Undercover Protector

She was used to seeing injuries—had treated and caused her fair share in the field—so it was not the scars that made her feel as though she’d been punched in the stomach.

It was his eyes, as blue as the sky behind him, untouched by the fire and horrors of captivity, that made the impact. They were the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen and they absolutely dared her to pity him.

For a moment she couldn’t tolerate what she intended to do to this man. She was breathless, her stomach in knots and she knew without a doubt that he would be trouble for her.

“Holy shit,” Gordon breathed in her ear.

CHAPTER TWO

FIRST TEST, Caleb thought. If she doesn’t stammer or stare or run screaming, then they could commence with the interview. However, if she was going to cross herself and get all teary, the way the last woman he interviewed for the housekeeper job had, Margaret Warren could go. And quickly.

He found that his new body, as painful and ugly as it might be, was the great personality barometer. People took one look at him and their reactions told him all he needed to know about their inner workings. Their base-line take on the world.

Granted, his present appearance was more extreme than usual. Most of the time he didn’t use the cane and his arm was far more mobile than people assumed. But some days his physical therapist was a sadist and Caleb felt freshly tortured all over again. Today was one of those days.

Caleb used to pride himself on his spot-on first impressions. His editors had claimed he had the best gut in the business. But, man, this banged-up body was even better.

Survive some time in an Iraqi prison and a helicopter crash and this is what you get. A foolproof lie detector.

Margaret Warren took her time. She didn’t look away immediately, the way a lot of women did, throwing their attention to other places and yammering on about the weather.

Her eyes widened and her lips parted, which, frankly, he liked. They were pretty amazing lips.

He read a tangle of emotions on her plain face and thus began test number two.

If she was going to pity him as the guy he first interviewed for the position had, he’d boot her out himself, bad leg or no.

He would even let his dog out of the office to chase her down the driveway.

Well, not really. But he liked to think he was that kind of badass.

She blinked and all that stunned awareness vanished and instead of pity there was…nothing. Inwardly, he had to applaud. She was good. Politicians could learn something from her rock-solid composure.

“Perhaps you should tell me what the job will entail?” Her raspy voice went through him like good whiskey.

And that, it seemed, concluded Margaret Warren’s reaction to the relative monster he had become.

Great. If she wants to pretend there’s nothing strange about me, I’m all for it.

“Right.” He turned and lurched farther into the living room. “As you can see I am not much for housework.”

“Clearly,” he thought he heard her say, but by the time he got his head turned, her face had the same slightly interested but completely removed expression.

Those lips, though. They didn’t seem to belong on that plain face. The upper lip was fuller than the bottom and, while she did not appear to wear makeup, her lips were the color of the bougainvillea creeping over his window.

“I don’t really like to cook, either,” he said, too fast thanks to his juvenile reaction to Ms. Warren’s lips.

“The agency said nothing about cooking.”

“Yeah, well, I tricked you. Can you cook?”

“Sure.” She continued to look around his house, no doubt cataloging the months’worth of neglect.

“Would you be interested in doing it for me?”

Good grief, the woman was worse than Colin Powell, with all the stone-facing.

“For a price.”

“A girl after my own heart,” he said, hoping those lips would curl into a smile, but no.

“Perhaps a tour?” she asked, all business.

Stop trying to flirt, Gomez. You’re embarrassing yourself.

“Absolutely.” He gestured at the cluttered room. “This is the ocean room. This is where I look at the ocean and read the paper.”

He pointed over her shoulder at the kitchen. “That’s where I don’t cook.”

She turned and walked into the kitchen and, because he was sore from the physical therapy and using a cane, it took him a moment to get all of his appendages to agree to follow her. “You’ll notice the museum of pizza boxes, probably the largest in California. Again, they are not all mine, but I’ve added to the collection. Perhaps in—” He rounded the corner just as Margaret was hanging up his phone.

Irritation and suspicion leaped in him.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“Your phone is dirty.” Margaret scraped pizza sauce off the receiver.

He told himself to calm down. He was no longer a reporter, looking for the hidden agenda in every person he met. And, should things go well with Ms. Warren of the fantastic mouth and careful expression, he would no longer be a complete hermit.

He needed to get used to people again—or at least people who weren’t inflicting pain on his person in the name of healing.

Worse, he was going to have to get used to help.

“Well, it gets worse.” He smiled.

Margaret’s lips twitched and he relaxed.

Score one smile for the horny hermit.

He retraced their steps through his living room, kicking aside papers and books.

“Back here is the bedroom, which is probably the cleanest room in the place.” He opened the door and she ducked around him to enter the nearly empty dark room.

His clothes sat in stacks along the wall. Pulling open dresser drawers was more than he could be bothered with, thanks to his bad hand. His therapist had told him using the drawers would be good for him, but frankly being a slob made his life easier. His nicer stuff—suits and a tux he would probably never wear again—hung in the closet.

The bed, of course, was unmade. His brown comforter was tangled, the pillows were on the floor and the sheets pushed down to the bottom of the mattress. It appeared to be the site of rather athletic sex.

If only that were true.