One little word. So much power. “I don’t want your help, Gabriel. I don’t need it. I can take care of myself.”
“You actually believe that?”
Of course she didn’t. Not yet. Not entirely. But she’d beg for change on the street before she’d admit it to him. “Yes. Absolutely.”
He stared at her, his expression once again guarded, displaying not a trace of surprise that she’d say something so outrageous. Trapped in the tractor beam of his gaze, with no clue what he was thinking and no words as a distraction, she found herself waiting.
For what, she wasn’t sure.
Yet as the silence dragged on, her mind began spinning scenarios. If he wanted to, she mused, he could toss her over his shoulder and simply carry her out of here. Or—the old familiar thrill of awareness slow-danced down her spine—he could walk over, tug her close to that hard, elegant body, tumble her onto the couch and—
“All right, then. I guess we’re done.”
His flat, uninflected voice startled her out of her reverie. Yet it still took a good long moment for his actual words to sink in.
That was it? They were done? Really?
For one appalling moment, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Then her common sense, which she’d done her best to shun most of her life, kicked in.
Are you crazy? He’s throwing in the towel. For heaven’s sake, hurry up and hustle him out the door before he changes his mind.
“Well, fancy that,” she said with a calculated touch of mockery. “Finally. Something we can agree on.”
A nerve jumped in his jaw. “Watch yourself, sweetheart,” he advised, even as he took that first wonderful step toward the door. “You know what they say about little girls who poke at predators.”
“No. I can’t say that I do.” She forced herself to stand her ground as he approached, telling herself she was glad this was almost over. He’d go his way, she’d go hers, and in a day, a week, a month, he’d be nothing more than a hazy memory of another life. “Nor, for that matter, do I care—”
With no warning, he crowded close. Startled, she sucked in a breath and tried to scoot out of his way, but it was too late.
He caught her chin in one big hand, tipping her face up to his. “You should,” he murmured. “Because the adage goes that eventually the predator strikes back. And eats sweet little things like you—” her stomach flip-flopped at the silky note of warning in his voice “—for lunch.”
She swallowed. Hard. Yet somehow her voice sounded almost steady as she fluttered her eyelashes at him and said, “How entertaining. Now let go of me.”
“Not yet. There’s one other thing we need to get straight.”
“Oh? And what is that?”
“When we do have sex—” his gaze flicked to her mouth, lingering before he slowly raised his eyes to hers once again “—it won’t have a damn thing to do with payback. Trust me, Mal. You’ll be every bit as hot for me as I am for you.” And with that he released her as abruptly as he’d caught her and stepped away.
By the time she recovered her breath, he was gone.
Two
Impertinent. Infuriating. Impossible.
And damn near irresistible.
That pretty much summed up Mallory Morgan, Gabe thought blackly, as he stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk fronting her run-down apartment building. Flipping his coat collar up against the chill March breeze, he checked for traffic on the litter-strewn street, then strode across to his SUV parked on the opposite curb.
He gave the vehicle a cursory look and handed a twenty to the sturdy little Latino kid who’d offered to keep an eye on it for him. “Thanks, mi’ijo.”
Since their deal had been for ten upfront and ten if the boy stuck, the youngster’s delight was understandable. “Muchas gracias, mister!”
Gabe inclined his head. “You earned it.”
“Sí. So if you come back to Lattimer Street and you need anything, you ask around for Tonio, okay? I take very good care of you.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Bueno!” The kid flashed him a quick grin, then sprinted away as a bus stopped at the far end of the block. Darting around a trio of tattooed street toughs who stood smoking before a boarded-up storefront, he waved as a tired-looking young woman trudged down the steps. “Mama, mama! Guess what?” he exclaimed as he raced toward her through the gathering twilight.
It appeared Gabe had just made somebody’s day.
Too freaking bad it was the wrong somebody.
But then, what did he expect? He, who was known for his shrewdness, his finesse, his ability to think outside the box—and yes, dammit, to always be three steps ahead of an opponent—had just behaved with all the subtlety of a Mack truck. He’d invaded Mallory’s space, demanded answers, barked orders, bullied when he should’ve cajoled.
He’d even made a more balls-than-brains promise about their sexual future, for God’s sake.
The only thing that kept the day from being a total bust was the very lucrative contract he’d inked at lunch to assess vulnerabilities and tailor protection strategies for the Lux Pacifica hotel chain’s overseas executives.
When it came to everything else, however…With an impatient shake of his head, he put the SUV in gear and set a course for the warehouse district where the Steele Security offices were located. It was slow going due to the Friday night rush hour traffic, affording him plenty of time to think.
There was no excuse for the surprise he’d gotten when he’d walked into Annabelle’s and realized the caramel-haired hostess all the men seemed to be admiring was Mallory. Just as there was no rational explanation for how strongly he’d disliked seeing her smoky gaze go from pleasant to hostile at the sight of him.
Given that in the four years he’d known her he’d never seen Mallory get worked up about anything—from being drenched with champagne by a hapless waiter at a Denver symphony opening to strolling onto a balcony at Meg Bender’s Halloween party and finding her father getting it on with one of her girlfriends—her ire had gotten his attention. So had her scathing denunciation of him.
But not, as Annabelle’s horrified manager had assumed, because he was angry or offended.
No, what had set him back on his heels, what had tested his normally abundant patience as he’d been forced to go ahead with what had seemed like an interminable business luncheon, was the desolation he thought he’d glimpsed under Mallory’s anger. That, and the suspicion that her transformation from lighthearted nymphet to go-to-hell working girl meant somewhere along the line he’d made a major miscalculation.
He didn’t make miscalculations. Major or otherwise.
That
