Beg For Me by Sierra Cartwright

Chapter One

“You all right, Mira?”

For three years, six months, and twelve days, Torin Carter had haunted Mira Araceli’s days and teased her nights.

Jonathan, the personal trainer she worked with when she was staying in New Orleans, snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Mira?”

His proximity, along with the sharp sound, finally broke through her runaway thoughts, and she shook head to clear it of the distraction that was her former Hawkeye instructor.

What the hell was wrong with her? She shouldn’t have checked out mentally, even for a fraction of a second. In the wrong circumstances, it could mean the difference between survival and death. “Sorry.” With a smile meant to be reassuring, she met his eyes.

For most of her life, she’d practiced yoga. Five years ago, she’d learned to meditate. Yet when it came to Torin, she never remembered to use her skills.

“Something on your mind?”

“Was.There was. I’m good to go now.” She was almost done with the final set—squatting over two hundred pounds. She could do this. Right? In a couple of minutes, she’d be out of here and headed for the house where she would spend the next nine weeks living with her nemesis.

How the hell had this even happened? Hawkeye required all instructors—even the head of the program—to spend time in the field to keep their skills sharp. But for them to be assigned to the same team…?

“Ready?” Jonathan asked. “You have three more reps.”

With single-minded focus, she tucked way thoughts of her demanding and mysterious former instructor.

Jonathan scowled. “You sure everything’s okay?”

She got in position, adjusted her grip, then took a breath.

“Hold up.” He nudged one of her feet.

“Thanks.” After executing the squat, watching her form, breathing correctly, she racked the bar and stepped away. No matter what she wanted to believe, thoughts of Torin had wormed past her defenses to dominate her thoughts. “I’m calling it.”

Jonathan nodded. “Good plan.” He checked his clipboard. “See you back the day after tomorrow?”

“Six a.m. I won’t miss it.” She grabbed her water bottle, took a swig, then headed for the locker room. This was the first time in her adult life that she’d cut a workout short.

Mira showered, then took longer than normal with her makeup. Long enough to piss her off. Frustrated, she shoved the cap back onto her lipstick and dropped it in her bag.

Even though she routinely had male partners, she wasn’t in the habit of primping. Of course, she’d never had an all-consuming attraction to one of them before.

Torin Carter wasn’t just gorgeous. As her VIP Protective Services instructor, he’d been tougher on her than anyone ever had been, demanding her very best, harshly grading her work. It was his job to make her a stellar agent or cut her from the program. He hadn’t known that failure was never a possibility.

During her training, he’d never shown anything beyond a hard-ass, impersonal interaction toward her. Except for that night at Thump.

When he’d caught her in that choke hold, she’d struggled, elbowing him, attempting to stomp on his foot. His commanding voice had subdued her, and when she stopped struggling, she noticed his arms around her.

Even though he loosened his hold, Torin didn’t release her right away like other instructors had. And in a reaction that was wholly unlike her, she tipped her head back and relaxed into him, seeking comfort, a brief respite from the relentless and grueling training exercises. For a moment, she forgot about her job, stopped noticing the fog and pandemonium around them.

She thought—maybe—that he experienced an echoing flare, but he pushed her away, with a harsh indictment of her skills.

Drowning in rejection and embarrassment, she squared her shoulders and locked away her ridiculous unrequited emotions and vowed never to examine them again.

Even though she’d graduated years ago and hadn’t heard his name since, he was never far away. Frustratingly, she thought of him every time she went out on a date. It was as if her subconscious was weighing and measuring all men against him.

The comparisons even happened when she scened at a BDSM club.

Torin was everything she wanted a Dom to be—uncompromising, strong, intelligent…and, at the right time, reassuring. In his arms, in that coatroom, she’d discovered he was capable of tenderness. Maybe if she’d only seen him be an ass, he would have been easier to forget.

Surviving Torin might be her greatest test ever.

