Somewhere I'll Find You (28 page)

Abruptly, all thought stopped as Paige watched the bathroom door inch open.  Maybe it was an intruder.  Or maybe it was…

Michael eased into the room, silent and cool.  Only his glittering eyes showed his fury.  “Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”  He demanded, crossing his arms.

Paige made a lunge for a towel, missed, than sank low into the now churning water.  “It should be obvious, I would think.  Now get out!”

A muscle flashed at his jaw.  “I didn’t know where you were.  I called a dozen times but you didn’t answer.”

“Next time
,
I’ll post notice.  Right now
,
I have an appointment to get ready for.”  Paige sank lower into the bubbles.  “I’m fine
,
as you can see
. N
ow you can get out.”

But Michael merely angled one broad shoulder against the doorframe.  He was naked from the waist up, black hair darkening the rippling bronze of his chest.  Paige felt her cheeks flame as he studied her from the end of her toes to the damp black hair curling at her neck.  “I got worried when you didn’t answer.  Didn’t you hear me?”

“No! A
re you satisfied?”  Foam sloshed across Paige’s shoulder, skimming the curve of one breast.

His eyes were following that curve very closely.  “Not in the least.”

Paige felt her face begin to burn.

Taking down the towel hanging from the back of the door, Michael muttered a few harsh words before taking a deep breath.  “Get dressed, damn it.  I’ve found something in the attic
that you
need to see.”

Despite herself, Paige found herself interested.  “What is it?”

“You’ll see.”  The towel flew toward her, landing in the scented foam with a soft hiss.

Paige lurched forward, bubbles sculpting her breasts and thighs as she dived to rescue the now sodden towel, and knew without having to look that Michael’s gaze followed her every move.  “Get
out!”
Paige stormed, her cheeks a bright red, the wet towel clamped protectively to her chest and thighs.  “Unless you’d like a broken neck to go with your hard head.”

“It might be worth it,” he said
thoughtfully.  His eyes moved over the towel, her every wet curve molded in that damp, seductive drape.  Then his gaze moved lower to the creamy legs that ran to  . . .

Biting back a cu
rse, he turned away.  “Hurry up. T
hat is
,
unless you would like me to join you and help you burst all those pretty bubbles.”

Somewhere down the hall, Page’s cell began its incessant chime.

“Damned bloody phone.” Jamming his hands into his pockets, Michael strode off, muttering a string of oaths that
left Paige red-faced.  But worst
of all
, she thought,
was the way her heart was slamming as she clutched the damp, totally useless towel to her chest.

Repeating a few of Michael’s curses, Paige stepped out of the now cool bath.  Throwing the damp towel on the floor, she angrily reached on a shelf for the last one. 
Just what did I do to deserve
such a pain in the ass like him?

Slamming Paige’s phone close
d in the kitchen
, Michael cursed fluently.  A wrong damned number.  It was probably an interruption sent at just the right moment, but dear
God
.  His nerves were on edge, his head was pounding, and his shoulder ached from crawling around that damned attic.
  But ignoring a perpetual hard-
on was getting to be old hat. Frowning
,
he remembered how fear had kicked in at her continued silence.  He’d plunged down the stairs like a madman, his head down, his shoulders low in a
textbook
stance as he braced for some concealed enemy.  Even now
,
his nerves were screaming
.

He
made as far as her kitchen before sinking to the floor
, reaching at his side where a revolver
had been
holstered.  He had sworn never to wear one again.  But here he was, making all the old moves.  And no one had been better at those moves than Michael
Sinclair had
.

At least
,
there
hadn’t been, right up to that day in Paris when four armed kidnappers had moved on the car Michael was escorting.  The twin children of one of the
Queen’
s lesser cousins were visiting and
had
wanted to see a horse show.  Michael had shoved the eight-year olds behind him, dropping to one knee as he squeezed
out
six quick shots. It had all happened before he knew it.  When he had turned the bodies over, he discovered that three of the four weren’t far out of their teens.  And the fourth had been a sixteen-year-old girl.

