Close Contact. Lori Foster

step after another, constantly checking her surroundings.

      At her car, she hesitated. If anyone was watching for her, the light when she opened her door would give her away.

      As to that, what if someone was in the car?

      She dug out her cell phone and, willing to risk it, used the softer light to look into the front and back seat.

      Thankfully empty.

      All but diving into the driver’s seat and then locking the doors, she fumbled until she got the key in the lock and started the engine.

      Breath held, she turned on the headlights.

      A dozen sets of cat eyes reflected back at her, but she saw nothing more sinister than that. She quickly looked behind her, too, but saw only shifting shadows that further intimidated her.

      She put the car in Drive and, because she remained a little muddled, carefully pressed on the gas. Down the long drive to the main gravel road, she drove slowly, well aware that the cats often showed up out of nowhere.

      As she cleared the property line, she knew what she had to do.

      He might not appreciate seeing her again, not after such a long absence without a single word from her, but she could explain that if necessary.

      She knew where he worked. She knew he was more than capable of helping.

      And thanks to her recent inheritance, she could even afford him.

      Miles Dartman, heavyweight MMA fighter turned bodyguard, the sexiest, and most sexual, man she’d ever known, was about to be in her employ.

      It was the only upside to a very rough two months.

      * * *

      MILES RODE THE private elevator in the Body Armor agency to his boss’s very upscale office. The early-morning summons left him confused and he didn’t like it. He’d been in the shower when she’d called at 7:00 a.m. Her message said only that he was to get there as quickly as possible. She had a surprise for him.

      Of course, he’d called her back, but she’d told him she’d explain everything once he made it to the office.

      He’d finished his extensive training only a few weeks ago, learning enhanced computer skills and practicing his shot with a variety of guns. He’d settled on the Glock as his preferred weapon, but he carried a few other toys, as well.

      So far, he’d had two cases, both of them pretty routine. He’d helped to control pushy fans at a sporting event for a baseball player during a PR stint, and then he’d escorted a big-time author with a new movie deal to some local signings around the area.

      Easy peasy.

      He missed competing, damn it. Missed the cage and the physical exertion. If fate hadn’t played him a dirty hand, he’d be at it still, fighting his way to a championship belt.

      The loss of his fight career was only one of many regrets he suffered lately, and as usual, he shoved it from his mind, determined to live in the here and now.

      The elevator opened and he stepped out, going straight to Sahara Silver’s posh office. As he passed Enoch Walker, Sahara’s personal assistant, he said, “She’s expecting me.”

      “Indeed she is,” Enoch said without looking up from his PC screen. “Go right on in.”

      Did he detect an unusual note in Enoch’s voice? Hard to tell when Enoch stayed focused on his task.

      Miles liked Enoch a lot. He was a little dude with a will of iron and mad organizational skills. Always friendly, incredibly smart and damned reliable.

      Because the door was closed, Miles knocked, and a mere second later it opened, almost as if Sahara had been waiting for him.

      Oozing satisfaction, she smiled. “Miles.”

      He paused, suddenly on guard. So far, his boss had been something of an enigma. On the outside, she was a real looker, a shapely five feet eight inches of sass with glossy mink-brown hair, direct blue eyes and the demeanor of an Amazon. On the inside, she probably wrestled alligators and won. Always polished, always in killer heels and always sporting attitude.

      “That’s a different smile for you,” he noted. “Why do I feel like I’m about to be offered as a sacrifice to angry gods?”

      The smile widened, then she stepped back to allow him to enter. “Thank you for getting here so quickly.”

      “You didn’t leave me much choice with that cryptic message.”

      “I’m never cryptic.”

      “No? Then what was so urgent that I—” That was when Miles saw her. His eyes flared as he noted her huddled position in a padded chair, a steaming cup of coffee held in both hands. “Maxi?”

      When he said her name, she straightened but didn’t look at him.

      “What are you doing here?” For two months, he’d waited for her, hoping she’d get in touch again.

      She hadn’t.

      From the start, she’d made it clear that he was a convenient booty call and nothing more. That should have worked great for him, but instead it had driven him nuts.

      He’d finally, well, almost, put her out of his mind with the job switch and move to a new apartment. Now here she was, at Body Armor of all places.

      A slow burn started, making him blind to Sahara standing close, at least until she said, “Your friend has had something of an ordeal.”

      “And she came to me?” Umbrage churned, made sharper by other losses at the same time. He fashioned a sarcastic grin. “Surprising, since she walked away without a goodbye.”

      Maxi looked at him then. Those dark eyes he’d always found so mesmerizing were now glazed and somehow troubled.

      And they stared at him like a lifeline.

      It dawned on him that she looked terrible, when he hadn’t thought that possible. One of the very few things she’d ever revealed to him was her occupation as a personal stylist, a job that seemed to suit her, since the lady had always looked very put together.

      Not this time, though. Dried leaves clung to her long, tangled blond hair. Gone were the trendy clothes, and instead she wore an oversize flannel shirt, faded cutoffs and bright green rubber boots dotted with yellow ducks. The ridiculous clothes made her look endearing.

      Concern sharpened his tone. “What the hell happened to you?”

      When she didn’t answer, he went to one knee in front of her, resting his hands on her slim thighs. A few months ago they’d been in a similar position, both naked. But she hadn’t looked wounded then. No, she’d been soft and hot, moaning his name.

      Blocking that memory seemed imperative. His tone didn’t lose the edge. “Maxi?”

      Pale slender fingers curled around the cup of steaming coffee. She swallowed audibly, met his gaze again and muttered, “I’m not sure.”

      “What does that mean?”

      Sahara strolled up behind him. “Sometime before dawn, Ms. Nevar woke up in her yard, feeling very sick and with no memory of how she got there.”

      Miles looked back at Sahara, his voice stern with surprise. “What are you talking about?”

      “She was a fair distance from her farmhouse but made it to the back porch. Needless to say, she wasn’t keen on going back inside, not without knowing what might await her. The house was dark and her property is isolated with no close neighbors.”

      Miles sat back on his heels in disbelief. He didn’t know jack shit about her property, but he put that aside for the moment. “Drunk?” He hadn’t figured her for a big drinker, but then, what did he really know about her—except that, for a time, she’d enjoyed using him for sex.

      As