Boardrooms of Power. Heidi Betts

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      She watched his eyes narrow and his lips set in a firm line. “Now is that any way to treat the guy who’s here to protect you?”

      She strode into the room and whirled back toward him once she got to the fireplace. She couldn’t believe this was happening. “I don’t know which member of my family hired you, Connor—” she said, crossing her arms “—and, frankly, I don’t care. You may own the best security firm in the country, but you’re not wanted or needed here, got it?”

      Pushing away from the couch, he folded his arms, looking as easy to move as a boulder up a mountain. “Based on what I’ve heard, I’d say I’m definitely needed around here. As to whether I’m wanted—” he shrugged “—I’ve been asked to do a job and it’s going to get done.”

      Want. Her mind zeroed in on that one word, then quickly backed away. Whatever she felt for Connor, that certainly wasn’t an apt description.

      True, with hazel eyes framed by long, thick lashes and sandy hair cut conservatively short, he was model material except for the nose that had been broken a couple of times and the crescent-shaped scar marring his chin. But in her mind that was all overshadowed by the fact that he was condescending and annoying. Not to mention an untrustworthy snitch.

      She hadn’t seen him since her brother Quentin’s wedding a few months back, but though their paths hadn’t crossed much lately, he was as familiar to her as a member of her family. He, on the other hand, hadn’t really had family to speak of, having lost both parents by the time he’d gotten to Harvard. Instead, he’d spent most school holidays with the Whittakers.

      She placed her hands on her hips. “There’s no way you can do this job if I’m telling you that you can’t.”

      He rubbed his chin, seeming to contemplate that for an instant. “Since Quentin still owns this place—” he nodded around him “—because you haven’t gotten around to closing the deal with him yet to purchase it, I’d say you’re wrong about that. So, first thing we’re going to do is make sure that security at the bachelorette pad is up to snuff.”

      The familiar urge to throttle Connor Rafferty was coming over her again. True, she didn’t own the townhouse, but that was a mere technicality. The house had stood empty for two years after Quentin had purchased it as an investment, but she’d fallen in love with it and offered to buy it from him. In any case, she didn’t need a bodyguard. “If I need protection, I’ll get it.”

      His lips thinned, his gaze holding hers. “That won’t be necessary, because I’m planning to stick to you like Krazy Glue until we get to the bottom of who’s been sending you death threats in the mail and spray-painting obscenities on your Mercedes.”

      “I can take care of myself. I spotted you lurking around outside in a parked car, didn’t I?”

      The thin line of his lips curved upward in a humorless smile. “What about that guy who was in the parked car at the street corner? Don’t tell me you missed him?”

      She had.

      He raised an eyebrow, seeming to read her silence for the admission it was.

      “You can’t be sure that was in any way connected to me.” She knew she was right, nevertheless her heart tightened.

      “You’re right, I can’t. But he was out of there like a speeding bullet as soon as I decided to test my theory by getting out of the car.”

      “And you didn’t go after him?”

      He shrugged. “How could I be sure he was after you?” he asked, tossing her words back at her.

      At her impatient look, he added, “Anyway, it was too late to get back in the car to follow him and I couldn’t make out his plate number or even the make of the car in the dark before he disappeared. So, instead, I came to your door thinking at least I’d get thanked by the damsel in distress for running off the bad guy.”

      “Now that you’ve run him off, would you mind running off yourself?” Even if she needed protection, she could arrange for it herself. The last thing she needed was a bodyguard hired by her overprotective family, not to mention one as distracting and annoying as Connor was.

      His brows drew together. “You really don’t get it do you, princess?”

      She pretended to look bored. “I suppose you’re going to explain so I can ‘get it.’” She stood her ground as he strode toward her. If he thought to intimidate her, he had another thing coming.

      “You suppose right.” He stopped mere inches away.

      She had to tilt her chin up to keep eye contact with him and caught the muscle ticing in his jaw. She ought to take perverse satisfaction in knowing that, as much as he unsettled her, she seemed to have an uncanny ability to annoy him as well.

      “Working for the DA’s Office these days may give you the idea that you’re streetwise,” he growled, “but you’re not.” He looked her over. “Which leads me to wonder why you didn’t stick with what all the other debutantes and society ladies do for public service? You know, organizing a charity auction or something. Why bother working with the tough guys at the DA’s Office?”

      She gritted her teeth and prayed for patience even though outrage bubbled up inside her. “This isn’t a hobby. It’s a career.”

      She knew he’d had a rough childhood on the sometimes unforgiving streets of South Boston, but, really, that didn’t give him the right to constantly tweak her nose about having grown up with a silver spoon in her mouth. After all, he didn’t play the wealth card with Quentin.

      Connor’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve made a career out of looking for a thrill, haven’t you, petunia? I’ve wondered why that is and why you can’t seem to get what you want with the pampered trust-fund boys over at the country club.”

      She glanced around for something to throw, then decided it would be a pity to waste some heirloom against his hard head. And, besides, she’d be playing into every preconception he had of her. “So sure you know it all, don’t you? Except, guess what? I’m no longer some teenaged kid that you can rat out to her parents.”

      He looked at her assessingly, his hazel eyes darkened to a nearly amber color. She could tell from the flare of his nostrils that he had his temper on a very short leash. “Still can’t forgive me for that one, can you?”

      She arched a brow and ignored the way his nearness was coaxing every surface cell in her body into oversensitized awareness. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

      He had the height advantage by a good six inches over her five-foot-eight frame, but she was used to holding her own against three brothers who similarly bested her. “Saying that I can’t forgive you implies I still care about what happened, which I don’t.”

      His lips thinned. “Yeah, and you haven’t seemed to have learned a lesson from it either.”

      “Oh, I learned,” she countered. “I learned I couldn’t trust you.”

      “You were a naive seventeen-year-old kid who’d started hanging out with the wrong crowd. What did you think? That biker boy in that bar was coming on to you because he wanted to take you home to share a root beer?”

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