The Billionaire's Dare (Book 4 - Billionaire Bodyguard Series) Read online

  Laughing, she rolled her eyes. “Like you couldn’t strut into any bar and have your choice of willing women.”

  “Who’s willing and who I want—again, two separate things.”

  His bold admission washed tingles of pleasure across her skin. “Should I pretend you didn’t say that?”

  “Probably.”

  Against her better judgment she asked, “If I’d come out here on the bike with you on a less emotional day, would you have kissed me?”

  “It’s likely.” He scoffed. “I’m a guy. And I’m into you.” He rubbed his ear. “Forget I said that, too.”

  Averting her face to hide a grin, she discovered a lightness in her step, a giant contrast to how she’d felt when they’d arrived. “That was a beautiful view,” she said gesturing behind them. “Thanks for sharing it with me.”

  He nodded and headed back to where he’d parked his motorcycle. “Thanks for…” He kneaded the back of his neck with one hand. “Not sharing?” He dropped his hand. “That came out wrong.”

  Actually, she liked that Adam wasn’t good with words. “Actions are more important than knowing the right words. Actions can be trusted. People with bad intentions can manipulate words for their own gain, and the best among them are psychopaths.”

  “So if I didn’t have dyslexia, I’d be a psychopath? Great.”

  She snorted a laugh. “No, Adam. You’re not manipulative. You’re honest to a fault. I admire that about you.”

  “Not if we were dating.” He cursed under his breath and shook his head at himself. “Does having no filter also strike me from the psychopath list?”

  “Definitely.” She grinned. “You’re in the clear.”

  “Okay.” His serious expression tugged at her heart. “Cool.”

  As she approached his motorcycle, she stepped on the foot peg to propel herself upward. She kissed his cheek. “I think you’re a great guy.”

  Suddenly, he appeared downright depressed. “If you knew the…what fifty-cent word did you use Monday? Sordid—yeah, if you knew the sordid positions I’d like to put you in right now on my bike, you’d think different.”

  A thrill of attraction zipped through her abdomen. Knowing she couldn’t act on it or encourage his sordid fantasies, she sat on the small rear seat of his motorcycle and notched the zipper of her jacket a little closer to her neck. “That’s the great thing about friendship. You can be honest with each other, and no one holds it against you.”

  A raw expression stole over his face, illuminated by moonlight. “Okay. Then tell me what happened to you today.”

  At his request, tears gathered in her eyes. She looked up at the stars, blinking against the blur. “Today, my grandfather…” After years of convoluting the truth of her past, she automatically covered her near slip, barely skipping a beat. “It’s the anniversary of my grandfather’s death.”

  Hips in a wide-spread stance, he shoved his hands in his pockets. His chest rose and fell on a labored breath. “I get it. That day never goes away. The day you lose your anchor.”

  Amazed, she stared up at him. He really did understand.

  He removed one hand from his pocket to run a thumb over his handlebars where the rubber met the chrome. “My dad went out in a blaze of glory with a side of road rash, finishing in an explosion. Just like he said he’d leave this world. The only time he was ever predictable.”

  Sympathy welled inside her. “Tell me more.”

  He slanted her a look that said nice try. “This is your tell-all, sugar. Not mine.”

  “You first,” she said.

  “Fine.” He rolled his neck, the muscular chords visible with the movement. “But I hate you a little for making me talk about this.”

  “I’ll hate you a little, too, when it’s my turn.”

  Releasing a stark laugh, he shrugged as if to convince himself sharing this slice of his history was no big deal. “My dad was my rock.” His gaze sharpened when he glanced at her, his eyes almost iridescent in the moon-silvered darkness. “He was my saving grace, you know. Signed off on me leaving school in tenth grade. Maybe he was sick of me getting expelled all the time. Or maybe he felt for me, because he had a screwed-up brain for letters like me. We never talked about it. We weren’t that kind of family.”

  She cupped his elbow, the leather stiff and warm. “Your brain isn’t screwed up, Adam. You’ve proven to me when you’re determined you can unscramble the letters so they make sense. You’re doing really well. Better than expected.”

