Kimberly Van Meter - Trusting the Bodyguard (Harlequin Super Romance Series, #1627)

A RCHER B RANT SLIPPED his key in the lock of his front door, still surly over the forced convalescence dictated by the Bureau doc. The three-hour drive from San Francisco had at least leached most of his anger so that he didnt feel the need to punch something any longer. He gritted his teeth against the pulsing ache in his busted-up shoulder and thoughts of a beer with a Vicodin chaser crossed his mind, but the moment he stepped over the threshold of his cabin, the hairs on the back of his neck stiffened with a sense that something wasnt right.

Quietly pocketing his keys, he moved to the scarred oak cabinet where he kept his spare Glock and retrieved it slowly from the drawer. Once the comforting weight of the gun was in his hand, he moved through the bottom floor of his house in a security sweep. Finding nothing, he made his way up the stairs.

His ears pricked at an odd, unfamiliar sound coming from his bedroom.

Creeping along the wall, he pushed open the door to his bedroom and slid inside. Someone was in his bathroom. The air still held the balmy, damp moisture left over from a hot shower. He caught the sound of soft singing, slightly off tune and he wondered what kind of idiot broke into a strangers house to make use of the soap and shampoo as if it was a friggin Holiday Inn yet bypassed the valuables like the flat-screen plasma television mounted on the wall or the accompanying high-end Bose stereo system. He curled his lip. Whoever was in there was murdering a classic Journey song, and that was near enough to a crime in his book to warrant shooting first and asking questions later. Since he was supposed to be convalescing, he ignored his itchy trigger finger and his protesting ear drums and just prepared to oust his uninvited houseguest with a little force.

He moved into position along the wall, gaining an excellent vantage point, and his disposition brightened at the thought of scaring the life out of the trespasser. But as a figure moved into view of the mirror, Archer blinked and frowned with surprise. Hed been expecting a punk pimply-faced kid or perhaps a homeless man but he was damn sure not expecting to see dark hair cascading down a petite backside that was nearly engulfed in his white terry cloth robe. Strong, slim legs, rounded calves and pretty ankles met his gaze as he assessed his trespasser. A woman. A shapely woman, he noted with faint appreciation for the rounded swell of hips hidden beneath the robe, and even as his hormones pumped a healthy dose of testosterone into his veins, he looked for evidence of a partner. A beautiful woman provided great distraction for the thug thats about to cave in your cranium from the back. Thats not how he was going to clock out of this world.

But his quick check revealed nothing, not even a bag of belongings. Then on the bed he saw something that narrowed his stare and made him swear under his breath.

A baby bottle. Leaking something wet and pale onto his five-hundred-dollar duvet. This just aint my day, he muttered, tucking his gun into his waistband. Of all the places this wayward chick couldve stopped, whyd it have to be his? He wasnt in the mood to play host no matter what her hard luck story was. He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled a short breath before stepping into view, ready to get this over with. You picked the wrong house to freeload in, he announced, taking grim satisfaction in the womans startled jump as she spun around to face him.

But holy hell, the air in his lungs evaporated and it felt as though his heart had squeezed to a stuttering stop. He knew this woman. A shaft of white-hot misery speared his insides and his voice cracked with surprise as he managed to murmur her name, though in truth it was a miracle his voice worked at all, his shock was so great. As he stared at the face that haunted his dreams and took center stage in his most private thoughts, he couldnt help but drink in her appearance, even if hed never admit to anyoneleast of all herthat losing her had been as painful as shoving a limb into a garbage grinder. And just as permanent.

Marissa. He recovered, ashamed at his gut reaction and the sudden leap in his heartbeat, to demand, What the hell are you doing here?

M ARISSA V ASQUEZS PALMS found and then clutched the marble countertop she was leaning against. Shed rehearsed a possible explanation while in the shower but now that Archer was standing before her, looking fierce and stony, her well-rehearsed speech fled along with the strength in her knees. Suddenly, she was well aware of her near nakedness, her busted lip and the sheer improbability that Archer would find it in his heart to help her at all.