Avenging Angel. Alice Sharpe

cruel lips. Arrogance dripping out of every pore as he toyed with Peg, toyed with her.

      And then there was Alazandro’s bodyguard, Pete, a man who looked as dangerous as Alazandro, perhaps more so for it didn’t appear he had Alazandro’s ego to fog his vision. Pete might not admit he’d die for Alazandro but there wasn’t a doubt in Elle’s mind he would kill for him.

      Desperate to get into the hot shower and stop her bone-rattling shakes, she unlocked the door and stripped on the way to the bathroom. She stood under the hot water for a long time, eyes closed, hands propped on the tile walls, head hung, caught in the aftershock of her audaciousness.

      ELLE MEDINA didn’t lock her door.

      Stupid.

      Pete frowned for a second because if there was one thing Elle didn’t strike him as it was stupid. Reckless, absolutely, but not stupid.

      He could hear the shower running—made a nice way to keep track of Elle while he had a quick look around. All he had to do was keep his mind on his job and off visions of her all wet and soapy.

      The few pieces of furniture in the place looked like castoffs from Peg Stiles’ house down the slope. A line of clothes and boots strung across the floor from the doorway to the closed bathroom door sounded the only note of discord in the otherwise orderly space.

      He tossed her place quickly and thoroughly, searching drawers, closets, behind mirrors, under the bed. As the cabin was little more than a studio apartment, it didn’t take long.

      The first conclusion he reached was that the woman had fewer clothes and shoes than any other woman he’d ever known. Heavy on jeans and T-shirts, boots and knee-high socks. Even her nightgown was white cotton. Nothing sexy about it except if you stopped to think what it might look like flowing around Elle’s curves.

      Enough of that. But still, he’d been married once in his dim youth to a strawberry blonde whose closet rod sagged in the middle.

      The last woman he’d cared about was another type altogether. She’d maintained a working wardrobe toward the end. Big on thigh-high boots and halter tops and tiny shorts that showed more than she ever understood. Showed malnutrition. Showed neglect. Showed the absence of rounded flesh and ripe possibility.

      Drugs will do that to a woman. Whisper in her ear, tell her she’s gorgeous while robbing her blind.

      He hung Elle’s gown back on the hook beside the one holding up a blue terry cloth robe. He found her purse on a shelf in the closet. Identity matched, checkbook in her name, nice photo on her driver’s license, made her look sixteen years old. According to the data, she was actually twenty-five and wore contact lenses. He hadn’t noticed them when he peered into her big brown eyes.

      Still holding her purse, he gazed through the window and got his first troubling sensation about Elle. Okay, that wasn’t true, she’d been troubling him ever since he laid eyes on her.

      His contact had verified her father was a judge in some hole-in-the-wall town in Arizona. Raised on a small ranch. Mother dead. Only other living relatives a smattering of cousins, two aging aunts in New Jersey and a grandfather with terminal cancer. She’d graduated with a degree in public relations, applied for and been accepted to graduate school, dropped out to live with her ailing grandfather. Then she’d suddenly left his bedside to come to Nevada and take a low-paying job giving riding lessons to little girls.

      Odd. But not criminal.

      He suddenly realized the shower had stopped.

      Elle’s voice came next, low and serious. “Drop my purse, put your hands in the air and turn around slowly.”

      He did as she asked.

      She stood there dripping wet.

      And very, very naked.

      As awe inspiring as that sight was, however, the revolver held steady in her hands, barrel pointed right at the middle of his chest, demanded his full attention.

      “You owe me an explanation,” she said. “Better make it a good one.”

      Everything he thought to say died on his lips.

      She lowered the gun and in the next instant apparently became aware of her state of undress. “Don’t you dare leave,” she said scowling and, turning gracefully on bare heels, strode back into the bathroom, banging the door behind her.

      Hell, he wouldn’t have left for a million dollars.

      A belly laugh rolled up his throat and erupted. It died a second later when the bathroom door flew open and Elle reappeared, still frowning, this time wrapped in a towel with her fair hair combed back from her freshly scrubbed and stunning face. She looked impossibly healthy and so alive she burned up the room.

      She’d also apparently left the gun in the bathroom.

      “What do you think you’re doing?” she snapped.

      “I thought I was searching your cabin,” he said, but it was hard to talk. Somehow, and go figure this one out, she looked more naked with a towel on than she had without it. But maybe that was because the image of her glistening nude body had burned itself into his brain. Her breasts, smaller than he’d thought they would be, but perfectly formed. The smooth skin of her belly. The curves between breasts and hips. Her legs—

      His hands almost itched with the desire to stride on over to her and—

      And what? Good grief, get a grip. You’ve seen naked women before.

      “Are you always so careless?” she asked, moving toward the closet. She picked up her purse and threw it on the bed, then reached for her robe. Turning her back to him, she pulled it on as the towel puddled around her bare feet. By the time she turned, she was belted into blue terry cloth and much easier to talk to.

      “Not usually,” he said, lowering his hands.

      “Breaking and entering—”

      “Your door wasn’t locked. Technically, no breaking.”

      She frowned as though thinking, then perched on the edge of her bed, crossing her legs, studying him.

      “Why?”

      “Did I toss your place?”

      She nodded.

      “Because the boss wants you to fly you out with us tomorrow. I had to make sure you are who you said you were.”

      “He is?”

      “Yep. I told you the wet T-shirt was a no-brainer.”

      “What about the boys in security?”

      “They’re slow. Must be a backlog.”

      “And are you satisfied now?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Just from looking through my purse?”

      “Just from looking through your purse. Of course, I’m a professional.”

      A smile broke unexpectedly, curving her lips, lighting her eyes. It transformed her face and he felt a grin tug at the corners of his own lips in response. It was like that sensation he’d had earlier, about there being two Elles behind the eyes.

      As the smile fizzled, she said, “Are you worried that I’m the one sending death threats to Alazandro?”

      “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said truthfully. “Of course, up until a few minutes ago, I didn’t know you packed a gun.”

      “I grew up on a ranch.”

      “Which explains the horse riding and artillery skills.”

      “That’s right.”

      He tilted his head and stared into her eyes. Now that he knew to look, he could see the tiny curved edges of her contact lenses. He said, “Alazandro was right, Ms. Medina. You are full of surprises.”

      “Damn