The Watchers

By Kristina Weaver

Enjoy 6 Standalone, full length books in this bundle.

More than 290,000 words.
NO CLIFFHANGERS.
VERY STEAMY. You've been warned :)

Titles in this series: 
Seducing the Storm 
I'm a soldier. I'm a hard man. I don't do love and I don't do cute but the moment I meet Lenny Coleman that is exactly what I get. The little doctor is a mess, a walking disaster and also my wet dream come to life. I should walk away and tell one of my men to protect the little doctor from the danger dogging her, but when Lenny makes me a proposition I can't refuse and I finally get my hands on her…well the only taste I want more than my freedom is the good doctor, in my bed. Forever. 

Bringing down Jericho 
When someone shoots my house up and tries to hurt me I find that one hot bad boy with a grin so hot he scorches my drawers, is exactly what I need. Seems I've brought down the walls of Jericho and the man may just be exactly what my god girl heart desires. 

Flirting with Fire 
Blaze Peters is my brother's best friend, a surly brute and possibly one of the sexiest men I have ever seen. When Jericho, my big bad brother, gets a bug up his butt about one small burglary and tiny murder attempt…I find Blaze on my doorstep and a whole lot of heat that won't be satisfied unless I convince the big sexy soldier that resisting temptation is the last thing he wants to do. 

Landing King 
My name is Brett King. I don't want a woman more than one night, maybe two if she gets the message that commitment ain't happening. That's how I live and I am more than happy to keep it that way. Until Kinsley Jacobs show up on my doorstep, the one woman who made me want more than one night. 

All Shook Up 
When a friend called and asked me to protect one of his employees, I thought this job would be a cake walk. I'd go in, find the person responsible for scaring Rosetta Mayhew and move on to my carefree existence and quick flings. What I get instead is a female Elvis impersonator and one night that permanently alters my very soul. 

Owning Trace 
Trace Matthews storms back into my life on a golden chariot and expects me to just forgive and forget the past? The man abandoned me years ago and broke my heart into jagged pieces that still make me bleed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kristina Weaver
• Release date: Jul 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386310020

Kristina Weaver

Immerse yourself in the world of romantic comedy with Kristina Weaver. Her stories feature strong male characters and witty female leads, creating laughter and chaos before delivering a happy ending. With the added bonus of paranormal elements, her books are perfect for those seeking adventure. Start with the first book in the Greyriver Shifters Volume One series and get ready to be swept away into a world of imagination. Keep an eye out for discounts and even FREE offers on this book because this is an experience you wouldn't want to miss! For more information: Books2read.com/KristinaWeaver KristinaWeaverAuthor at Gmail dot com

Book preview

SEDUCING THE STORM

Chapter One

Lenny

Maybe one day I’ll wake up and not feel like I’m perpetrating a fraud.

Hey, world! It’s me, Leonora Coleman, sassy, totally sexy, thirty-year-old badass doctor, who talks to her dog Chaser and pretends that life doesn’t suck.

For today’s holy hell jaunt into the delusional, I’m thoroughly convinced that I could be happy with Chaser for company and my vibe as a bed partner. Ooooor...I could pretend that I’m into girls and—maybe if I find one hot enough—I could pull that off.

Although...

As I run down the last stretch of pavement with Chaser loping beside me, I catch sight of a hunk with a lot of junk in his shorts and arms that make my hotbox go wild.

Who the heck am I kidding? I can’t forego men forever, not even if I think they’re all rat bastards with their brains dangling beneath their dicks. Or maybe their brains are their dicks.

Whatever! The point is that, as I pass the hotalicious specimen checking me out, I know for certain that the four-year fast I’ve been on is starting to cloud my mind. Because, damn, I don’t even get hot under the collar when he checks me out and then proceeds to eye bang the chick who overtakes him, his eyes going straight to her ass and other jiggling parts. How pathetic is it that I’m totally satisfied with being checked out in the first place?

And how gross am I that I’d so totally lick—

Stop that, Lenny, you pervert. Remember what happened the last time you let a pretty face fool you, huh.

Uh, yeah, I so totally got caught in a trap with a man whose idea of let’s be happy and in love included mediocre sex and then blaming me for that shit when he confessed that he was into bi threesomes.

I’m adventurous. Well, sort of, but even I took one look at that situation and ran like a gold medalist. No offense to the hot-chick-loving chicks and dude-loving dudes out there, but I’m straighter than the ruler my teacher used to whip her desk with.

So yeah, my history includes one college boyfriend, who turned out to be an ass, and one very under-loved vibe that only does it for me when I’ve been drinking with my book club.

Hey! You look...great.

I come to a stop beside Jillie, the ho I jog with and pretend not to adore, and throw her a look.

I just got off a sixteen-hour shift at the hospital, you hag. Give me a break. I haven’t even had the chance to shower yet. I just went home and threw on some tights and a tank before Chaser and I made it out.

My friends, if I can even call these crazies that, are all wine drinkers, who pretend to exercise, because, well, because at least if we pretend, we’ll be doing something. It beats the hell out of confessing that, besides frantic work pace, we just sit on our asses and gripe about men.

Hey. What can I say? We’re modern singles with a chip on our shoulders and a whole lot of baggage.

You see that meatball checking you out? Kelly yells, her stretching nothing more than a cursory toe wiggle, as she stretches out on the grass and waves me over. I adore Kelly, in an I-hate-that-you’re-a-gorgeous-mocha-beauty-with-an-ass-that-I’d-have-to-have-surgery-to-get kind of way.

Don’t judge me. She’s gorgeous, strong, and blessed with genes that automatically give her a juicy ass. Me, I might as well sign up for Flat Asses of America.

Giiirl, of course I saw him. He was pretty damned unavoidable, considering he basically licked my nipples, he got so personal. I laugh, falling to the grass beside her with a huff.

I’m so damned tired, I could literally just fall asleep where I’m at and not give a rat’s tiny ass if a dog used me as a pseudo-hydrant. But this is exercise with the girls so, instead of slacking, I pretend to do faux-cursory stretches and sit-ups before rolling over and checking them all out.

