Forged in Desire Read online

  “Like I said, I’m not into cereal. So, what do you want to talk about?”

  Margo was trying to keep her cool with Striker. She had told herself upon waking this morning that she intended to be polite and try not to cause problems. Especially after what he’d shared with her yesterday about why he’d been sent to prison. She couldn’t help but admire his overall attitude after what he’d gone through. Had it been her, she would still be bitter or, at the very least, still carrying a chip on her shoulder.

  And then there was that call last night that had rattled her, set her nerves on edge and made her wonder if she was the assassin’s next target. Four people had been killed already, one of whom she had spent six weeks with. And now he was gone. Dead.

  Fingers snapped in her face and she jumped. “Stop doing that!”

  “Then stop zoning out on me. Are you okay?”

  She glared up at him. “Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He shrugged strong shoulders. “No reason. Did you sleep well last night?”

  “Yes,” she lied. She had tossed around a lot and it had taken her longer to get to sleep than usual. “What about you, Striker. Did you sleep well?” She poured a cup of coffee and poured one for him as well.

  “Thanks—and, yes, I slept well.” Striker knew she wasn’t aware that Bruce had installed devices not only in her bedroom but in every room, which picked up every sound, movement or conversation. Striker’s concern for her well-being and the high level of security this job required made this level of personal surveillance necessary.

  Striker had heard her showering and getting dressed for bed. He’d even lain in bed in the guest room and listened to her breathing when she slept. Although she claimed she slept well, he knew she had not. He’d known each and every time she’d tossed and turned, fluffed one of her pillows. That led him back to what he’d asked earlier. “What do we need to talk about, Margo?”

  She sat down at the table and sipped her coffee as she looked at him over the rim of her cup. “You.”

  “What about me?” Striker had a feeling he wouldn’t like whatever she was about to say.

  “I need you to disappear when my client arrives.”

  “Disappear?” Had he heard her right?

  “Yes. The last thing I want is for anyone to know I have someone following me around and—”

  “Protecting you.”

  Margo blew out a breath in frustration. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate you protecting me, but I’m running a business. The last thing I want is for Claudine to think she’s not safe here.”

  “For all intents and purposes, she may not be. And just how am I supposed to disappear?”

  She nervously licked her lips, causing his stomach to knot and his sex to get hard. The thought that he was sitting here lusting after Roland’s niece didn’t sit well with him. But, damn, she looked beautiful this morning. She had soulful eyes and he wondered if they darkened during an orgasm.

  “Just become scarce upstairs until she leaves,” she said, as if what she was asking wasn’t out of the question. “I’ll take her measurements, she’ll look through my fabric book to pick out the material she prefers, and I’ll work up a few sketches for different designs based on what she wants. Think of it this way—the fewer distractions, the quicker she’ll be out the door. You will be a distraction.”

  The room got quiet as he took a sip of his coffee and she took a sip of hers. He figured the silence wouldn’t last for long. A minute later she proved him right.

  “So, will you do it? Disappear for a little while?”

  He took another sip of coffee, set the cup down and stood. “No.”

  Margo tried telling herself not to get angry. That he was not trying to be difficult per se, that he was just determined to do his job. But the bottom line was that she was mad. Why couldn’t he bend just a little?

  “You are interfering with my job,” she said, standing, pushing her hair back from her face. It angered her that he seemed unaffected by her words. And then he walked off to pour another cup of coffee. “Are you listening to me?”

  After pouring his coffee, he returned to his chair and sat down. “You remember yesterday when you said you resented me treating you like a child?” he asked her.

  “What about it?”

  “You’re behaving like one again.”

  She inhaled deeply, willing herself to calm down. “Why can’t you give us some privacy? What would it hurt?”

  “Possibly you. And I won’t take that chance.”

  There was something—the tone of his voice, the look in his eyes, the finality of his words—that told her something was going on here she didn’t know about. Something she felt she should. “What aren’t you telling me, Striker?”

  He broke eye contact with her when he took a sip of his coffee. “What do you mean?”

  “Why are you so protective?”

  He gave her a look that said she’d just asked a stupid question. “Protecting you is my job.”

  But it was more than that. She was sure of it. Did it have anything to do with that call that came in last night? The one she’d assumed was a wrong number? What if he knew for certain that it hadn’t been? He hadn’t mentioned anything about it this morning. Was that intentional? Convenient? Necessary? Would he tell her if there were new developments in the case? Although he was pretending otherwise, deep down, she knew he was intentionally keeping her in the dark about something.

  She walked over to the coffeepot to pour another cup, feeling his gaze was on her. She knew she was frustrating him. She supposed most people who hired him to protect them were only too happy to do as he said and didn’t give him any lip like she was doing. But, then again, she hadn’t hired him. He and his protection had been forced on her by her uncle.

  Returning to the table, she sat down with her mug in hand and asked, “So, what do you suggest?”

