He surveyed the hall before checking out the bathroom. It was only when he came out that he responded to her comment by asking a question of his own. “Why would you think me sleeping downstairs makes better sense, Margo?”
She’d told him to call her Margo, but, with the huskiness of his voice, the name flowed from his lips with such an incredible sexiness. “Well, because you’d be closer to the front door. To protect me if anyone tries to get inside.”
He held her gaze. “My job is not to keep them from getting inside. My job is to keep them from getting to you. There’s a difference.”
Margo didn’t see the distinction. “They can’t get to me if they don’t get inside,” she argued.
“Not necessarily,” he countered. “Good assassins can get to their victims without setting foot inside their homes. They can use high-powered rifles with infrared beams to hit any target they want. Hell, if they are desperate enough they can blow an entire house up.”
That was the last thing she wanted to hear. “Then maybe I should leave town for a while.”
“That’s what he’ll anticipate you doing. I understand Turner was on his way to the airport to get lost. He never made it there. We’ll stay here until it’s decided that it is no longer safe to do so.”
Then, without saying another word, he walked off and left her standing there.
* * *
STRIKER FIGURED IT wouldn’t take Margo long to follow him downstairs. He was now checking out another room, where it was apparent she did most of her work. There were several huge sewing machines, mannequins, a worktable and bolts of fabrics neatly arranged in the room. No clutter. There was also a sofa, the kind that converted into a bed. Was that where she assumed he would be sleeping? Hell, that sofa bed wasn’t even big enough for half of him.
“You got a nice work area here,” he said, deciding to give her a compliment since she was hanging in the doorway and not saying anything. Just watching him. Knowing her eyes were on him was unsettling. Especially when he knew she was actually checking him out. A man could tell. Why did the knowledge that she was practically undressing him with her gaze make him want to smile...at least halfway?
“Thanks,” she said, coming into the room to stand by him but not too close. Did she think he would bite her or something? He couldn’t help grinning at that. He’d been known to leave a passionate mark or two on women. Why did the thought of leaving one on her do things to him? And why did he enjoy breathing her scent?
At that moment his cell phone rang and immediately he recognized the tone. Pulling it out of his back pocket, he answered the call. “Yes, Stonewall?” He nodded and then said, “I heard and I’m here. I’m forwarding my notes. Have Bobby pick up everything on my list. As soon as possible. Not taking any chances.” He then clicked off the phone and sent his notes to Stonewall.
Striker glanced over at Margo, and she looked at him expectantly, as if she was waiting for him to tell her about the call. Instead he asked, “Have you eaten yet?”
He could tell his question caught her off guard. “Have I eaten?”
“Yes, have you eaten? Almost dinnertime.”
“No, I haven’t eaten.”
He nodded before calling Stonewall again to arrange delivery of their dinner from the Bullseye.
After he ended the call, he looked over at Margo. She was staring at him. “What?” he asked her.
“Is it a coincidence or did you know that not only is the Bullseye my favorite place to eat, but what you ordered is my favorite meal from there as well.”
“No coincidence.”
“How did you know?”
“From my research on you. And just like I know what you like and don’t like, the places you like to frequent and other interesting tidbits, any hit man who has made you their target knows as well.”
“But you don’t know if I’m anyone’s target.”
“You’re right. I understand there were sixty to eighty people in the courtroom that day. Unless they catch this guy, there’s no telling who will be the next victim. My job, Margo, is to make sure it isn’t you.”
“SO TELL ME some things about yourself, Striker,” Margo prompted. They were sitting at the kitchen table eating her favorite meal and things had gotten quiet. Too quiet. She had dismissed the sounds of the two men moving around in and out of her house. Striker had introduced them as Bobby and Bruce, and they were taking care of the items that bothered Striker, like the darkened areas of her yard. Bobby was outside installing floodlights and Bruce was upstairs putting in security devices that Striker wasn’t elaborating on.
“Why?” he asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
She ignored how her stomach clenched when she looked at his mouth. More specifically, those lips he’d just wiped. When had she ever been fascinated by the shape of a man’s lips? But there was just something about the shape of his—namely, that cute little dent in the center.
She jumped when he leaned over and snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Hey, you’re out there in la-la land. Come back.”
Gripes. He’d caught her staring. “I was just thinking about something,” she said, which wasn’t a lie.
“About what?”
He would have to ask, she thought. She couldn’t just come out and say your lips. Instead she said, “How much you know about me and how little I know about you.”
He shrugged massive shoulders and her gaze followed the movement. Was there anything about this man that didn’t get her attention? “It’s part of my job to know all I can about you.”
“Well, I don’t like it.”
He pushed his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair. “There’s nothing for you not to like.”
And as if that settled it, he stood. She couldn’t keep her gaze from roaming over him. There was no way he didn’t have a strict physical fitness routine with all those muscles. She hated admitting it, but she had enjoyed his company during dinner, although he’d sat there, eaten his food and hardly said a word.
It had been a long time since she’d shared a meal with a man. Her uncle didn’t count. To be honest, Scott didn’t count either since, toward the end of their relationship, he’d begun spending more time with his clients than he did with her.
She smiled when she thought of Scott assuming he was doing her a favor by being her guy, with him making a six-figure salary and all. He hadn’t known anything about her wealth.
“What’s the smile for?”
She looked over at Striker. “Just thinking.”
“Again?”
She frowned at him. “You got a problem with me thinking?”
He pushed his chair under the table. “If I ever have a problem with anything you do, Margo, you’ll be the first to know, trust me.” Then he said, “I recall you saying something about an appointment with a client in the morning.”
She drew in a deep breath, refusing to let Striker unnerve her. “Yes, Claudine Bernard. We met for coffee last week to discuss the details of her wedding. She hired me and I need to take her measurements tomorrow. Luckily her wedding isn’t until September, so I’ll have time to make her wedding gown after all.”
“You like doing that? Making wedding gowns?”
“If I didn’t enjoy