying to keep his eyes trained on her face and not roaming the length of her body like they were tempted to do.

  Her brow lifted. “Then what are you?”

  Besides a man lusting after you at the moment... “I’m a protector. And my job is to protect you, Ms. Connelly, not guard you.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “And if I don’t want to be protected?” she asked in a rigid tone.

  “Then I strongly suggest that you rethink that position. On my way over here there was a newscast on the radio reporting that another person has been killed. The foreman of the jury. The same jury you were on, Ms. Connelly.”

  She gasped and for a minute it seemed as if she was about to pass out. Her uncle gave her his shoulder to lean on and led her over to the sofa to sit down. Striker watched the two and hoped the news had shocked some sense into her. What was that BS she’d been talking about not needing a protector? Even if this was the first she’d heard about the fourth killing, she had to have known about the other three. Had she assumed the killer would stop at three and call it quits?

  “Jeffery Turner.” Margo spoke up in a rather soft voice. Definitely softer than the rough words she’d spoken earlier. “He was our foreman. He was a nice man. Married. Father of four. Two in college. He and his wife had been married twenty-five years.” She looked down at her hands and said, “Jeffery would shake everyone’s hands each morning. For six solid weeks. He hadn’t wanted to be sequestered any more than the rest of us, but he’d said it was the right thing to do. It was our civic duty.”

  She paused a moment and then added, “He kept a level head at all times. And when some of the other jurors wanted to act like children, Jeffery knew how to handle them. He had experience. How dare someone take his life? Take him away from his family? Who would do that?”

  “The same person who wouldn’t hesitate to blow you away if you don’t have any protection,” Striker said.

  She popped her head up and stared at him. Her gaze was angry, so full of fury he could all but see smoke coming out of her ears. He was aware that only a portion of that anger was directed at him because of his flippant statement. The true target of her anger was a hit man she didn’t know. But like he’d just told her, whether she wanted to hear it or not, she could be the assassin’s next victim.

  “I came here to protect you. With my life if I have to. However, if you don’t want to be kept alive, just say so. I have other things to do, Ms. Connelly,” he said in a hard tone, deliberately so.

  “Of course she wants to be protected,” her uncle said rather quickly. “She’s just a little upset at the moment. Surely you can understand that.”

  Striker didn’t say anything. If the man was waiting for him to say he understood, then he’d be waiting all night. Instead he said, “While she’s trying to compose herself, I’ll take the time to see just how secure this place is.” He turned to walk out of the room.

  “Wait!”

  He turned back around to face Margo. “Yes?”

  “And what if you don’t think it’s secure?”

  “If it’s not to my satisfaction, then I’ll make it secure if I can. Otherwise, we’ll relocate.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest again, giving him that defiant look he had already come to expect. “This is my home. It’s also where I work. I’m trying to get caught up after being practically locked away for six weeks. I have a client coming to be measured in the morning. I have to—”

  “You have to stay alive. I would think, Ms. Connelly, that would be your top priority.”

  “I agree with him, Margo,” Frazier said. “I think you’ve exerted your rebellious side enough for one day.”

  “Uncle Frazier, I—”

  “No, Margo. You either let him keep you alive or you can move back home.”

  “No,” Margo said, shaking her head. “I won’t move back home, Uncle Frazier. You know how things are with me and Liz.”

  “Then I suggest you let this man do his job and keep you alive,” Frazier said. He then turned to Striker. “Go ahead and check out things. I’d like to have a private conversation with my niece.”

  Striker looked from Frazier to Margo, and then, without saying a word, he turned and strode toward the kitchen.

  Determined to put Margo out of his mind, Striker entered her kitchen. Whoa. Whose kitchen looked this neat and clean? Probably one that never got used, he thought, taking his cell phone from the pocket of his slacks and pulling up an app to take notes. His gaze moved to her back door. It looked sturdy enough, but of course he intended to make sure.

  Moments later he’d verified that it was, but he wasn’t a fan of all these windows, although he could see why she was. There was a beautiful view of the Blue Ridge Mountains outside those windows. Nice but risky. The mountains could cast shadows on the rooftops of those homes. The perfect place for a sniper to take aim. And he’d noted the house next door was up for sale and appeared empty. He would make sure the office monitored any activities there.

  Striker removed his tie and jacket and placed both across a chair before keying in information on the phone. And he definitely didn’t like that sliding glass door that led outside.

  Walking over, he slid it open and stepped out onto a patio. Quality wicker furniture was arranged to take advantage of the view of the mountains. She had a nice-sized yard with hardly any trees or shrubs. That was a plus. He also noted the area where she kept her garbage can and barbecue grill, which was a dark corner of the yard. A motion light would do the trick not just there but at every corner of her home.

  She lived in a fairly upscale community although it wasn’t gated. The homes were commodious and spaced a good distance from each other. According to Roland, she designed wedding dresses, and from what he’d heard, she had made quite a name for herself.

  He also knew Margo Connelly was loaded, yet she lived modestly. Empress Lakes was a beautiful community of homes, but he had expected her to reside in one of those upscale neighborhoods like Oakwood Heights or Tamaquan Manor. And w
hy not open a shop somewhere? Why would she even want to work from her home, where strangers would invade her personal space?

  Earlier, at the hospital, Roland had asked him to stay behind after Stonewall and Quasar had left. Striker hadn’t wanted to hang back because he thought Roland had exerted himself enough already and needed to rest. But Roland had been insistent. For some reason, Striker had suspected there was more to the story regarding Roland’s relationship to his niece.