Jill, Kelly, Tina, Fay, and Farrah all chuckle and turn to me for this week’s latest hospital gossip, as Chaser runs around barking and trying to chase off his tail.

Sooo...Dr. Fineass?

Dr. Bates, aka Dr. Fineass, is the resident lothario and all-around disgustoid. I hate the guy enough that, a week ago, I contemplated spitting in his coffee after he slapped my ass in passing. I say contemplated because I really, truly thought about it before nixing the idea in lieu of dumping a packet of laxatives in it instead. Best afternoon of my life, standing outside the staff bathrooms, listening to him groan and cry.

Anyway, the man is like the biggest hound on the planet, and I’ve watched him screw everything in pink scrubs for the last two years. Thus far, I’ve been able to keep the girl updated on Wards of Our Lives on a weekly basis, and trust me, it’s always good.

He was screwing Nurse Two in the supply closet just yesterday and poor Nurse One just happened to walk by at the very moment he let off one of his trademark groans. Someone may or may not have sent poor Nurse One on an errand past the closet.

Ooooh, you bad girl.

Why, thank you, Fay. I do try. I preen, whipping out a candy bar along with the others, now that we’ve stopped pretending and are settling in for a good session.

She must have been pissed. I hear those Latina chicks are fiery when their tempers are riled.

Hey! Tina yells, laughing when we all start ribbing her.

It’s not true. Who’s the gorgeous Latina who attacked the hotdog vendor four weeks ago when he skimped on the onions?

Fiiine, so we may be a little fiery. It was his fault though! I specifically said, ‘No mustard, heavy on the onions.’

Girl, you threatened to scalp him and deliver his meat wig to his mama!  I splutter through a mouthful of chocolatey deliciousness.

Whatevah. Back to Dr. Fineass. Sooo, she heard them?

Weeeeell, she heard something and, being the completely caring and concerned lady that she is—wink, wink—she opened the door.

He didn’t lock it?

Ooooh! I bet she got the claws out.

Tell me they weren’t done yet! It would be so much funnier if they were still going for gold only to be stopped midway.

Heh. See why I jog my butt a mile from home once a week to meet these bitches? They just get me.

"Weelll. They were indeed midway. Nurse Two was moaning like she just found the cure to menstruation, and Fineass was grunting worthy of a barnyard when the ruckus started. And by ruckus I mean the dirty birdy took one look at them and started slapping Fineass, who—by the way—did not bother to stop working those hips."

Noooo.

Yes.

Nooooo.

Yeah, bitch! He kept going, looked back at Nurse One, and shrugged like this was just a little whoopsie.

Oh God! Stop dragging it out! Tell me she kicked his ass!

Naw. Turns out Nurses One and Two are nasty chicas. I laugh, grabbing my phone for show and tell.

What! You thought I’d just orchestrate that whole mess and not take pictures? Come oooon! Of course I snapped a few shots of the continuing saga...and boy am I glad I did.

No, she di’int!

Oh, lordie. Tell me what that man has coming out of his skin, so I can get inoculated.

Yuuuup. Turns out the dear nursies are so in loooove with that festering toe wart, they’d do anything to keep him. I got to listen to ten whole minutes of moaning, yells, and totally thrilling threesome sex. By the time the show was over, I was on the road to thinking about what that would be like.

Not for long though. I’m lazy. I can’t be bothered to do sex right with one guy at the moment, never mind an add-on.

Beats me, since all I feel when I see the man is distaste and the overwhelming need to acid-bathe my skin.

They went for it? Fay asks again, her eyes stretched so huge she looks like Rodney Dangerfield.

As unlikely as it seems, yeah. The three of them walked out of that closet looking like they just hit the lottery. Nurse One even gave Nurse Two an ass tap, and then they were off to business as usual. So freaking disappointing, I say with a sigh, hating the fact that my dastardly plans of hospital love wars and intrigues bombed on me.

I keep telling myself not to sweat it, since I couldn’t have predicted the outcome. But hell, who’d have guessed the man was good enough to inspire that kind of worship?

Aaaaw, don’t look so sad, babe. Shit happens. Anyway, you have next week to implement some new plans for Fineass. We could always introduce Nurse Three into the mix. You said he was into Nurse Four as well?

Tina, the man is into anything with boobs and the hint of a clam pot. But no, that won’t work either. Four got herself some common sense and hooked up with that hot-blooded guy on floor two. They’re in loooove, the idiots.

I know I sound bitter and totally horrible...but give me a break. My ex was into threesomes—the exact thing that thwarted my plot this week—and I no longer believe in that toady thing called love. It’s easier, and believe me, I am happier...most days.

What a disappointment. Trust Four to go and get herself a brain.

Brain, Farrah? You call falling in love getting a brain? That’s more like losing your senses altogether.

I call treason! Kelly yells, glaring at Farrah with enough heat to scorch her pubes off.

See, we, this group of cackling, candy bar eating, workout-un-enthusiasts, are more like a man-bashing club than anything. We’ve got ourselves believing we don’t need love, men, or anything that smacks of a committed relationship, since each of us have been screwed over at least once before.

I know it’s all a crock, trust me. I feel the delusion when I fall into bed at night and stare at the cold, empty side of the bed before snuggling into Chaser.

We’re lying to ourselves and to each other, but heck, what’s a girl to do when all she’s kissed are toads and not one prince in sight?

Hey, now. No need for that. I’m just saying that I’m happy for her is all. She gets to be with that hot hunkalicious slice of man pie, and she’s not looking at herpes à la Fineass in the future.

I do a mental grunt here because I totally agree, but I am not looking for a she-cat attack any time soon if I say so. Let’s just say that some of my group are not so into man bashing at all times, while others have taken it to a level that is oft times quite scary.

Kelly, for example. She’s got a standing Tuesday night date with a very hot guy named Jamal. The purpose is purely sexual—though exclusive—since—as she puts it—she’s not looking for a venereal disease, as of yet. Not unless she’s intending to afflict some asshole, who deserves a good case of genital warts.

The point is that, should I in any way agree with Farrah, I’ll be looking at least at a black eye...after I get a scolding for daring to go soft on these jackals.

