Raw Power by Jackie Ashenden (5)

CHAPTER 5

Callie woke up feeling like shit. She lay there for a second, trying to figure out where she was, because she wasn’t in her bed back home and her brain felt too sleep-deprived to fully process how she’d come to be wherever she was.

Then it all came flooding back. The night before at the club, the appearance of her new bodyguard, the driver who’d apparently been trying to kill her. Oh, and not forgetting the fact that she couldn’t go home, because apparently Jack-Hole had decided he needed to check the place out before she could.

She let out a breath. Yeah, okay, she’d come to the conclusion last night, halfway through the endless hot shower she’d taken to warm herself up, that her behavior after he’d gotten her to the hotel had been childish.

She’d just been full of a weird relief that he’d been there to save her from that guy in the car, and at the same time hating herself for being relieved, because even though he was there to protect her, he also represented the loss of her freedom. And so she hated him too.

And he made her feel things. Unfamiliar, hot things. Things she didn’t understand, that excited her and made her ache, and she didn’t know how to handle that.

God, she basically didn’t know how to handle herself around him, period.

Take that moment in the elevator when he’d gripped her chin in his fingers and made her look at him, for example. While he’d been delivering some hard truths, all she’d been able to concentrate on was the fact that he was touching her, that his fingers were on her skin and there was a pleasant roughness to them that sent chills through her. And that his eyes were the most incredible color and she wanted to stare into them, count all the different shades of green that made up his irises. That she wanted to touch those terrible scars, follow the contours of them with her fingers where they twisted his mouth and eyebrow.

It made her angry that she felt that way about him and it made her breathless. Made those feelings she didn’t understand wrap around her, suffocate her. She couldn’t breathe around him, and in the elevator car there was even less air than in a normal room, plus nowhere to run to.

All she’d been able to do was stand there fighting all those weird urges, trying not to get lost in his incredible gaze, in the touch of his hand on her skin. Struggling to focus on exactly what he was telling her.

He’d been right, of course. She was arguing with him for the sake of it, because she was angry and scared and so wound up she didn’t know what to do with herself. But that didn’t mean she should keep being oppositional. That didn’t help anyone.

He was there to save her life and arguing with him about small things was pointless. The threat was real, which meant if she wanted to stay alive she was going to have deal with herself. Stop being such a bitch and do what he said.

It didn’t help that the odds of him being her father’s spy were pretty high.

Then again, he had said he wouldn’t tell her father where she’d been and she wasn’t quite sure why she believed him, but she did. Yet another rush of relief to add to all the emotions already tangling in the center of her chest.

It made her wonder about other stuff.

Callie blinked at the ceiling above her, thinking. God, what wouldn’t she give for her headphones and a bit of Muse in her ears. Or no, maybe some classical, Vivaldi or Mozart perhaps. Perfect for when she had some serious thinking to do.

Because she did have some serious thinking to do. Jack was a reality in her life now and she had to figure out what her response to that was going to be, where she went from here. And that was likely to be what she normally did whenever her father interfered with her life, which was to not make a fuss and accept it.

Or at least give the appearance of accepting it. She could do that with Mr. Jack-Hole King. Be nice and meek and biddable, and hopefully he’d find nothing of interest to pass on to her father at all.

Callie frowned at the ceiling as an idea formed slowly in her head.

Maybe, if she was nice enough, she could get him on her side. Maybe if she was really, really nice, she might be able to include him in her escape plans. He was big and strong, and obviously knew how to handle himself. If anyone could help her vanish completely so her father would never find her again, it would be him.

Good point. Trust didn’t come easily to her, especially not with men since most of the men she’d come into contact with were her father’s friends or colleagues, and they tended to be assholes just like her father. Jack, though, was . . . different, she’d known it the moment she’d laid eyes on him, even though she didn’t quite understand why. He was . . . safe, which was a stupid thing to think when he was obviously very dangerous and very powerful. But . . . Well. Why else had she stood up to him so blatantly the night before? Telling him he was an asshole and shoving at him in a way she’d never even dream of doing to someone else. And even when she’d been unforgivably rude to him, all he’d done was stare at her. Yeah, she had the feeling that she could do anything she wanted to him and all he’d do would be to stand there and look at her.

Then again, it had only been one night. She couldn’t put her plans for escape at risk based purely on a feeling. She was going to have to get to know him a bit more, see if she really could trust him before she said anything to him about getting away from her father.

