Forged In Desire. Brenda Jackson

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      When she heard one of the upstairs doors close, she answered the call. “Designs by Margo.”

      “Yes, Margo. This is Claudine Bernard.”

      Margo smiled. “Yes, Claudine?”

      “I lost my appointment book and just wanted to verify what time we need to get together tomorrow.”

      Margo nodded. “Our appointment is at ten in the morning.”

      “Great! I’ll see you then.”

      When she turned back around, Striker was putting his phone away as he came back down the stairs. He glanced over at her. “So Claudine needed to reaffirm your appointment time, did she?”

      Surprise lit Margo’s face. “How did you know?”

      When he just stared at her smugly, she scowled. “You listened in on my conversation,” she accused.

      “Damn right.”

      Furious beyond belief, she crossed the room to stand in front of him. “How dare you!” she screamed almost at the top of her lungs.

      “Dammit, woman. Don’t burst my eardrums.”

      “Or mine.”

      They both turned and looked at Bruce, who was standing in the middle of the stairs. He was smiling. Margo didn’t appreciate being the butt of anyone’s joke.

      “Everything’s all set?” Striker asked the man.

      “Yes, both upstairs and downstairs. I just need to take care of the yard,” he said, coming the rest of the way down the stairs. He looked over at Margo, smiled and said, “Nice set of lungs, Ms. Connelly.” Then he moved toward the back door.

      Alone again, Margo stared up at Striker. “I have questions and I want answers.”

      He shrugged. “Only if I feel like giving those answers to you, Margo.”

      Margo closed her eyes. Why did this man, of all men, have to be the one protecting her?

      “Getting sleepy?”

      She snapped her eyes back open. “I am not sleepy, Striker. Stop being a smart-ass.”

      “Okay,” he said smoothly, all but admitting that he had been.

      Striker had to fight back a smile. There was something about Margo that made him want to distance himself from her one minute and enmesh himself in her the next. Unfortunately, putting distance between them wasn’t an option. Not when he was protecting her. Whether he liked it or not, until the hit man was captured, he and Margo were as entangled as any two people could be.

      For some reason, he liked rattling her. Probably because doing so would keep her mind off her situation. Other women he’d protected would be all but hovering in a corner by now. At least those not brazen enough to think that protector also meant bedmate. Like that damn socialite who’d hired him when she discovered she was being stalked. She had invited him into her bed the first night. Of course he hadn’t taken her up on her offer, but it was still damn hard making the woman keep her hands to herself. He’d been so glad when the police had finally captured the prick stalking her. He definitely couldn’t see Margo behaving so inappropriately. Hell, she’d been ready to kick him downstairs to sleep on that tiny sofa bed.

      “Look,” he finally said, deciding he’d rattled her enough. “Let’s go back to the table and sit down. You ask your questions and I’ll decide if I want to answer them.” His tone was deliberately clipped, letting her know up front what to expect.

      He watched as she angrily strode back over to the table. If she’d known how much he appreciated seeing her backside just now, she wouldn’t have done that. He followed her to the table and sat down. “Okay, Margo. Let’s get it out. What are your questions?” Before she could open her mouth, he added, “And ask nicely.”

      She glared at him while adjusting in her seat, resting her hands beneath her chin with her fingers entwined. Why did he find her so damn sexy? So incredibly desirable. He was a glutton for punishment even thinking that way.

      “First of all, I want to know what’s going on. Here at my house? With my phone?”

      He leaned back in his chair. That question was easy enough. “Bruce Townsend is a man-wonder, a technology whiz. He’s in hot demand and usually works with an exclusive clientele. Summers Security has a good relationship with him, and he’s been hired to install extra security in and around your home.”

      “Like tampering with my phones?”

      “Yes. All your phones—house, cell or otherwise—are now linked to mine. I can listen in to all your conversations.”

      “And what if it’s a conversation I don’t want you to listen to?”

      He held her gaze. “If you happen to get one of those, then I’ll get off the line to give you the privacy you need.”

      He could tell from her mutinous expression she didn’t like it, so he said, “Relax. If Scotty calls you, I promise not to listen in.”

      Her frown deepened. “His name is Scott, and he won’t be calling me. I told him not to ever again.”

      Striker lifted a brow. “Oh? Is that the way it is? You accept his flowers but not his calls?” He shook his head. “Tsk-tsk. Margo, don’t you know that’s no way to treat a man?”

      Her eyes filled with anger. “How I treat Scott is no concern of yours,” she said in a loud voice.

      “I’ve warned you about my eardrums. And as far as your ex-boyfriend goes, if he decides to get dramatic, then it becomes my concern. Need I remind you that you’re the one who claims he has a tendency to get melodramatic? Okay, let’s move on. Next question.”

      She got quiet. For a minute he wondered if she would even bother asking him anything else since it was apparent that she was pissed off with him now. But he should have known her silence wouldn’t last. “I want to know about you, Striker.”

      He held her gaze. “All you need to know is that I am capable of protecting you.”

      She leaned in closer to him, her eyes still filled with anger. “You’re wrong. That’s not all I need to know. You will be here with me morning, noon and night. Underfoot. Listening to me breathe. Sharing meals with me. Risking your life for mine. So just knowing you’re capable of keeping me alive is not all I need to know.”

      She paused a minute and said, “Earlier you said you’d been incarcerated for manslaughter. I need to know who you killed and why.”

      As far as Striker was concerned, she didn’t need to know a damn thing. Drawing in a strained breath, he then decided that maybe she did. How would she handle it if he were to tell her? Well, he was about to find out. Still holding her gaze, he said, “I killed a cop.”

      He saw her throat move. Heard her stricken inhalation. “A cop?”

      “Yes, a cop.”

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