Mira dragged her hair back over her shoulder and stared at herself in the mirror. “You.” She pointed at her reflection. “You’re smarter this time. Wiser. More in control.”

A blonde emerged from one of the shower stalls. “Man problems?”

Embarrassed, Mira lifted a shoulder. She hadn’t realized her words would be overheard.

“Isn’t it always?” the woman asked.

For other people, not her. “That’s the thing. It never has been until now.”

“I see you here all the time. You’re tough. Whatever it is, you can handle it.”

Mira hoped so. She smiled at the other woman. “Thank you. I needed that pep talk.” After blotting her lipstick, she gathered her belongings, exited the gym, then strode across the parking lot to her car.

She and Torin were scheduled to rendezvous at seven p.m. at Hawkeye’s mansion in the Garden District. Since it was equipped with modern security both inside and out, he preferred his high-value clients utilize it when they visited NOLA. In addition to eight bedrooms, there was a spacious carriage house apartment for use by security personnel.

The grounds were spectacular, with a large outdoor swimming pool, a concrete courtyard with plenty of lounge chairs, tables, and umbrellas. Potted plants provided splashes of color, while numerous trees offered privacy as well as shade.

She’d stayed on the property several times, including earlier this year for Mardi Gras while she was working the detail for an A-list actor. She planned to arrive before Torin so she could select her bedroom, get settled, have the upper hand. Any advantage, no matter how small, was a necessity.

Since it was still early afternoon, she managed the traffic with only the usual snarls.

After passing the biometric security system at the gate, she drove onto the property.

More confident now, she grabbed her gear, then jogged up the stairs to enter the code on the keypad. A moment later, the lock turned, and she opened the door.

Torin stood in the middle of the main living space, arms folded, damn biceps bulging. His rakishly long black hair was damp, and the atmosphere sizzled with his scent, that of crisp moonlit nights. He swept his gaze over her, and it took all her concentration to remain in place as he assessed her with his shockingly blue eyes.

When he tipped his head to the side, reaction flooded her. Her knees wobbled, and she dropped her duffel bag off her shoulder and lowered her gear to the hardwood floor to disguise her too-real, too-feminine reaction.

His jaw was set, his mouth compressed. There was no way to tell what he was thinking.

How the hell had he arrived before she had? For her not to have seen his car, he must have parked it in the garage. She gave a quick, smart nod, being as stoic as he was. “Commander Carter.”

“At present, we’re partners. So make it Carter. Or Torin.”

Not a chance.No way was she allowing herself to be on intimate terms with him.

Mira turned to close the door and dragged in a deep breath. She was early. Hours and hours early, yet he had the upper hand. As always. Before facing him, she exhaled, focusing on controlling her pulse rate.

“I took the first bedroom.”

Not having any other choice, she nodded. “I’ll bunk in the back one.” Which left an empty one between them

“The fridge is stocked, and so is the pantry, but I figured we’d go to the grocery store together for additional items.”

“I’ll give you a list of what I need.”

“Still not a team player, Araceli?”

Fuck you.“Still critiquing every little thing I do, Carter?” She squared her chin. She’d passed every one of his damn tests.

“Your loss.” He shrugged. “I was going to buy you dinner while we were out. There’s a place in the French Quarter, on Chartres Street. Their Taste of New Orleans platter is divine.”

He was a foodie?

“Crawfish étouffée, gumbo, jambalaya. And a loaf of fresh hot bread.”

Damn him, he’d named some of her favorite dishes. Eating was one of the reasons she’d asked to work out of the Southern office. And when she’d received her assignment, she’d bought a house nearby.

“Up to you.” He lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “Can’t starve yourself while you’re here.”

Eat when you can. Sleep when you can. One of the first things she’d learned as a Hawkeye recruit. Calls for action never arrived when expected. Or convenient. More than once, she’d been up more than twenty-four hours with no food and limited water.

As if on cue, her stomach growled. The protein bar she’d eaten before her workout had long since been metabolized. Logic told her not to be stubborn. After all, she was going to share a majority of her meals with Torin for the foreseeable future.