Whatever, dude. So you’re not too upset about Dr. Fineass getting his groove thing on with the hot nurses?

Nope, Tina, not at all. I’ll just have to keep on top of this and see what I can do with the other nurses sniffing after him and a wedding ring he has no intentions of giving any of them. Change of subject. Anyone seen that new feminist play yet?

They all start cooing about the topic while I listen, not paying much attention as Chaser comes over and starts licking my face, giving me all the kisses I haven’t had from a man in four years.

How sad is it that the only love I have in my life is from a dog and a vibrator that demands batteries so rarely it’s pathetic to admit how little love I give the poor thing?

Anyway. Back to the topic at hand. Men! Fay barks, her eyes narrowing as if she’s seeing a target in her mind’s eye as we speak. Are we all still going strong with the one-and-done pact, barring Kelly’s usual Tuesday hookup, seeing as that’s basically a continuous one-and-done anyway?

Eh. What you have to know right here is that the lot of us have had this hit-it-once-and-bounce pact for the last year, give or take a week or two. It stipulates very clearly that, if at any time, one of us should start seeing roses and hearts floating around a man’s head, we’ll reconvene the council of dick-hating hags and discuss the pros and cons of getting all sappy about the guy.

At present, none have stepped forward with this dilemma, though I myself will admit that just the thought of telling Tina or Fay that I’m in love with a guy shuts down my gooey side right quick.

All in.

Yeppers.

Totally.

Not a dick in sight, I mutter, plastering on a fake smile.

The fact is that we’re all lonely and fooling ourselves here. But hell, it’s better than having a slew of failed hookups where our hearts get smashed to pieces.

Right?

By the time we’re all ready to leave and arrange next week’s meeting, I’ve subbed my jog with a candy bar and enough chit chat to keep me going. I’ve also got a firm plan for this next week’s instalment of "Wards of Our Lives."

Come on, Chase, old buddy, old pal. Let’s get this show on the road and make today count, huh.

The dog barks and nips at my heels as I start the jog home, my mind running with the ideas and shortcomings I feel weighing me down by the minute.

I don’t want to be alone anymore. And yet, it scares the hell out of me even to contemplate letting another man into my life. Chaser, at least, makes no qualms about using me for shelter and sustenance. He also licks his balls on the regular, unapologetically.

Having a man in my life, one who’s theoretically no better than Chaser, and holding down a job that takes sometimes sixteen hours of my day?

Looks like the pact will go strong another week, at least.

Chapter Two

Lenny 

Another day in hell, and I’m dragging ass with yet another eight hours to go before I can even contemplate going home and falling into a coma. The hospital has been short-staffed for the last month and just guess whom the chief turned to and asked to fill in for the maternity leave squad and the other hopeless assholes who are just too burned out not to get a break.

You guessed it.

As I drag to the next room, my feet shuffling against the polished floor, I feel every single minute of the last eight hours hit me all at once. I’m not normally a Sally Sulky Pants about pulling extra hours since it means I get more money out of the deal, and yet I’m running on empty as it is, and the finish line looks to be too far away for my sneaks and blue scrubs to run much longer.

Hey, Doc. You look like shit.

I grin as I walk into Emmy’s room and give her my usual finger salute, grabbing her chart and shaking my head.

Thanks, kid. You always know just what to say to make my day, I mutter, as I frown and scan the data recorded in her chart.

Emmy is an eighteen-year-old ex-cheerleader, who saw her dreams of college cheering and all-night frat parties turn to dust the moment she passed out and took a header off the pyramid.

The prognosis: Lupus.

Most people who are diagnosed with it keep thinking that one day their own bodies are miraculously gonna stop attacking themselves and they’ll be cured. The disease may not kill them quickly but, as I’ve constantly been yelling at Emmy since she was told her fate, being her own enemy and trying to live her life as she once did is not going to get her anywhere but the morgue.

Hence, her latest hospital stay. The kid has taken it into her head that alternative medicine is the way to go and, while I don’t disagree with Eastern medicine to a point, it’s not something that will heal her disease.

The newest rage on Emmy’s list is some tea that gives her a boost and allows her to fool herself into believing she’s healthy. Until the lupus kicks her ass and she ends up back here, hanging on by a thread.

I feel for her. I do. It must really suck to have that active lifestyle most kids take for granted ripped away and some asshole doctor telling you that the best thing you can do for yourself is rest and take things easy.

Especially in Emmy’s case. She’s gone from head cheerleader, valedictorian, founder- of-everything-under-the-sun club, to this girl who can’t walk a mile without wanting to pass out.

Hey, Doc, do you think if I take it easy for the next few weeks I might make it to prom? she asks hopefully, as I check her vitals and the IV in her arm.

Em, honey, we spoke about this already. Your body is raging against you at the moment and what you’re doing to it isn’t helping. If you’d have stuck to the program like I told you to, you might have had a shot at prom. As it stands right now, you’ll be lucky to have enough energy to drag on that dress before your legs turn to noodles, I say, not giving her hopeful little face an ounce of sympathy, though I feel like shit just saying this to her.

Have to be real though, always real, because, as it stands and at the rate she’s going, I’ll be lucky to see this girl in the next six months.

But I felt so great. I was so sure it would work.

I feel worse when her blue eyes mist over and her lips start trembling.

See, this is why I opted to work in the morgue! At least there I’d have manageable hours and I would know what I’m getting into. Screw the chief for refusing my application.

And I warned you it wouldn’t, Em. Lupus is manageable with the right treatment plan, and if you follow the plan to the letter, you should be able to live a normal, productive life.

Normal? You call spending nine hours minimum on my ass normal? I used to run every track event and still go to cheer practice. I was the founder of Girls for Life. We ran a charity race every third week. I was a Girl Scout mentor, and I had a boyfriend! I have nothing now, she grates, her thin arm hitting the mattress with a sneer.

Honey, I understand all that. And trust me, I hate that this is what’s happened to you, but there’s no changing it either. You have this disease, and it’s not something we can just cure right now. We can manage it though. If you let us. Taking all that crap you’ve been taking and going balls for the wall is not helping. You need to rest more, and you need to stick to the treatment we’ve worked out for you. And no prom, Em! I know what goes on at prom.