Her heart sped up, a complicated thread of emotion winding through her that was part curiosity and excitement at getting to know him—it had been a long time since she’d been excited about another person before—and a tiny part hoped this could really mean finally getting away from her father.

It was probably stupid to pin this on a guy she’d only met a matter of hours earlier, but still. What other options did she have?

There had been a few times over the past couple of years where she’d thought she’d be able to get free. Those first few months of college when she’d begun to meet people and realize how narrow her life had been up until that point and how small. She hadn’t known there could be laughter and friendship and music and fun. She hadn’t known she could go out when she wanted, stay out as late as she wanted, dance until dawn. And no one would punish her for it. No one would threaten her mother with pain unless Callie did what she was told.

But she’d only had six months of that before her father had dragged her back home because her grades hadn’t been what he’d wanted them to be. And that’s when he’d made sure she knew what he expected from her, shown her that life would be nothing like the lives of her college friends.

That had also been the day she’d understood just how much her mother blamed her for everything and that she would get no help from her.

Callie was her father’s to do with as he wished and the quicker she accepted it, the better it would be. Oh, and if she ever tried to leave again, he’d simply bring her back.

She’d tested him a couple of times after he’d ended her college career, getting together what money she had, plus a few clothes, and trying to sneak out of Boston, first with a cheap plane ticket, then with a hired car. But somehow he’d found out and both times he’d simply gotten one of his security team to drag her back home again.

He’d locked her in her room for a week after the last time, telling her that if she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life in there, then she’d better deal with the fact that he could do what he liked with her, end of story.

She had no choice but to accept it after that, because being locked up had nearly driven her mad. But that didn’t mean she’d ever given up the idea of one day finding her freedom from him. She’d managed to negotiate her own place with promises of obedience and that had worked fairly well. At least she could play her guitar and listen to the music she liked up loud without being worried he’d discover her passion and use it to manipulate her. And at least she could sneak out now and then, to concerts and nightclubs where she could dance and at least pretend to be free.

Yeah, well, she’d see about that. She had a plan now and that was more than she’d had for months.

On that encouraging thought, she rolled out of bed and went into the bathroom, completing a few necessaries before splashing some water on her face to wake herself up. Then she dressed, grimacing at having to wear last night’s clothes, before creeping toward the door and pulling it open.

Coffee. That’s what she needed right now. Coffee and lots of it.

The living area of the suite was empty, though there was a trolley beside one of the couches, with a whole lot of plates on the top of it. The plates had silver covers over them and were obviously breakfast judging from the delicious smells.

Well, hell. Who’d ordered that?

She grinned. Okay, one point to the asshole bodyguard. Who she was beginning to think wasn’t as much of an asshole as she’d first thought.

Callie made a beeline for the trolley, lifting the elegant silver coffeepot and pouring herself a large cup. It was only once she’d added a dash of cream that she thought to look around to see where he was.

Which turned out to be nowhere.

She was alone.

She took another look around. Strange that he wasn’t here when he’d been so adamant about her not being alone the night before. What happened to him? Where had he gone?

Sipping her coffee, she wandered over to the front door of the suite and pulled it open to find the familiar face of one of her father’s security team waiting on the other side of it.

“Oh,” she muttered. “I was looking for Jack.”

“Mr. King will be back shortly,” the man said. “I’m here until he returns.” He gave her a professional smile. “Don’t worry, Miss Hawthorne. You’re perfectly safe. All you have to do is wait in the suite.”

Automatically she pasted on the pleasant, empty smile she used with all her father’s employees, then thanked him and retreated into the suite. Where she gritted her teeth and swallowed more hot coffee, welcoming the pain as it went down, a distraction from the usual hot ball of frustration that simmered in her gut whenever she was reminded of how much of a prisoner she was.

But no, there was no reason to be frustrated. Not today. Not now that she had her plan.

Fifteen minutes later, after attacking a plateful of pancakes, bacon, fruit salad, and yet more coffee, she was contemplating rounding everything off with a berry Danish, when the door to the suite opened and Jack King came striding in.

And everything in her tightened the way it had the night before in the nightclub, a rush of adrenaline making her pulse spike and excitement gather in her throat.

God, the way he moved, so fluid and predatory, yet with that slight hitch that somehow only made him even more mesmerizing. Had he really been that tall last night? That broad? His lean, muscular body radiating a strength and a certain kind of power that made her mouth go dry.

She wanted to take that power for herself or maybe test herself against it, push him the way she had under those stairs, feel how hard he was, how immovable . . .

Her breath caught and she knew she should look away, but she just couldn’t seem to do it.