“Come on, Araceli. I won’t bite.” His grin was quick and lethal.

Damn him. Part of her wished he would. It might help get rid of the tension crawling through her so she could move on, forget him. There was no way any man could be as hot as she believed he would be.

“We’ll go as coworkers. I promise, no critiques.”

“Okay. Fine.” She exhaled. “Give me half an hour to get settled.” Mira grabbed her belongings and escaped to the back bedroom.

It took her each one of those thirty minutes to regain her composure.

When she rejoined him, he was at the kitchen table, doing something on his computer. “Ready?” he asked, pushing back.

“Yes.” It was a total lie, and her half smile was a total fake.

He drove them to the French Quarter in his gloss-white SUV, and he handled traffic without getting frustrated, making her wonder if he ever betrayed ordinary human emotion.

“You don’t like me,” she said, wanting to get it out of the way.

“Like you?” He slid her a quick glance. “Never thought about it.”

She sank a little in her leather seat. This was another time that maybe she should have kept her mouth shut.

“But respect you? Very much. I think you have a lot of talent.”

“You were damn tough on me.”

He didn’t respond.

“In training.” It had bothered her. Other recruits didn’t receive as much of his attention as she did. It had been difficult not to take it personally.

“You scare me.”

She blinked, then stared at him.

“You’re a good agent. Great instincts.”

“But…?” Mira raked her hair back from her forehead. Why was she doing this to herself?

“You’re a maverick. As if you’ve got something to prove.” He was silent for so long, she wondered if he was going to say anything more. “You remind me of someone.” He shrugged. “She got herself killed.”

Breath rushed out of her lungs. “I’m cautious.”

He checked the mirrors before looking at her again. “So was she. And I still fucking buried her.”

Though she squirmed beneath the intensity in his gaze, she defended herself. “I’m me, Commander. Don’t confuse me with anyone else.”

He lifted a shoulder but returned his attention to the road.

Agreeing to go out with him had been stupid. They weren’t ordinary coworkers. He was still the trainer who found her lacking.

Maybe what bothered her was that he was at least partially right. She did have something to prove. Her father’s voice was always in her head, whispering that she wasn’t good enough, that she’d never measure up.

That Torin had seen her determination to prove her dad wrong scared the hell out of her.

She leaned back against the headrest. This assignment promised to be challenging and grueling, maybe the worst of her career.

* * *

Two weeks later

Together,Mira and Torin exited the vehicle provided by Hawkeye Security, then checked the surroundings as they walked around to the back of the Maison Sterling hotel.

Passersby continued down the sidewalk, most likely unaware that the door was used only by VIPs and a handful of residents of the exclusive building. “I’ll let Barstow know we’re in position.”

Torin nodded, then walked away to check the rest of the perimeter.

After their uncomfortable discussion on the first night, he’d treated her as a trusted partner. They’d worked together well, and they swapped out the lead position, based on what seemed best for the situation at hand. When she was in charge, he never second-guessed her judgment.

The only unfortunate thing was that it was a slow time of the year, which meant they had too much downtime together. He’d been closemouthed about his personal life, avoiding her questions about family and friends. If he ever made personal calls, she was unaware of them. She and her best friend, Hallie, had gone out for happy hour a couple of times, but as far as Mira knew, he hadn’t gotten together with anyone.

What he did do was exercise, a lot…to the point of exhaustion. He ran every morning. And he swam lap after lap while wearing a stupidly tight, stupidly small black swimsuit. Most men wore trunks, but not Torin. The constant sight of his tanned, ripped body rocketed her hormones into overdrive. Work and hitting the gym herself were the only distractions she had.

She dialed the phone, and when the team leader answered, she said, “Araceli and Carter are onsite.”

“Guessing another half hour?” Barstow replied. “They’re waiting for another bottle of tequila to be delivered.”

“Roger that.” Not a surprise. Celebrity protection came with a lot of delays.

