Hot and Bothered (9 page)

As Rochelle watched him, she felt robbed of something more than her freedom—something that lodged deep in her chest, lost for a second time.

And she wanted that back, too.

***

Gideon's cock had gotten him into regretful situations more than once in his lifetime. He'd accidentally slept with one of his teacher's daughters in his Jean, Nevada, high school, not knowing who she was because . . . well, she'd come home from college to visit one Christmas break and things had just happened in the Rough & Tumble like they usually did. But that had been nothing, because he'd seduced that very same teacher the following semester.

Regret had ensued in both cases, although not for long, after they'd both come back for more that summer.

But after Gideon had grown up a little, found a real job, and taken a measure of pride in doing it well, he'd told himself that there were boundaries, one of them being his clients.

So this was a different kind of regret from any he'd ever experienced.

He wasn't regretful because Rochelle had gone through the ringer today, and he should've kept his mitts off her—she'd been all over him, and she was smart enough to know that there were certain biological things that happened with guys when they got all stirred up and it was hard to put the brakes on. No, that wasn't it. And he didn't even regret suggesting that she should relax when he'd been trying to make her come—he'd felt how high-strung she was and had been doing his best to bring her down from it. Yeah, he'd tweaked her pride, but he'd just been about to solve that issue when real life had intruded in the form of Suzanne's call.

That
was when the true regret had arrived, because it'd reminded him clearly about who he was. Her protector.

Now, the longer she talked on the phone, the more he started to feel that this rendezvous was a stain on his personal pride, something he'd never had much of while growing up. Lord knew his parents hadn't encouraged any—he'd earned pride all by himself.

But now where was it?

As he wondered, Rochelle hung up with Suzanne. She'd managed to put on her bra and panties, but that was all. And that was
not
enough.

Gideon averted his gaze, because the only thing that would come from looking at her like this was more regret. What had he been thinking in the first place?

Damn straight he wouldn't be finding out again.

She handed over his phone, and he could've sworn that disappointment was bugging her, just as it'd done after their first time together. Was she going to run off now?

It wouldn't surprise him if she did. Maybe it'd even get his life back to normal.

He reached over to hand her the rest of her clothes. “You should put these on.”

She didn't say anything for a moment. Was she thinking that he was setting her aside, now that they'd played around? Far from it, because he couldn't get the taste of her, the feel of her out of him.

And that pissed him off for certain. He didn't do anything beyond playing tap and go with women, and she shouldn't be any different.

He turned away from her and then heard her pulling her clothing on. Relief edged into him.

It only grew when she laughed, as if in conciliation. “Are you suffering from buyer's remorse?”

“No.” He frowned. “I enjoyed every second. But it shouldn't have happened.”

“Oh.” Then she laughed again, and he thought he caught a twinge of hurt in the sound. “You're right, though. This doesn't exactly make our professional relationship easier.”

He should've been relieved that she wasn't making a big deal out of this, but the same disappointment that'd hounded him after that first night was back, and it was worse than ever.

His buried teen libido spoke from the back of his mind:
If you're so good at fucking, then why isn't she falling all over you? Maybe she wasn't ever that into you, quick-draw
.

Or maybe that was just the echo of his dad belittling him, not necessarily about sex but about everything else—being lazy, being too dumb to make anything of himself, being rebellious.

Maybe all he was to her was a piece of ass she'd wanted to revisit, just because she could—and just because that was his reputation. She was a woman of the world, after all. She could have what she wanted.

“This shouldn't have happened,” he repeated. “It was my fault.”

“Please.” She pulled on more clothing, and if there'd been any hurt in her tone before, it was gone now. In fact, she sounded as gangbusters as ever. “It would've taken a rock to withstand the pass I was making at you.”

“I'm paid to be your rock.”

He thought he heard her swallow. It could've been that she was recalling this morning, when he'd shielded her from the saloon creeper.

Before things got all emotional, she stood. He took that as a sign that he could do the same, and he snuck a glance at her.

She was more desirable than ever, all sexed up and bed-headed, her cheeks flushed and giving her green eyes a libidinous glow.

Down boy
, he told himself.
No more regrets
. Even if his cock was dying to show her that they could have earth-shattering sex if they tried again.

No more trying, though. They both knew better.

“So,” she said, as resolute as ever. “How about we forget this happened? Because I don't want to lose my bodyguard.”

She held out her hand, wanting him to shake it. He marveled. How could this be so easy for her?

But he was her man, and he wouldn't ever leave her to the creepers. He'd only step up his professional game from now on.

Taking her hand in his, he looked her in the eye. She was so cool as they shook that he wondered if their rendezvous had actually happened.

But as she turned and looked in the mirror, trying to get her hair back to rights, he thought he noticed a slice of that hurt in her gaze.

Was he wrong? Because then it was gone in a flash.

“You heard Suzanne about the media interviews tonight, right?” she said, back on firm ground between them.

Hallelujah. “I heard.”

“And you approve? Because you're my security advisor, and I don't want to fly in your face.”

Damn, the air had gone frosty in here. “You're taking precautions with the arrangements, so Suzanne's plan sounds fine to me. I'm here to protect and serve.”

“You don't sound enthusiastic about my going out.”

“I told you before that staying in would be your safest bet, but life isn't always ideal.”

Her shoulders tightened, and he wondered once again just how much of her seduction had been about regaining the control these creepers had taken away from her.

That's when Cherry's book came back to him—Rochelle was reminding him a whole lot of how the wannabe starlet had lived her life. Funny that it was a damned book that was giving Gideon more insight into Rochelle than anything else.

