The Closer (3 page)

Which was irrational, of course, so he put the thought firmly out of his mind. He was a grown man on his way to an important job, his first as a civilian. Playing cat and mouse with a girl—one who had a much faster car, no less—was a distraction he couldn't afford, and it rather startled him that he'd been inclined to do it in the first place. Chasing after her would have been pointless and, as a rule, he didn't pursue things he knew would be a waste of his time.

Feeling strangely unsettled, Griff watched the red car disappear over the next hill and released a pent-up breath. He drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel, suddenly restless, and shifted in his seat. He'd been on the road for almost eight hours already and knew that at least another four would be in his future today, if he planned to stick to his schedule. Which he did, of course, otherwise what was the point in having one?

He'd allotted eight minutes to pick up the bra and his Rossi escort, another seven for a bathroom break, and planned to arrive in Hagerstown no later than eight o'clock tonight. Dinner would be a little late, but not terribly, and that would put them within four hours of their ultimate destination. They'd hit New York City by noon tomorrow, which gave him a two-hour window to check out the venue before the press junket started. The bra would officially be on display—on the runway for the reveal—at noon on Saturday.

Payne had provided the building specs, which were certainly helpful, but Griff preferred to do an in-person review. He wanted to know every stairwell, elevator, exit and access point. He didn't expect any problems, but would be remiss if he didn't prepare for them anyway. Besides, he liked to be prepared. There was a certain comfort in knowing that things were in order.

Big, round hay bales lay in the fields on either side of the road and Queen Anne's lace and wild black-eyed Susans bobbed in the lazy breeze along in the ditches as he drove on. Nestled in one of the many valleys of the Appalachian Mountains, Shadow's Gap suddenly came into view, a quaint village of white clapboard houses, red bricked shops and well-manicured grounds. Though the leaves had begun to turn, fall hadn't quite gotten a foothold yet. Varying shades of green blanketed the hills rising up over the valley, creating a verdant landscape that would look perfectly at home on a postcard.

Following the signs for the Historic Town Square, Griff made the necessary turns and began scanning the various storefronts for Rossi's Fine Jewelry. It was then that he saw it, the red Camaro, and his pulse gave an inexplicable little jump.

Wonder of wonders, it was parked directly in front of the jewelry store.

Clearly “Faster” had a taste for the finer things. Irritatingly intrigued beyond reason, Griff took the empty parking space next to her car, then exited his Suburban and entered the shop. Though he automatically noted everything about the store—two workers, one old, one teenager, royal-blue carpet, rich wood-paneled walls, gleaming glass cases filled with equally gleaming jewels—
she
was what drew his gaze and held it.

At least the back of her, which was all he could see at the moment.

But it was enough.

She was tall with a slim waist and especially generous hips—which she needed to complement her extraordinarily lush ass—and long legs. She wore a thin-knit pink sweater, perfectly fitted jeans and a pair of worn cowboy boots, which had been embellished with vines and pink roses. Her hair wasn't merely dark or brown, but a deep decadent sable that didn't so much absorb the light as catch it, and it sprung from her head in a riot of big, wavy curls, then cascaded over her shoulders. It had energy, that hair. In fact, everything about her was vibrant, wholly alive, for lack of a better description.

His stomach gave an odd little jolt and a swift blaze kindled in his groin.

“I'm not late,” she insisted to the older man, presumably Frank Rossi. “I arrived with a minute to spare.” She huffed a breath. “Why on earth are you complaining? He's not even here yet.”

“You've got to stop treating the town square like it's the track, Jessalyn,” the older man said, as though he hadn't heard her argument. “Screaming in here on two wheels? It's unseemly. What would your mother think?”

She muttered something that Griff didn't quite catch, but whatever she said made her father frown.

Her father...

But if— Did that— But surely—
No worries, Major Wicklow. You'll recognize her soon enough.

Oh, hell.

“And of course, he's here,” Mr. Rossi told her, looking past his daughter to meet Griff's undoubtedly confused gaze. “He's a professional. Being late wouldn't do.”

He heard her gasp, then she straightened and turned around.

The picture hadn't done her justice, Griff thought as a prickly heat spread from one end of his body to the other, then turned abruptly cold and made the return trek. He felt as if he'd been dipped in scalding water, then dunked in the Arctic Ocean, much like forged metal.

Naturally, only one part of his anatomy hardened.