“I’ll keep you posted,” Barstow promised.

She ended the call and pocketed the phone. “Approximately another thirty minutes,” she told Torin when he returned.

Tonight’s assignment was backing up the security team for The Crush, a mega-artist. Recognized as one of the biggest mainstream hip-hop artists in the country, he’d recently won a major music award. Because of his popularity, he had numerous endorsements, and had just finished an acting gig on a hit television show. As far as fame profiles went, this man was at the pinnacle.

Right now, he was taking a week off from his three-month-long tour and had decided to spend a night in the French Quarter before catching a flight to the Caribbean. As charismatic as he was generous and gregarious, The Crush wanted to please his fans. As a result, he signed lots of autographs and posed for pictures. When he went out, he sometimes posted his whereabouts on social media. Which meant protecting him was a security headache.

This evening, he had late dinner reservations and planned to take in some live music afterward. Since it was a Friday night, the crowds were going to be thick and boisterous. “But I’m guessing it’s going to be closer to an hour.”

“I wouldn’t bet against you,” Torin replied.

Despite the fact that it was only the end of April, the Southern air was thick and clammy. She’d already been in her bed reading when the call for backup came in.

Mira had opted for slacks and boots, along with a light blue button-down shirt. Since she didn’t know what to expect tonight, she’d pulled on a blazer that would hold her phone and her stun gun, cleverly disguised as a lipstick container. Though discreet, its four million watts were surprisingly effective.

A droplet of moisture arrowed down her neck, and she lifted her ponytail for a moment.

“We’ve got plenty of time. You might as well head inside. Find some air-conditioning,” Torin suggested.

Not a bad idea. “I’ll stay close.”

While Torin remained at his post, she wandered to the front of the hotel. Before entering, she glanced up at the historic brick building with its wrought-iron accents. It didn’t take much effort to spot The Crush and several members of his group on a balcony. He held a glass, raised. As usual, he wore a fedora set at a jaunty angle. His white shirt—stark against his ebony skin—was held together by only the bottom two buttons. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but she was certain there was a shine on his muscular, shaved chest.

She pushed through the enormous revolving glass door, then stepped into the old-world—and blessedly cool—elegance of the Maison Sterling.

The front desk had no line, and a few couples were seated in leather chairs, sipping drinks.

An actual bar was farther in, and she walked toward it. Maybe it would be a unique destination on her next happy hour outing with Hallie. Mira scanned the posted menu, looking for her favorite, a hurricane. Of course, the Maison had its own version of the quintessential New Orleans drink. It was called the Cat Five, and featured five different kinds of rum instead of the traditional two. She loved the fruity cocktail, but this one was more than twice the price that she usually paid.

Of course, her favorite haunts didn’t cater to Hollywood A-listers, musicians, politicians, or members of a rumored secret society.

“Would you like a table, ma’am?” the hostess asked.

She wished she could take a seat at the bar and enjoy the rest of the evening. Instead, Mira shook her head. “Thanks. No.” Now that she’d cooled off, she exited into the wet, blanket-like atmosphere. Somehow, it was worse now than it had been.

The Crush was throwing Mardi Gras beads to a small crowd of women who’d gathered on the street.

She strode back to the valet stand. “You need to get the people onto the sidewalk.”

“Losing battle.”

No doubt. “Doesn’t mean it’s okay to ignore it.” She walked back inside, to the front desk, then rapped her knuckles on the polished wood surface. “I need a manager.”

When the man finally arrived, she glanced over her shoulder, indicating the front door. “Get those people out of here before someone gets hurt and you have a damn lawsuit on your hands.”

“I’ll handle it, ma’am.”

Satisfied, but tossing a glare at the valet, she walked to the back of the building.

Of course, Torin was still in place, still as alert as he always was, seemingly impervious to the humidity or the distractions all around them. And as always, she had an all too feminine reaction to him.

Damn it all three ways to hell, why did he have to look so good?

