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“I know. But until your knee heals, you can’t do it, can you?”
Dante gritted his teeth. Why the hell did those words sound so emasculating? He’d hurt himself during a freaking rescue. And tonight, he’d saved her ass.
“I should be cleared for duty in a few weeks.”
“Come on tour with me,” she said again. “As soon as your knee is better, go back to doing what you love. Until then, you can teach me to fight like a SEAL. When you leave, you’ll know that I’ll be able to take care of myself, because I learned from the best.”
“Flattery won’t help, Chrissie.”
“Please.” She glanced at the door and tightened her hold on her sister. “I need you.”
Ah, hell.
“Fine, but—”
“Your rules,” she said with a triumphant smile. “I know.”
Which includes steering clear of your bed.
If he didn’t, if he ended up back in her room and spent another night on her freaking loveseat, he couldn’t guarantee his heart would survive this mission. And he couldn’t protect the people who needed him—including America’s country sweetheart—if he was distracted by desire. The job had to come first. Always.
His phone rang. He looked down at the screen and saw Ronan’s name. He answered the call and started talking, filling in his teammate. Mason burst into the room moments later, followed by a member of Las Vegas’s finest. And Dante didn’t have another minute to focus on the fact that he’d agreed to spend the rest of his leave teaching a country starlet how to fight like a SEAL.
Chapter Eight
I’m not going to die of boredom, that’s for damn sure.
Dante stared into the hallway, his brain temporarily misfiring. Part of him wanted to drag the woman on the other side of the door into his room. And the other…hell, he wasn’t sure if his common sense had made the trip to Portland.
The Chrissie Tate tour had packed up and left Vegas yesterday. Dante had flown with the star herself and Mason, her manager, to Oregon for the next show. The crew would follow with the gear, arriving in time for tomorrow night’s concert. And against Dante’s recommendation, Chrissie’s mother and little sister would also be joining them for not only tomorrow’s show, but for the rest of the West Coast leg of Chrissie Tate’s national tour.
Dante had been in his hotel room for all of ten minutes before he heard a knock. And then he’d opened the door…
“I thought I told you to stay in your room.” He growled at the woman determined to drag him around the country. But hell, if she showed up dressed like this at every stop, it might be worth it. If he wasn’t responsible for her safety, he’d probably welcome her in and toss aside his plans to avoid flings—in Vegas or anywhere else.
“Don’t worry.” Chrissie brushed the strands on her Morticia Addams wig over her shoulder and walked into the room. “No one recognized me.”
But he’d bet damn near anything they’d seen and remembered her. Because, instead of matching the long black-haired wig with a conservative dress, she’d opted for a black tutu, a skintight off-the-shoulder black shirt, fishnet stockings, and knee-high black patent leather boots with skyscraper stiletto heels. A worn black backpack completed the outfit.
Country music’s current sweetheart looked like she was dressed for a stripper’s funeral. Sure, it covered more of her gorgeous body than the maid outfit, but not much.
“How many people saw you like this?” he demanded. And were they male?
“A couple of guys in the elevator.” She shrugged. “They didn’t even give me a second glance. This is my punk rock disguise. And that’s big here.”
Dante didn’t give a damn what she called her outfit. It was sexy as hell. Those guys in the elevator? They were probably dreaming about her boots—while stroking one off.
“So you rotate through these getups?” he said. If she’d worn that maid outfit beyond her hotel room…
“Don’t worry,” she said. “The French maid outfit was just for you. The other night, well, I thought you were leaving. And before you went…”
“You wanted to try your hand at seduction?” he supplied.
“Yes. But I lied about needing help with disguises. Ever since the tour launched, I’ve been using different wigs and outfits when I don’t want to deal with fans. It doesn’t help when they run at me with a knife. But in an elevator? The wigs work like a charm.”
He closed the door and silently swore he wouldn’t fantasize about her boots, her legs, or any other piece of her after he returned her to the hotel’s presidential suite.
But, as soon as he turned to face her, he knew he’d break his own promise. Chrissie was perched on the edge of his bed, bent at the waist as she unzipped her right boot.