  He lifted a brow. “About what?”

  She hated when he acted dense. “About how we will handle questions about us?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “About us?”

  “Yes. Since you won’t disappear, how do I explain your presence at my house so early in the morning and the fact that you’re making yourself at home?”

  He shook his head, seemingly amused by her question. “Why do you feel you have to explain anything? This is your house and what you do and who you invite, no matter what time of day it is, is your business.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But nothing. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. But if you think you do, then tell Claudine, or anyone else who wants to know, that I’m the man you’re sleeping with.”

  Striker was certain Margo would choke on her coffee. Had he known his words would get her all rattled, he would have thought twice before saying them. “What’s your problem? You’re twenty-six and you act like you’ve never had a lover before.”

  She frowned at him. “That’s not the point.”

  “Then what is the point? What about Scotty?”

  Her frown deepened. “Like I told you, his name is Scott. And my relationship with him is not up for discussion.”

  “Suit yourself. But I still don’t see why you think you need to explain my presence to Claudine or anyone else. Do you know the woman? Did she come referred by someone you know?”

  “No, but my business cards are everywhere and I run ads in several bridal magazines. She was one of several people who left messages while I was sequestered. That was before all this drama began with Erickson. The only reason I was able to take her on as a client and not some of the others was because she won’t need her wedding gown until September. The others either wanted them earlier or they wanted me to make the bridesmaid dresses as well. So if you’re thinking she’s connected to anything, then—”
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  “I didn’t say that she was.”

  Her phone rang, and Margo immediately jerked at the sound. She looked over at Striker, and he nodded, pulling out his phone as well. She then pulled hers out of the pocket of her skirt and expressed a sigh of relief when she saw the number. Smiling, she said, “It’s Uncle Frazier.”

  As if he hadn’t heard her, he hit a number. She glared at him. “This is a private call, Striker.”

  He shrugged. “Not yet it’s not.” He pointed his head toward the ringing phone she still held in her hand. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

  She glared at him but quickly answered. “Good morning, Uncle Frazier.”

  “Margo! You okay? What took you so long to answer the phone?”

  She peered over at Striker when she said, “I was preoccupied in the kitchen. What’s up?” She was glad Striker clicked off the call and placed his phone back in his pocket.

  “I was just checking on you. How are you faring with Striker?”

  Deciding she definitely needed privacy to answer that one, she was leaving the kitchen when Striker called out, “Only go where I can see you.”

  She stiffened at Striker’s order and moved across the room to stand with her back to him. “I don’t know how long I can handle him here,” she whispered to her uncle. “He’s breathing down my neck and watching my every move.” Keeping me awake at night remembering how good he looks in his suit with those muscular shoulders and broad chest.

  She heard Striker’s phone ring and refused to turn around. “Margo, we covered all that yesterday,” her uncle was saying. “Striker’s job is to keep you alive, and before I left yesterday you said you understood that.”

  “I do, but—”

  Suddenly she felt heat directly behind her and swung around to find Striker standing right there, an intense look on his face. She immediately knew something was wrong. “Uncle Frazier, I’ll call you back.”

  Margo clicked off the phone. “Striker, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “The assassin has struck again.”

  Her heart nearly stopped. “B-but it hasn’t been seventy-two hours since the last time,” she said, feeling weak in the knees.

  “Apparently, he’s decided to play by a different set of rules.”

  * * *

  WITH HANDS CUFFED behind his back and chains on both of his legs, Murphy Erickson was led into the room by armed guards. He looked at the three men standing around the room. Federal agents. Men he despised and who probably despised him just as much. He had eluded them for years and had brought some of their fellow agents into his network, paying them well for their treachery.

  The feds thought capturing him and putting him behind bars would be the end of it. Unfortunately, they’d found out it wasn’t—the last laugh would be his. He was showing them, shoving it in their faces quite nicely, that in jail or out he was still calling the shots. His loyal comrades were out there carrying out his orders.

  “Unless you’re here to tell me I’ll be set free in a few hours, I have nothing to say to you bastards,” he said, knowing his words did more than piss them off.

  “Sit down, Erickson,” one of the men ordered, and before he could tell the man to go to hell, he was shoved into a chair by one of the guards.

  The federal agent who had ordered him to sit down leaned over the table, facing him. “You’re getting on our last nerve, Erickson.”

  Erickson chuckled. “All of you can go fuck yourselves and your damn nerves.”

  “Call off your assassin.”

  “Not until I’m free. Like I said, everyone in that courtroom that day will die unless I walk out of here. And please don’t ask me to give a damn about the families of the victims because I don’t give a fuck about anyone but myself. Remember that. And, by the way, since it seems you guys are taking your time about giving me my freedom, the every-seventy-two-hours rule is no longer in effect. He can kill whenever he feels like it.”

  “You’re a low-down, dirty bastard,” one of the agents said, losing his cool.

