He was all man, not just his physical size, but his voice, his confidence, his rough hands and stubbly chin. She felt small next to him; vulnerable. The only distress she could imagine feeling in his presence would be a desperate longing for him. A physical, visceral longing for his arms around her waist and his hands everywhere else.
A ruckus ensued near the bar, where the two men Ayla’s protector had deposited on the floor were being confronted by security. A shouting match had broken out, and a minor scuffle as they were escorted toward the door.
Guards fanned out around the dance floor, looking for others who were involved in the initial fracas. Ayla knew she’d done nothing wrong, but she also knew she
was in the club illegally in the first place, and she had no desire to talk to security, much less to law enforcement. She felt a surge of panic and wished she could find Tara or Natalie.
The man in the green shirt held Ayla’s hand and guided her through the swaying crowd as the hypnotic dance music shook the room. When they’d lost themselves in the throngs of people, she watched his eyes darting around the room. Suddenly, they made contact with hers, and his index and middle fingers formed a letter V, pointing first to his eyes, then to hers. When she nodded, he pointed over her right shoulder. She chanced a peek, and saw a yellow-shirted security guard, scant feet away, speaking into a microphone clipped to his collar.
Ayla’s worried eyes returned to her rescuer, who took her face in his hands, and… kissed her.
Not a peck or a smooch, a deep, powerful kiss. She hesitated at first, caught completely off-guard, but her libido kicked in and she was on autopilot, kissing him back, her hands on his chest finding granite slabs where his pecs ought to be. He made a guttural sound, a satisfied growl, as she whimpered and writhed against him.
It occurred to her that the point of this might have been to camouflage themselves, but there was nothing utilitarian about the smoldering kiss or the wanton way their hands explore each other.
His right hand landed on the small of Ayla’s back, pulling her in close— not that she lacked for encouragement.
She’d never felt a kiss to match it, and she never wanted it to end. Yet it was with a man she’d met just two minutes ago, and she wasn’t privy to even his name.
Chapter 3
His name was Mick Merryweather, and at the same time Ayla was packing her lunch and trying to convince Preston that daycare couldn’t possibly be as bad as he made it out to be, Mick was waking up in his condo at Arroyo Place with yet another migraine.
He rolled out of bed, the silk sheets sliding off his muscular frame as he strolled, naked, from his bed to the bathroom. He paused at the floor-to-ceiling window, leaning on the glass with his hands over his head. The glass was still cool from the evening and felt good on his face. As high up as he was, nobody noticed him, not that anybody would complain if they could see him. His physique was exquisite, sculpted by a lifetime playing rugby, then service in the British Royal Air Force, and finally a stint with MI6. His chest was dusted with dark hair, a few just beginning to turn gray as he approached forty. With his arms above his head, his arms looked magnificent, bulging and rippling, the structure of his back likewise enhanced by his pose.
If only anyone was there to see it.
Mick’s career choices precluded traditional relationships and made starting a family nearly impossible. MI6 sent him all around the world bringing bad men to justice, and he bore the scars, physical and emotional. The headaches were a recent development, but the ache in his right shoulder had been with him since a particularly vicious tackle playing in a rugby match at seventeen. The scar on his right thigh was left by a bullet, but it had healed nicely and fortune had smiled upon him when it missed his femoral artery. He’d been deep in the bush in Liberia when it happened, miles and worlds away from any proper medical care.
He expected to retire from the British spy agency, but after being shot and losing his brother and father in short order, he decided he needed a change of scenery and career.
He moved to the United States, bouncing from place to place, trying to, as the Yanks call it “find himself.” He’d gotten rid of his accent in his previous career, often posing as a Canadian to throw off suspicion. Nobody anywhere had a problem with Canadians.
He didn’t intentionally leave it behind when he started life anew in the States, but unless he was back home in Sheffield, or talking to someone from the U.K., it just slipped out on certain words.
After a spell in New York City and some time in Miami, Mick wound up in Las Vegas, working first in corporate security and then as a personal bodyguard to William Watterson, the hotel and casino mogul. When William went into semi-retirement and turned the day-to-day operations over to his only son, Winston, Mick switched over to guarding the new face of Watterson Gaming.
He was grateful that Winston had taken his new responsibilities seriously and left his hard-partying days behind him. Mick hated the club scene, and he’d lost count of the times he’d had to endure a night in some dark, jarringly-loud nightclub assessing risk and coming up with scenarios to keep young Winston safe for when he inevitably decided to spend a night out with his entourage of gold-diggers.
Just the thought of it made his migraine throb. But the thought of one particular scouting mission made something else throb.
He recalled that night at…what was it called? Scant? Scald? That was it, Scald. Typical in so many ways; music so loud it made his teeth rattle, douchebags wearing way too much Axe body spray making it hard to breathe, and darkness that triggered claustrophobia left over from his time in confined in what amounted to a coffin outside Lahore, Pakistan, while a warlord decided his fate.
The planned execution took place, but instead of Mick being beheaded, he’d overpowered his captors and turned their swords and guns on them before making his escape. The body count on that mission definitely contributed to his migraines.
Mick thought about that night at Scald, and how many times he returned there after that night, looking for the girl. He knew it was fruitless, nobody dancing in a Las Vegas nightclub lives in Las Vegas, and she’d undoubtedly returned home to Dallas or Minneapolis, or wherever she called home.
But that one night… fuck.
He reached down to the impressive slab of man muscle swinging between his legs, and he gave it a slow tug. Then another. Before long, he’d reached full, majestic attention, standing there in the window. Morning traffic filled the Las Vegas Strip thirty stories below.
He braced himself with one hand against the glass, setting up a steady rhythm, ignoring the dull pain in his shoulder.
He’d been sitting at the bar when he first spotted her, all blonde hair, blue eyes, and the most refreshing, easy smile he’d seen on all six continents he’d visited.
The way her hips swayed inside her painted-on blue dress when she walked past him was captivating, and when the shiny sheen of sweat appeared on her brow as she danced, he imagined how she might flush when she…
Mick grunted and increased the pace of hand on cock.