Black hair, cut short and efficient. Blue-gray eyes that were narrowed, intense. Dangerous, too, especially since he was wincing in pain—probably from her elbow jab.
Bailey suddenly wished she’d taken her mother’s advice about that gun.
“Who are you?” she demanded. Too bad her voice cracked a little when she wanted nothing more than to sound like a woman who could take care of herself.
Since they were chest-to-chest, she wiggled out of his grip to put some much needed space between them, and she repeated her question. “I asked who are you?”
“Parker McKenna.” And he said it as if that might mean something to her.
Actually, it did. She’d heard people mention the new guy who’d recently moved to town. This was the first she’d actually seen of him, though.
Bailey combed her gaze over him. Jeans, black T-shirt and cowboy boots. Not exactly unusual attire for Freedom, but he was somehow memorable in those unmemorable clothes. No. If she’d seen him before, she would have remembered.
She wiggled some more, creating some very uncomfortable body contact between them, but he finally let go of her. Well, sort of. When she started to bolt, he put her back against the wall and got right in her face.
“You need to listen,” he insisted.
They stood there, glaring at each other. Him, still wincing a bit. Her, with her breath and heartbeat going like crazy.
Because she was so close, actually touching him, Bailey saw the moment that it registered in his eyes. She was a woman. And he became aware that her breasts were squished against his rock-hard chest.
And other things were touching, too.
He stepped way back.
“I am listening,” she assured him, and she used some snark, too. “And what I want to hear are some answers. What are you doing here?”
“Watching you,” he readily admitted.
Bailey was certain her mouth dropped open. “You’re my stalker?”
That earned her a huff and eye roll. “Not even close. I work for Corps Security and Investigations.”
She shook her head, wondering what that explanation had to do with her, but then everything inside her went still. “Bart Bellows owns Corps Security,” Bailey mumbled. A billionaire businessman who also happened to be her mother’s old friend.
Oh, no.
This better not be happening.
“What are you doing here?” Bailey repeated.
“Guarding you,” he said in an isn’t-it-obvious tone.
Sheesh.
Yes, it was happening.
It took Bailey a moment to get control of her temper. “My mother hired you.”
“Technically, she asked Bart to hire someone, and he hired me. I was in the army for over a decade, and I have a lot of experience protecting people.”
She didn’t doubt that for a moment. Parker McKenna was big, strong and could probably beat anyone in a hand-to-hand combat situation.
Or chest-to-chest.
He was also drop-dead hot, but Bailey cursed herself for noticing that. He might be attractive—sizzling, even—but it was a waste of time for him to be here.
“I don’t need or want a bodyguard,” she stated as clearly as she could.
“Excuse me?”
How could those two little words make her sound like a fool?
“Someone slashed your tires.”
“Yes. Probably a bored kid who needs parental supervision or a more appropriate hobby.”
Those blue-gray eyes turned dark. “What about the hang-up calls you’ve been getting? A bored kid made those too from an untraceable prepaid cell phone?”
“So, he’s a smart bored kid who doesn’t want to get caught,” Bailey amended. “Maybe his parents gave him the prepaid cell because that fit their budget. Lots of people use them.”
At his incredulous looks, she took a deep breath and then continued. “Look, I’m thirty-one years old and run a thriving business, and I don’t need my mother or her friend to make decisions about my personal security. If I feel I need a bodyguard, then I’ll hire one. But right now, I just don’t see the need.”
She snatched up her purse from the ground, but Parker got to the umbrella first. He glanced up at the clear blue sky, gave her a flat look and slapped the umbrella into her open, waiting hand.
Bailey didn’t even attempt an umbrella explanation.
She marched toward the side door. Bailey jammed the key into the lock, threw open the door and started slapping on lights. She also deposited the umbrella into the basket near the coatrack. Since she was sweating from her heated encounter with Parker, she adjusted the thermostat for the air-conditioning.
Unfortunately, she didn’t think she could get the room cold enough to neutralize the effect this man had had on her.
“There’s a need for a bodyguard all right.” Parker McKenna was right on her heels, and he followed her inside, those cowboy boots thudding on the hardwood floors. “The black car proves that.”
Bailey had already started across the reception area toward the stairs and her office, but that stopped her. She eased back around to face Parker. “What black car?”
He took a deep breath, as if this might be a long explanation, and he planted his hands on his hips. The exterior door behind him was still open, and the hot sticky breeze rushed through the room, bringing his scent right toward her.
Not sweat.
Not even the leather of his boots.
A scent that went right through her in a lust-provoking kind of way.
She cleared her throat and motioned for him to get on with whatever he had to say. For reasons she didn’t want to explore, it was best to get Parker McKenna out of her life ASAP.
“The bank on the street near your house has a security camera,” he finally said, “and the angle is such that it recorded the cars entering and exiting your street. I’ve spent hours sifting through the footage, and thanks to the Department of Motor Vehicles’ database, I was able to rule out all vehicles. Except one.”
“What do you mean?” Judging from his tone, this was bad news.
“Nearly all the vehicles belong to people who should be on that street. The woman in the truck who delivers your morning newspaper. Your neighbors. Your lawn guy. But there’s this one car that doesn’t belong to anyone here in Freedom. In fact, the plates are bogus.”
He extracted something from his front jeans pocket and walked closer. When he handed it to her, she saw it was a photo of a black car.
“Recognize it?” he asked.
Bailey studied it a moment but had to shake her head. “Maybe it’s a would-be burglar casing the neighborhood.” Strange, she hadn’t thought that would ever be a good thing, but that explanation was better than the alternative.
He lifted his shoulder, dismissing that. “The car was in your neighborhood the night someone slashed your tires.”
Oh, God. She doubted a teen playing pranks would go so far as bogus plates to conceal his identity. “Do you know the identity of the driver?”
“Can’t tell from the tapes. He appears to be a white male, but he