Jo Leigh - One-Click Buy - September Harlequin Blaze

“It won’t happen again.”

“Be sure it doesn’t.”

Jazz, who had eaten his bacon and eggs in about ten seconds, then cleaned his gun, lowered his voice. “What about him?” he said, nodding toward Charlie.

“Charlie,” Ed said.

The kid stopped eating, nearly choking on his bacon. “Yeah, boss?”

“You finish your breakfast, then take food in to your brother and his girlfriend. You make sure he understands that if he tries anything like he did last night, it won’t be good for your health.”

Charlie swallowed again. “Okay, sure. He won’t do it again. I swear to God. He won’t. He promised my old-”

“I don’t care. Just make sure he understands.”

Charlie nodded unhappily as he pushed his plate away.

THE SHOWER WAS SO small she kept bumping her elbows. Hers at home was quite large, with three different showerheads. It doubled as a steam room, and she could also simulate the patter of a rain-forest squall if she so desired. Here, the water was marginally warm, the soap was blue and smelled like antiseptic. And she didn’t trust for a moment that one of those men from the saloon wouldn’t burst through the door.

Yes, she still had faith that Michael would stop anything bad from happening, but she’d discovered early on that logic had little to do with irrational fears. Hence the word irrational.

She kept washing, wondering what her hair was going to look like after using that dime-store mousse she’d found. What her skin would feel like after a few days away from her Intensité Volumizing Serum. Oh, well. She’d make do. What choice did she have?

Without even reading the label, she washed her hair, then put conditioner on, and as she rinsed she wished she’d brought the darn razor in with her. Although she wouldn’t have been able to shave her legs, not in this small space. So she’d do it after. She could still rinse off in the shower.

She thought about Michael for the hundredth time since she’d climbed in the shower. He’d smelled awfully good after his. But then, he was a man. Oh, was he ever.

She laughed at herself, wondering if she was going to be this moony teen the whole way to the Caymans. It wouldn’t matter, she supposed. No one would know. And why shouldn’t she do exactly as she pleased?

Most people thought she did, anyway. She knew they didn’t dare compare her to Paris Hilton, but there were other trust-fund babies that were around her age. She’d heard them talk about how ridiculous she looked in her old-fashioned limo, how she dressed like Queen Elizabeth. She wasn’t completely protected from the gossip and the backbiting.

How many nights had she wept herself to sleep watching those awful newsmagazine shows? She hadn’t really wanted to shock the world. Well, mostly. But she had wanted to make some kind of splash, even a little one.

The charities didn’t count. Anyone could do her job. Anyone with the right connections. It was easy to give money away when you had her father’s strict guidelines to follow.

But she’d never been to a big premiere or an opening night on Broadway. She’d never been to any of the clubs or found herself searching for a predawn breakfast after carousing all night.

She didn’t just dress like Queen Elizabeth, she partied like her, too.

Tate turned abruptly, tired of her pity party. She turned off the water and stepped out onto the blue fluffy towel. As she dried off she promised herself that she wouldn’t go to that place again. If she had to dwell on the past, it would be to remember all those self-defense classes, her weapons training.

There was no reason she shouldn’t stand shoulder to shoulder with Michael. Fight no matter what.

She grabbed the tiny bikini and put the sucker on. It was tight. And, jeez, her boobs looked huge. But that was okay. So was the T-shirt. Also tight but not too horrible.

She’d also dug out a pair of shorts-men’s, but they were a size medium, and if she tied the little waistband inside, they wouldn’t fall down.

Dammit. She’d forgotten to shave. She rubbed her leg, and it wasn’t so bad. Tomorrow, though, for sure. For now, she put on the mousse and combed her hair. She debated a moment about using the hair dryer, but it would probably be better if she let it dry naturally.

Then she looked at the makeup that had been left in the bathroom. It was no use. She couldn’t use some other woman’s makeup. Not for anything. It was as bad as sharing a toothbrush.

So she washed her panties and her bra, and as she went to hang them in the shower she heard shouting just outside the bathroom door.

Immediately her heart started pounding as though she was seconds from an attack. When she turned to the door, the tunnel vision started, taking her straight down the road to immobility and failure.

She closed her eyes. Took several deep breaths. She pictured her safe place, but the vision of her waterfall didn’t help. The voices-Michael’s and another man’s-were too loud.

Then she changed her visualization. It wasn’t her old green meadow. It was Michael. His face. His eyes. The way he looked at her, then smiled.

She smelled his skin and remembered his taste. Salty, sexy. She brought up the memory of his fingers on her face, and then his fingers weren’t near her face. He was leaning over her, and his intentions were incredibly clear.

He wanted her. He wanted her.

The vision changed once more, and she was carrying her Sig Sauer. And there was Michael. Tall, handsome as sin. And he had his gun, too. He had her back. And she had his. No one was getting past the two of them.

She went to the bathroom door, and as she swung it open she heard the other one yelling.

“You swore to him, Mikey! You swore to our father that you’d take care of me. You think breaking in to hurt Mr. Martini is keeping me safe? You got to cool it, Mikey, or he’s gonna kill all of us, okay?”

Tate’s vision narrowed once more. All she could see was the look on Michael’s face. Shock, anger. Guilt.

He was in on this. He was in on this. She’d slept with him, and he was in on it.

MICHAEL SHOT A LOOK at Charlie that had him scrambling out the door, but his main concern was Tate. She looked unsteady, panicked. Everything he’d hoped to avoid.

He went to the bathroom door and put his arm gently around her waist. It was a testament to how bad off she was that she didn’t slap him in the face. “Come on. Let’s get you to the bed.”

She struggled, but so faintly he figured he’d better get her to lie down before she fell down. Goddamn Charlie. It wasn’t enough to fuck up his own life, he had to fuck up Tate’s. Good job, asshole.

As he took her to the bed, he reached for her wrist and got a feel for her pulse. Dammit, it was off the charts, a full-blown panic attack, and he wasn’t at all sure he could help her.

He turned her around and pressed gently on her shoulders. She sat, her hands limp by her sides, her face pale and lifeless. The only thing animated about her was her breathing. She took great gulps, as if the oxygen was far too weak to sustain her.

He wished he could enjoy her shorts, her tight little T-shirt, but he gave them only a glance as he tried to gauge his next move. He needed her to understand what was going on. He expected no forgiveness at all, but he did think they could work together until this horror show was over. If he could just get her to hear him-to believe him.

He sat down next to her, his shoulder touching hers. She didn’t move, but she didn’t lean into him either. “Tate, I need you to listen to me. First, this is all my fault. However, it wasn’t intentional. My brother has been a pain in my ass for a long, long time. I should have cut it off between us years ago, but…