Beneath a casual blazer, he wore his perennial black T-shirt. Because she’d seen him emerge from the bathroom last night after his shower wearing nothing more than a towel around his waist, she knew his muscular body was nicked by scars, some nicely healed, others that looked as if they’d never received attention. Unfortunately for her, they added to his mystique and the power he held over her.

After she went to bed, she’d had disturbing dreams, haunted by images of him—ordering her to her knees, fisting his hand in her hair as he forced her to look up at his darkly brooding face.

In one dream, he’d pinned her on the floor and yanked off her pants as she’d screamed yes over and over again. She’d awakened, out of breath, shaking, heart racing. Overwhelmed, she’d tossed back the blankets, jumped out of bed, then spent twenty minutes on the exercise bike before standing beneath the shower’s hot spray until the water heater had been drained. Still, it had taken another hour to fall asleep again.

When he met her gaze, the phantom memory returned, with a flame threatening to devour her.

She wasn’t sure what, but she needed to do something to get this man out of her thoughts.

“All good?”

“He’s tossing beads from the balcony.” She shrugged. “I talked to a manager.”

A car honked, and brakes squealed.

Biting out a curse, she grabbed her phone and called the Hawkeye team leader. “Shut him down,” she instructed.

When Barstow agreed, she looked at Torin again. “It’s going to be impossible to get The Crush out of the hotel without getting mobbed.” Which was probably okay with him.

A couple of minutes later, a small group of women walked around the building to stand near them.

“What are you waiting for?” Mira asked.

“The Crush.” A blonde in faded denim shorts that had strategic holes in them held her cell phone in front of her camera ready. “You’re with him, right?” the blonde asked.

“Nah. Just hanging out,” Torin replied easily, not moving away from the building.

“You’re a bodyguard.”

“We do this all the time,” the tallest of the group added. “There will be a hundred people in the lobby, waiting, but he won’t go through there. And they all have people who say the same thing you do.”

“You got us, then.” Torin smiled. “Could be a long wait. Don’t know that he’s planning to go out tonight.”

“They all say that too,” the blonde stated.

Clearly, the fan was an expert.

Local police arrived to usher fans off the streets and onto the sidewalks, and fortunately someone managed to get The Crush back inside his room. Even though an hour ticked past, the women at the back door never budged.

The blonde, however, reapplied her lipstick for the third time. Not believing her friend that it looked fine, she took a selfie to check for herself.

In her pocket, Mira’s phone vibrated with a message. As she pulled out the device, Torin was also checking his.

The principal’s on the move.

A stretch limo,one meant to accommodate a party of twenty, double-parked near the exit, ignoring honking cars.

Though neither Torin nor Mira spoke, the blonde moved several feet closer to the exit. Mira sidled in, putting herself between the woman and the door.

Torin pushed away from the building.

“That means he’s coming!” the brunette exclaimed.

Mira shrugged. Saying anything seemed pointless.

“Oh my God!” The blonde squealed. “He just posted a picture of himself standing near the elevator.”

Almost all of the celebrities Mira worked with preferred to go out incognito. They donned ball caps and sunglasses and didn’t broadcast their whereabouts.

This man, though, fed off the frenzy.

It promised to be a really long night.

Instead of emerging at a brisk pace like most protectees, The Crush strolled out, flanked by his entourage, four Hawkeye agents, and what looked to be two of his own bodyguards.

When the blonde screamed out his name and shouted, “I love you!” he stopped and smiled.

“I’ll die unless I get a picture with you.”

“Sir,” Barstow said to The Crush. “We should keep moving.”

With an apologetic smile to Barstow, The Crush waved the woman over.

Grinning and chatting, he posed for half a dozen selfies, then a dozen more with the entire group of women.

When a few more spotted them and squealed and broke into a run toward them, Mira and Torin inserted themselves between him and the oncoming group and nodded toward Barstow.

“Let’s move, now,” Barstow said. “Not a suggestion, sir.”