The photograph could only depict so much—the shape of her face, the color of her eyes and hair—but it was the animation of the features, the sheer vitality of her being that couldn't be captured with something as mundane as a camera.

She
glowed
.

Her eyes rounded briefly when she saw him, then undoubtedly recognition dawned, and the corner of her lush mouth twitched. “Suburban, right?” she said, looking out into the street for confirmation. She didn't need it, though. She knew it was him.

“That's right,” he said. “Though I'm surprised you remembered. You passed so many people this morning.”

Her eyes twinkled in admiration at his vague little dig, and she gestured toward her father. “Dad appreciates punctuality.”

Rossi snorted. “I appreciate a lot of things, for all the good it does me.” The older man found Griff's gaze once more, then he hurried forward and extended his hand. “Frank Rossi,” he said. “You must be Griffin Wicklow, of Ranger Security.”

Griff nodded. “I am. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Rossi glanced at his daughter. “This is Jessalyn, my oldest daughter and, as I'm sure you've deduced, she'll be accompanying you to the show.”

Yes, Griff thought as he turned and offered her his hand, as well. He'd worked that one out within seconds of walking into the store. What he hadn't worked out was how he felt about it, though if he was hard pressed to pick a predominant sentiment,
excited
probably worked better than anything else.

Alarmed
was a very close second.

With a quirk of her sleek brow, her palm connected with his. Though the ground didn't shake beneath his feet, he felt some sort of internal quake all the same, and a bizarre tingling rushed through his fingers. Her hand was soft, her grip strong and puzzlingly, a line of small calluses curled around the top of her palm, nearest her fingers. Gratifyingly, her smile faltered a bit and a hint of uncertainty lit her misty-gray gaze.

“Mr. Wicklow,” she said with a nod, making the opal dragonfly earrings dangling from her ears sway. A matching larger pendant hung from a thin gold chain around her neck, suspended between her breasts. He envied the jewelry.

“Griff, please.”

“Well, I imagine you're eager to get on the road,” Rossi announced with a bracing breath, thankfully ending the awkward moment. He gestured toward the rear of the store. “If you'll just follow me, I've got everything all packed up and ready in the back.”

Equally chagrined and concerned that he'd needed to be reminded of their schedule, Griff nodded and followed both Rossis behind the counter. While the sales floor was immaculate and poshly decorated, the back was less tidy and decidedly more shabby. The heart-pine floors were scuffed from generations of wear, faded wallpaper peeled in places from the walls and, though he was sure there was some order to the chaos—there had to be, didn't there?—there didn't seem to be one designated work area. Tools and invoices and bits of metal, clasps and links of chain...they were everywhere.

Just looking at it made him twitchy.

Rossi ran his hands reverently over a black plastic case, then glanced up at Griff. “Would you like to see it?” he asked eagerly.

It would have been rude to refuse. “I'd love to.”

The older man almost ceremoniously flipped the latches and then carefully lifted the lid, revealing what was inside. Though he hadn't expected to feel anything beyond dim curiosity, Griff found himself awed nonetheless. He felt his eyes widen and he instinctively moved forward, drawn in by the sheer beauty, to get a better look.

It didn't so much look like a bra as a work of art. Shaped like a butterfly, the body of the insect was a glittering stunner made out of various black stones, emeralds and rubies, as well as many other stones he didn't recognize. The wings were unbelievably detailed, with authentic-looking variations of colors and lines and flared out over the cups in a dazzling display of black, purple, pink, green stones, with row after row of diamonds inset to give it additional depth.

“Wow,” he said, for lack of anything better.

Seemingly pleased, Rossi chuckled. “Two hundred hours in the design, more than a thousand in the execution. You're looking at six months of my life there,” he said, “and the key to the continued success of the Rossi family tradition. Guard it well.”

“Of course, sir,” Griff responded.

“It's incredible, Dad,” Jessalyn Rossi said, her voice soft with admiration. “Definitely some of your finest work.”

The older man actually blushed. “You're the one who gave me the concept. And given the success of your own insects, as well as the fact that you're the heir apparent, I thought it was a good choice.”

Something in his tone must have caught her attention because she stilled and looked up at him. “You make it sound like you're getting ready to retire.”

He shrugged innocently. “Who knows? I might.”

She rolled her eyes and gave an indelicate huff. “Yeah, right. I'll believe that when I see it.”