  With an unconcerned lift of one shoulder, he stared into the distance. “The only time I ever saw Dad pick up a pen was when he signed his name. But it doesn’t matter. Whatever.”

  “Brain disorders can have a genetic component. Your situation isn’t your fault.”

  “Sure as hell ain’t his now either, is it?”

  Tucking her arms close against her sides, she sat back on the motorcycle. “No, it’s not.”

  He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. He died how he lived. On his Harley, riding life full throttle. Next minute, he’s gone.”

  “And nothing is ever the same,” she whispered, sharing the burden of that reality along with him.

  “I never talk about it. To anyone. Not even my brother.” He gazed at her with a flash of anger in his eyes. “Why the fuck am I telling you any of this?”

  “To make it easier for me to share,” she replied softly. “My grandfather worked repairing motorcycles in his shop as far back as I can remember.”

  “Now I get how you know so much about bikes,” he reflected, awareness dawning.

  “Yes.” But she needed to tread carefully around the truth. Even while he’d been open and honest. Hypocrite, she told herself, guilt gnawing at her. “Then Grandpa sold his shop and bought a biker bar. All his clients followed, becoming his patrons.”

  “Sweet gig.” Adam nodded. “He was a smart guy. You ever work for him?”

  She offered a half-smile. “Do ducks quack?”

  A grin lit his face. “Pops used to say the same thing. I know how it goes. After dropping out, I worked for the family business. I was the number one bounty hunter in the tri-county area, and even after, when we expanded to franchise to the West Coast. Books weren’t my thing, so I had to be good at something.”

  He flexed his knuckles, littered with star-shaped scars from catching teeth with his fist. She remembered Grandpa and his bar manager, Bones, had shown the same scars.

  “And look at you now,” she said, wearing a smile. “A millionaire, ten times over. Impressive for a bounty hunter and high-school dropout.”

  He gazed at her shrewdly. “Second grade teacher with a master’s degree. Impressive, for a barfly.”

  “Touché.”

  “So? Grandpa and his bar?”

  Here, truth blended with fiction. She spoke with care.

  “Grandpa Tate always told me I’d excel at school if I applied myself. I never saw a reason to, since he owned a bar and I assumed I’d work there after high school. I did, of course, but one night ten years ago hell itself unleashed there. I hid in the backroom. It was a really bad scene.”

  “Were you hurt?” Rough protectiveness edged his tone.

  “Not physically. But I still have nightmares.” Flashbacks of bruises on pale skin, blood dripping onto the floor, and a young girl’s innocence ripped away, along with her life, twisted the knife of regret into her heart. “That’s when Grandpa sent me away to school. I never went back.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Iowa State.”

  “So you grew up in Iowa?”

  She didn’t respond directly. “I left everything I’d ever known.”

  God, this was the closest to the truth she’d ever revealed, and she closed her eyes. Please don’t let it come back to haunt me.

  “Ain’t easy, starting over.” He lowered his head in reverence. “And then they’re gone, and all that goes through your head is everything you never told them.”

  Her
chin trembled. “Yes.”

  As he closed his arms around her again, nudging the top of her head with his jaw, his leather jacket cold against her hot cheeks. “I get it,” he murmured.

  She clung to him like a coma patient clinging to life support, hoping beyond prayer to recover and have a full life once again. “I guess I don’t know what to do, how to feel, without him.”

  Palm cradling her scalp, Adam soothed her with his large hand and surprisingly gentle touch. “It doesn’t get better. But it gets easier. I promise.”

  She drew in a shivering breath. “I hope so.”

  Stepping back, he glided his fingers from her hair to her chin. He lifted her face and brushed a tear from the corner of his eye with his thumb. The sweetly pained look on his face tugged at her heart. He hid a depth of concern behind his gruff exterior that she hadn’t expected.

  Regret stole into his eyes before he turned away. “Let’s get you home.”