Drinking. Sex. The list is pretty endless, and I should know since I was a wild child myself. Sans the underage sex ’cause I have soooome morals after all.

Em sighs tiredly, and I wince as I take in the dejected slant to her shoulders.

Grant is going with Ashley Gates.

So let the asshole. You be better and take care of yourself, honey. If the little shit couldn’t support you though this and stick by you when you needed him, well, he wasn’t worth loving anyway. You’ll find someone worthy of you, someone who will understand that you can’t do everything that he may want. Someone who will change his life to be with you. You just have to look after yourself and make sure you’re here to meet that special someone.

Really? she asks hopefully, her blue eyes taking on a sheen. You think I could really meet someone, like, when I’m like this?

Lying. You’re going to hell. Do you like over-tanning and crispy skin?

Absolutely, I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. There’s a lid out there for every pot, as my Grammy used to say. We just have to wait for God to match us up.

Ssssuuuure. That why you’re currently still flying solo and naming your sex toy?

Thanks, Doc.

No sweat, kid. Now remember—

Yeah, yeah. Stick to the treatment and get more rest. I hear ya. Say, do you think if I’m really good I could still go to camp? The kids will be disappointed if I don’t go, and Mom said they’re doing some surprise thing for me. Please?

Emmy, as popular as she always was—before her friends started looking for greener pastures and someone else to hang onto—is also one of those rare individuals who spends every summer of her life volunteering at a camp for children with disabilities.

Telling her not to go would be like stepping on a puppy. Darn it.

If you come in for a workup before you leave so that I can make sure you’re okay. And, if I clear you. Deal?

Deal! she yells, fist pumping the air with a whoop.

It doesn’t escape my notice that even that small movement has her drained, and I leave with a sinking feeling in my gut.

God, I just don’t understand why this shit can’t happen to lowlifes instead of the good ones. It’s like the ultimate unfairness in my opinion. I may be an ass for thinking this but seriously, shove these diseases into criminals and assholes, Lord. Leave the good ones to live full, happy lives.

Yo, Coleman.

God, not him.

I grimace and stop in my tracks, as Bates comes running my way, his too-smooth, too-good-looking face coming into view as he stops in front of me and grins like the cat who just pounced on the canary.

What?

So a bunch of us are going out to Eazy’s later—

No, thanks.

What? Wait, you haven’t even heard the best part of it yet, lady. We’re forming two teams to hit the darts competition. The pot is standing at two grand. Come on, Coleman. Hinckley told us you’re a pro dart player. Have a heart. Scrubs against Coats, he cajoles.

I’d really rather die than spend my Tuesday night with this creep but, heck, I could use some extra money to buy a new washer.

What’s the split? I ask, moving back a little to avoid getting his cooties all over me.

Bates grins, giving me his megawatt smile and the come-hither eyes I would gouge out before falling for.

Four-way split if Coats win. That’s five-hundred a piece. You in?

Fine. But you’re buying the first round, and if you try to cop a feel of my ass again, I’ll shove a dart in your eye.

Duuude. I don’t flirt with lesbians, he crows before striding off, no doubt to go screw another scrub.

Lesbian? I’d be insulted, I would, but I’m totally okay with the title, as long as the idiots working with me stay away from me.

Another hour passes without mishap. I’m going strong as the six-hour mark just passes when Sheila comes hustling my way, looking harried.

Oh my God, I am so glad you’re still here! I have to run. My son fell at school and they think he broke something. Please, please, please, tell me you can cover my rounds for me, she huffs, her plump face an attractive shade of pink that complements her frizzy carrot top.

She’s my pal, okay? I can call her a ginger without being an asshole. Most days, anyway.

I’m dragging ass though, that second wind having disappeared at the mention of yet one more to-do. I still have charts, ten patients to look in on, Bisbee’s rounds to complete, and now this?

Jesus. I’m not gonna make it.

Sure. What’s another hour or two? I mumble, cringing when she gives me a sloppy kiss and hug before running for the elevator.

Thanks, Coleman. I owe you one!

Three! You still owe me three!

Which I will never collect on because I pity the poor asshole for even having kids when we all know that doctors need only one thing to make their lives liveable: More sleep, not less.

Love ya!

Yeah, yeah, I mutter, as I grab her charts from the nurse’s station and start making her rounds. My life blows, yes?

It’s coming up on done by the time I finish my list of to-dos and shuffle my sneakers down the hallway to the last patient of the day, one Belinda Kerns, a socialite I vaguely remember from one of the scandal sheets I read months ago.

According to the paper, she spent three months in a rehab center being monitored because the married man she was boffing, a local politician or something, refused to leave his wife for her.

Call me jaded, but if a man is willing to break the bonds of marriage to screw you, you better believe whatever is coming out of his trap is lies. And more lies.

Whatever. I’m just glad this chick is in a coma after being in a head-on collision with a truck because no-way, no-how could I have a meaningful chat with her while thinking of her the way I do.

I’m just turning into the room, rubbing at my bleary eyes as I scan her chart, when I look up to see a figure fiddling with her machines.

Hey!

Stupid move on my part and I know it, even as I bark at him to stop him from pulling the plug on her respirator. What happens next can only be called my own doing because, yeah, I fully admit to being stupid as a result of sleep deprivation.

The man, I can’t see his face thanks to the lack of light in the room, whirls around and charges at me full steam. I open my mouth to scream anything, as he jumps my way, brings up his fist, and ploughs it into my cheek with enough force to knock me head-first into the wall.

The impact is stark, harsh, and painful as I fly back, and I have one of those weird slow-mo moments, where I see and feel everything as if it’s all a dream.

I fly back, literally, since my body goes airborne and my feet leave the ground. I catch a peek at his face just before my skull crashes into the wall behind me.

Lights out.

***

Her vitals are steady. Look, she’s coming around. Doc? Coleman? You okay?

Shit! Of course she’s not okay, asshole! Some animal attacked her. Look at her freaking face. I think she’s gonna need stitches.