Rather than respond, her father tucked the creation more firmly into the black foam that held it secure, then carefully closed the lid, snapped the latches and locked them with a key he produced from his pocket. He handed it to Griff, along with the case. “Jess has a spare key, in the event you need it.”

Griff couldn't imagine why he would, but nodded all the same.

Jessalyn Rossi leaned over and gave her dad a hug. “I'll keep you posted,” she told him.

“I have no doubt,” he replied, a smile in his voice.

She withdrew and looked up at Griff. “I just need to get my things out of the car.”

Griff nodded and, case in hand, followed her back out of the store. She quickly unlocked the car, then leaned in—giving him another unobstructed view of her lovely rear end—and grabbed a single suitcase and a purse. She straightened, then glanced over her shoulder and shot him a hopeful look. “I don't suppose you'd want me to drive?”

Griff smiled. “No, thanks. It's against protocol.” He didn't know whether that was true or not, but it sounded better than when “hell freezes over.” He was already feeling too left of center. Off balance. Allowing her to drive would no doubt compound the issue. As a matter of fact, he could safely say that he imagined everything about Jessalyn Rossi was going to compound the issue.

Because, God help him,
she
was the issue.

3

E
R
...
SO
MUCH
FOR
Paul Blart: Mall Cop,
Jess thought as every hair on her body tingled with hypersensitive awareness. Honestly, when she'd turned around and saw him standing in the shop, a sonic boom of white-hot sexual attraction had blasted her so thoroughly it was a miracle she hadn't been blown backward, spread eagle, like something out of a superhero-comics movie. Her skin still felt singed from the heat, her middle a simmering muddled mess.

It was unnerving, to say the least.

A healthy twenty-year-old woman, Jess was accustomed to looking at the occasional handsome man and experiencing a passing whiff of feminine interest. The recognition would flit through her mind as quickly and unremarkably as a half-formed thought, one that was soon dismissed and replaced with something else. Her gaze shifted to her left and a shivery breath slowly leaked out of her lungs.

Griffin Wicklow was another matter altogether.

One whiff of him, so to speak, and she'd turned into the proverbial bloodhound. And if the hammering of her pulse and the tightening of her nipples were any indication, a female one, at that.

In heat, naturally, she thought with a droll quirk of her lips.

She couldn't have been any more stunned if she'd sprouted horns and grown a tail.
This
didn't happen to her. It had never happened to her, as a matter of fact. On the rare occasions she'd dated anyone long enough to segue into an intimate relationship—
rare
being the operative word, because oddly enough, most men didn't appreciate a woman who knew more about the engine under the hood than they did—desire had been something that had required...coaxing. Cultivating. A bit of persuasion.

It had never inexplicably slugged her across the middle with all the subtlety of a two-by-four.

It had never made her feel like icy fire had suddenly erupted beneath her skin.

More disturbingly, it had never made her nervous.

Being different had always demanded courage, so at this point in her life Jess could safely say that very little rattled her. And if it did, she'd eat glass and smile through the blood in her mouth before she'd admit it. She inwardly grinned.

It was part of her charm.

But the anxious energy presently twitching through her veins was something foreign and therefore more...concerning. She could literally feel him there, beside her, though they weren't actually touching. Every confident turn of the wheel beneath his wide, blunt-tipped beautiful fingers, each breath that moved in and out of his lungs, the slightest shift of his mouthwatering shoulder as he negotiated traffic.

It was madness. Sheer, utter, God help her,
thrilling
madness.

Perhaps he'd be willing to drop her off at the nearest hospital, Jess thought with a futile smothered whimper, where she could take advantage of some serious psychological help.

Clearly a lobotomy wouldn't be in order—she'd obviously already lost her friggin' mind.

But how could she not when he looked like
that?
If he'd been merely handsome or even just striking, she'd like to think that she would have momentarily swooned, but then recovered. After all, it wasn't as if good-looking men were that uncommon.

But fifteen minutes post meeting and she was still reeling, still toe-curlingly
aware
.

It was the hair, she ultimately decided. Curls did it to her every time. No doubt they were the bane of his existence and had garnered him endless teasing as a boy, but mercy, they were beautiful. Big and loose and messy, but easily styled as evidenced by a vague part that looked more as if a hand had done the work rather than a comb. And dark auburn, to boot, damn him. Her favorite color. Not quite brown, not quite red, but thousands of shades in between that caught the light.

