Beneath the Surface (8 page)

When she felt him harden against her, she knew it was time to step back. She wasn’t sure exactly when this sweet gesture of comfort had turned to something more, but the energy shifted in the room, charging with sexual tension, and she knew without a doubt she wasn’t the only one feeling it.

Slamming her walls into place, she pulled back, feeling his reluctance to let her go. Grasping for control of not only her rioting emotions, but of the situation, she played her bitch card. It was her old standby and one well used. “I think we should finish talking about this some other time. You need a shower, and you should probably make it a cold one.”

The tenderness on his handsome face turned expressionless. But what stung was his lack of surprise at her remark. He’d expected as much from her, she realized. He really thought she was a bitch . . . and why wouldn’t he? She could play the part so well.

CHAPTER

8

T
his was the second time in as many days Asher had found himself comforting this woman, and that shit needed to stop. What was it about her that tugged at the frayed ends of his heartstrings so damn badly? He was a hardened killer, dammit, not some cuddly babysitter, and he’d do well to remember that.

Moving out from under the shower’s spray, he turned the water to cold and let it beat the arousal out of his cock. It took a hell of a lot longer than it should have, and by the time he stepped out of the shower, goose bumps pricked every inch of his flesh. It felt like ice crystals were forming in his veins. This was fucking ridiculous. She was just a woman, and it wasn’t like he was in short supply of them.

But then that wasn’t exactly true, because Quinn Summers was like no other woman he’d ever met, and perhaps that was the rub. She was sharp tongued, quick witted, and off-the-charts intelligent. He knew all this because, yeah, he’d done some digging into his little houseguest last night when he hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d started attending college at the age of seventeen and had a master’s in cultural anthropology with a minor in English, literature, and writing—impressive. But more than having a fancy resume, and most importantly, she was the first woman he’d come across in a long time that didn’t want him. It wasn’t just that gorgeous face and killer body that made her so damn irresistible. That was the icing on the cake. It was what was underneath—her standoffish, abrasive attitude that drove him nuts. It also courted his inherent nature to conquer and possess.

Muttering a foul oath, he shut off the shower and snagged the towel he’d draped over the door. After a quick rubdown, he fastened it around his waist and headed for his bedroom. She’d been here only a day and already it felt like he was invading her private space.

Before exiting the bathroom, he rapped his knuckles against the door to warn Quinn he was coming out. He’d learned from her mistake last night not to assume the room was empty. Silence answered him and he slowly opened the door. The bed was still rumpled, the pillow indented from where she’d laid her head. Annoyingly, something in his chest tightened at the sight of seeing his bed in her disarray.

Grinding his molars, he marched over and jerked the covers back into place. By the time he was finished, all evidence of Quinn was gone, and not even a wrinkle in the bed remained. He quickly dressed and headed downstairs. When his foot hit the landing he abruptly stopped, his grip on the railing tightening as a rush of anger flooded him, erasing any chill lingering in his veins.

Quinn was sitting on the corner of the couch watching TV. She hadn’t changed the channel from the CNN station it’d been left at the last time he’d turned that fucking thing on, before promptly hurling the remote into the fireplace. This time, there were news anchors chattering on about something irrelevant, but it was the headlines flashing across the bottom of the screen that caught his attention.
Nisour Square Massacre . . . Peterson’s trial expected to conclude by the end of the week. Iraqi officials are demanding justice for the death of seventeen civilians and officers. Asher Tate, owner of Tate Security, acquitted of criminal charges against . . .

At the sight of his name, Asher quit reading and marched over to the TV. He jerked the cord out of the wall and the anchors’ voices cut out, leaving the room in silence. He ignored the look of surprise on Quinn’s face, his own expression locked down to contain the rush of guilt and anger that assaulted him every time he heard Peterson’s fucking name. He should have shot that bastard when he’d had the chance.

It didn’t matter that Asher hadn’t been the one to pull that trigger; he was still to blame. Those were
his
men—
his
responsibility. The White House didn’t see it that way, though, and after an exhaustive investigation, he’d been cleared of any misconduct. But it still didn’t stop the press from breathing down his neck.