  Although his niece didn’t know he existed, over the years he had kept up with her. He had attended the ceremonies when she’d graduated from high school and college, and he had even attended several of her games when she’d played soccer in middle school. He’d known that after college she’d gotten a job with a clothing design company in New York where she had worked for a few years before opening her own business. It was obvious that Roland cared a lot for his niece. What might have started out merely as a sense of guilt because of his brother’s death had turned into affection. He was the doting uncle—unseen and unknown.

  Striker had never thought of Roland this way. The Roland he knew was an ex-cop, ex-con and loner. He rarely let anyone into his inner circle. Besides him, Stonewall and Quasar, there was only Carson Boyett Granger. Carson was the attorney who had risked her life getting Roland a new trial, and she was married to Sheppard Granger, a man Striker would be forever indebted to for helping turn his life around.

  Striker guessed it wasn’t Margo’s fault that nobody had ever told her about Roland. And before their conversation ended, Roland had again stressed that he wanted the secret to remain just that. Striker had given Roland his word. If Margo found out the truth it wouldn’t be from him.

  Striker had just reentered the kitchen and closed the sliding door behind him when Margo rounded the corner. He could only assume her private meeting with her uncle was over. He wondered how that had gone.

  “Well, did you find anything, Mr. Striker?”

  He stared at her, trying not to notice how good she looked in jeans and a pullover sweatshirt. When she’d opened the door, her striking features had taken him aback, but now it was her outfit...actually, her body in the clothes...that was grabbing his attention.

  She was tall, but he figured at least five inches of that height were the result of those killer heels on the boots she was wearing. And she was curvy, which was why those jeans looked so damn good on her. There was no way she didn’t turn every man’s head when she walked by. It would be hard not to.

  “Drop the ‘mister,’” he said. “It’s just Striker.”

  Margo frowned at the man, wondering why he was so touchy with his name. And why her large kitchen suddenly felt smaller with him standing in it. She was attracted to him but felt that, except for trying to keep her common sense intact, there was nothing she could do about it. When a woman was being protected with a man who had the build of “The Rock,” Dwayne Johnson himself, there wasn’t much hope for her.

  He had removed his jacket and tie, and she saw that a dark brown leather shoulder holster held his gun. The holster had a side compartment she guessed contained extra bullets.

  Of course, she should not have been surprised that he was loaded down with such weaponry. He had been hired to protect her, after all. But still, seeing it was a stark reminder of her predicament. Her uncle had talked to her and she had promised to cooperate with her protector. With Striker. “Okay, Striker. Did my kitchen pass muster?”

  “Not really. That’s a nice view out that window, but you’re going to have to keep the blinds drawn most of the time. I also noticed several troubling areas in your yard.”

  “What?”

  Glancing at his phone, Striker told her what he’d noted.

  “I never had a reason to worry about any of that before.”

  “Now you do. I’ll take care of it.” Striker moved around Margo to go back into her living room and she was right on his heels.

  “So how long have you been a protector?”

  Not long enough, he thought to himself. He didn’t want to think how different his life would be today if years ago he’d been there to protect the one person he should have been safeguarding. He wouldn’t be carrying around all this guilt if he had. “Several years,” he said, tossing the answer over his shoulder. He kept walking to check the front door to inspect the locks. She had an alarm system and that was good. He glanced around the room. Again there were too many windows. And she had stairs. There were also several rooms connected to her living room. He would check them out later after doing a walk-through upstairs.

  “How many is several?”

  He stopped walking long enough to look over at her and wish he hadn’t. She was leaning in the doorway that separated her living room from the kitchen. In that lazy, carefree pose, she looked good. Too good. There was something about her standing there with her hair tossed around her shoulders that made parts of his body ache.

  “About eight years.”

  “And what did you do before that?”

  He could tell her that his past was none of her business. But he had no problem sharing what he did because that time—thanks to Sheppard Granger—had pretty much shaped him into the man he was now. He was alive when he could have been dead. And he was making something out of his life.

  He looked her straight in the eye and said, “I was in jail serving time for manslaughter.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  MARGO’S BREATH CAUGHT as she stared at Striker. Had he just admitted to being an ex-con? Was he joking? From the intense expression on his face, she had a feeling he was dead serious. Did Uncle Frazier have any idea that the man he’d hired had a criminal record? For manslaughter?

  “How many rooms are there upstairs?” he asked, picking up his duffel bag and moving in the direction of her stairs.

  She jerked her head around. “Wait!”

  Striker stopped and stared at her. Had hearing that he’d served time freaked her out? It wouldn’t be the first time that someone he had been hired to protect reacted that way to his past. Some saw it as an advantage, thinking that if he had a killer instinct, he had the ability to keep them safe. Then there were others who found it so repulsive they would ask Roland for someone else. Considering Quasar and Stonewall were ex-cons as well, that eliminated Roland’s top three protectors. Hell, that would even eliminate Roland.

  Striker, Quasar and Stonewall had met when they’d served time together. From the first, he and Stonewall had been destined to be enemies. Quasar, the youngest of the three by only a year, had pretty much stayed to himself. It had been rumored Quasar had come from a well-to-do family and had confessed to some white-collar crime to keep a family member from going to jail. The three of them had been released from prison within months of each other and had hooked up with Roland, who had started a security business. Since neither Striker, Stonewall nor Quasar had known a damn thing about security, Roland enrolled the three of them into one of the top tactical training schools in the country. In addition, Roland managed to hook them up for a full year with former Secret Service agent Grayson Prescoli, who had a reputation as being one of the best in the business after serving under three presidents. Although they’d initially lacked in-depth knowledge in security, what the 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 schol
arship 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.