My Biker Bodyguard Read Online Free PDF Page A

said with a drunken, one-finger salute. It seemed the way they
showed affection–first an insult, then a finger.
Worked for Mitch.
Alone, he took the opportunity to assess, again, the
perimeter. In another ten minutes or so, he'd have to find a
reason to go out front, check the downstairs windows and
doors. He hoped the son-of-a-bitch would show up, give him a
chance to take care of everything at once: protect Jess, get
revenge for Beth, and get a name. He wanted nothing more
than to wreak some justice on the man behind the threat.
Jess watched him, trying not to be blunt about it, but her
attention rolled toward him like a radar. These might be bluecollar, salt of the earth folks, but they were much more aware,
more assessing than most of the rich, pampered and polished
set he dealt with these days.
Yet he didn't doubt he could talk his way out of any
suspicions they raised. After all, he did come from the same
stock. But he didn't want to be put in that position. He'd told
enough lies, all for good reasons. Once the truth came out,
though, he worried Jess wouldn't see his reasons as good
enough.
Mitch nodded and she turned away, giving him a good
view of her back. Dirty Dan's head rested on the picnic table.
Apparently, he'd fallen asleep. Still, she kept that hand glued
to his shoulder as she spoke to a gal with black braids.
He looked over the others scattered in small groups
around the yard. These women were all much older, much
harder. Had the girls he'd known back in New York looked
this rough? He didn't remember. Too many years in
California, too many jobs watching over the well-heeled set
had helped him forget.
He studied Jess. Her tank and faded jeans fit well. The
traditional biker boots and black belt made her look hip, rather
than tough. Her dark-gold hair, freed down her back, appeared
softer, less wild and wind-blown than the women surrounding
her. She could fit in anywhere.
He stood to do another security check. Jess might be a
tattoo artist, but the only tattoo he'd spotted on her had been a
small black sun at the base of her spine, revealed when she'd
been bent over the keg in the garage. He'd wanted to hook his
fingers in the back of her jeans and see the rest. He still did.
And that, babes and bikers, is a problem.
Chapter Three
    Jess woke to birds singing, the sun shining, and a glorious
breeze drifting off the lake and through her open window. She
felt like crap.
    All night she'd tossed and turned, exhausted, emotionally
overwhelmed, and needful. If ever in her life she'd suffered
hyperactive hormones, this was it. Did other women get this
way after a long dating drought? Or should she run away to the
circus and start her own one-woman show.
    She could hear the barker now.
"Come see the world's most sexually frustrated woman!
She bitches, she moans, she complains–until a MAN shows up.
Ladies and Gentlemen, you'll see drool and stupidity like never
before!"
She'd be a hit.
With a grunt, she disentangled herself from the sheets and
stumbled to her private bathroom. A shower, a shampoo, three
minutes of cold water, and she went back into her room, feeling
much better. Until she saw Mitch leaning over her bed, gazing
out the window. Would he never leave her alone?
He straightened, his gaze going from her bare feet,
dripping legs, and barely covered thighs, to where she gripped
the damp towel across her breasts. She might as well have
been naked.
His presence felt like an invasion. Hiking the towel
higher on her chest she didn't think, just reacted. "Get out of
my room!"
The closest thing not nailed down happened to be an old,
feathered Mardi Gras mask. She pitched at it him, but it
merely floated to the floor at his boots.
He bent and picked up the mask. "Sorry, I didn't know
where you were."
"Who died and made you my keeper? What the hell does
it matter where I am?" She barreled after him, snatched the
mask out of his hand and slapped his shoulder with it. "Just