He stopped dead when he saw her, then his intense green gaze dropped to the plates on the coffee table. In the daylight, his scars seemed more pronounced than they already were, great gouges along the side of his face, marring his olive skin, making it seem like a huge animal had raked its claws across his mouth and jaw and eyebrow.

They were terrible and yet somehow they hadn’t managed to ruin his looks. In fact, if anything they only added to his charisma, making him seem savage and dangerous as hell.

A very female kind of shiver ran through her in response.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She actually didn’t know what men she liked since the only men she’d ever met were ones her father had thoroughly vetted and approved of, and she hadn’t liked even one of those.

No. He wouldn’t. And God help her, that only made him more fascinating to her.

“You had some breakfast?” he asked in his rough, abrupt way.

A tart response almost came helplessly out, but she managed to bite down on it. Nice. She was going to be nice to him from now on. “Yes, I did, thank you. Did you order it?”

He nodded. “Thought you might be hungry when you woke up.”

“Well, I was.” She lifted her coffee cup. “And double thank you for the coffee. I needed it.”

He gave another nod as he came over to the table and began gathering up her plates, moving to put them on the trolley. She sat on the couch, cradling her cup, watching him move, unable to help herself.

She didn’t know why she found those scars so fascinating, but she did. Where had he gotten them from? And how? And did the scars on his face have anything to do with that hitch in his walk? They probably did and she was curious as to how. She was curious about everything about him.

Clearly, no matter his physical appearance, he had to be very good at what he did because her father wouldn’t trust her life to just anyone. Only the best for Senator Hawthorne.

Callie blinked, remembering the way Jack had reached over into the front seat of the car the night before, looping one of those powerful arms around the neck of the driver and jerking him back against the seat. And then his other hand lifting, holding the gun, slamming the butt of it down . . .

In a matter of seconds it had been all over, the problem neutralized.

Once again that female response fluttered right down low inside her and she had to take a soft, silent breath to deal with herself.

She was being ridiculous getting all worked up over him. It wasn’t what she was supposed to be doing anyway. She was supposed to be getting this get-Jack-on-her-side show on the road. Which meant an apology for her behavior yesterday, because people did like an apology. Her father always did.

“So,” she began, settling back against the sofa. “I think I owe you an apology.”

He’d finished depositing the plates on the trolley and was now looking down at his phone, his strong features set in lines of intense concentration. “Yeah, you do,” he said without looking up.

Irritated at his casual assumption, Callie opened her mouth to tell him how damn arrogant that was, then shut it again before the words came spilling out.

Getting annoyed was not the path she needed to take with him, no matter how irritated she was. She needed to ignore this weird impulse she had to fight him and treat him the way she treated all her father’s staff: politely, calmly, and as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

Gripping her coffee mug, she took another fortifying sip. Then she said, “Well, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made you run around after me yesterday. And I shouldn’t have been such a bitch to you when you arrived at the club. I just . . .” My father is an abusive asshole and I’m pretty certain you’re his spy. “It was a shock.”

Jack put his phone in his pocket and turned, his gaze catching hers. “Why? Because I managed to track you down to that club?”

She bit her lip. “Yes, well. There was that.”

“What were you doing there anyway?” His gaze was relentless. “Trying to get wasted? Get high? A hookup where Daddy can’t see you?”

It was so tempting to just say yes, that’s exactly why she’d been at the club. To protect her real reasons for being there so her father would never know what they were, so he couldn’t use them against her at some point.

But for some reason she couldn’t bring herself to lie. Jack’s sharp green eyes seemed to dig the truth from her whether she wanted to tell him or not. “No,” she said thickly. “I was there because I liked the music. And I wanted to dance. That’s all.”

Surprise crossed Jack’s face. “You wanted to dance?”

“Yes.” Callie gave him a challenging look, unable to help herself. “You know, when you move your body to music and—”

“I know what dancing is,” he interrupted, scowling. “You should have let someone know where you were though, especially with this threat situation going on.”

Sure, she could have. And her father would have forbidden it, like he forbade her to do pretty much everything she liked to do that he didn’t approve of.

For a second she debated telling Jack exactly that, but then decided against it. He’d probably end up agreeing with her father and she couldn’t stand the thought of that. “Well, I didn’t.” She looked down at her cup. “Next time.”

Though, of course, there wouldn’t be a next time and she knew it.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them.