  Unable to express herself with words, the very thing she was teaching him how to do, she nodded in gratitude for his patient understanding.

  When he straddled his motorcycle, he turned the key and revved the engine. The sound echoed off the mountains and cliffs surrounding them. She twined her arms around his waist, resting her head between his wide shoulder blades. Though the thick layer of leather muted her hearing, she took comfort in the steady cadence of his heartbeat.

  They returned and he pulled up to her house. To her surprise he shut off the motor, helped her off the bike and walked her to her door. There he shifted from boot to boot, like he wasn’t sure what to do next. He raked a hand through his shoulder-length hair, the waves barely tousled despite the windy ride. “You want me to come in or something?”

  I want you to come in and something. Preferably on her bed, with her lying under him, wrapped in his huge tattooed arms.

  But that couldn’t happen, and not only because they were student and teacher. Adam was the opposite of the type of man she sought. He represented everything she’d gladly left behind in her old life. He lived on the edge, went at things full-throttle, the more daring and dangerous the better. And she needed someone steady, reliable, thoughtful, comfortable with a quiet life and status quo, desires that had perpetually eluded her. Always looking over her shoulder, carrying a constant concern of potential harm and the threat of picking up everything to move and protect her cover, offered enough intensity. She didn’t need or want any more “excitement” in her world. Even if it came in a sexy, ripped package like Adam.

  “No, I’m okay. Thanks again for the ride.”

  He slid a lock of her hair through his index and middle finger. “Next time, you’re wearing a helmet.”

  Lowering her lashes, she shook her head. “There won’t be a next time, Adam.”

  He shoved his hands in his back pockets. “Kinda what I figured.”

  “It’s not about you,” she rushed to add.

  “I know.” He shrugged. “I’m not totally narcissistic, only mostly.”

  She grinned. “Since tonight was a wash, why don’t you come over tomorrow so we can make up the tutoring session? I’ll clear my schedule to fit you in.”

  He snapped his head up. “You’d do that for me?”

  “Of course. You’ve pre-paid for the week and tonight’s detour was my fault. I want to make it up to you.”

  His glance fell to her lips. “I have a different idea, but you won’t want to hear it.”

  A tug of longing gripped her insides. “Good night, Adam.”

  “Later.”

  As he turned, he removed his hands from his pockets, giving her a delicious view of his tight backside. She couldn’t quite assess Adam’s age – maybe thirty-three or thirty-four? – but he had the ass of a twenty-five-year-old bodybuilder. All over yummy to look at, dangerous to touch.

  Especially for her. She guarded herself against even a hint of anything reckless. She hadn’t maintained her cover all this time by engaging in thoughtless, impulsive acts. No matter how tempting. She’d already revealed too much to him tonight.

  A mistake she couldn’t afford to make again.

  As she entered her house and turned off the porch light, she found herself staring at her coffee table, at the paper folded to her grandfather’s obituary. Fresh grief gripped her chest. She sank onto the couch and held the newsprint against her heart, wishing she could hug Grandpa one last time.

  A shock of concern snapped her spine straight. Troubled thoughts tumbled through her mind.

  What about all his belongings? The obituary said his home would be sold later this week at a Sheriff’s Auction. Would the purchaser toss out her grandfather’s belongings like trash? An entire life – pictures, mementos, photo albums, memories – left at the curbside, destined for a garbage dump?

  And what about the bar? Would the long-time manager, Bones, have the cash to finance the purchase? Or would it fall into the hands of some stranger, or worse, a biker gang like the one she’d given up her freedom to testify against?

  Bleakness filled her with despair.

  How could she let that happen? Let all reminders of her childhood, her life with Grandpa and their family history, end up alongside rotting waste in the Arizona desert?

  Damn it. She wiped her eyes. She couldn’t sit by and do nothing.

  Regardless of the danger, she needed to salvage her grandfather’s belongings before proof of his life – and her former existence – disappeared, and she lost all ties to her ancestry.

  She had to find a way to return without being recognized, and without rousing the marshal’s suspicions. Two days, including travel time over the weekend, would be enough time to claim the physical remains of the loving man who’d been reduced to a apparition.

