Moonstruck In Manhattan. Cara Summers

I don’t want to get you and Ramón in trouble.”

      Daryl pulled his head out from beneath her skirt and made a quick assessment of the situation. “I think I’ll stay right here. It’s harder to hit a man when he’s already on his knees.”

      Daryl had it right. The tall stranger certainly looked as if he wanted to hit someone. Quickly, she tried to shrug into her coat.

      “Are you crazy?” Daryl said under his breath. “Don’t cover up that skirt.”

      “What do you mean?” Chelsea asked.

      “Take a look at Pierre. He’s clearly smitten. Let’s hope it works its spell on the white knight who is riding to your rescue.” Picking up the edge of the skirt, Daryl waved it in the approaching stranger’s direction.

      “Stop that,” Chelsea hissed.

      When Daryl didn’t drop her skirt, the man said, “The lady asked you to stop that.”

      2

      CHELSEA FELT the soft brush of the skirt against her leg as Daryl released it, but the rest of her attention was totally focused on the man who stood three feet away. Though she was aware of the rugged good looks—the dark hair that grew past his collar and the nearly faded scar on his chin—her eyes never once left his.

      They were the dark blue color of sapphires and right now there was a look in them that spelled danger. Beneath the sleek lines of that designer suit, this was a man poised for a fight.

      The other men sensed it, too. Daryl shifted on his knees, Ramón swung around the end of the bar and Pierre cleared his throat. “Sir…”

      “Come here.”

      Chelsea took a step forward, responding to the command in the stranger’s voice before the words even fully registered in her mind. Immediately, a nightmare began to unfold before her. Rising to his feet in one smooth movement, Daryl assumed an attack stance.

      “Back off, buddy,” Ramón said, springing from one foot to the other just the way he did when he was working out in the boxing ring at the gym. “The lady’s with us.”

      “Guys,” Chelsea began. Not one of them so much as glanced her way.

      “I don’t like to see women fondled in public,” the man said. “She’s coming with me.”

      “Wrong,” Daryl said, shifting his weight to his back foot. Chelsea recognized the move instantly. She’d seen Daryl practice it often enough in the living room of their apartment. The chivalrous stranger was about to have a foot planted smack in his chest—unless Ramón’s right cross flattened him first.

      “Stop!” Quite aware that she was trapped in a bubble of testosterone about to explode, Chelsea threw herself in front of the stranger and faced the three other men. “Stop it right now.”

      “Get out of the way, Chels,” Ramón said.

      “This will only take a second,” Daryl assured her.

      As they both moved forward, she threw her arms out to the side and took a quick step back into a rock solid chest. It occurred to her briefly that she might have chosen to defend the wrong person.

      “I’ve got it, Daryl,” Ramón said, bouncing closer. “I can still get one in over her head.”

      Suddenly furious, Chelsea drew herself up to her full height and fisted her hands on her hips. “What are you thinking? You can’t cause a scene. Do you want to lose your jobs?”

      It was the four-letter word—jobs—that caught their attention. Ramón stopped bouncing from foot to foot and something in Daryl’s eyes flickered. Pierre gasped and began to wring his hands.

      Pressing her advantage, Chelsea continued, “Ramón, you have a soufflé waiting for you. Daryl, your bar’s unattended. Pierre, there’s a line of people waiting to be seated.” She held her breath then and waited.

      Daryl was the first to slip out of attack mode. “You going to be all right, sweetie?”

      “A lot better than if you had started a barroom brawl!”

      He flicked a glance over her head at the man behind her, then turned and hurried back to his workstation. Ramón and Pierre quickly followed suit.

      Chelsea waited, hoping that her would-be rescuer would leave also. But as she counted off five seconds, he remained right where he was, close, his body nearly brushing against hers. Her skin prickled from the proximity and she couldn’t recall ever being so aware of anyone before. Drawing in a deep breath, she took a careful step away and turned to face him.

      His eyes were even bluer than she had realized, his gaze more intense. For a moment, she felt her mind go completely blank. All she knew was the heat of his gaze as it moved from her eyes to her mouth and back. The only thought she could latch onto was that she was trapped in another bubble, only it wasn’t testosterone this time. It was something hotter and much more dangerous.

      Licking her lips, she discovered that they were warm, almost as if she were running a fever. She would have taken another step back, but she wasn’t sure her legs would work.

      “Daryl—is he your lover?”

      Chelsea blinked. “Daryl? No… I mean…that’s none of your business.”

      His brows lifted. “I nearly started a barroom brawl because he was poking his head and his hands up your skirt. I think I have a right to be curious.”

      She frowned. “He was just shortening it. My skirt, I mean. He’s my…” she searched for a word, “dresser.”

      “I see.”

      “I believe your friend is waiting for you…at your table.”

      His lips twitched, and she watched his eyes lighten. She didn’t think of sapphires this time, but of the clear blue of the sea on a hot summer day.

      “I was wondering when you’d get around to dismissing me the way you did the others. You’ve had some experience defusing fights, I take it?”

      “Three brothers,” she said. Staring into those eyes for any length of time made it difficult to concentrate. Drawing in a deep breath, she narrowed her eyes and focused. “But I haven’t been very successful in dismissing you.”

      This time his lips curved in a smile. “Perhaps because I don’t have a sister to boss me around. Why don’t we try this?” He took her arm and retrieved her coat from the floor where she’d dropped it trying to stop the fight.

      “What are you doing?” she asked as he drew her up the stairs.

      “I’m letting you get me out of the bar.”

      She shot him a glance. “You don’t have to hold on to me. I can walk by myself.”

      He dropped his hand immediately and studied her for a minute. His eyes had gone very intense again and the smile faded from his face. “I want to ask you to have lunch with me.”

      “I can’t. I’m on my way to an appointment. If you’ll just give me my coat.” Without another word of protest, he helped her into it. Chelsea told herself it was relief she was feeling, certainly not disappointment. Then his hand was beneath her arm, guiding her through the group of men in suits who were waiting for Pierre to seat them and out onto the sidewalk.

      “Thanks,” she said. Scanning the street for a taxi and not immediately spotting one, she risked looking at him again. “Thanks for…” In daylight, his eyes reminded her of the blue of the ocean at its deepest—fascinating, tempting.

      “At least give me your phone number.”

      She blinked. “My phone number?”

      “I’d like to see you again.”

      She blinked again as it suddenly