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There was a long pause. Hadn’t her uncle heard her question? Just in case, she repeated it.
“Someone I know.”
“So this person has used him before?”
“Not sure.”
She lifted a brow. “Yet you’ve taken his word for it?” She could tell her questions were agitating him. She was ready to dig deeper when the doorbell rang.
“I hope that’s him,” her uncle said, standing quickly.
She stood as well. A part of her hoped it wasn’t him. Why did she feel certain her life would be changing? Probably because it would. A madman was on the loose. A killer for hire. Did Murphy Erickson really think he would be set free from prison? If nothing else, these additional deaths were on his hands. Had the man forgotten that Virginia was a death-penalty state? Did he care?
Margo moved toward the door, her uncle right on her heels. She started to say something and decided not to waste her time. What was the point? Her uncle had arranged for her to have a bodyguard regardless of whether she wanted one or not.
Upon reaching the door, she turned to her uncle. “Like I said, I won’t have him underfoot, Uncle Frazier.”
“If it means keeping you alive, I don’t care if he’s underarm,” he responded tersely.
She rolled her eyes before turning back to the door. “Who is it?”
“Striker Jennings.”
Striker? What kind of name was that?
She turned to her uncle, who nodded and said, “That’s him.”
She wanted to see what kind of guy went by the name Striker. She stared through the peephole and, as if he knew what she was doing, he looked directly at her. The moment their gazes connected, something—she wasn’t sure what—made her breath catch.
Her uncle heard it and quickly asked, “What’s wrong?”
Margo drew in a deep breath as she pulled away. “Nothing.” She was lying. Who was this man? Why did just staring into his eyes have such an effect on her? The thought that he would be sharing her space...for who knew how long...was rather unsettling.
“Well, aren’t you going to let him in?”
Instead of answering her uncle’s question, she opened the door. And there he stood. The man named Striker Jennings. Instead of focusing on his eyes like before, she took in the entire man. And what a man he was. He was tall, way over six feet. And he was big. Muscular in a dark business suit and looking totally professional and serious. Why was her gaze intrigued by his broad shoulders, bulging biceps and flat abs? And those heavily lashed, dark eyes, the same ones she had stared into just moments ago, seemed to say, “Go ahead and try me.”
Try him? Margo swallowed deeply while thinking, How? With what? And for how long? She snapped back to her senses when her uncle came around to verify the man’s identity and said, “Show me credentials.”
Although the man gave her uncle a look that all but told him what he could do with the credentials he’d asked for, the man shifted his duffel bag into the other hand before pulling an identification card from his jacket pocket. She and her uncle looked at it. Lamar Jennings. So Striker wasn’t his real name. And he worked for a Summers Security Firm. There was a nice picture of him, but the real thing standing in front of her was so much better. Almost too much. Far too pleasing on any woman’s eyes. His nutmeg-colored facial features were way too mesmerizing. Way too captivating to even be considered merely handsome. Definitely riveting. She noted there was nothing soft about him and detected a hardness that would kick ass first and ask questions later.
Her uncle handed the ID card back to him. “Come on in, Jennings.”
“Striker,” he corrected him, not moving an inch. It was as if he needed to establish a few things up front and what he wanted to be called was one of them.
Her uncle didn’t say anything, and she wondered if he would. Although he often accused her of being stubborn, Frazier Connelly could be just as stubborn. Even more so. The two men stared hard at each other, and then, as if her uncle had decided it would be in his best interest to be the one to concede, he said, “Okay. Come in, Striker.”
She stepped aside when he walked past her and she closed the door behind him.
“You come highly recommended,” her uncle was saying, extending his hand out to the man.
“Do I?” Striker replied, accepting her uncle’s handshake.
“Yes, and this is my niece, Margo Connelly. The woman I’m depending on you to keep safe.”
He turned his dark, penetrating eyes on her. She could feel a deep stirring in the pit of her stomach when he extended his hand out to her. “Ms. Connelly.”
Margo accepted his hand and suddenly an intense rush of desire tore into her. It took everything she had not to snatch her hand back. She’d never met this man before. Didn’t know a thing about him other than that he’d been hired by her uncle. Yet she was attracted to him. She’d heard of sudden attraction but had never been the recipient of it, until now.
Even though he was impeccably dressed in a business suit, she detected a rough edge. And she suspected if the need arose, he could be lethal. As far as she was concerned, lethal and good-looking was one hell of a combination. She was a woman and there was nothing wrong with appreciating a well-muscled, nicely built man when she saw one.
“Mr. Jennings,” she said, pulling her hand from his.
“Striker,” he corrected her.
Instead of acknowledging his correction, Margo didn’t say anything, not sure she could find her voice even if she’d wanted to. At that moment a semblance of heated desire fanned low in her stomach. On top of that, her mind was still reeling from the sensations caused from their handshake. She felt irritated wondering what in the world was going on here. Putting the appreciation thing aside, it was totally unlike her to be this affected by any man. Although she relished eye candy like any other female might, she’d never let a man bring out the lustful side of her. In fact, to be totally honest, she hadn’t been aware she had one until now. She hadn’t been involved with a man since Scott. And that had been her choice. Her passion was her work and it superseded any intimate feminine needs. She’d learned not to place any man at the top of her pedestal.
That decision had come about after her last two serious relationships had left a bad taste in her mouth. Her attitude was that she didn’t need a man to be happy since all they seemed to do was disappoint her anyway. She liked her life just the way it was. Uninvolved, unattached and drama-free. At least it had been drama-free before the Erickson trial.
As Margo continued to study the man who’d entered her home, she had a feeling she was in a heap of trouble that had nothing to do with any assassin’s attempt on her life.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_da7d0e11-0def-58da-b864-29957c011104)
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 why 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 (#ulink_3dff1fbe-0553-56c1-b60c-66dad9ddbebe)