I recognize those voices and groan when I blink one eye open to see Fineass Bates staring down at me with a concerned expression, Number Two so close I can see the unnatural amount of eye liner rimming her green eyes.

Kerns?

She’s fine. Nurse Yards got her respirator back on in the nick of time when she heard you yell. You okay, Coleman? What the heck happened here?

I don’t exactly know. My head is damn-near pounding with the force of a jack hammer, and my wrist feels like someone drove a truck over the bastard. Repeatedly.

Someone, I think, someone was trying to unplug Kerns, I mumble, blinking rapidly to stay conscious as my vision starts blurring and winking again.

No shit. You get a look at him? The cops should be here soon, and I know they’re gonna want to talk to you, seeing as she’s a high-profiler.

When Bates goes to help me up, I don’t even complain or make rude comments about his filthy mitts, or what he’s been touching lately. And I definitely want to cry my thanks when my knees buckle and he catches me, swinging me into his muscular chest. Dammit, now I get what the nurses see in the man. Meeeeeowza, he’s built, and, goddamn, he smells nice.

I’m gonna get her checked out and order a CT, Yards. Tell the chief and the cops when they get here...and get some security on Kerns’ door, would ya.

You betcha.

I hate being a patient, and I hate even more having to be grateful to slutty Fineass. But I am damn grateful to the ass when he helps me through the scans. Dammit, I hate the cloying sent of fear that comes from my skin when they put me into the drum. Claustrophobic.

By the end of the half-hour ordeal, I’m stitched, in a bed, and only slightly concussed, when the chief and two detectives come hustling into the room, their faces serious and harsh as they take in the massive shiner to my right eye and the cast on my left wrist.

Coleman.

Chief, I mumble, swallowing nausea when one of the detectives takes my hand and introduces himself and his partner.

We’re really sorry, ma’am. I told my chief that Kerns needed round the clock security, but we’ve been short staffed ourselves.

Tell me about. I’ve been pulling sixteens for the last three weeks myself, Detective.

Yeah. Been there too, lately, Doctor Coleman. Nothing cranks my switch more than seeing someone as dedicated as you are being hurt on the job. I’m sorry about this and sorrier to have to do this to you right now, but is there any chance you can ID the man who did this to you?

I snort and manage a little head shake that sets my head to pounding again, as the other detective comes in closer and sits at the foot of my bed.

I remember little bits. Some of it’s spotty though. I know I saw his face. I remember seeing his face, but it’s just a blank every time I try to picture him.

Chief Jakes shakes his head and sighs. She’s concussed and seems to be suffering from—

Yeah, yeah, Chief. I’m a doctor too, ya know, I mutter, rubbing at my aching head.

The man blushes and chuckles at my snipe. Sorry, Coleman. It’s hard to see you as a doctor while you’re wearing a johnnie.

Anyway. This is real important, Miss Coleman. See, Miss Kerns was coming in to see the DA just before she had her accident. We strongly suspect that someone tampered with her brake line—

Oh shit.

Yeah, shit. Someone didn’t want her talking to the DA. And from what we’ve gathered from the security footage...whoever it was that tried to unplug her was skilled enough to get in here undetected and take out the footage before he left.

You mean, you can’t identify him without me? I ask, groaning at the pain shooting though me.

Christ. That man must have been a fucking linebacker or something, with the way I feel right now.

Nope. You’re currently our star witness, ma’am.

Hell.

I, I mean, maybe I’ll start remembering once the concussion is gone? I don’t know.

This scares me. A lot. Because it means that if someone is gung-ho enough to tamper with brakes and then come in here to try and finish off the job—

He saw me. He looked right at me. I shiver, chills racing down my spine.

Both detectives, who I swear I will know the names of once my head doesn’t feel like a split melon, exchange a look before turning back to me.

We suspect that the man after Miss Kerns works for her ex-lover.

The mayor’s chief of staff? I breathe.

Oh hell. If some hotshot bigwig is trying to get rid of a woman whose made the scandal pages on a consistent basis, what the hell will he do to me to stop me from identifying him?

We suspect. Far as we can tell, she knew something and was willing to testify at his fraud trial next month. Ma’am, we don’t mean to scare you, but this is really serious.

You don’t say! Me, a small town doctor, who has no one to miss her, just got caught up in the scandal of the year. Shit! How the hell am I going to go home to an empty apartment when this guy is trying, in his own inept way, to make me see that I may be in danger...?

So, what? You think he’ll come after me to eliminate a witness?

We don’t know. Just, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to hire someone to keep an eye on you.

Huh. I’m an impoverished doctor who hand washes her scrubs since my washer gave up the ghost and crapped out on me.

Put a police guard on her or something!

Thanks, Chief. Did you not just hear the poor man say they’re understaffed?

Can’t. We don’t have the manpower for this.

Bullshit. She was just attacked in her place of work by someone who has made a previous attempt on a star witness. Call the DA and get him to okay this, the chief barks, his ruddy cheeks going blood red with indignation.

I see them wince and feel for them since I’ve been at the receiving end of Jakes’ displeasure myself. The man is stern enough to have the freaking president jumping through hoops.

Look, don’t worry about this. You’ll be here another day at least, what with the chief insisting you stay for observation. I have a buddy I can call and pull a favor. I’ll make sure you’re safe, Miss Coleman.

Snort. The man looks like he hasn’t slept in days, worse than even I look right now. And he’s willing to go the extra mile?

Someone call the freaking Herald. I think I may have just found the one cop alive who actually cares.

Thanks, Detective. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine. The guy got a glimpse, at best. You should worry more about Kerns anyway.

Yeah, because I am so ninja-fit anyone would be an ass to tangle with me?

See, Lord, this is why I never wanted to be kind and decent! Just look where I’m at now. Ginger Sheila would have probably kicked that villain’s ass if she’d been on her rounds instead of me.

Darn it.

Chapter Three

Nick

I’m running on fumes and so ready to have two weeks of rest and relaxation that I can almost smell the creek and the fishing trip I’ve been anticipating for the last three months.

As I deactivate the alarm and do a thorough sweep of my house, it becomes all the clearer to me that, instead of being happy about my life, the very life I consciously built after leaving the Army, I am tired, pissed off, and goddamn bored out of my skull.