  “Your mama,” Erickson tossed back and then added, “How is the lovely lady, Agent Flynn? I understand she likes living in Florida.”

  At the surprised look on the agent’s face, Erickson laughed. “That’s right. I know about all of you and your families. Don’t tempt me to add their names to my hit list. I suggest you work out a deal. I won’t go along with anything where I don’t walk out of here a free man. Until then, the killings will continue.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I THOUGHT YOU weren’t hungry,” Striker said, watching Margo dig into the breakfast that had been delivered. It was a good thing he’d ordered as much as he had.

  “I wasn’t at the time, but I have a tendency to overeat whenever I’m nervous.”

  In that case, considering her size and curvaceous figure, she must not get nervous too often, he thought. “You have no reason to be nervous, Margo. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  That call from Stonewall only verified what he’d assumed. The assassin wasn’t an amateur. They were definitely dealing with someone who knew how to stay one step ahead of the law. So far none of the security cameras mounted around the crime scenes had picked up images of the killer. It made one wonder how the assassin knew when and where to make his hit. The feds weren’t happy they hadn’t captured the man, and the local authorities were dealing with a city on the edge of chaos.

  “He asked me out.”

  Striker raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I said he asked me out. Carl Palmer.”

  Carl Palmer had been the assassin’s latest victim. Another juror. Striker frowned. “The news reports said he was married.”

  She released a deep breath. “He was...which is why I wouldn’t go out with him, although he claimed he was getting a divorce. Men lie a lot.”

  Had she caught her Scotty lying? “Some do and some don’t.”

  She pushed the empty plate aside. “And some like to be evasive.”

  Did she think that was what he was doing because he refused to tell her everything she wanted to know? She had the right to think whatever she liked because it wouldn’t change a thing with him. He looked at his watch. “You sure you’re still up for Claudine’s visit this morning?”

  “Yes, now more than ever. I need to stay busy and keep my mind occupied.”

  He understood. An idle mind was not good. Five people were dead and two of them had been jurors. How many others would lose their lives before the assassin was apprehended? “You want some more?” he asked, indicating her clean plate and the food he still had on his.

  She gave him a wry smile. “I thought you were the one who liked eating a big breakfast. I feel bad that I ate most of it.”

  “Don’t. As you can see, it wouldn’t hurt me to miss a meal or two.”

  Margo thought he had to be kidding. Striker Jennings was in great shape. Too great. The man had a body that would make any woman drool. He even had beautiful hands. She couldn’t help noticing them when he was spooning food off his plate onto hers. At one point her gaze had been practically fixed on them. When had calloused fingers become sexy?

  She then thought of something she hadn’t asked him but wanted to know. “Are you married?”

  He looked at her over the rim of his coffee cup. “Where did that question come from?”

  “Just answer, Striker.”

  He didn’t say anything for a minute. “No. I’m not married and never have been.”

  She nodded. “Do you have a steady girlfriend?”

  “Why? Are you interested in applying for the position if there’s an opening?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No.”

  “Then why is it any concern of yours?”

  Ma
rgo wondered what type of woman could handle all that alpha-ness. All that testosterone. “I just want to know.”

  He put his cup down and stared at her for a minute. Then, as if he’d made his mind up about something, he said, “No, I don’t have a steady girlfriend. Just unsteady ones. And that’s the way I like it. No promises and no entanglements.”

  “So you’re one of those men who specialize in bed partners only.” It wasn’t a question and she made sure he knew that.

  “You shouldn’t be so nosy, Margo.”

  She shrugged. “I can’t help it. You’re such an interesting character.”

  Striker’s cell phone rang and he quickly pulled it out of his pocket. He recognized that ringtone. “Why are you calling? Shouldn’t you be resting?” From Striker’s earlier conversation with Stonewall, he knew Roland had been released from the hospital with instructions from his doctor to get some rest.

  “How is she, Striker?” Roland asked.

  Striker knew Margo was listening to every word he said. “Okay. And I told you I would handle things.”

  “And I know that you can, but I heard about the recent hit. Do you think we need to move her to another location that might be safer?”

  “Not yet. Stonewall is my backup and, thanks to those security measures Bruce put in place, Stonewall is keeping an eye on things from where he is.”

  “It’s a good thing I called Bruce in,” Roland said. “According to him, the security system she was using was a joke. Anyone could have disarmed it with no problem.”

  “So I heard.” Striker had been told the same thing from Bruce. “I’m ending this call now, Roland. Get some rest, will you?”

  “I will. Carson wouldn’t let me go to my place to recuperate. I’m at Sutton Hills.”

  Sutton Hills was the Grangers’ estate that encompassed over two hundred acres near the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. “Talk to you later, Roland. And do like I said and get some rest.” He clicked off the phone and waited for the questions he knew were coming.

  “Who’s Roland?”

  If only you knew. “Roland Summers is my boss.”