She could feel the pressure of Jack’s attention boring into her, as if he were a scientist and she were some kind of new life form he’d discovered. It made her heart race, made her want to shift around restlessly on the couch. It made her want to look at him, but then she had a feeling that would be a very bad idea, so she didn’t.

“You were scared last night, Princess,” he said at last.

Something in her stomach dropped away. “Yeah, well, nothing like a death threat to really make you feel secure,” she murmured before she could stop herself.

“I told you I would protect you. It’s my job. You don’t need to be scared.”

“Wow. And now all my fear has magically gone away.”

Another silence.

Then she looked up, unable to resist the urge, his green gaze clashing with hers and sending a bolt of pure electricity arrowing down her spine.

“Is it me you’re afraid of?” he asked abruptly.

“No.” The denial was instant and automatic and the absolute truth. And maybe she should have questioned it, but she didn’t. “I’m not afraid of you. But you’ll forgive me if it takes more than a couple of hours to trust you with my life.”

He stared at her for yet another long, uncomfortable moment. “Okay, fair enough. But you might just have to. Especially if you want to avoid situations like the one I had to deal with in the car last night.”

Callie gripped her coffee mug tighter. “I’m sorry. Yes, that was my fault. I should have listened to you.”

“You should.” His face was set in hard, uncompromising lines. No softness, no mercy. “And next time you will, right?”

Again that inexplicable urge filled her. To refuse him, to tell him where he could stick his goddamn orders. To kick against him. Rebel. Match her strength to his, show him somehow that she wasn’t this weak little woman he had to protect.

Strange to want to prove herself to him when she didn’t even know him. When she didn’t even like him. It wasn’t going to help her in the long run anyway, so all she did was nod like the good little girl she was trying to be. “Yes. Of course.”

His black brows, one straight, one twisted by scar tissue, twitched and his gaze narrowed, as if he was assessing whether she was telling the truth. But she simply stared back guilelessly, as if the thought of telling him where to stick it hadn’t even entered her head.

Eventually he gave another of those curt nods. “I went over your place with a fine-tooth comb this morning so we should be good to go to get you home. New security will be installed sometime today also.”

Wait. What? He’d been in her home? Without her permission?

A flash of rage went through her, instant and hot. Her town house was her haven, the one place in the world where her father didn’t have control. It was hers and now this asshole had “gone through it”? With a “fine-tooth comb”?

“What?” he asked before she could speak, obviously reading her expression. “You don’t like the idea of new security?”

A thousand furious words burned on her tongue, but she swallowed them down, ignoring the bitterness. Like her music, her one little piece of privacy was something she protected as fiercely as she could without giving away how important it was to her. And it felt invasive to have this complete stranger going through all her stuff without even asking her first.

“I would have liked to have been informed of this beforehand.” She only just managed to keep the words level and cool. “But I guess it’s too late for that now.”

Jack lifted a shoulder. “You were asleep. Anyway, it had to be done, especially after last night. And a good thing I did too.”

Callie froze, a whisper of foreboding curling through her. “Why was it a good thing?”

Something flickered in his eyes, though she couldn’t immediately tell what it was. “Did you know there were cameras in some of the rooms?”

She blinked, not understanding. “Cameras?”

“Yeah. In the living area and kitchen and bedroom. None in the bathroom.” He studied her closely. “You didn’t know.”

And then she understood.

There were cameras in her house. Cameras she didn’t know about.

Cold shock had started creeping through her, her fingers going numb, making her feel as if she were slowly turning to ice. “No.” Now her lips were feeling numb too. “I didn’t know.”

Jack frowned, his green eyes flicking over her again. Then he moved over to the minibar and extracted something from it before coming back to where she sat. He had a mini bottle of what looked like brandy in his hands, briskly unscrewing the top and holding it out. “Here. Drink this.”

Then suddenly the bottle was in her hand and she was tipping her head back, taking a healthy swallow, the alcohol burning on the way down, then settling into a warm, glowing mass in her stomach.

Cameras. There had been cameras in her house.

Of course she did. There was only one person who’d do that to her and it wasn’t the person who was issuing death threats. It was someone closer and far more dangerous.

In another of those fluid movements, Jack crouched in front of her, studying her intently. “You’ve gone very pale, Princess. You okay?”

“No.” Her voice sounded curiously blank to her own ears. “I’m not okay. There were cameras in my house.” Her anger at Jack for going through her home without permission suddenly seemed ridiculous. Especially when it was clear she’d never had any privacy to start with.

She looked down at her hands, the warmth of the brandy helping the cold numbness fade. Yet it left behind a kind of despair that made tears prick behind her eyes.