Starting The Watchers Agency with my pals was supposed to be my retirement plan, a way to rake in the big bucks and still do the shit I enjoyed doing. Like going into hostage situations and shooting up a few lowlifes. Planting explosives and watching them tear shit up.

You know, the usual military stuff that is all perk, despite having Uncle Sam shoved up my ass and reaming me on a daily basis. It should have been my defining moment knowing that the Agency is not only successful, but making us all rich in a time when the economy is kicking everyone else’s asses.

Instead, I’m just plain pissed off and jaded after pulling an op that should have been thrilling, but ended with me babysitting some asshole senator’s spoiled little princess.

Goddamn civilians chap my ass, what with the way they think the smallest things are life and death. One princess almost had a meltdown when she lost her lip gloss and I refused to take her shopping for another. While across the world, there are young girls being kidnapped and used as slave labor and sexual freaking slaves!

Stop complaining, Storm. You wanted to retire. Cap warned you that adjusting would suck balls.

Yeah, I just never thought that living a normal life would entail wanting to take out friendlies on a daily basis just to shake up some of the monotony of my days.

That last woman, for instance, I was this close to shoving her ass in the trunk and leaving her there when she started whining about my job putting a cramp in her style.

What an asshole.

My phone rings just as I complete my sweep and grab a beer, heading to the closed porch for some unwinding and stargazing.

Storm.

Thank God you finally answered, asshole. I thought I’d have to call Jericho to get hold of you, man.

Hey, Rich. What’s up, man? I sigh, glugging at my brew as my childhood friend starts rambling about some case he’s been working for the better part of six months.

No.

Come on, Storm, please? You still owe me for Rachel, and I really need a favor on this one, man. That little doctor looked like hell after that scumbag was done with her, and my gut is screaming on this one. Whatever is going on with this case, I just know that they’ll make a play for her before she remembers that guy’s face.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and feel the old resentments returning full force as Rachel’s face swims into my mind’s eye. To have Rich remind me of that dark period in my life is like pouring acid onto wounds that haven’t so much as healed as scabbed over a little, just waiting to ooze whenever anything reminds me of her.

Rich, I just got back from a two-month stint on Senator Evans’s kid. I need some off time before I take another case on.

Yeah, what a fucking crock. I’ll be climbing the walls after the third day spent fishing and doing nothing but thinking, and I know it. It’s not even like I need to relax really, since I’m the guy who is the antithesis of relaxed and laid back. Shit, I’d have to be in a goddamn coma to sleep more than five hours a night.

Please? She won’t be any trouble, I swear. All you have to do is shadow her for a few weeks until she remembers the guy and can ID him. And then you can go on that great fishing trip you’ve been spouting off about for years. Just a few weeks. A month, tops.

Goddammit.

What’s her name?

Yeah! Coleman, Leonora Coleman, age thirty. Works at Tennessee Memorial in General Medicine.

I’m up and pulling up her info on my laptop before he’s done with his spiel and I feel my heart take a nosedive the minute her face pops up. Dammit! The woman is hot! Hotter than any woman I’ve seen in a long time, and the goofball way she’s grinning into the camera for her driver’s license photo is so cute, it sets alarm bells ringing instantaneously.

This is why I only take jobs with men or minors, because I don’t want to get involved with another chick. Especially not one who’s a job. That way lies trouble, and I know it. Fuck, my track record thus far ain’t at all good, what with the way I fell for Rachel ...

Hell, she’s a goddamn knockout, Rich. Call Jericho and get him on this one, I snarl, slamming the laptop closed before those blue eyes and oddball grin can steal into my heart.

I want you on this one, Storm. You’re closer, and you have a strict policy about the women you choose to guard. Anyway, you owe me this favor, not Jericho.

I want to snort because I know the only reason he refuses to even breathe near Jericho is that he’s shit-scared of his brother-in-law after he got caught almost cheating on Jericho’s sister two years ago.

I still haven’t forgiven Rich for that shit; having the big gorilla known as Jericho Evans breathing down his neck would be like putting a keg of gunpowder next to a lit fuse.

Fine. But it’s two weeks, tops, and then I’m out. You got me?

Sure. Fine. Just don’t bail when you meet her. She’s a little ornery about this whole thing and determined that she doesn’t need help.

Just what I need.

***

This place is a freaking dump, and I can’t believe I’m voluntarily spending more than a minute here, never mind intending to live with this woman. Her apartment is housed inside a house that’s been converted into four units and looks like it hasn’t seen a repair or paint brush in years.

Christ, this chick is a doctor?  Thought those shits earned a truckload of money. As I scan the area again and take in the sagging porch and overgrown yard, it makes me long for the days when sand in my ass and IEDs were all I had to worry about.

Well, Storm, no use just sitting here thinking of the myriad excuses to bail. Get our ass in there, chump.

My muttered curses singe my ears as I slam my truck door closed and click the alarm, glaring at the hoodlums checking out my wheels in a way that makes them scatter like vermin before running up and vaulting over the dilapidated steps and onto the porch.

I lean on the doorbell for long minutes before shrugging and trying the door. My lip curls when it swings open without any effort to reveal a gloomy interior and stairs that look just as old and decrepit as the porch.

Christ, what a shithole.

Hey!

Something hard lands on my head, back, and neck, and I’m forced to drop and roll, coming to my feet in a fighting stance as an old, wrinkled, lippy raisin wheels herself into view, her cane swinging around like a weapon. She’s wheelchair-bound and sporting a scowl that makes my nuts quiver as she stares up at me from a mocha-lined face that would seem adorable if not for the malice I see there.

If you’re here to hurt my Lenny, I’d think again, shithead!

That cane comes up again and I take another step back when she starts eyeing my crotch.

Whoa, lady. I’m not here to hurt anyone. Detective Harris called had asked me to come on out here and keep her safe until she can ID her attacker.

Although why he thinks that’s necessary with Wheelchair on Steroids watching over her is anyone’s guess. The woman could probably take out a troop of gorillas, what with the way she’s waving that fucking cane around.