He’d gotten through the rest of the assignment, returning to his flat
,
only to fall apart.  He’d gotten stinking drunk and stayed that way for nearly a week.  After that
, he had arranged for office duty with teams of men
whose only missions were
analyzing possible hot spots.
  He had sworn never to wear a gun again, hadn’t wanted to.  Until now.

Jabbing his fingers through his hair he became ill with old memories.  Outside the window, wind shook the trees that lined the cottage edge.  It was a place where a man could find himself.  A place where solitude forced a man to face his private demons.

Wondering how he’d gotten into such a mess,
t
he
scent of perfumed skin caught his attention
.  Moving to his feet he caught sight of Paige right before a cold, wet towel slapped him in his chest.  Still wrapped in
another
bath towel, she faced him fast and furious.

“Nice aim, Angel.  Almost as nice as those
fantastic
legs of yours.   But come to think of it, I’d prefer the sight of your full . . .”

“I don’t care what you’d prefer.”

His hand rose in surrender.  “I’m all ears.  Well, maybe not
all
ears.  I’m a flesh and blood male, after all.  There are some parts of me that are . . .”

“Shut up!”

Michael complied, crossing his arms as he watched color sweep across her cheeks.  It left him wondering what it would take to make her blush like that again.

In soft, hidden places. Places he would explore and caress . . .

Forget it
,
Sinclair.  It’s all
business;
remember  . . . at least for now.

He took a deep, calming breath. 
“Whatever you say, Paige.  I put myself entirely in your hands.”

Again,
the color rose
in
her cheeks.  “If you did that, you’d be sorry, because right now I’d consider it a great pleasure to snap several little b
ones
into neat little pieces.  And that’s just for starters.”

His brow rose sardonically.  “That sounds like fun.”

“Damn you!”  She hissed, balling her hands into fists.

His eyes watched as her bath towel moved down a delicious inch.  “Hadn’t you
better
get ready?  Unless you’re seeing your aristocratic friend dressed like that.”

Paige tossed him a nasty look.  “You certainly have room to talk,
Lord Ashton
.  But in this case, you’re right
.
I
should go get dressed, because I
am
going to see Richard
, and I’m going alone.”

Later,
as
Paige walked out the door, tugging
on
a rather expensive jacket
, Michael
could
n’t
hel
p admiring how the smoky gold plaid
brought out the turbulence in her eyes.
  A short gray skirt showed legs that even Betty Grable would envy.
  H
owever, he
also noticed the pallor in her face as well as the set of her jaw.  And her attitude.

“Let’s go.”  It wasn’t a suggestion, but a very veiled command that he issued. And they both knew it.

“This is business, and
you’re
not going.”

“From now on, where you go, I go.”

“And what gives you the right to interfere?”

“Interfering is what I do best,” Michael growled.  It was very true.  Interfering was the heart of clos
e protection, because protecting
someone often meant being unpleasant.

It meant pointing out problems,
being nosy, curious, and pushy while you were busy suspecting anyone and everyone.

And he had been damned good at his job.
  Before it had nearly eaten a
hole in his heart
,
that is.

“Your job?  Yo
u mean making my life miserable?
  Look, why don’t you go back to whatever cave you crawled out of and leave me alone!” she snapped.

“Because, like it or not, you need protection and that has always been my job.”

She pushed past him.  “Maybe I don’t
want
protection.”

Grabbing her arm, he swung her arou
nd, his eyes cold and hard.  “Bo
llocks! You’re not stupid, after everyth
ing that’s happened.  D
o you truly want to go anywhere alone? And you’re forgetting one thing.  Whatever is going on, involves both of us now.  That means you don’t go
anywhere
without me.”

Sighing in
exasperation,
she threw up her hands
,
all the while wondering how she could
so easily manage to cow
top people in the movie industry but couldn’t deal with one stubborn Brit.  “Fine, I’m loading up my portfolios for Richard to look at.  If you’re not down by the time I’m finished, I’m leaving without you.”

She had just shoved the last of her drawings into the back of the Cord when Michael strode up the drive.  His long legs ate up the distance, while his casual elegance in an old leather bomber jacket gave him the look of a movie star traveling light.  Mirrored aviator
sunshades
gleamed silver beneath his wild, dark hair.