The same color slashed boldly over eyes that were deeply lidded and equally riveting. Pinwheels of blue and green burst from his irises in wide, vibrant striations, as though Mother Nature couldn't decide which hue best suited him, so she gave him both in equal measure.

In direct contrast with the unforgiving masculinity of his face—the bold nose, mile-high, stark cheekbones, angular jaw—curly bronze-tipped lashes framed those remarkable eyes, a feature she was sure he resented. She was suddenly hit with the insane urge to touch them, those lashes, to feel the springy curve of them against the pad of her thumb.

Madness, she thought again, balling her hands in her lap.

One would think the Almighty would have been a little more considerate of the fairer sex when doling out Griff's finer features. For instance, because he'd been so liberal with his face, one would assume that, in fairness, Griff wouldn't have been blessed with so spectacular a body. Jess slid a covert peek over his long, muscled profile, her belly clenching when it reached his thigh.

Wrong.

It, too, was equally stunning, equally divinely made. At five-eight, Jess was a tall woman and therefore was accustomed to barely lifting her chin to speak to someone with additional height. This man easily topped six and a half feet and every inch of his physique was perfectly honed, devoid of any softness or, God forbid, fat, she thought enviously. It was a body that commanded attention from both genders, one that was fit and naturally conditioned. He moved easily in his skin, walked with an economy of movement that was as graceful as it was purposeful. He wore a cream-colored sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal fine copper hair dusting his forearms, and jeans that were worn and sat low on his lean hips. A little too low, she noted dimly, as though he'd recently lost a little weight.

Jess imagined most every woman longed for one forbidden encounter, to be bowled over by the shock of unadulterated sexual desire, the kind that resulted in torn clothing, whisker burn and hot, broken epithets in conjunction with even hotter, mindless sex. Many women imagined this sort of sex, casting an A-list Hollywood actor as their star performer, herself included, on occasion.

But move over, Channing Tatum, because Griffin Wicklow had just taken top billing on her imaginary marquee.

How extraordinary, she thought wonderingly. How electrifying. How...
stupid
. She inwardly sagged like a spent party balloon.

He wasn't just some random guy who'd inadvertently stumbled across her path and flipped her on switch—he was here in a professional capacity, to work, to protect her father's creation and guard Montwheeler's investment.

He was not here to play the starring role in her wild, frenzied jungle-movie sex fantasy. Assuming that he'd even want to, and that was debatable, at best. Her insecurities aside—and Lord knew they were considerable—Griffin Wicklow seemed too focused, too locked down, too
controlled
to engage in the sort of activity she was imagining. Not uptight, precisely, but—she sent him another glance, searching for the right word—disciplined, Jess decided. Nature or necessity? she couldn't help but wonder, and for whatever reason, she knew she'd have to find out.

“Do you mind if we pull in at Sarah's Gas-N-Go there on the corner?” she asked brightly, pointing up ahead. “I need to make a pit stop and get some snacks for the road.”

Predictably, the faintest flicker of a muscle jumped in his jaw. He cast a fleeting glance at the dashboard clock. “Of course. But make it quick, please. We're on a tight schedule.”

Jess smothered a smile. Oh, she'd just bet they were.

He wheeled smoothly into the lot, drew up to the curb and shifted into Park.

“Aren't you coming in?” she asked.

“I'll wait.”

All righty then. “Can I get anything for you?”

He shook his head. “I'm good, thanks.”

Jess lifted a brow. “Not even a drink?”

“I've got bottled water in the back.”

Of course he did. And most likely protein bars and a first-aid kit, because this man was nothing if not prepared. Mr. Efficiency. Oh, this was going to be fun. She grinned and opened the door. “Okay, then. I'll be right back.” She sincerely doubted her interpretation and his of “right back” would coincide, but...

Jess took care of necessary business, leisurely filled a Big Gulp at the soda fountain, then ambled down the candy aisle. She was having the usual salty versus sweet debate when a shadow fell over her right shoulder and she felt him looming behind her. She squashed an irrational grin and the urge to squirm. She'd wondered how long it would take him to come in after her.

She turned around and smiled delightedly—innocently—up at him. “Oh, you changed your mind,” she said, noting the case was in his hand. Diligent, naturally. She glanced back at the shelves, gave her head a little shake and winced thoughtfully. “I can't decide if I want Fiery Jalapeño Nachos or a Nutty Nougat Bar. What are you getting?”