“Sorry, ladies.” The Crush smiled and posed with his knees slightly bent and both thumbs up for a few seconds, waiting for the fans to take a few more shots. Then, with obvious reluctance, he allowed his entourage to move him along.

Mira and Torin stood side by side and took up as much room as they could to discourage the women from following.

“That’s it!” Torin called when the limo eased away from the curb. “He’s gone.”

Because the first group of women were starstruck as they walked away from their encounter with The Crush, they provided a barrier to the other fans.

A second car arrived for her and Torin. By prearrangement, The Crush’s driver circled the block while she and Torin ensured everything was prepared at the upscale restaurant on Bienville Street.

Inside, Mira took the lead, introducing herself to the maître d’ to confirm the private dining room.

“Yes, ma’am,” the woman said. “The Vieux Carré Room is prepared, on the upper landing. Last door on the left. You’ll have exclusive use of the entire floor.”

Torin lifted his index finger, indicating he was going to check it out.

When he returned, he nodded, and she called Barstow to confirm everything was good.

Torin positioned himself at the bottom of the curbed staircase, and she stationed herself midway between him and the restaurant’s entrance.

Less than five minutes later, the limousine glided to a stop directly in front of the restaurant. A Hawkeye member was the first out, and he stood sentry while the passengers exited.

The transfer to the second story went without incident.

“Not so bad,” she said to Torin as she closed the door behind her.

Without responding, he wandered the mezzanine area, glanced over the wrought-iron railing, then paced back again.

A short time later, a server exited the dining room carrying two paper cups on a silver tray. “Compliments of The Crush.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Café au lait.”

No wonder the man was universally liked.

“Thank you.” She accepted the gift and took a sip of the steaming chicory-flavored beverage. It was an unexpected and welcome treat when a short-term protectee remembered their bodyguards.

Torin raised his cup toward her. “The good news is, we have tomorrow night off.”

She grinned. “I wouldn’t count on that. If the coffee’s any indication, we might still be on this assignment.”

“This is one time I’m hoping you’re wrong.”

Dinner lasted much longer than their beverages. She bent over into a couple of yoga stretches not just to stay alert, but also to keep her body fluid in case she needed to act quickly.

Finally, closer to midnight than eleven, and after most of the other patrons had already left the restaurant, Barstow sent a message that the limousine was out front and that their car was behind it. The Crush’s destination was Bourbon Street. She’d hoped he’d select Frenchmen’s Street where the crowds were smaller and more sober and celebrities were passé, but she wasn’t surprised by his pulse-pounding, frenetic choice.

She and Torin jogged down the stairs to prepare the way for their client, and they had him in the vehicle and underway in less than a minute.

They arrived at the Front Door, a live-music venue in a building that had served as a brothel in the late nineteenth century. Since they hadn’t called ahead, she and Torin bypassed the line to grab the bouncer’s attention. This guy was even bigger than Bear at the training center.

“We need to see a manager,” Torin said.

“Don’t got one.”

“We need to make arrangements for a VIP,” she added.

The guy rolled his eyes. No doubt he’d heard every line.

“A manager,” she repeated.

He looked them over and scratched his beard. Obviously deciding they didn’t look like partygoers, the guy hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “Talk to the owner. Tall dude. Hawaiian shirt. Might be playing with the band.”

“Hey!” the man behind them called out. “We got a VIP in our party.” Snickers accompanied the proclamation. “Can we get in too?”

As Torin pulled the door open, she blinked. Strobe lights spun and flashed, disorienting her. The thumping bass reverberated, spiking her anxiety. At least a hundred people were packed into the bar, and shot girls wove through the crowd, pouring alcohol down their throats as others cheered them on.

She spotted the owner and pointed him out to Torin.

Since he was only able to make out their general meaning, he ushered them into a tiny room with an uneven wooden desk and ladder-back chair. The walls were painted a deep old-blood red, and much of it had flaked or faded over the years.