She turned to face him. “I told
you
before that I hated letting the first creeper know that they had the power to keep me under lock and key. It's not right, Gideon.”

Bingo. “But you're going out for those interviews.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “You did say that showing up some place unannounced is fine because the creepers wouldn't anticipate where I was.”

“And that's what you're doing with your media schedule.”

“What if I'm talking about more than interviews?”

She'd gotten that gangbusters gleam in her eye. He couldn't help thinking that it looked like a stadium-powered light bulb had gone on in there.

“What're you thinking?” he asked.

“That I don't care how much it costs, but if I don't stand up to these little assholes, I'm showing them that I'm a coward.”

Yup, back to this. And it seemed the sex had only pushed her in this rebellious direction.

Goddammit, if only they'd had a chance to screw, that might've relaxed her. “There's a difference between being a coward and someone who makes wise decisions, Rochelle.”

“And I know which one I feel like—a coward.” She held up a finger. “You know what I'd love to do? Go someplace public and spontaneous, just to party it up and show I don't have a care in the world, then post pictures to my social media pages so everyone can see that I'm not going to bow to any creepers.”

Cherry all the way—at least from what he'd read about her so far.

Rochelle seemed encouraged that he'd kept his tongue. “My cousins would surround me in a heartbeat because they don't like anyone dictating the terms of their lives, either. And there's you and Harry—and I don't give a crap how much you'd have to raise your fees . . .”

That last part didn't even compute. In this job, he'd guarded a lot of men and women who routinely went in public when the danger level was high—that's the reason they hired him. So why was he second-guessing Rochelle when what she was going through wasn't nearly as lethal as other situations he'd been in?

At least not yet . . .

But he knew what set Rochelle apart from the rest for him—some kind of emotional attachment caused by their childhood and his admiration for her family. And a bit of fondness for her.

Nothing more.

“Whatever you decide, Boss,” he said without expression, already distancing himself, already putting the last, pulse-banging hour with her out of sight and out of mind, where it belonged.

Rochelle smiled at him, maybe a little too brightly. “Glad to hear it, because you know what?”

He merely stared at her as she confirmed every bit of what he'd been thinking about her motivations.

“Cherry sure as hell wouldn't have let anyone tell her what to do, either.”

She walked out of the room and out of sight . . . but hardly out of mind.

***

Cherry shut the door to the downtown Vegas hotel suite behind her and faced George Diluccio, a mob guy whose eye she'd caught at the beginning of the year. He'd moved her into the Palm Palace Hotel, where he worked under Nicky Aiolfi, who ran the casino for the Donati family back East.

She stripped off her leather gloves, competing for his attention with the television, where
The Man from U.N.C.L.E.
was blaring over Rolling Stones music from the party he was throwing outside.

“You missed my little show,” she said, tossing the gloves onto the sheet-ruffled bed, where blue light from the TV played and George's suit jacket lay bunched near the pillows. Shadows flitted around the mosquito netting and silken Arabian drapes decorating the spacious room, making things moody and exotic.

As she pushed back her red-dyed hair from her face, he spared her a silent glance. He'd been drinking again; she could tell because his craggy face was slack. Also, the barber had visited today, and George's dark hair, which should've been pomaded, was out of place. He'd been agitating his fingers through it.

“Sheesh,” she said, moving toward the TV. “You've got your friends out there. You think it'd be nice to give them a hi since you invited them in the first place?”

“If I wanted a nagging wife here, I would've brought her.”

Cherry thought of shutting off the idiot box, but she kind of liked looking at David McCallum playing a mysterious Russian spy. He was a fox if she'd ever seen one. Also, she didn't want to anger George since he'd smacked her for the first time the night before last, and she wasn't up for a replay.

Sure, he was under some stress, but if he did it again, she wouldn't stand for it. Men only got so many chances with her, especially if they had the potential to give her something big. And George had made a lot of promises over the months. He'd lured her in with sweet talk about someday getting her into a Vegas show with someone from the Rat Pack—Frank and/or Dean—or maybe introducing her to Ann-Margret or Shirley MacLaine, so-called Rat Pack Mascots, so they could ease Cherry's way into the movies.

No dice on any count. More and more it seemed like Cherry had made another bad investment in a man, and George's latest troubles had her itching to get out.

But she still sidled up to him, mainly because she didn't like to be ignored. As she moved, she reached in back of her to untie her indecent leather halter, which topped some little-to-the-imagination hot pants and fab boots. “You should be at your own party, baby. Even if Dean didn't show up like you thought he might, there was a director out there watching me. He did a Western. One of those might be fun to work on, don't you think?”

She dropped the halter, and George's gaze immediately attached itself to her tits. Knowing she'd hooked him and subsequently bored now, she acted as if all she wanted to do was get undressed. She worked the halter off, peeled the hot pants down her legs, all the while wiggling her goods. She took off the boots last.

“What did the director say when he saw you?” George asked, resting his hand at his suit's belt. Usually, he got a sexual kick out of watching her dance for his friends, just as much as Cherry the exhibitionist loved doing it. But not tonight.

“He left before I could say hi.” She pouted. “You said Dean would be here, though. You keep promising to introduce me.”

Another possible sugar daddy, another Jason Vandecamp, another Elvis, another of the many men who could've fed Cherry's ambitions if they'd only cooperated.

“Hell, baby,” George said, “I never know when Dean's gonna blow into town, so forget about him. Come here.”

She left her leather on the floor and slid onto George's lap, where he had a surprise package in his pants for her. Or maybe not such a surprise. At least not a big one.

Every time she went to bed with men like George, she always hoped she'd feel something, but she never did.