“You,” he said, his tone mildly grim. “Get both. We need to go.”

Though he didn't touch her, she felt herded to the register all the same. Another odd little thrill whipped through her, churning her insides.

“Afternoon, Jess,” Sarah said, nodding as she rang up her purchase. “How are you this fine September day?”

“I'm good. How are you? Hip feeling better?” The elderly Sarah had taken a fall from a ladder in the spring while cleaning out her gutters. At least, that's the story
she
told. Other members of Shadow's Gap had indicated that Sarah had taken a fall out of bed, and that Ryland Morris had landed on top of her.

Knowing Sarah, who was presently sporting enough cleavage to make Dolly Parton jealous, Jess was more inclined to believe the latter.

“It's still not at one hundred percent—hurts when rain's coming—but it's getting better.” She idly bagged Jess's items, which made the man behind her twitch with impatience. “You're racing this weekend, right?” Sarah continued. “Lane Johnson was in here this morning running his mouth again.” She rolled her eyes. “That boy has too little sense and too much self-confidence. It's irritating.”

Jess couldn't agree more, but didn't. “I'm not,” she answered. “I'm actually on my way to New York. Business,” she explained. “For Dad.”

She felt him still behind her, could almost hear his antennae powering up.

Sarah inclined her head. “Ah. Well, that's a shame. Maybe next weekend then?”

“I'm planning on it,” she said, handing over the correct change.

The older woman accepted the cash, then looked past Jess's shoulder, through the window into the parking lot. She winced and shook her head. “Looks like Monica Hall's got car trouble again, bless her heart. Honestly, when you're buying more oil than gas, it's time to get a new car.”

Jess followed her gaze, spied the hood up on Monica's old Buick and bit her bottom lip. Monica Hall was a single mother of three whose worthless ex-husband hadn't paid child support in over a year. She couldn't afford to repair her old car, much less buy a new one. A nail tech at one of the local salons, Monica didn't miss an opportunity to work and was often at the store on Mondays, when everyone else took off.

Jess nodded her goodbye at Sarah, then turned and made her way out of the store.

“You were supposed to race this weekend?” Griff drawled, a gratifying hint of disbelief coloring his tone as he trailed along behind her. “Race, as in
a car?
” He snorted softly. “Faster,” he muttered. “Why am I not surprised?”

Rather than head back to his truck, Jess started toward Monica. She handed him her purse and bag of snacks, which he accepted without so much as a blink. That distracted, was he? she thought, irrationally pleased. “Well, I'm sure as hell not running the fifty-yard dash, if that's what you're thinking. Monica?”

The young mother looked up from the engine, worry drawing lines that didn't belong on her otherwise smooth face. “Hi, Jess,” she said. She gestured to the car, her expression hopeless. “Clementine's acting up on me again. Ordinarily, so long as I keep oil in her, she runs all right. I'm not sure what's wrong now. I can't get her to start.”

Jess peered beneath the hood, inspected the oily engine, then dropped onto her knees and looked under the car.
Ah,
just as she'd thought. Oil dropped steadily onto the pavement, but that wasn't the reason the car wouldn't start. She grabbed a wad of paper towels from the dispenser. “The oil leak needs to be fixed or you're going to run into engine issues, but that's not the problem right now.”

Monica crossed her arms over her chest to fight off the chill in the air. “It's not?”

“No, your battery posts are corroded.” She winced. “My toolbox is in my car and this certainly isn't the best way to do it, but hopefully we can get her started.” Using the towels, she cleaned as much of the corrosion off as possible, then straightened. “All right, Monica. Why don't you get in and give her a try.”

“What kind of racing?” Griff asked. She could feel his curious gaze on her, lingering as though she was some sort of unknown species he'd stumbled across. It was disturbing, that scrutiny, the intense weight of his regard. Her palms tingled and she resisted the urge to push them against her thighs.

“Stock car,” she answered, then smiled as Monica's engine caught and held.

Relief pushed a grin over the younger woman's face, erasing some of the premature lines, and she leaned out the car window. “Thanks, Jess! You're a lifesaver!”

Jess dropped the hood into place, then grabbed her purse from Griff's arm. He stared at it for a moment, seemingly stunned that he'd been holding it in the first place, then scowled comically.

Smothering the urge to laugh, she made her way over to Monica's driver's-side window and handed over her car keys. “My car is in front of the jewelry store. I'll call Dad and let him know that you're coming to get it.”