“Need a hand with that?” he says.
“Oh!” I cry, almost dropping the box of files. My left heel catches on a crack in the cement, and adrenaline spikes through my veins as I struggle not to topple over.
The man darts forward, grabbing the box with one arm and reaching out to steady me with the other.
I take a deep breath and make sure my feet are solid under me, then squint up at the stranger. He’s tall, at least a couple of inches over six feet, with large, square hands and a solid, muscular upper body. His dark hair is cropped short. His sharp cheekbones and a firm angular jaw are accentuated by five o’clock shadow of about the same length.
“You always this skittish?” he rumbles.
The man lets go of my arm and lifts his hand to remove a pair of aviator glasses, revealing eyes that are laser-focused on me. It’s not until I see his entire face like this that I notice his jaw is swollen on one side, and the skin around his right eye and cheekbone is purple and shiny. There’s a cut on his lower lip, as well.
“I’m… excuse me, you startled me,” I manage. “The sun was in my eyes.”
The man nods, one corner of his mouth tipping upward in amusement. As I work to compose myself, I realize that, like Tank Barrigan, this man wears the colors of the Lords of Carnage MC. And that a large, low-slung motorcycle is parked in the space next to my car.
It occurs to me in a flash that maybe he’s here because he has a legal problem, and Tank referred him to me. Judging from the bruising and swelling on his face, he’s recently been in a fight. Maybe he thinks I’m the kind of lawyer that deals with assault cases. A brief shiver runs through me as I realize I’m standing alone in a parking lot with a man who may have recently committed an assault.
“I’m sorry,” I say politely, working to keep my voice neutral and not show fear. “You’ve just caught me as I’m leaving for the day. If you can call my office tomorrow, my assistant can answer any questions you might have about whether I can help you.”
I reach into the side pocket of my briefcase and fish out a card, extending it toward him. The biker looks down at my hand.
“I ain’t here to hire you,” he says.
“Then what…?”
“I’m your bodyguard.”
What?
Oh, no. No.
I had completely forgotten that Tank wanted to assign me protection. I thought I had made my refusal clear, in any case.
“I told Mr. Barrigan that wouldn’t be necessary,” I say firmly.
“He ain’t one to take no for an answer.” The man turns, walks to my car, and sets the box of files on the lid of my trunk.
“Well, he’ll have to,” I retort. “I don’t want a bodyguard.”
The biker simply shrugs. “Irrelevant.”
Dammit. I try again.
“Look, Mister…” I trail off.
“Name’s Striker,” he drawls. “Striker Rossi.”
“Mister Rossi,” I say in a clipped tone. “I don’t need protection. I’ve dealt with difficult cases before. I know how to handle myself, and I don’t scare easily.” I feel like I’m starting to babble. But I can’t seem to stop myself. “I have a large dog at home who will protect me there, if there’s any need for protection,” I continue. “Which I’m sure there won’t be, in any case. So, your services will not be needed.”
But the biker acts like I haven’t even spoken. Instead, he looks down at the card in his hand, examines it.
“December Wells,” he intones, rolling my name on his tongue. The husky rasp touches something deep in me. Something visceral. “Interesting name.”
He gives me a crooked grin that makes my skin do a weird shiver — almost as though he’s grazing his fingers along my arms.
“A guy named Striker is gonna make fun of my name?” I shoot back, trying to gain the upper hand any way I can. “Really?”
“Is December the month you were born?”
“I was born in July,” I say before I can stop myself. Why are you telling him this?
He does a double take. “Then why’s your name December?”
“You know what?” I cut him off, irritated. “I have a lot of work to do tonight. And chatting about why my parents named me December isn’t high on my to-do list of things right now, I’m sorry to say.”
He smirks. “Noted. Rude, but noted.”
“I apologize if you think me rude,” I snip. “But to use your word, it’s irrelevant. I didn’t ask your friend Tank to give me a bodyguard. And I certainly didn’t consent to it.”
“You don’t need to consent.” He lifts a shoulder. “It’s happening.”
“What? You can’t just… stalk me,” I point out, incredulous.
He snorts. “It ain’t stalking, girlie. I’d be protecting you from stalkers. That’s the idea.”
Girlie? I can almost literally feel my blood start to boil.
“I’ll call the police,” I sputter. “And tell them a dangerous biker is following me around.”
He lets out a howl of laughter. “You think the Tanner Springs PD is gonna come save you from me? Sorry, ain’t gonna happen. But you’re welcome to try.”
God, this man is infuriating. I’ve had enough. Just continuing this conversation is giving him way too much control of it.
“I’m leaving,” I say coldly. “Tell your friend Tank I refused your services.”
I move closer to my car and reach for the door handle. Striker takes a quick step forward, blocking me. For a shocked second, I think he’s actually going to prevent me from getting into my car.
But instead, he simply grabs the handle himself, and opens the door for me.
“At your service.” He takes an exaggerated, sweeping bow.
The fear evaporates, but it’s quickly replaced by the irrational urge to slap him across his smug face, just to get the upper hand for one second. But of course, that’s not what slapping him would do. That would only play into his hands.
The only way for me to win this battle is to act like I’ve won it.
Without a single word, I climb into the driver’s side. I toss my briefcase onto the passenger seat and reach to pull closed the door behind me, but Striker shuts it for me instead.
Through the window, I meet his eyes one more time. His lips curl up at the edges. A tiny spark of desire lights up inside me, just underneath my irritation. But I push it down.
I’ve never been the type to be attracted to bad boys. The cocky God’s-gift-to-women attitude, the refusal to take no for an answer, the caveman mentality about sex and gender roles… it’s pretty much the exact opposite of what I look for in a man. Just interacting with this one for three minutes has already been an emotional roller coaster ride. And I hate roller coasters. Real and imaginary.
Which is why I hate myself for the little flutter in my stomach when his eyes meet mine.
I grab the keys and turn them in the ignition. The engine doesn’t want to start, and I have to try a few times for it to catch. Dammit. I feel self-conscious enough already, and I was hoping to make a more dignified exit from this encounter. Finally, the car roars to life. Striker is still standing at the window, and he lifts one hand and raps a knuckle on the window.