“I prefer the TV stay off,” he told Quinn gruffly, giving her no more explanation before heading for the kitchen.

Did he just rip that television cord out of the wall and tell her she couldn’t watch the news? Quinn stared at him, too shocked for words as she watched him walk away like he hadn’t just revoked her First Amendment rights. Was this guy for real? She shoved herself to her feet and followed him out with a mind to give him an earful, then thought better of it when he pulled his gun from the breadbox and chambered a round before sliding the weapon into the holster behind his back.

“You ready to go?” he asked, barely shooting her a glance as she hovered in the doorway.

“Aren’t you worried you’re going to shoot yourself in the ass?” Her annoyance over his stunt in the living room sharpened the edge in her voice.

He looked at her now, his raised brow posing the unspoken question,
Are you serious?
“If I shoot myself in the ass, then I have no business protecting you. Might be worth the bullet . . .” He grumbled the last part under his breath, but she heard him.

So this was how it was going to be? Lovely. “Look, I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier. Okay? You were just trying to be nice—”

“I don’t want your apology, Quinn. It’s not necessary.”

Apparently it was, because he was clearly pissed off at her. “How long are you going to keep this up?” she asked, frustration edging her toward her boiling point. She stepped into the kitchen and snatched her purse off the counter, shouldering the strap.

“Keep what up?”

As if he didn’t know. “Acting like a dick.”

He closed the lid on the breadbox with more force than necessary. The sharp rap against the granite countertop startled her. He turned to face her, his expression locked down except for the lines of tension bracketing his mouth and that little muscle flexing near his jaw. Okaaay, so she wasn’t the only one close to losing their shit right now.

“What do you want from me, Quinn?” he barked impatiently.

Did he really not know, or did he just want to hear her swallow her pride and say it? One thing she knew about this man, which admittedly wasn’t a lot—especially now that he was censoring her media exposure—was that he wasn’t stupid. “This tension between us . . . It has to stop. We have to figure out a way to get along.”

“How about you stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours.”

“That’s it? That’s your big plan?”

“You got a better one?” he asked, pulling his charcoal-colored Henley down over the back of his jeans and heading for the door.

His dismissive attitude made it obvious he didn’t want to talk, but too damn bad. She was determined to resolve this tension between them and find some common ground. Quinn wasn’t too prideful to admit her part in this strife. The least he could do was meet her halfway. “Maybe we should, you know, try to be friends.”

That got her a surprised look and a dark chuckle that was anything but friendly. “Friends? Like ‘Kumbaya’ and campfires? I don’t think so, Quinn. Thanks anyway, though.”

He turned to walk out on her when she shouted after him, hot on his heels. “No, you jackass. Friends like ‘I’m going to go grab a beer—you want one too?’ ‘Sure. Thanks for asking.’ Or ‘How was your day?’ ‘Great. How about yours?’”

He stopped abruptly and spun back around. She almost ran smack into his chest. “The beer is in the fridge. Help yourself. And I think you know exactly how my day has been, seeing as how you’re practically on top of me. Listen, Quinn, I don’t mean to sound like a jerk, but I don’t
want
to be your friend.”

His words hit her like a stinging slap across the face and she took an involuntary step back, trying like hell not to let the shock and hurt reflect on her face. “I can’t be your friend and do my job, because the moment I start caring about you is when I’m going to make a mistake. I can’t afford the distraction, Quinn. I can’t get emotionally involved with you. Perhaps I gave you the wrong impression this morning, and you think I wanted there to be something here.” He waved his hand between them. “If I’ve done that, I apologize. But I want to be very clear, my job is to keep you safe and nothing more. I’m not here to be your friend or meet any other needs you may have. That’s how it has to be because that’s the only way I’m going to be able to keep you alive.”

He didn’t wait for her to respond before turning away and heading to the truck. It was just as well. For the first time in her life, she was actually speechless.

CHAPTER

9

A
re you about finished in there?”

The sharp rap of knuckles against the dressing-room door startled Quinn as she unzipped the back of a sundress she’d tried on. The zipper caught between her shoulder blades, snagging on the daisy-printed fabric. Great. Now she was stuck.

