Rogue Bodyguard (Lone Star Security #15)

Chapter 1

Are there flames coming from under my hood?

No. That has to be my imagination. Only the smell is horrific.

I’m on fire.

Gravel explodes around my tires, hitting the fender wells when I skid to a stop at the edge of the road.

Oh my god. This is bad.

The inferno is growing by the second. Flames are all around the hood and side fenders now. My new Dodge dually burning like a marshmallow that’s reached the combustion point.

Panicked, I pull my shirt over my nose and leap from the truck cursing the fact that I got out of bed today. “Dammit! Why me?!”

My mind sifts through all the fire education I have stored in the recesses of my brain as I race around the back of the truck.

Never throw water on a grease fire. Smother the fire when it’s on a person. Smoke rises so you crawl on the floor to the exit.

None of that applies. I don’t even have a fire extinguisher with me because it’s in my old truck.

As if this isn’t bad enough, the sole of my boot slips out as I reach the passenger-side back door.

Gravel and dirt bite into my skin, but I’m so jacked on adrenaline, I barely register the fall and leap up, grabbing the scorching hot door handle. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

Get the saddle.

Get the clothing.

A coughing fit hits me as I’m dragging my favorite trick saddle from the back seat of the truck.

Jesus. It’s hot.

Too hot to be close to the truck at all.

I step back to catch my breath, sweat pouring down from my hairline, so grateful I wasn’t towing my horse trailer when this happened.

Okay, this has to be fast. If I’m going to save anything else, it has to be now.

I grit my teeth and lunge for the truck again. But a second later I’m in the air, hurtling backward.

What—

My mind tries to blame this on an explosion. But there’s no boom, unless you count the yelling in my ear. “What the fuck were you doing?”

Coughing.

That’s what I was doing.

But since I’m coughing again, there’s no way to reply as I’m toted off against a man’s chest.

Somehow he juggles me, grabs my saddle and trots to a black Ford F-350 that’s parked a hundred yards behind what was my vehicle. All without breathing hard.

“Can you breathe?” he demands, his scowl vicious as he looks down at me when he drops me on my feet.

“Yes I can breathe!”

Fury is bubbling in my veins like the plastic melting from my engine compartment. “What the hell did you do that for?”

His eyes wide. “I was saving your ass.”

I shove the man who has to be at least 6’6” tall, taking off for the truck. Coughing a few times on the way as I run back toward my Dodge.

Those new rodeo clothes can’t burn. The biggest event of my career is just five days away. I’d never be able to replace them.

“Stop running!”

I cut a glance over my shoulder. Oh no. He’s… really fast.

There’s another fifty yards in front of me when he snags my elbow, halting me with a hard stop against his chest.

Jesus. You’d think he was wrangling a cow. Not a woman half his size.

What little air I have is knocked right out of me.

“You’re out of your freaking mind.” He’s popping veins left and right. His neck. His temples. Hopefully in his neanderthal brain.

“Let go!” I wheeze, “Get off me, you big idiot!”

“The truck is totaled!” he bellows back, his shout blowing back the damp tendrils of my hair.

Grrr. This jerk. I stiffen my spine, stand up to my full five-ten and snarl right back. “That’s my truck. And those are my belongings. And I’m going to get them out.”

You would think I just told him I was going to fly to Mars on a bottle rocket.

“The fuck you are,” he growls.

Before I can react, he’s snatched me off the ground. Carrying me under one arm like a damned sack of feed.

“Put me down!” I scream, vocal cords tattered from smoke and anger.

Only he doesn’t listen. No amount of kicking, wiggling or screaming stops him.

At least not until we’re beside his truck, where my saddle is lying on the ground as a reminder of everything else that I’m losing if I can’t save the duffel bag on the back seat.

When he deposits my boots on the earth this time, he backs me against his Ford using his gigantic frame like a stone wall.

“Listen here, River.” His eyes glimmer, his head tilts, and he bites out every word. “You’re not going near that truck on my watch. Forget it.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

I’m shaking mad.