Her eyes narrow on me, and I see her sniff before her gummy mouth opens wide.

Lenny! Lenny, baby, get your cute ass out here and come talk to this tall drink of handsome before I beat his head in with my stick!

She’s got zero teeth, I see, as I keep my eye on her and listen for movement from the other parts of the house. It’s only when I hear shuffling and muttered curses, followed by barking, that I take my eyes off the old bat and look to the left where one of the floor unit’s doors opens.

It’s then I get a good look at the goofball I’ve been dreaming about for the last twelve hours, and damn does the sight of her piss me off.

The right side of her face is one big shiner, starting from her green eyes and ending just above her jaw. Her wrist is in a cast and the bandage circling her head is so stark against her mahogany hair that it makes every protective instinct in me rise to the fore.

I’m going to beat the fuck out of the animal that did this to her. After I kick his balls back into his throat. Seeing her height on her driver’s license as five two is one thing; seeing her height in person and knowing she’s barely big enough to top my nipples is another.

Someone took a look at this little bitty woman and punched her in the face? It’s on, motherfucker.

Er, hi?

I drag my mind back to the task at hand, as I stop trying to see her nipples through the white threadbare cotton of her worn t-shirt and look into her eyes. She’s wearing a pair of big dorky glasses that, for some reason, make my dick hard. Don’t fucking ask me why, and her legs are unshaven.

I should be disgusted. Instead I look at this woman and feel my chest turn to mush at the thought of some asshole laying a hand on her. And the legs? Yeah, I get a woody thinking about shaving those golden beauties while she lies back in the tub and gives me a peek at her pu—

Stop it! This is a job, asshole, not a moment in fantasy land.

Leonora Coleman?

Her hands are shaking as she pushes her glasses up her nose, and I want to kick my own ass for the fear I see in her eyes.

Erm.

My name is Nicholas Storm. Detective Rich Harris called me this morning about your case.

My...I don’t understand.

Her face is deathly pale, making her bruises stand out all the more, and I have the urge to sweep her up and shield her in my arms when I see her sway on her feet, her hand reaching out for the wall.

I’m here to look after you and keep you safe, Miss Coleman. Rich says you may be in danger.

Her eyes widen for a second before a vicious frown covers her face. I want to lick the lines on her forehead—Christ, calm the hell down Storm—and kiss at the puckered beauty of her lips before—

Now y’all know why I refuse to guard hot chicks of legal age. I have a damned soft spot for damsels in distress, as proven by my epic failure with Rachel three years ago.

I don’t need protection. I have an attack dog.

But I wanna give it to you, baby. All day. All night. Hell, for as long as I can stay and look at your fine ass, I think, as I take in the fatigue and tension she’s carrying.

Too bad; you got it. Let’s go, sugar. You need some sleep, and I need to see what I can do about security for this shithole.

Hey!

Sorry, lady, but this place is a shithole. You ever heard about paint? And new wood for those porch steps? I mutter, taking Leonora’s arm and turning for her door.

You ever heard of traction and anal probing, you little shit!

A snort is all I get out before the little kitten beside me starts struggling and hissing at me, but I ignore it all, as I pull her into her apartment and come to a dead halt.

Hell, no.

The place looks like the inside of a beaver; pink, freaking everywhere. I’m almost certain I’ve just suffered retinal scarring when she hisses a curse and shoves away from my hold before stomping on my foot.

That’s not nice! I do not live inside a vagina.

I go to answer, but instead look down when I hear deep growling. What she’s got here is not a dog. Nuh uh, this thing is more like one of those foaming wild dingoes you see on the animal channels.

I see her lips twitch when Fido starts snarling and baring his teeth.

Shut the fuck up and scram, Tinkerbelle, or I’ll be cooking your carcass for dinner.

Her sniff of outrage makes me smile when the dog whimpers and slinks off, tail tucked between his legs.

Attack dog?

Chaser! Get back here and bite his nuts off, you little wimp!

Chaser, the clever varmint that he is, ignores her threats and stays wherever the heck he slunk off to, recognizing my Alpha status and choosing his battles. Smart.

I turn to Leonora with a grin and shrug as if to say I know I’m the shit...and earn myself a glare that is hot enough to strip skin.

I told Detective Harris not to bother. This is so ridiculous. Why would anyone come after me when they’re after Kerns? It’s silly. You can just—

First of all, I don’t care what it is you do or do not think, sugar. I’m here, and I’m staying. Secondly, you can ID a suspect in an attempted murder case, so don’t stand there and give me that bullshit. You’re in danger until such a time as I deem you safe. Now, I need to take a look around and beef up security...fuck, what the hell am I saying! This place is a hole in the underbelly of a rabid dog. Go pack your shit, sugar. Looks like you and Tinkerbelle are coming home with me.

Yes, I just said that, and no, I am not regretting it. I’d rather have this hairy-legged vixen and her rabid animal all up in my space than stay here another minute.

Literally, pussy. This place screams pussy.

Chapter Four

Lenny

I’m a tongue’s breath away from making a complete fool of myself as Nicholas Storm, the hunk, my bodyguard, the most amazingly beautiful man I have ever seen, starts stalking around my apartment, growling beneath his breath when he pulls open drawers and sees the poor state of my drawers.

Both kinds, just by the way.

Honestly? Who has time to go shopping or care about fashion when more than half my life is spent in either scrubs or yoga pants or threadbare sleep shorts?

Not me. Hence the fact that I blush clear to my roots when he picks up a pair of my panties, gets a gander at the grandma style and holey condition, and just drops them without so much as going for another look. Which is insulting, because I know there is at least one pair of sexies in there, if he’d just look.

This your grandma’s room or something? he growls, stalking for the closet and walking straight back out with a snarl.

Sure?

This is all yours?

I’m freaking blood red, as I effect a casual shrug and inspect my fingernails, going for nonchalance instead of the mortification I’m feeling right now.

You all have got to understand that I am not in a good place at the moment. The man, this Nicholas Storm, is so freaking hot I could fry ovary eggs on him and die happy for the blessing. He’s all dark brown eyes and dark hair, and I can see his freaking abs through the weave of his black shirt.