Jesus, she’d never imagined her father would go that far. Sure, he’d been annoyed about her having her own place, but she’d promised to be good and she had been. Apart from the nightclub and concert excursions, she hadn’t put a foot out of line.

She blinked fiercely, refusing to let the tears fall. The really stupid part about it was the fact that she didn’t even have anything to hide. All her father would have seen was her going about her life. Just her, being herself in the one place she felt safe doing so.

Except it wasn’t safe and it had never been safe.

He’d reached her even there.

A shudder swept through her, making her hand shake, so Jack calmly took her coffee mug and the mini bottle of brandy—somehow magically empty—away from her and deposited them on the table. Then he took her icy fingers in his and began rubbing them gently.

His hands felt the way they had last night, roughened and calloused, and so good against her skin. Reassuring and warm and strong. And she had the sudden urge to press her face against his palms, hide from the world behind his strength.

“I took them all down,” he said after a moment’s silence. “So you won’t have those to worry about when you get home.”

But she was already shaking her head in instinctive denial. “I don’t want to go home.”

“They’re gone, Princess. Like I said, I took them away.”

“I don’t care.” She pulled her hands from his grip, abruptly uncomfortable with how much she liked the feeling of his fingers on her skin. “I don’t want to be there anymore.”

He didn’t reach for her again, simply letting his hands rest on his knees. “Your dad ordered me to keep you at home for the day and I have to say, I agree with him. Security needs to be reviewed and you’re safer at home while that’s being done.”

Oh sure, her father wanted her to stay at home. Where he could keep an eye on her, no doubt.

Callie swallowed as a sudden thought struck her. If Jack had been really hired to report on her for her father, as well as guard her from this death threat thing, then why had he taken down the cameras she knew without a doubt her father had been responsible for installing? Wouldn’t her father have instructed him to leave them intact? Unless her father hadn’t told him about the cameras and hadn’t wanted him to know they were there. Which meant that maybe Jack wasn’t as in her father’s pocket as she’d first assumed.

Except Jack had just said he’d agreed with her father about keeping her home, so maybe he was after all....

God, this whole damn situation was complicated and she had no idea whom to trust.

She could. But then what if he was truly reporting everything back to the senator? She didn’t want him alerting her dad to the fact that she knew Jack was his personal spy. She didn’t want Jack to know that either, not when she couldn’t be sure of him. Yes, he’d saved her life, but only because he was paid to. She was a job to him, nothing more. A job her father paid his salary for.

“Your house is secure.” Jack’s voice was calm. “The cameras are gone. There’s no reason for you not to feel safe there.”

“Yes, but you can understand how I wouldn’t, right? My privacy has been invaded. I mean, who put those cameras up there in the first place? And why? And for how long?”

Slowly he rose to his feet. “I can’t answer those questions, but I’ve handed the hardware over to your father’s security team to examine. Your privacy has been restored, surely that’s the important thing?”

He didn’t understand, that was obvious. “You wouldn’t have a problem if you found out that there had been cameras in your home? You wouldn’t find it at all weird going back there?”

He shook his head. “Not really. And I certainly wouldn’t care once the cameras were gone.”

Easy for him to say. He probably didn’t have a father like hers.

Jack began turning away. “I guess you can stay at the hotel if you prefer, but you’re going to have to go back to your place at some point, even if it’s just to get some clean clothes.”

She bit her lip. Sadly, he was right. She wanted clean clothes and her good headphones, and her fingers were itching for her guitar strings, while her soul was desperate to be back in the safety of her little town house, where she could shut the rest of the world out and pretend she had a normal life.

Fear twisted inside her, but she forced it aside, concentrating instead on the tingling warmth in her fingers from where Jack had rubbed them and the pleasant heat that the brandy had left.

Her father must know that the cameras had gone now, which meant that actually, for the first time in who knew how long, her place was truly hers.

“Okay,” she said after a moment. “You can take me home.”

* * *

Callie’s town house had been pretty much what Jack had expected, a small, but very nice little place in an expensive part of town.

When he’d gone to do his security check early that morning, having organized to get a key from one of the Hawthorne security staff, he’d taken his time to have a look around, familiarize himself, though he told himself it was all part of the job and not because he was curious about her.

Serious money had been spent on the decor, with lots of pricey knickknacks, furniture in pale wood, the fabrics and walls decorated in the same kind of soft, muted tones as the hotel room had been. Definitely the kind of place that should have been featured in some fancy home-and-garden-type magazine. Or at least it would if it hadn’t been in such a fucking mess.