  She’d become a pro at presenting herself as a ghost anyway. She’d spent ten years drifting like a phantom. For the first time in years, electrical-intense purpose shot through her veins.

  A sense of purpose lifted her from sadness to determination.

  Some risks were worth taking.

  Saving her heritage was one of them.

  No matter what the cost.

  CHAPTER 3

  Since Marissa had her days free for the summer months, and Adam had a morning meeting with company higher-ups—he still had a hard time admitting he belonged in that crowd—he scheduled their makeup tutoring session for the following afternoon.

  At 3:00 pm he rolled into her driveway. He resented the stupid flips his stomach did whenever he came to Marissa’s house. The sensation happened every time, since the second night he arrived on her doorstep to uphold his end of Slone’s dare. Wasn’t about the writing drills she put him through, or the endless pages of wide-spaced lines where he repeated spellings of words third graders managed better than him. It was her.

  The way his body reacted in her presence irritated him to distraction. Like he had no freaking control. Bumps raised on the skin of his arms beneath his ink. The back of his neck grew hot. His palms went damp. His dick hardened to the point of pain.

  Useless responses. They made no sense. This shit had never happened to him around a woman before. Why did it have to start now? With a woman he swore wasn’t his type?

  Last night he’d gotten rough in the bedroom with Tess, though he’d heard no complaints. He’d fucked her hard until his brain went numb and his body finally calmed the hell down.

  Then the stupidest thing happened.

  As they lay in bed together, he put his arms around her. He almost cuddled. Fucking cuddled? What the hell? Worse, he’d pictured holding Marissa.

  In the next second he’d kicked Tess out of his place so fast, he’d slammed the door in her gaping face. Douche bag move. He’d sent Tess a text apologizing.

  But this wasn’t cool.

  No one got to him like Marissa. He hated it. The whole thing sucked. And there didn’t seem a damn thing he could do about it.

  Because here he was walking up to her front door, more than ready to endure the tor
ture again—just for the chance to be near her. So messed up.

  Balling his hands into fists, he wanted to punch something. Instead he cracked every knuckle in his fingers, rang the doorbell and waited for the object of his newfound obsession to answer.

  And invite him in with a sweet smile that put heat in his cheeks.

  And sit too close to him looking way to adorable in her little skirts and v-neck tops.

  My God, he thought, shaking his head, mourning his old unaffected self. I need Tess on speed dial or I’ll jack up a good thing up with Marissa and be royally screwed. Not in a good way. He refused to lose this dare to Slone. He planted the thought firm in his mind and slammed a wall of indifference up to guard his chest.

  Then Marissa opened her door wearing that smile, one of those cute skirts, and his good intentions were shot to hell. “You look…better,” he managed, instead of admitting she looked I-want-to-bend-you-over fuckably hot.

  Sweeping her arm in an arc, she invited him inside. Her home gave off a welcoming, comfortable vibe. Not too girlie, but not super modern like Cade’s place. Walking into her house felt like stepping into autumn, neutral brown and cream walls, soft light-colored carpet that tracked his footprints, a solid maroon couch a guy could kick back and relax into, including a matching recliner, with bright gold pillows. Cozy. He liked being in her house. He liked being with her.

  “I do feel better.” She nodded. “Thank you.”

  His mind dove straight into the gutter. You’d feel a lot better naked and under me. Nope, not happening. Focus, moron.

  “I was thinking, three days a week may be too much tutoring,” she said, walking toward her office area on the right, set up like an elementary school classroom. “Do you want to cut back to two days?”

  No, I want you twenty-four-seven. In my bed. H e’d resigned himself to three days a week, for the chance to be in her company. Pathetic. But he’d settle for nothing less. “Am I too much for you?” he asked, tossing out a careless smile he barely pulled off.

  “No,” she said, her laugh reminding him of church bells, of salvation. “If you continue coming three days a week, you’ll progress further. I just don’t want to overload you.”