Private Security

Placing a hand on either side of her head, he drew back and gazed down at her.

He ran his thumb lightly along the fading bruise on her cheek, and she blinked and stared up at him. Her eyes were so dark. They absorbed the light like black velvet. He kissed the corners of her eyelids where tears still clung and he tasted salt.

“We should—” he started, but a loud metallic screech drowned out his words. Without stopping to think, he grabbed Juliana and dove through the open closet door.

He twisted in midair, trying to take the brunt of the impact. His shoulder slammed against the floor.

A deafening crash shook the walls and sent splinters, debris and dust flying. Dawson hunched his shoulders and rolled, putting his back to the destruction. He wrapped his arms around her head and ducked his.

One slight move and she could have been killed. And he still hadn’t told her who he really was.

MALLORY KANE has two very good reasons for loving reading and writing. Her mother was a librarian, who taught her to love and respect books as a precious resource. Her father could hold listeners spellbound for hours with his stories. He was always her biggest fan.

She loves romance suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines, and enjoys tossing in a bit of her medical knowledge for an extra dose of intrigue. After twenty-five books published, Mallory is still amazed and thrilled that she actually gets to make up stories for a living.

Mallory lives in Tennessee with her computer-genius husband and three exceptionally intelligent cats. She enjoys hearing from readers. You can write to her at [email protected].

Mallory Kane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Michael, with all my love.

By the time the woman struggled out of the taxi, Dawson knew the color of her panties. They were pink.

He swallowed hard and lifted the binoculars to the blue sling that cradled her left arm and hindered her movements. What had happened to her? Three days ago on Monday, when he’d finally spotted her checking the post office box, she’d been fine.

She awkwardly tugged her skirt down, and he lowered the glasses. He hadn’t had time to stare at her on Monday. Now he checked out the whole package.

Tall, lithe, knockout legs and finger-tangling black hair. When she bent to pull out three plastic grocery bags, he raised the glasses again. He adjusted the focus for an excellent view of her excellent backside.

Then he noticed something at her waist. Something that glinted in the afternoon sunlight. He adjusted the focus. Under the trim jacket she wore, tucked into her skirt, was a handgun. She was carrying.

“Damn,” he muttered. Juliana Caprese was a dealer at the Black Jack Casino in Biloxi. What the hell was she doing with a gun? His gaze lit on the blue sling again. Maybe it had something to do with how she’d injured her arm.

He shrugged and laid the binoculars on the passenger seat beside him. Only one way to find out. He got out of the car and sauntered down the sidewalk, timing his approach so that he’d be in her way when she headed for the stairs to her apartment building.

She hooked all three grocery bags over her right wrist and dug into her jacket pocket. The bags swung back and forth, and even from his distance, Dawson could see the way the plastic handles bit into the skin of her forearm. She wasn’t going to make it without dropping something. He sped up slightly.

Juliana Caprese grimaced as the plastic bags dug into her flesh. She fumbled for the bills she’d stuck in her pocket to give the taxi driver. With her left arm out of commission, even the smallest task was a pain. She finally snagged the bills with two fingers and tugged. As she did, she felt one of the plastic straps tear. Her arm jerked as the strap broke and a bag hit the sidewalk. She heard the unmistakable crunch of eggshells breaking.

“Damn it!” she snapped, glaring at the taxi driver, but her effort was wasted. He lounged complacently behind the wheel talking on his microphone in a language she couldn’t place.

Before she could lift her right arm to hand the lazy thug his fare, a man stepped right in front of her.

Startled, her instinctive reaction was to run. The last time someone had taken her by surprise she’d ended up with a bruised face, a banged-up knee and a dislocated shoulder.

But there was nowhere for her to go. She was blocked in by the taxi, the man and the spilled groceries.

Then she saw what the man was doing. He thrust two twenties into the driver’s face. “I’ve got your cab number,” he said mildly. “Your boss will hear about your lazy butt.”

The driver muttered something in a foreign language and sped away.

Juliana crouched to pick up her bag of broken eggs. The man crouched at the same time.

“I got it,” he said.

She held out the crumpled bills. “Here.”

But he snagged the bag and stood, leaving her at eye level with the front of his jeans.

Oh, boy, she thought, her mouth going dry. The sight of leanly muscled thighs straining against worn denim took her breath away. For an instant, she just stared.