He’s breathing hard, nostrils flaring, pure fire glinting in eyes that could be lava, they’re so dark. “I’m the man who just kept you from getting yourself blown to goddamn bits.”

“The truck hasn’t exploded.” I push against a chest that’s part stone, all heat, and broad enough to block out the sun. “Now get out of my way.”

He moves fast. Before I realize what’s happening, the gigantic, angry stranger captures both of my wrists in one of his hands.

Uh…

My heart skitters behind my ribs, reacting wildly at the aggressive move.

No, not just aggressive, but shockingly intimate.

Wrong word.

Not intimate.

Infuriating.

Erotic?

Oh my god. What is happening to me right now?

“Take your hand off of my wrists,” I wheeze, and this time my lungs are useless from vexation, not smoke.

“No.”

No? I blink up at him angrily.

But he seems unaffected by stares or curses, so I kick his shin with all my might. Planting my Ariat cowgirl boot with intent.

He doesn’t even flinch. But there’s a reaction in his eyes. A smolder.

Oh no. Not happening. Body, you are not allowed to respond to this monster.

A hint of a grin tightens the corners of his stupidly attractive lips—the kind that are hard, but soft and surrounded by scruff. As this happens, the band he’s made with his hand tightens around my wrists.

The words he pairs with those movements are equally as effective at setting off my alarms. “You like to play rough, kitten?”

He didn’t…

For a few seconds I breathe hard, until I can shove out five words. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Oh, I know. Your body gave it away before you could put up that shield of anger. And don’t even think about kicking me in the balls. You’ll have real trouble on your hands.”

Good idea. I should have aimed there the first time. But he’s got me hemmed in.

Unfortunately he’s really strong. I tug my hands using all my strength to get free from the heat of his grip. But he holds fast.

And if he doesn’t want to let go, there’s no chance I’ll be able to get away.

I might be a pro rodeo rider, my body is strong, my hands are working hands, but he’s twice my size.

Whoever this tool is, he’s BIG. All over. Including the hip, which has a ridiculously muscled thigh attached to it. Which happens to be between my legs, keeping me pressed against his truck.

Do not think about that!

“Now, mind your manners while I call the fire in,” he mutters as he pulls out his cell phone from his back pocket, his pelvis is still grinding against mine. The motion is even more arousing as he deals with the phone. I almost make a sound, and I’m scared it might be a moan.

Christ.

New beads of sweat pepper my hairline and this time it’s ninety percent anger, ten percent arousal.

“Good, you call 911.” I laugh harshly, feeling more than a little insane. “I’m going to scream that I’m being held against my will by some crazy maniac.”

“You’d be accurate.”

He stares me down as the call goes through and the 911 operator’s voice carries over the line. But when I open my mouth to scream…he’s leaning down next to my ear whispering two low, rough words.

“Caleb Allison.”

His targeted strike snags the sound in my throat.

How does he know my brother’s name?

It registers a second later, while he’s still talking to the emergency operator, that he said my name a few moments ago.

This man knows me and knows my brother.

In a professional, clipped tone, he reports the fire—just the facts—and hangs up.

Screaming feels like a dangerous risk. What if this man is going to do something to Caleb? I need to find out.

A new wave of anger floods through me, a metallic tang in my throat from the fresh dose of adrenaline heightening my senses.

When I tug against his grip this time, he lets go, stepping a few feet away from me. Robbing me of the mind-scrambling pressure of his pelvis against mine, and the ride of his thigh pressing against the seam of my jeans in the most obscene way.

Now I can think.

I always think better when I’m moving. Pacing in a tight circle, I stare at the ruins of my new Dodge dually, focusing on the real facts here.

My life just got turned on its ear. This man knows my brother’s name. There’s nowhere for me to go. This spot is twenty miles in either direction to any reasonable population that doesn’t have horns.

When I look back at him, he’s a sharpened weapon in a predator’s posture, gaze scanning everywhere. The hillsides, the truck fire that has now completely destroyed my belongings, and back to me.

There’s a raw, hardened energy about him.

“Hey,” I swallow roughly, choking on a tumbleweed of fear and frustration. “How do you know my brother’s name?”