Callie Hawthorne might be beautiful, sexy as hell, and far more intriguing than was good for her, but one thing she was not was tidy.

It had offended Jack’s military soul when he’d seen it earlier, and now a couple of hours later, as they arrived back from the hotel, he remained offended.

There were clothes scattered everywhere, piles of books and papers left on every flat surface. Coffee mugs littered the rooms—some with half-drunk coffee in them—and still-damp towels left to drape over various items of furniture. In the tiny kitchen area, there were dirty plates piled on the kitchen counter, an empty pizza box on the low coffee table in the living room. Even her bedroom was a mess, with pillows and cushions thrown all over the floor, along with yet more clothes. Some tubes of makeup had fallen on the carpet from her dressing table, and scattered on her bed were a pile of papers with phrases and what looked like bars of music written down on them.

Callie was bent over those pieces of paper now, scrambling to gather them all up into a pile, snatching at them like she didn’t want anyone to see them.

Jack leaned on the doorframe and watched her dispassionately. She’d been angry with him before for entering her house without permission, he got that loud and clear, and hell, he could understand that. But it wasn’t as if he’d pulled open her panty drawer and gone through her underwear or anything. All he’d been interested in was checking all the entrances and exits, seeing whether they’d been tampered with and if not, making sure they were secure. And they all were, though he’d recommended to the senator that the locks and window catches be replaced with something more heavy-duty, just to be on the safe side.

He’d also mentioned the cameras he’d found and the senator had assured him that particular issue would also be investigated.

“I didn’t go through your stuff,” he said, so she knew. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

Callie didn’t look at him, bending to snatch up the last couple of papers from the floor. She was still wearing that little white dress and as she moved, it pulled tight around her ass, outlining those delicious, firm curves he’d found so distracting the night before.

Curves he still found fucking distracting, if he was honest.

He shifted against the doorframe and told his body to settle the hell down. It aggravated him that he was easily able to deal with all kinds of pain and ten thousand different forms of physical discomfort, but give him this one, nicely rounded ass and his self-control was as slippery as hell.

Perhaps he needed to go out and hook up with someone. Find some chick in a bar somewhere. Then again, he was a 24/7 bodyguard, so where would he have the time?

Tired. He was tired. Had to be. And maybe he was still pissy about finding those cameras.

It had been an unexpected twist and one he wasn’t happy about because a) it indicated that someone had once had access to Callie’s place, and b) her security was now severely compromised, given whoever it was who’d been watching her now knew the layout of the place, and her movements.

Another reason why he’d recommended a complete replacement of all the security in her house.

Nothing like discovering something that was going to make his job a thousand times more difficult.

Callie’s response to the news too had worried him. He’d expected her to be shocked and horrified, but shit, she’d gone absolutely white and he’d thought she was going to pass out. There had been such fear in her blue eyes, even after the brandy he’d given her, and when he’d taken her fingers in his for some reassurance, they’d been icy.

No, it really fucking wasn’t and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.

This job didn’t feel right and he couldn’t quite pinpoint why yet. Though he was pretty certain it had something to do with the fear in Callie’s eyes. A fear she was desperately trying to hide and couldn’t.

Briefly he debated asking her about it straight out; then again he had in the hotel room before and she’d shrugged it off. He had a feeling she’d probably do the same again now, so there was likely to be no point.

Better to wait until he’d gotten her trust a little more.

“You should be checking your important documents,” he said, when she continued to say nothing, moving to put the papers she’d been collecting onto the bed and pat them into a neat pile. “Like your passport and birth certificate. Make sure they’re there and nothing has been tampered with.”

“I don’t have a passport and anyway, you said on the way over that it didn’t look like anyone had gotten in.”

“No, but it doesn’t hurt to double-check.”

“I will later.” She gave her papers another pat. “Right now what I really want is a change of clothes. So . . . if you don’t mind . . .”

Jack pushed himself away from the doorframe—she probably needed some private time after the morning she’d had— did one last scan around the room, then turned and went down the hallway without another word, leaving her to get changed.

Going back out into the living area, he prowled around, doing yet another check of the catches on the windows that overlooked the cobbled street area outside. Then he stood in the middle of the room surveying the mess of clothes on the linen couch, the untidy stacks of books and magazines and other paper paraphernalia on the low coffee table, the shoes on the floor, and yet another towel scrunched up in a heap and kicked half under the couch.