Even with the door shut, Torin still had to shout to be heard.

“The Crush?” the manager echoed. “No shit? How many people you got?”

“About twenty.”

“We can do that. Gonna take time. Assume you wanna bring him in the back door?”

Torin nodded.

“We got a three-drink minimum for the night.”

“Guessing it won’t be a problem,” Mira assured him.

Once people were moved, tables were shoved together, and stools were rounded up from back rooms, The Crush arrived.

One woman’s eyes widened, and she pulled a friend close and pointed. Though they giggled and took photos, they remained where they were.

After the group was settled, she and Torin split up. He stood near the back door in case they needed to extract their client, and she propped her shoulders against a wall next to the group. From her vantage point, Mira had a good view of the venue’s occupants.

The entourage ordered a couple of bottles of the proprietor’s finest spirits, and The Crush settled back to listen to the band.

During a set break, the owner came over to introduce himself.

“Mind if I sit in?” The Crush asked.

Shit.That meant he’d be on stage.

The man grinned. “Reckon it can be arranged.”

Suddenly the evening had gotten a whole lot more challenging. She grabbed her phone to update Torin.

After a nudge from the barkeep, the band leader wandered over to shake hands, select a song, and confirm the timing.

When the details were set, she sent them to Torin. The third song would be “Your Love Forevermore,” one of The Crush’s top ten hits, and made popular on a movie soundtrack. It was midtempo, soulful and deep, ending in tragedy. He’d jump on the stage during the first chorus, finish out the track with the band, then run through the refrain an extra time at the end to leave the crowd on an upbeat note. After that, his bodyguards would escort him back to the table.

Which seemed an unlikely scenario to her. Fans would want autographs. He’d want to give them.

When it was time for The Crush to go on, she and Torin accompanied him to the stage. The moment the audience realized they had a star in their midst, the screams began. Almost everyone yanked out their cell phones to take snapshots, which meant the performance would be all over social media within minutes.

Two bodyguards from his personal team flanked the stairs, while a couple of the Hawkeye agents positioned themselves at the corners of the stage. She and Torin stood toward the front of the crowd, right in the middle, poised to move any direction.

Shot girls wiggled between the swaying, screaming people, adding to the mayhem.

As he reached the refrain, a woman began screaming and sobbing. Mira flicked a glance that direction, ensuring there was no threat from her near-hysterical reaction to being so close to The Crush. When the woman’s friends consoled her, Mira continued scanning the attendees.

Midway through the song, a man rushed forward, shouting obscenities, screaming that The Crush had no talent.

Mira moved quick, inserting herself between him and the stage. “Step it down,” she instructed.

“The fuck out of my way!”

“Back the hell up!” She flattened her palms on his chest and shoved him back. He was huge, immovable, reeking of alcohol, eyes wide, focused on The Crush and nothing else. Torin fought through the crowd toward her.

She leaned toward the heckler. “Last warning.”

“I told you to get the fuck out of my way, bitch!”

From her jacket pocket, she pulled out her small stun gun.

Torin nodded.

The crazed man fisted his enormous hand. Before she could act, he clocked her upside of the head. Seeing stars, she swallowed hard and fought through the sudden nausea to press the tip of the stun gun against the asshole’s upper hip. Her hand shook as she sought the green button.

On the first try, she missed it and accidentally activated the flashlight feature. But on the second attempt, four million volts surged into him. Even with his amped-up energy from booze and whatever else he was taking, the charge was enough for him to immediately start to shake, then for his limbs to weaken.

Torin was there, behind the guy to catch him.

Even though her head was still swimming, she grabbed his legs.

“The fuck, man?” one of his buddies demanded.

“Your friend appears drunk,” Torin shouted as they carried him to a chair. “Maybe you should get him home.”

“What the hell happened to him?”

“Passed out.” Torin shrugged. “Good thing I was there to catch him. He should be more careful in the future.”

The man opened his mouth to speak, and Torin guided her away. “You okay?”