I’m so tempted to inspect him further to see whether or not the rest of him is this perfect, but I stop myself because I’ve just recently incurred a head injury and I’m not altogether certain I’d survive if he’s got nice legs and an even better ass.

It’s a distinct possibility that my vagina may overrule my head and break the pact and, as far as I know, violating a defenseless man is still a crime in Tennessee.

I’ll have to check up on that law, since I do not see myself surviving days with this man without tying him to a bed and licking him like a lollipop.

Leonora?

Er, um. Lenny, I squeak, bringing my eyes up to his chin as embarrassment engulfs me.

You need to pack...something and get that mutt of yours so we can pull out. Please.

Pack? I don’t need to pack! I don’t need clothes after i—

Pack a bag, pervert, and let’s get going.

But, but, I can’t! I can’t leave home right now and go traipsing off to God-knows-where. I have yoga tomorrow, and two shifts to earn the last money for my washer, and I promised Mrs. T I’d clean out the gutters and take a look at the porch steps.

Plus, going with this man will not be a good idea. No matter how hard my woman parts are screaming for me to do just that.

Uh, listen, Mr. Storm, was it? Yeah, uh, I can’t leave. I have a job and responsibilities to take care of right now. I can’t just drop it all because you don’t like my apartment.

That sneer is back, and I cringe when he looks around again and shudders. I know exactly what this place looks like, trust me, but it beats the shit out of the yellow stains and mold that used to be here before, and the paint was for free when my mom’s boyfriend Pete heard that my place was a hellhole.

I’m fine with what little I have, even if the inside of my apartment does look like the inside of an eighty-year-old female. I’m not home nearly enough for it to take my eyes out at least.

This is not an apartment. It’s the inside of—

Whoa there, buddy, just whoa, okay! No need to get nasty. Besides, it’s a moot point whether or not you like my place, since I already told you I do not need protection. Tell Detective Harris that I appreciate his concern, but I will be just fine. I have Chaser and Mrs. T to look out for me, and I have a panic button, besides.

That last one is technically a lie. I have one; it just doesn’t work after Chaser swallowed it and pooped it back out.

Christ. Tell me you have a guest room that doesn’t look like the rest of this dump, he snarls, dropping what I now see is duffel from his left paw.

What? No. You can’t stay.

Please, sweet Jesus, he can’t stay! I’ve been on a man strike for four years, with a dog and a sex toy that scares me to death!

I’m staying.

No.

Yep. So let’s talk about this guy while you’re still up and conscious, he says in that no nonsense way the reminds me of my late father and his military ways.

I like, love, slobber over a man in uniform, and something about the way Storm carries himself has all my balls, I mean bells, a jingling. This is not a good idea. At all. I know it, and from the way he’s glaring at me, he knows it too, and when I hear a whine and look over to where Chaser is sneaking from beneath the sofa, so does he. Dagnabbit!

Not much to tell. I remember going into Miss Kerns’ room to check on her before my shift was done, and then just bits and pieces after that. Things are a little blurry, to be honest, since I was already dead on my feet at that point. Nurse Yards saw the back of him when I yelled out, but that’s about as good as things get, I’m afraid.

His brown eyes narrow on me, and I shift around, trying in vain to hide my hairy legs from view behind the leg of the sofa.

But?

Shoot. This is gonna sound crazy to the man. I mean, it sounds nuts to me and I’m the one saying it, but I could swear I know that man from somewhere, even without the memory of his face to haunt me.

I can’t say why or when it hit me that I know him, I just do. One minute I was woozy and suffering from a jackhammered skull, and the next I just had the notion that, if I remembered him, I could not only give them a description, but also a name to go along with it.

Look, I’m kinda tired—

That’s to be expected, since you look like a bull stomped your tiny ass and came back for seconds.

Oh, the flattery.

I still want to know what it is you haven’t told anyone yet, Lenny.

Vagina, stop right there, little missy! Storm using your name is not an invitation!

Besides, my legs are hairy, my pits look like the inside of a wig shop, and I smell a little more than funky right now. Sex with a man I do not know is not on the agenda.

Nipples!

Er, I don’t remember his face, but I just keep having this thought that I know the guy, okay, I murmur, squeezing my elbows over my boobs in an effort to hide the state of my over-enthusiastic nipples.

Storm’s eyes go straight to my chest of course, darn it, and I see his eyes narrow before he shakes himself and looks back up at me.

Know him how?

I can’t say. I meet a lot of people on a daily basis when my shifts end up in the ER. The guy could be anyone, for all I know. Look, I’m probably just grasping at straws here or something; don’t take my shit too seriously.

My feet are shuffling around by now, my body’s way of telling me to get the hell gone before I do something stupid like lick my lips while looking at him.

Go on to bed, Lenny. I’ll set myself up in the guest room and check the place out, though God knows how I’m supposed to secure it when it’s a breath away from collapsing....

I dart away, slam my door, and fall onto my bed with a groan before he can finish that sentence.

This is because I put more laxatives in the staff creamer, huh, Lord?

My last thought, as I roll over and surrender to the sleep I’ve been denying myself, is that I’m fucked. There is no way in God’s creation that I am getting away with not falling at that man’s feet if he stays here for more than a few hours.

***

Nick

She’s got childbearing hips. Good boobs. And she smells like flowers.

That’s all I keep thinking as I walk around the house again and make note of every entry point and weak spot in the yard. My dick, which has never behaved this way before, keeps whimpering the longer I deny him access to Lenny Coleman. I force myself to ignore him as I spot yet another break in the fucked-up excuse for a back fence.

This place is not only a dump, it’s also a freaking safety hazard. How people can actually live here is a mystery. I’ve counted ten separate security risks just in the front alone, and that’s without taking into account the windows on the sides of the structure, or that shitty excuse for a back door.

Well, Tinkerbelle, you little shit, you think there’s any way to get this place secure without it falling down around our ears? I growl at the mutt, ignoring his wagging tail and the adoration I see in his eyes when he looks back up at me.

One misplaced apology and the runt has been glued to my side the better part of two hours after I checked in on Lenny and