“Just a minute,” she snapped, struggling to reach behind her back as she spun around, trying to get a look in the three-sided mirror to see where she was hung up.

“It’s been thirty. I’m standing in a women’s dressing room, Quinn. I feel like a perv.”

“I never asked you to come in here.” She tugged harder but the zipper wouldn’t budge, and cursed herself for giving in to the temptation to try the damn thing on. Not exactly an “essential” item, true, but she’d left Manhattan with nothing but the clothes on her back and wanted to buy something other than granny panties and jeans from the limited selection of the local department store. Big mistake by the way.

“I’m sure as hell not leaving you in here alone.”

“It’s a dressing room, Asher. I think I’ll survive.” She huffed a stray piece of hair out of her eyes as she craned her neck to see over her shoulder.

“Yeah, and there’s a back exit twenty feet down the hall. I could have abducted and killed you five different ways by now.”

Nice. She certainly didn’t need the reminder, but leave it to Mr. Congeniality to plant that swell little visual in her mind.

“You’ve been in there a half hour . . .”

“I didn’t realize you were timing me.” It wasn’t like she was going on a shopping spree here. In fact, she enjoyed shopping just about as much as Asher enjoyed loitering in the women’s dressing room. But she needed a few things to wear and he could just deal.

“I didn’t realize it took you so long to take off your clothes. Perhaps you need some more practice.”

“Not with you, I don’t,” she grumbled, wrestling with the zipper.

“I’m not offering.”

“Shit . . .” she cursed, tugging to get the stubborn fabric free. Her hand slipped off the zipper and she banged her elbow against the wall. “Ouch! Dammit!” Pins and needles shot down her arm and her hand went numb. Fantastic . . .

“You sound like a bull in a china shop in there. What the hell are you doing?”

“Nothing . . . I’m stuck,” she whispered, praying no one else was in there to hear them.

There was a pause of silence before a snort of masculine laughter erupted on the other side of the door. “You’re what?”

He heard her. He just wanted to make her say it again. Asshole . . .

“I’m stuck, all right? S-T-U-C-K. Stuck. You startled me when you began beating my door down and the zipper snagged.”

“I was not beating your door down.”

“Whatever. This is all your fault—stop laughing at me!”

“You really can’t undress yourself, can you?”

“It’s not funny, Asher . . .”

“I think it’s fucking hilarious. Looks like you need my assistance after all.”

She’d rather wear the damn dress home than ask him to help her get out of it.

“Open the door. I’m coming in.”

“What?” she squeaked. “No way . . .”

The knob rattled. “Open the door, Quinn.” Impatience was starting to replace his humor.

“Are you crazy? I’m half-naked. I’m not letting you in here.”

“I’ve seen naked women before. Lots of times.”

“I’m sure you have,” she snapped, letting out a sarcastic snort.

“Just open the goddamn door.”

It was no use. She wasn’t going to get this thing off by herself. Exhaling a dramatic sigh, Quinn turned the lock and he stepped inside. “Hurry up and close it,” she hissed when he got stuck between the open door and the wall.

“Could this room be any smaller?” he complained, forcing the door closed behind him.

“I don’t think it’s meant for two. Or someone your size,” she grumbled. There wasn’t a lot of room for them to move around, and things were getting too close for comfort really fast.

“Let me see the problem.”

Quinn twisted her hair up and held it piled on top of her head. Asher grabbed her hips and turned her back toward him. “I can’t get it to go down.”

“Are you planning on buying this thing?”

She lifted her gaze and met his in the mirror, but he wasn’t looking at her eyes. “Maybe . . .” She shrugged defiantly. “Why?” She had no intention of buying this dress but wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of telling him that. Besides, what the hell did he care what she wore?

His brow arched but he didn’t respond. Quinn followed the direction of his gaze and then gasped, slapping her splayed hand over her exposed cleavage. “Quit staring at my boobs and just unzip the damn dress.”

Her cheeks flushed hotly with embarrassment. Yeah, it was definitely embarrassment, and those were not butterflies coming to life in her stomach when she felt his hands at her back. His fingers brushed against her spine as he worked to free the fabric.

“You get it out yet?” she asked impatiently, feeling warmer by the minute.

