His Kind of Trouble (4 page)

“Thank you, Ana,” he said sincerely, hanging his coat neatly over the back of a chair. “I’ll be fine. You get some sleep. Long day tomorrow.”

The change in his tone seemed to throw her, and he wondered what she had expected. His eyes measured the generously cushioned sofa. It would be plenty comfortable for him, while allowing him to stay close and hear anything that happened throughout the apartment. Maybe he’d even sleep a little.

“Long day?”

“You have meetings and then your flight early the next morning.”

She closed her eyes. “Of course, you know my schedule.”

He shrugged. “Part of the job.”

She nodded, pushing a hand through her hair and suddenly looking weary and a little fragile. “We’ll talk about that tomorrow.”

He wasn’t going to argue, but set to pulling out a few blankets from the pile she’d stacked at the foot of the long sofa. “Good night, Ana.”

Pausing, she returned the sentiment and walked quietly into her room.

Chance made the sofa up for something to do and even laid down on it, though he had no intention of sleeping, even if he could. He’d primed his body and mind for staying awake all night, and if the sugar and caffeine weren’t enough, all he had to do was think about Ana only yards away, in bed.

Still, rest would get him through the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours until he could get Ana safely to Mexico.

Lying back into the soft blankets and pillows, his body remained tense, his mind alert. He closed his eyes, taking some smooth, relaxing breaths, and then opened them again. It was no use.

Sitting back up, he studied the room and got up to poke around a little. Several bookcases were jammed with volumes of fiction, nonfiction—a lot of travel writing—and what had to be hundreds of cookbooks. Including four written by Ana.

Chance loved food almost as much as he loved women. His extreme-sports lifestyle allowed him to eat pretty much anything he wanted, though he rarely cooked for himself. It wasn’t at the top of his list of skills, for sure. Spotting a shelf of DVDs, he thought he might find something to watch and noticed several hand-labeled
Ana’s Kitchen.
Ana’s cooking show that she’d filmed herself. Some early college-age episodes and some later, from her network show.

Curious, Chance took one and put it in the DVD player, lowering the volume. He had to grin at the perky Mexican music that introduced the clearly amateur-filmed episode, but as soon as Ana appeared on the screen, he was rapt.

He had no idea what she was cooking, but he loved watching her do it. She was so young then, more relaxed, though just as beautiful. She wore a crisp white shirt, a yellow apron and had a flower in her hair. Her friends from the dorm would pop into the kitchen and help her, and Ana practically burst with energy and spark as she cooked and explained step-by-step how to create what she was cooking in her small kitchen.

Chance studied her expressions, her movements, how she laughed freely with her friends. She was so much more open. Happier.

“What are you doing?”

The fact that her question made him jump proved how absorbed he was in his observations. She stood in the doorway, wrapped in the same flannel robe, her arms crossed in front of her. She looked tired, her eyes sleepy, hair mussed. No makeup.

Still sexy as hell.

“Couldn’t sleep. Watching some of your old shows that I found in the bookcase. Is that okay?”

It hadn’t occurred to him that she might not want anyone to see them—it had been a broadcast show, after all.

“It’s fine,” she said with a yawn. “I just heard sounds, and I didn’t know what it was. I forgot you were here for a second. I’m not used to anyone being in the apartment at night. It startled me before I remembered.”

“Sorry about that. I tried to keep it low,” Chance said, watching her as she moved closer and sat with him, curling her feet up under her in that feminine way women did. He’d always liked that, how they could fold themselves up like cats, unfold like flowers.

He blinked at the TV, surprised by his own late-night poetry. Maybe Ana brought it out in him. There was something comforting and intimate about sitting with her like this on a sofa covered in blankets and pillows. He’d kept his jeans and T-shirt on, but it felt...homey.

“It’s a great show,” he said, following her gaze to the TV. She smiled to herself as she watched. “How many of these did you do?” he asked her.

“Two years in college, then one after, before I was picked up by the networks. Sixty-seven episodes in all. We didn’t follow any particular plan. I just cooked a lot, and when my friends were free to film, we did. It was fun.”

“And by the looks of it, you paid them with the results,” he said. Every show ended with the group diving into whatever dish Ana had made.

“Pretty much. It wasn’t about money. We didn’t care about that, though the show gave us all our start, in a way. Alan, the guy who did the video, went on to be a cameraman on several popular TV shows, and Patty—that brunette right there—she’s a writer now. They were the main ones in it with me, and others just joined in spontaneously.”

“You were amazing on camera then, too. A natural,” Chance said, and he meant it.

She shook her head. “I never imagined any of this would happen. I wanted to keep doing the show and the cookbooks.”

“That’s unusual,” Chance said. “Most people want to be famous.”

“A generation of cooks before us came up from family restaurants, small kitchens, and they knew food better than they knew anything else. I try to honor that knowledge on the new show as much as I can. Not everyone needs to have studied at Le Cordon Bleu or the Culinary Institutes. Some of the more creative chefs never have formal training, though it’s not a bad thing to have. I just got very lucky.”

“I’d say instead that you are just very, very good at what you do.”

Ana switched her gaze from the TV to meet his. “Thank you. I think I am, though I’m always learning. I think if I spend my whole life doing this, I will never learn all there is to know about food. It’s one of the things I love about it. The challenge. The simplest dish can be the hardest to perfect.”