He’d put his own neatly packed kit bag that he’d finally gotten out of the car down beside the couch to keep it out of the way, but plainly he needn’t have bothered. He could have opened it and emptied out the contents on the floor and it wouldn’t have made it any untidier.

He took another look around, noting with interest that though there were quite a few knickknacky things on the bookshelves, there weren’t any family photos, not a single one. Strange when the Hawthornes were reputed to be a close-knit kind of family.

Callie was at all her father’s functions and supposedly represented him on the boards of a number of different charities. And in all the interviews with the senator that Jack had read on the plane on the way to Boston, the guy had raved about how supportive his daughter was and how he wouldn’t be where he was today without her.

Yet there wasn’t one picture of her dad anywhere.

There could have been one, buried under all the mess somewhere, but Jack didn’t think so. He was a detail-oriented kind of guy and that was one detail he definitely hadn’t missed.

The bad feeling he had deepened, the memory of Callie’s delicate, icy fingers in his returning. He couldn’t get her shocked look out of his head.

Glancing toward the doorway to the hall, he debated once again whether to go in and demand she tell him what the fuck was going on, but he could hear music playing now. Very loud music. Very definitely go away I don’t want to talk to you music.

He cursed under his breath. Okay, so, he didn’t want to force the issue. He’d let her have her space. For now. But if she thought she could get away with ignoring him, she had another think coming.

He’d get to the bottom of it eventually. He’d make sure of it.

Since he didn’t like standing around not doing anything but thinking, Jack pushed the issue of Callie’s trust out of his head and began neatening the place up.

He was in the kitchen loading the dishwasher with the dirty mugs and plates, when he became aware that the music had stopped and that there had been a soft footfall behind him. The scent of something sweet wrapped around him, vanilla and sugar, like the cookies his mom used to make back before Molly, his little sister, had died.

His heart squeezed tight all of a sudden, a pain that had gotten lost under all the physical agony the grenade blast had put him through. A deeply unwanted pain.

He gritted his teeth, forcing down the urge to snap at her, because fuck, it wasn’t her fault she smelled like something delicious from a past he was doing his best to bury.

“What are you doing?” She sounded uncertain. “I hope you’re not cleaning up, because . . . well. You’re supposed to be my bodyguard, not my housekeeper.”

“I’m former military.” His voice was rough and full of ground glass, but he couldn’t make it any softer. “I hate untidy shit.”

“Oh? What branch of the military were you in?” She was closer now and that scent of hers was making his mouth water, and the pain in his chest get a little rawer. Fuck, he had to get a better handle on himself. He had no excuses for being a grumpy bastard now. Yes, he was tired, but the pain in his hip had subsided from the harsh scream, the way it always did in the mornings when he’d slept heavily and was stiff, to a dull roar.

“US Marine Corps. Force Recon.” He jammed another plate in the rack, then straightened and shut the dishwasher door, hitting the button to start the cycle.

Then he turned around to find Callie standing behind him, just inside the doorway of the kitchen.

And this time it wasn’t pain he felt, but that hard kick he’d felt last night when he’d looked at her. In his heart and in his cock. The need to touch her soft skin, run his hands over those tight curves. Test her. Push her. See if she was as fragile as she looked or whether she was made of stronger stuff. Catch another glimpse of that wildness he’d seen in her eyes on the dance floor of the club.

Her hair was damp and loose and lying in a glorious tumble over her shoulders, the light from the kitchen windows at his back picking up gleams of caramel and toffee, as well as glints of lighter gold in among the blond strands.

She wore a pair of soft jeans with holes in the knees and a loose white T-shirt with a wide neck that had somehow slipped off one shoulder, exposing a simple white bra strap and a quantity of pale golden skin.

Simple, casual clothes that were not designed to be sexy and yet somehow made her look exactly that. Sexy and soft and warm.

He wanted to push his hands into her hair to see if it felt as silky as it looked. Jerk that T-shirt off and put his mouth on her skin, see if she tasted the way she smelled, of sugar and heartbreak. Then maybe pull her jeans down and slide his hand between her thighs, find out whether she kept the skin there smooth or whether he’d feel silky curls. See whether the blue of her eyes would deepen, whether she’d wind her arms around his neck . . .

His breath came suddenly short.

Fuck. Why her? Why now? Because it wasn’t as if he hadn’t come into contact with women since he’d gotten out of the hospital, or had the opportunity to get laid. He’d had opportunity. Plenty of fucking opportunity. He just hadn’t wanted to. So what the fuck was different now?

