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“Huh?”
“Shaken, not stirred.”
“Whatever way you want to give it to me.” He reminded himself they were talking about a drink.
After she handed him a martini, she motioned toward a long couch looking out over the lights of the Windy City. Curling a leg under her plush bottom, she slunk into a chair, clunking the gun onto a marble side table.
Brak winced, lapping his coat over the back of the sofa. “Can you point the cap pistol in another direction? You’re careless with that thing, Ms. Ross.”
“Harley.” She spun the weapon until the barrel faced the gigantic picture window. “So my father sent you. The man can’t stay out of my life. I said I didn’t need a bodyguard. I don’t.” She pushed her glasses up with a dainty finger, her nail manicured and polished. “Criminals threaten prosecutors all the time. Comes with the territory. Drink up, say your goodbyes, and get the hell out of Dodge. Or, in this case, Chicago.”
Brak wondered what he should do now. If he released a whiff of pheromones, she’d want him to stick around. For a lot more than to be a bodyguard. Besides, that would be cheating. He needed to approach the situation as a professional. Reason with the chick. “Sometimes parents are right. Perhaps you do need some muscle.”
She took a drink, sighing, relaxing further into her chair. “Nope.”
Brak stared out the window. “Maybe it would ease your father’s mind.”
“Not my responsibility.” Another sip, her moist lips kissable.
“I understand the mobster you’re trying threatened to send a hitman.”
“Don’t care.” She pointed at her gun. “Got it covered. You’ll get in my way.”
Most females begged for Brak to stick around, preferring him naked and lying on top of them. A carnal demon had no shortage of bed partners. One or more a day was his SOP. But this human. Damn. Rejection was strange. Was she blind as well as stubborn? Almost upsetting. Insulting.
Before he voiced another logical reason to stay, a shadow caught his eye. A male shouldering an assault rifle dropped into view outside the window. Brak leaped from the couch, rushed Harley, and slammed her to the floor.
Glass shattered when the gunman sent a bullet through it. Brak crawled behind the sofa with her tucked under him. He face-planted her into the thick carpet. “Stay put.”
He drew a Glock and fired. Too late. The male zip-lined from view. Brak bolted from the apartment at top speed, charging through the hall, racing up the stairs to the roof, plowing through a flimsy door to find a helo waiting for the asshole attacker. With Brak’s bullets glancing off it, the craft took to the air, deserting the shooter who only now cleared the ledge on his trip from Harley’s condo.
Brak dived behind an exhaust unit when the male launched a few rounds in his direction. They pinged off metal. Gathering his strength, he barreled forward, his legs chewing up the ground while he pulled the butterfly swords from their sheaths. The gunman was too startled to get off another shot, bug-eyed and mouth hanging open. Brak swiped a blade across his neck, sending his head thudding onto the tarred rooftop.
No muss. No fuss. Just how I like it.
Taking in the carnage, he tapped his D-chip, calling for a mind-wiper in case he’d been seen and a clean-up crew. Right now, he raced back to Harley.
Good girl.
She was exactly where he’d left her, nose down smelling the carpet, ass up. He crouched beside her, drawing her trembling body into his arms. “Still think I’m a useless appendage?”
She burrowed her face into his neck, her hands clutching his shirt. “Not completely. You can stay if you promise to keep out of my way. Let me work.”
“Thank you.” Brak stroked along her spine as she lifted her head. When her glasses slipped down her nose, he pushed them up for her. “That’s kind of you to accept my help.”
Stubborn.
“I like your cologne,” she whispered.
Fuck.
“I don’t wear the stuff.” He had accidentally released a shot of pheromones.
Harley closed her eyes. Her chest expanded with a deep breath, and a dreamy smile curled her lips. “Your soap then. Nice.” Her hand caressed his arm.
Double fuck.
Brak wiped sweat off his forehead while he fought to control himself. Harley Ross was dangerous. And the gunman was no ordinary being, no mob hitman. Nope. He was a fucking satyr. Brak had questions to ask the female.
