Forged In Desire. Brenda JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
slacks and pulling up an app to take notes. His gaze moved to her back door. It looked sturdy enough, but of course he intended to make sure.
Moments later he’d verified that it was, but he wasn’t a fan of all these windows, although he could see why she was. There was a beautiful view of the Blue Ridge Mountains outside those windows. Nice but risky. The mountains could cast shadows on the rooftops of those homes. The perfect place for a sniper to take aim. And he’d noted the house next door was up for sale and appeared empty. He would make sure the office monitored any activities there.
Striker removed his tie and jacket and placed both across a chair before keying in information on the phone. And he definitely didn’t like that sliding glass door that led outside.
Walking over, he slid it open and stepped out onto a patio. Quality wicker furniture was arranged to take advantage of the view of the mountains. She had a nice-sized yard with hardly any trees or shrubs. That was a plus. He also noted the area where she kept her garbage can and barbecue grill, which was a dark corner of the yard. A motion light would do the trick not just there but at every corner of her home.
She lived in a fairly upscale community although it wasn’t gated. The homes were commodious and spaced a good distance from each other. According to Roland, she designed wedding dresses, and from what he’d heard, she had made quite a name for herself.
He also knew Margo Connelly was loaded, yet she lived modestly. Empress Lakes was a beautiful community of homes, but he had expected her to reside in one of those upscale neighborhoods like Oakwood Heights or Tamaquan Manor. And why not open a shop somewhere? Why would she even want to work from her home, where strangers would invade her personal space?
Earlier, at the hospital, Roland had asked him to stay behind after Stonewall and Quasar had left. Striker hadn’t wanted to hang back because he thought Roland had exerted himself enough already and needed to rest. But Roland had been insistent. For some reason, Striker had suspected there was more to the story regarding Roland’s relationship to his niece.
Although his niece didn’t know he existed, over the years he had kept up with her. He had attended the ceremonies when she’d graduated from high school and college, and he had even attended several of her games when she’d played soccer in middle school. He’d known that after college she’d gotten a job with a clothing design company in New York where she had worked for a few years before opening her own business. It was obvious that Roland cared a lot for his niece. What might have started out merely as a sense of guilt because of his brother’s death had turned into affection. He was the doting uncle—unseen and unknown.
Striker had never thought of Roland this way. The Roland he knew was an ex-cop, ex-con and loner. He rarely let anyone into his inner circle. Besides him, Stonewall and Quasar, there was only Carson Boyett Granger. Carson was the attorney who had risked her life getting Roland a new trial, and she was married to Sheppard Granger, a man Striker would be forever indebted to for helping turn his life around.
Striker guessed it wasn’t Margo’s fault that nobody had ever told her about Roland. And before their conversation ended, Roland had again stressed that he wanted the secret to remain just that. Striker had given Roland his word. If Margo found out the truth it wouldn’t be from him.
Striker had just reentered the kitchen and closed the sliding door behind him when Margo rounded the corner. He could only assume her private meeting with her uncle was over. He wondered how that had gone.
“Well, did you find anything, Mr. Striker?”
He stared at her, trying not to notice how good she looked in jeans and a pullover sweatshirt. When she’d opened the door, her striking features had taken him aback, but now it was her outfit...actually, her body in the clothes...that was grabbing his attention.
She was tall, but he figured at least five inches of that height were the result of those killer heels on the boots she was wearing. And she was curvy, which was why those jeans looked so damn good on her. There was no way she didn’t turn every man’s head when she walked by. It would be hard not to.
“Drop the ‘mister,’” he said. “It’s just Striker.”
Margo frowned at the man, wondering why he was so touchy with his name. And why her large kitchen suddenly felt smaller with him standing in it. She was attracted to him but felt that, except for trying to keep her common sense intact, there was nothing she could do about it. When a woman was being protected with a man who had the build of “The Rock,” Dwayne Johnson himself, there wasn’t much hope for her.
He had removed his jacket and tie, and she saw that a dark brown leather shoulder holster held his gun. The holster had a side compartment she guessed contained extra bullets.
Of course, she should not have been surprised that he was loaded down with such weaponry. He had been hired to protect her, after all. But still, seeing it was a stark reminder of her predicament. Her uncle had talked to her and she had promised to cooperate with her protector. With Striker. “Okay, Striker. Did my kitchen pass muster?”
“Not really. That’s a nice view out that window, but you’re going to have to keep the blinds drawn most of the time. I also noticed several troubling areas in your yard.”
“What?”
Glancing at his phone, Striker told her what he’d noted.
“I never had a reason to worry about any of that before.”
“Now you do. I’ll take care of it.” Striker moved around Margo to go back into her living room and she was right on his heels.
“So how long have you been a protector?”
Not long enough, he thought to himself. He didn’t want to think how different his life would be today if years ago he’d been there to protect the one person he should have been safeguarding. He wouldn’t be carrying around all this guilt if he had. “Several years,” he said, tossing the answer over his shoulder. He kept walking to check the front door to inspect the locks. She had an alarm system and that was good. He glanced around the room. Again there were too many windows. And she had stairs. There were also several rooms connected to her living room. He would check them out later after doing a walk-through upstairs.
“How many is several?”
He stopped walking long enough to look over at her and wish he hadn’t. She was leaning in the doorway that separated her living room from the kitchen. In that lazy, carefree pose, she looked good. Too good. There was something about her standing there with her hair tossed around her shoulders that made parts of his body ache.
“About eight years.”
“And what did you do before that?”
He could tell her that his past was none of her business. But he had no problem sharing what he did because that time—thanks to Sheppard Granger—had pretty much shaped him into the man he was now. He was alive when he could have been dead. And he was making something out of his life.
He looked her straight in the eye and said, “I was in jail serving time for manslaughter.”
MARGO’S BREATH CAUGHT as she stared at Striker. Had he just admitted to being an ex-con? Was he joking? From the intense expression on his face, she had a feeling he was dead serious. Did Uncle Frazier have any idea that the man he’d hired had a criminal record? For manslaughter?
“How many rooms are there upstairs?” he asked, picking up his duffel bag and moving in the direction of her stairs.
She jerked her head around. “Wait!”
Striker stopped and stared at her. Had hearing that he’d served time freaked her out? It wouldn’t be the first time that someone he had been hired to protect reacted that way to his past. Some saw it as an advantage, thinking that if he had a killer instinct, he had the ability to keep them safe. Then there were others who found it so repulsive they would