Callie stuck her hands in the pockets of her jeans and tilted her head, giving him a curious look, which meant that with any luck his thoughts hadn’t shown on his face. “Marines,” she echoed. “Okay then. So . . . um . . .” She stopped and bit her lip, drawing attention to the soft, pouty shape of it.

He tried not to look, because she was preparing to ask him about his scars, he could almost see it in her face. People always got that uncertain expression just before they attempted to be sensitive about it.

“Grenade attack,” he said curtly, before she could get the words out. “Took me two years to recover. I’m not able to serve any longer.”

Her sea-blue eyes widened. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

Sorry? She was sorry? Had he sounded like a pathetic, whiny bitch?

He lifted a shoulder and tried to moderate his tone. “It is what it is. And this is my job now.”

Her gaze touched lightly on the scars on his face before she looked away, shifting on her feet. “I’m sorry about what I said to you last night. About you looking like you’ve just gotten out of the hospital. That wasn’t very nice of me.”

Well, she was full of apologies this morning, wasn’t she?

He studied her, noting her apparent discomfort. She was clearly making an effort and he wondered why. He hadn’t done anything particularly kind this morning, had he?

“There a reason you keep apologizing?” He tried to keep the demand out of his tone, but he had a feeling he hadn’t been successful.

Color flooded her cheeks, her eyes widening in what he thought was shock. Then, without a word, she looked away, moving over to the coffee maker that sat on the counter nearby and fussing around with it. “Can’t someone simply offer an apology without it meaning something?” she asked after a moment. “I was a dick last night so I’m apologizing for it. Nothing else.”

Jack knew he should simply accept the apology and move on. But for some reason he couldn’t. “Didn’t stop you from being a dick, though, did it?”

“Yeah, well, you were a dick too.” A thread of irritation now wound through her voice, a flicker of the sassy, wild woman he’d seen last night. “I’m not a fan of men giving me orders.”

It got to him, he couldn’t deny it. That sass, that spark. It made him want to push back. “And I’m not a fan of little girls arguing with mine.”

She turned, her color high. “Little girl? Seriously?”

Oh yeah, he liked this. He really did. There was something about the challenge in her eyes that appealed to the hunter in him, the part that loved the chase and always had. The part of himself he kept locked away.

He definitely should. Yet that’s not what he did.

He held her gaze instead, meeting her challenge. “Which would you prefer? Little girl or princess?”

“My name is actually Callie.”

“Really? I thought you preferred Miss Hawthorne?”

“And yet you failed to call me that.”

Her eyes really were the prettiest color when she was mad, little sparks of green glowing in the depths. It made him wonder other things, such as whether her eyes would go even greener if she was aroused. Whether they would glitter when she was close to orgasm or whether they would go wholly blue, a pure, deep sapphire . . .

He became aware of the sudden silence in the room, of the tension that stretched between them, like a rubber band being drawn back, getting thinner, tighter.

Callie must have sensed it too, because she tore her gaze away, her cheeks pink, turning to fuss with the cupboards, extracting a mug and sticking it under the coffee maker. “Whatever,” she muttered. “Call me what you want, I don’t care. And if you don’t want my apology, feel free to stick it where the sun don’t shine.”

But then he’d known since the night before. When she’d looked up at him under the strobes and he’d seen that heated blue glow . . .

A shot of pure adrenaline pulsed down his spine, flooding him with heat.

It was so intense it took his breath away, rendering him utterly speechless and unable to move as she fussed around some more with her coffee, going to the fridge and getting some cream out to add to it. Stirring it with a spoon, then leaving both the spoon and the cream on the counter as she turned toward the doorway.

She had felt it. There was color in her cheeks and she hadn’t met his gaze, not once.

He wanted to grab her chin again, the way he’d done in the elevator, and turn her to face him. Look deep into those fascinating eyes to see whether he was right or not. To see if the same heat that burned in him, burned in her, too, because he was sure it did, he was absolutely fucking certain.

But he didn’t. Instead he thrust his hands in the pockets of his jeans and he kept them there.

He couldn’t touch her, not right now. Because if he did, in that moment, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stop.

Two years he’d been celibate and it had never been a problem before, not when he’d been too consumed first by the pain of his injuries and then by the further agony of his recovery.

Now it was like he could feel every minute of that time. Every fucking second. But shit, it was not the time to break his drought and definitely not with her.

After he’d gotten back to San Diego, after he’d finished this job and was part of the 11th Hour team, then he’d find some beautiful girl and really go to town.

It would be his reward.

He could wait until then. He just fucking would.