Over the Line (11 page)

A door opened and closed behind him, her amazing scent preceding her into the room. Okay. So he just wouldn't breathe the rest of the day, he decided, and squared his shoulders.

When he turned, he found a toned-down version of the siren who had knocked him for a loop.
Thank you, Jesus.

She'd ditched all the silver and gold—even the cross. Her T-shirt was white; her shorts were tan; her ball cap was red. She looked like an ice-cream cone with a cherry on top.

Yummy.

"Better," he said, tamping back the thought of munching on damn near everything he saw. "Guess there's nothing to be done about the tattoos."

"Actually," she said with a thoughtful look, "I think I can fix that. Be right back."

When she came back into the living area, she'd tied a small red scarf around her neck, effectively covering the tattoo there.

"Help me with this, would you?" She handed him a roll of gauze. "You can play doctor. We'll pretend I have an owie."

At the thought of playing doctor with her, the part of his anatomy that hadn't yet figured out there wasn't a snow cone's chance in hell of that ever happening twitched to life again.

Another part—the part that was trying to deal with the stupid part—did some mental ass kicking as he wound the gauze around her upper arm and over the tattoo. Unfortunately, both parts realized at the same time that he'd never been this close to her before. At least not without a slew of reporters or fans or crew around.

Aside from the softness of her skin, there were a lot of other sensual firsts happening. Like getting drunk on the incredible scent of her. Some amazing mix of floral and musk and... hell, he didn't know. Something intrinsically female. Undeniably sexual.

And her hair. Up close like this, he could see how truly fine it was. Fine and thick and fired through with a hundred shades of silver and gold and chestnut where it hung in feathery little waves midway down her back.

"How ya doin' there, Doc?"

His gaze snapped from her hair to her face. She'd turned her head, was looking up at him over her shoulder, and he was hit with another jolt of awareness. Of the color of her eyes. The depth and the complexities. "Brown" was too mundane. Cinnamon, mocha, sorrel, gold... hell, and shades he didn't know the names of.

He wondered if her eyes went smoky when she came.

"Umm... problem?"

The puzzlement in her tone finally jarred him into action and out of dangerous territory.

"Nope. I think I've got it." He quickly tucked the end of the gauze under the band of the fake bandage he'd made. Just as quickly backed away.

Way the hell away. He snagged his black cap with the U.S. Army logo and gave her what he hoped came across as a "pass the muster" once-over.

"So we're set?"

"Your hair," he said, then cleared his throat when the words came out sounding like a croak. "It's a dead giveaway."

No one had hair like hers—although he was certain many women, from fans to supermodels, had tried to get that look.

He watched as she gamely whipped off her ball cap, scooped the streaked golden mass together at her nape, then twisted. With little effort and some magical thing that beautiful women were probably born knowing how to do, she managed to tuck it all up and under that red ball cap.

"Work for you?" Hands on hips, she grinned up at him.

Too many things were working for him. And on him. He needed air that wasn't saturated with the scent of her. And some distance. And he was having some major second thoughts about confessing.

"Let's do this."

"Yes, sir," she replied with a sharp salute.

"Sorry." Now was not the time to forget who was boss. "When you're ready, we can go, if you like, ma'am."

She grinned and headed for the door. "Don't worry about it. And I asked you to quit calling me ma'am."

"Sorry, ma'—Miss Perkins," Jase corrected, following her.

"Okay, let's take this a little further. We're going to be spending a lot of time together, right? Don't you think it's time we ditch the formalities? How about we go for 'Janey'?" she suggested as they waited for the elevator to take them to the lobby.

"I'd prefer 'Miss Perkins,' if you don't mind."

She glanced up at him. He couldn't see her eyes behind her dark glasses, but he had a feeling she was laughing at him again.

"Have it your way, sugar."

Fine. Let her laugh.

"And I think it's time we figure out what I should call you."

" 'Wilson' would be fine."

She smiled—a wicked glint in her eyes. " 'Iowa' it is then."

He hadn't intended to smile back. The superior look she shot him told him she knew it and figured she'd scored a point in whatever game she thought she was playing.

Okay. So she was competitive. He'd seen that the day she'd laid the poor schlep of a trainer out flat. Competitive was cool. He liked competition. He liked a challenge. The problem was,
she
just might be easy to like and
like
under these circumstances could be just as dangerous as lust. He couldn't afford either. He was going to keep this professional and impersonal if it killed him.

And as they walked out one of the back entrances of the hotel, crossed the boardwalk, and hit the beach, he decided it just might.

Her ass looked as good in those loose running shorts as it had in that leather bikini bottom.