“Does it feel like I got it out?” he snapped back with growing impatience.

“Well, try jerking it a little harder . . .”

“Shit, Quinn. Will you just stop talking?”

Finally, she heard the
ziiip
 . . . and felt the dress let loose. If her hand hadn’t been on her chest, the thing would have been around her ankles.

“There. Anything else, or do you think you can manage from here? Those bra clasps can be tricky.”

“Get out.”

He actually laughed, taking sadistic pleasure in her discomfort and embarrassment. Jackass . . . Asher opened the door and maneuvered past her. It was another tight squeeze but he was finally able to make it out. Once the door closed behind him, she quickly dressed and gathered the clothes she wanted to buy into her arms. He didn’t offer any more smartass remarks as they left the dressing room—miracles never ceased. Instead, he dutifully followed her out.

Quinn dropped the armful into the shopping cart parked outside the dressing room, already filled with other essentials. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash . . . It was surprising how quickly this stuff added up to a cartload—shaving cream, razors, because she couldn’t keep using Asher’s. Loofah, toothbrush, toothpaste . . .

As she steered her cart toward the checkout lane, Asher’s presence loomed behind her. Was this what it felt like to be famous? Having your every step shadowed by a gun-toting bodyguard? Because she’d only been in here an hour and it was already getting old. At least she didn’t have to buy tampons or Monistat, because that would have been totally embarrassing and Asher was not letting her out of his sight. That fiasco in the dressing room was bad enough, and it certainly didn’t help that her feelings were still bruised by his little speech. Perhaps if he didn’t try so hard to piss her off, she wouldn’t have been as annoyed by his looming presence.

The cashier made small talk with Quinn as she rang up her items and piled the bags on the other side of the conveyer belt. It surprised her to see Asher reaching for his wallet. Did he think she expected him to pay for all this stuff? “I have money,” she told him briskly, refusing to be softened by the gesture. He wasn’t doing this to be nice. He probably thought she didn’t have a dime to her name, and she wouldn’t have if Nikko hadn’t told her to take out all that cash. Her train ticket and cab fare hadn’t been cheap, but she still had about a thousand left.

Quinn pulled some cash out of her purse and paid the woman. When she turned to collect her sacks, Asher was reaching for them. “I’ve got them,” Quinn snapped, grabbing her shopping bags. “You’re my bodyguard, not my friend. Remember?”

Asher raised both hands and took a
Suit yourself
step back. Between her bare essentials, clothing, and toiletries, her arms were loaded down as she struggled to get her burden to the truck without collapsing under the weight of it all. But she’d be damned if she’d accept any more help from him than she absolutely had to.

He reached the truck before she did and opened the rear passenger door before heading to the driver’s side. Quinn hefted her bags inside and slammed it shut. She was about to climb into the front passenger seat when a niggling of uneasiness swept through her like a hot flash. She froze midstep and turned to look behind her.

“What’s the matter, Quinn?”

She took another second to search the lot. No one was there. But before she could tell Asher it was probably nothing more than her overactive imagination, he was out of the truck and rounding to her side with gun in hand, blocking her with his body as he none too gently ushered her into the vehicle.

“Stay down and lock the doors,” he demanded, heading toward a cluster of cars to the south of them. Her heart rioted inside her chest. She wasn’t sure what shook her up more—the fear that someone might really be out there, or the sudden change in Asher.

She could hardly believe this was the same guy who’d laughed at her not even twenty minutes ago for getting stuck in her dress. It was like hanging out with freaking Jekyll and Hyde. It took him a while to return. Long enough that she was starting to get really worried. She hated this feeling of helplessness . . . How long would she have to live with this constant fear that, at any moment, her life could be over?

The truck door swung open and she let out a startled yelp. Asher tossed a bag into her lap and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Found your stalker. You forgot a bag at the checkout. I think I scared the shit out of the poor guy chasing after you.” He fired up the truck and pulled out of the parking lot. “Almost killed a guy over your underwear. That’s just awesome, Quinn.”

What? Oh, please no . . . 
Quinn opened the sack on her lap and peeked inside. Her cheeks flushed and she closed her eyes, dropping her head back against the seat.

Yep, it was official. God hated her . . .