“I doubt I’ll even have a headache later.” Which was a straight-out lie.

“You can sit out for a bit. Take a breather.”

Oh hell no.“No need.”

“Araceli, you got your bell rung. It’s okay to admit—”

“I’m okay.” She appreciated his concern, but she wouldn’t let down any of her teammates. There was a job to do, a client to keep safe. “Really.”

Mouth in a tight, disbelieving line, Torin nodded.

Together, they threaded their way back to the front, using a firm, no-nonsense tone.

Instead of heading back to his table after the song ended, The Crush conferred with the band’s lead vocalist while the guitarist launched into a riff to keep the crowd occupied.

A few seconds later, the singer took the mic and announced another song with The Crush and signaled to his bandmates.

The audience was captivated by the haunting lyricism of a relationship gone bad. The Crush closed his eyes, as if giving himself over to emotional pain.

Over the years, she’d protected some well-regarded singers. But she’d never been swept away by their talent. This man bled through is voice. She was quickly becoming a fan.

When the song ended, the crowd launched into rapturous applause, catcalls, screams. More people than was legal had shoved inside the door, and after they had him securely back with his entourage, Torin found the owner to tell him to get rid of some of the patrons before the fire department showed up.

She glanced toward the guy she’d stunned. Though he was still sitting, he was doing well enough to allow one of the shot girls to pour a blue-colored drink into his open mouth.

“I see our friend is okay,” she observed when he rejoined her.

“Stupid runs deep.”

It was close to four a.m. when the group called it a night.

“Breakfast?” Torin suggested as The Crush’s limo’s taillights faded from view.

Right now, adrenaline was keeping her upright. When it faded, she’d drop on her ass. If she ate now, hunger might not wake her up in a couple of hours.

“Shamrock Grill’s a couple blocks down.”

Her tummy rumbled.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He grinned, easing tension from his features.

When his tone was teasing like that, he became even more irresistible, sneaking beneath her defenses.

They walked down Bourbon Street. Several bars were still open and had plenty of customers. It took some time in the relative quiet for her ears to stop ringing.

All the tables at the Shamrock were filled, so they seated themselves at the counter on red-vinyl-covered stools.

She opted for eggs and toast while Torin dug into a massive pork chop with mashed potatoes and fried okra.

After a drink of his black coffee, he pushed the cup aside. “Hell of a performer, isn’t he? The Crush.”

“I’d go see him in concert.”

He reached forward to feather back her hair.

She froze, wide-eyed. Heat, long and slow, arced through her. She told herself to pull away. No other partner had ever touched her like that, and she shouldn’t allow him to be the first. But her lips parted, and she remained where she was. “What are you doing?”

“Checking the swelling. That guy hit you pretty hard.”

“I’m… It’s fine.”

“Not completely. You’ve got a bruise to go along with a nasty bump.”

“I’ll put some ice on it when we’re back at the carriage house.” But she wouldn’t, mostly because it had been so many hours ago that she doubted treating it would do much good.

“Yeah.” Slowly, he lowered his hand. “Good plan.”

To him, the touch had been perfunctory. It meant nothing. But her pulse was thready. Ever since the beginning, she’d had disturbing reactions to Torin. Being with him was making her reactions more intense, not less.

Trying to ignore him—and failing—Mira concentrated on slathering raspberry jam on a piece of toast that she didn’t really plan to eat.

Every bit of her was aware of him, his crisp scent, the shadow of beard on his strong chin. And when she hazarded a glance up, he was staring at her, his electric-blue eyes hooded and brooding. “What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

He drummed his fingers on the hilt of his knife, his body language saying otherwise. But he shifted his focus, to the almost empty coffee cup, making sure she could no longer see his whole face. “You going to keep all of your thoughts to yourself?”

“Not hiding anything.”

“Right. You’re a regular open book, Commander.”

“Eat your toast, Araceli.” He snatched up the bill, then strode to the cashier to pay. “I need to get you to bed.”