Chapter 6

"Amazing," Janey said aloud when they slipped out one of the Atlantic City Hilton's ocean-side doors and right past the paparazzi who had been lying in wait on the off chance she would make an appearance. "They didn't recognize me."

"That was the plan," Wilson said without a trace of "I told you so" in his voice.

Okay, so he'd been right, Janey thought as they crossed the boardwalk and she set a steady pace alongside him on the Atlantic City beach sand. She was so used to perpetuating crowd reaction she'd forgotten how to dress with subtlety. Early on, the orders had come from the suits at the label. They'd wanted buzz—as much as she could create—and outrageous fashion statements were the most direct route. They'd wanted the hype and the stir it caused when she'd started to become notable.

Now she was. And she'd forgotten how to dress so that she didn't draw attention to herself. It felt kind of nice to blend for a change instead of standing out. One thing she'd never forgotten was how much she missed anonymity.

Right now, she missed Max. He'd been the grown-up in her day-to-day life. Now
she
was the adult in this party of two—her and Baby Blue—and she wasn't certain she liked the shift of power.

Oh well. It was done. Time to suck it up. Just like she'd sucked up over the news about Grimm being on the loose again. That didn't mean she didn't think about him. Or about her mother. But she wasn't going to dwell on any of that today.

The sun was big and bright and hot as a firebrand. The breeze off the Atlantic was a wonderful mix of salt and suntan lotion and sea spray. Her running shoes sank into damp sand, working her thighs to the max.

And beside her was the diversion she needed to keep at bay thoughts of crazed stalkers and dead mothers who never gave a damn—and yet Janey had loved her anyway.

Baby Blue was a mass of fluid muscle and powerful strides, holding himself back, she suspected, to keep pace with her. She supposed she could count this, at least, as a plus. She loved to run and Max had never been one to break a sweat, so she rarely got to run outside.

She wouldn't mind a little conversation, though.

"You like to run, Iowa?"

"Wouldn't say 'like' is exactly the word."

"Clocked your share of miles in the military, huh?"

"Most often humping a hundred pounds of gear and firepower, ma'am. Sorry," he added when he realized he'd slipped again. Obviously it was going to take some work to break him of that habit.

"Army? Navy?" she asked when he fell silent beside her.

"Army," he said. "Rangers."

"Whoa. Rangers. That's pretty heavy duty."

"It's all heavy duty these days."

Yeah. She supposed it was. But she knew he was downplaying his service. She was like any other concerned citizen in today's world. She read. She understood the difference between regular army and special ops—at least she understood that the criteria were tougher and the washout rate was high.

"How long you been out?"

"Come again?"

He bent his head down closer to hers and for the first time since she'd met him he smelled something other than squeaky clean. Oh, that amazing clean scent was still there, but today it was competing with the scent of physical heat and healthy male sweat. It was all very ... well, arousing.

And she was very ... well, certifiable, she thought with a self-deprecating shake of her head.

"How long have you been out of the service?" she repeated, competing with the roar of the surf, the cry of the gulls, and the squeals of the children playing tag with the tide.

"Six months."

"Decided not to make it a career?"

"No, ma'am."

She pushed out a laugh. "You are really getting on my nerves with that 'ma'am' stuff."

From the corner of her eye she caught the barest hint of a smile. "Sorry."

"Yeah," she said, and poured on the speed. "I can see that."

It was kind of hard to be irritated with him, Janey thought as they kept a steady pace along the long stretch of beach. Baby Blue—though not a baby after all—was determined to do the job. And he was determined to keep things professional between them.

Professional was fine. It was also comforting, and she had to admit, she felt a sense of peace with him around since she'd found out that Grimm was back on the scene. So yeah. Professional was fine.

Stiff and stodgy, however, was another issue. Max had not only been her personal manager; he was her friend. Her confidant. Her comic relief when things got too crazy. She missed that.

Maybe, she thought, as the two of them skirted a sand castle a little girl had made with a little pink plastic pail and her mother's guiding hands, she needed to iron some of the starch out of that stiff neck of Wilson's and get him to play well with others. Specifically with her.

He was such a hottie, she admitted again. And the main reason she'd woken up this morning in the throes of an erotic dream. A
major
erotic dream that she'd had to play to its conclusion after she woke up.

Whew. At least it had served to unleash some of her tension. Although just being aware of his muscled body pumping away beside her got her juices flowing again.

If it weren't for that damnable ache low in her belly, it would be laughable. She could see the tabloid headline now: Rock Star Lusts After Hunky Bodyguard. How clichéd was that?

It was somewhat gratifying to know she wasn't the only one he affected that way. As they made their way down the beach, Wilson was turning his share of flirty female heads.

"They think you're hot," she pointed out, which had his head whipping her way. He didn't exactly stumble, but he did misstep.