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“Actually, it is mine,” she admitted. “And I’ve had more like a dozen different jobs.”
“A dozen?” he blurted. And he thought his youngest brother had had trouble finding his niche. Jason had bounced around for a year after college, but he’d eventually settled on law and was now in his second year of law school.
“Or more,” she added sheepishly as she turned another corner. “Give or take three or four.”
“Such as . . . ?” he asked out of sheer curiosity.
“Well, let’s see. I was a baker’s assistant, a loan officer, pet sitter, dog walker, document clerk, file clerk, receptionist, paper hanger. I really liked the benefits, so I did that for almost a year, but the summers were miserable. In college I was a school bus driver, cafeteria helper, cashier, fine-dining waitress, cocktail waitress—the tips were phenomenal for both of those.”
She slowed the car, made a left into a driveway beside a Pueblo-style duplex and cut the engine. “Oh, and a process server,” she added. “But I was shot at once, so I quit.”
Noah stared at her, this adorably sexy, resilient woman, and didn’t know what to think of her. He’d never known anyone quite like her. “When exactly did you fit in the training to become a personal bodyguard?”
She pulled the keys from the ignition and dropped them into her purse. She looked at him, a curious expression on her lightly tanned face. “Oh, I’m not a bodyguard. I’m the Primo go-to girl.”
CHAPTER 3
Alyssa left the kitchen door open for Chas. No sense ditching a couple of tough-looking numbers only to leave them the prize goose sitting in the driveway—should they actually have the ability to track down her home address so quickly. Which she doubted.
She stopped on the threshold and looked back to make sure he was coming. Satisfied once he exited the car, and with his garment bag in tow, she bee-lined a quick trip to the bathroom. By the time she washed her hands, she heard him moving around her living room.
He certainly was a nosy one for an accountant, she thought as she snagged her makeup kit and blow dryer from the cabinet before dashing into her bedroom. The guy might be the new object of her fantasies for, oh, say the next fifty years, but half the time he’d questioned her, she couldn’t shake the sensation she was being interrogated.
Oh, well. Maybe it was an accountant thing. Her experience with number crunchers wasn’t all that vast. Or pleasant. Most of them were nerdy and didn’t possess very good people skills.
She glanced around her bedroom, trying to remember where she’d put her weekender bag. Since she hadn’t had much of an opportunity to travel anywhere lately, it took her a few minutes to figure out where she’d last seen the bag.
She stood in front of the closet and frowned. Her duplex was an old Pueblo style built in the thirties with a lot of built-in cabinetry, and the closets were no exception. There were two drawers below and a cabinet above the actual closet space, which was enclosed by two sliding doors that never slid when she wanted them to.
/> She eyed the closet skeptically. She could attempt to stand on the drawer base, but she was barely tall enough to reach the cabinet. Even with the whole extra foot or so of added height, she’d struggle to open the cabinet doors. For all of three seconds she considered asking the hottest freaking accountant she’d ever encountered to help, but quickly discarded that possibility. No way did she want him anywhere near her bedroom. Or her bed, for that matter. She just might throw herself at him, and God knew he probably already thought she was two shots short of a martini.
“And a bartender,” she called out to him, remembering yet another short-lived job. She eyed the inexpensive desk chair with determination. It might work.
Crossing the bedroom to her writing desk, she leaned over it to peek out the window. She breathed a sigh of relief when she spied no sign of a dark sedan lurking outside.
Convinced they were safe for the time being, she rolled the rickety swivel chair to the closet. Carefully, she balanced on the seat and slowly straightened to her full height.
The chair wobbled, then settled. She went up on her tiptoes and gave the built-in cabinet door a yank. The door wouldn’t budge.
“Did you say something?”
The sound of a man’s voice in her bedroom startled her. The chair started to swivel and she lost her balance. She grabbed the door handle, but the chair shot out from under her. She let out a high-pitched squeal as she landed flat on her ass for the second time that day.
The chair crashed into the dresser. Several perfume and lotion bottles clattered and rolled. Luckily, Chas reached out to keep them from rolling onto the floor, or worse, her head.
“Uh . . . sorry,” he said.
Alyssa didn’t move, too stunned by the sight of the accountant in her bedroom. He took up all the space, and the oxygen, too, because she strugled to breathe. She rose up on her knees and rubbed at the spot on her rump that had taken the most abuse.
Something in his eyes immediately changed. If she wasn’t convinced she was nuts for even thinking along those lines, she’d have sworn she saw the first light of desire sparking in his get-lost-in-me green eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice husky and low and loaded with sex.
“Of course I’m okay,” she answered, annoyed with herself for being turned on by the sound of the man’s voice.
He moved around the dresser to extend his hand to help her up. “Are you sure?”
“I’ll live.” She grabbed hold of his hand and frowned. The most delightful sensation traveled up her arm and down to her breasts to settle right in her nipples. Damn if they didn’t stand right up and beg for some intimate attention.
Gently, she tugged her hand free before her entire body ignited into flames. White-hot, searing flames, the kind only hot, raunchy sex could extinguish.