Chance watched her face light up as she talked about her craft, her profession. She really did love it.

“You miss it,” he said. A statement, not a question. He could see it in her eyes.

She nodded. “Sometimes, yes.”

He reached out to push back a stray curl that had fallen forward into her face. She sucked in a tiny, surprised breath as his fingers drifted over her cheek and the back of her ear—so soft—but she didn’t pull back. It would be so easy to let his fingers slip into that mass of silky hair and draw her close, get tangled in the blankets and sheets together.

Instead, he dropped his hand, smiling slightly.

“Maybe we should try to sleep again,” he said, taking a breath. “I’ll turn this off now.”

She stood, looking as disconcerted as he felt. Because what he’d done was out of line, or because she felt the same tug of desire?

“Yes, of course. Good night, again.”

Without another look, Ana padded back to her bedroom, closing the door with a definite click. Chance could imagine a hundred other ways that moment could have ended, but this one was the right way. For now.

But if he had his way, when things were better, he might try to steal that kiss—or more—from Ana and see what happened. It was a thought that followed him into his dreams.

3

A
NA
SLIPPED
INSIDE
her dressing room and locked the door. She leaned back against it, letting out a sigh of relief.

Finally, alone.

She was exhausted from being up all night, then arguing with the studio executives about Chance accompanying her to Mexico, and everything in between. She’d excused herself from the current, deadly discussion that was going on back in the conference room. Everyone would assume she was just going to the ladies’ room. Chance wouldn’t follow, as it was only down the hall, and he had already secured the floor.

She had barely a few minutes to make her escape before they caught on.

She’d changed her flight online that morning and had scheduled a car to come get her; it should be waiting out back. Ready to take her to the airport and away from all of this craziness.

Ana wasn’t the studio’s property; she wasn’t anyone’s property. She ran her own life, her way. While it had been lucky to have Chance there the night before when she discovered the note in her apartment, he was
not
coming home with her.

Gathering up her things, Ana left the dressing room unnoticed and dashed for the emergency exit, where she would be in the car and on a jet heading south before they could figure out where she’d gone. She’d be home before nightfall.

Once she was on the plane, she would text to let them know that she was safe and bid them adios.

It had been snowing all morning, and she paused for a moment as the brisk air cooled her skin. Taking a deep breath and letting the stress go, she stared up at the steel-gray sky, soon to be replaced by the rich blue of her homeland. She couldn’t wait.

The car was there, not twenty feet away, and she hurried to it, letting herself in and collapsing back into the luxurious seat as she closed her eyes.

“Let’s go,” she said and didn’t bother opening her eyes as the car rolled forward, out onto the road.

The studio people would have a fit, but she could care less. What would they do? Fire her? Maybe they’d be doing her a favor. She’d been ready to scream every time one of them talked to her in their overly solicitous, pandering tone. They kept saying all they wanted was to keep her safe, when in reality, all they wanted was to protect the money she made for them. The more profitable the show became, the more control they tried to exert. When she was home, she could think about what she wanted to do next.

Her contract was up after this season. It had been a given that she would renew her contract. Plans were already in progress for the third season, but doubt flickered somewhere in the back of her mind. Sitting with Chance, watching her old show the night before, she wondered if she really could keep doing this. But what else would she do?

Go back to producing a cooking show of her own? Write books? Open a restaurant?

Those options had all crossed her mind, and somewhere, in the back of the fog of ambition, perhaps, someday, a man. A husband. Children.

Ana shook her head. She did regret ditching Chance, which would no doubt make him look incompetent and earn him censure from the studio. He would certainly be fired, and that bothered her deeply. But it couldn’t be helped. He’d be fine, she was sure. He was good at his job, and she couldn’t be the first client to refuse protection.

Ana hated doing this to him, but it was the position she had been put in. She’d find a way to apologize later. Maybe if they had met some other way, some other time, she might have enjoyed knowing him. When he’d touched her, the warmth from his hands had seeped down to her bones, setting off an answering response in her blood. It had been a while since that had happened. If he had been anyone else, maybe she would have invited him back to her bed last night.

A nice thought. Too late now.

Sighing again, Ana opened her eyes and frowned as she took in the route.

“This is not the way to the airport,” she said, sitting upright in alarm.

No response from the driver. Fear clenched in her belly as she leaned forward.

“Where are we going? I demand you take me to the airport,” she said, finding her phone. “I’m calling the police,” she told the man driving the car and started to dial.

“No need for that, Ana. I’ve got you covered.”

The voice was all too familiar, and as he readjusted the rearview mirror and took off the driver’s cap, Ana’s eyes widened as they met Chance’s familiar green ones.

“How could you—” she sputtered.

“I paired my cell phone to yours last night when I gave you my number. I watched as you changed your plans this morning. Clever. You might want to let them know you’re okay before they call out the troops, though,” he said easily, returning his attention to the road.

“Where are we going? This isn’t the way to the airport.”

“No, it’s not. It wasn’t a bad idea to change your flight, actually, seeing as someone was in your apartment, and your flight schedule was on your desk. But I have an even better plan. It’ll be fine. You’ll enjoy it. Trust me,” he said and hit the gas, speeding them down the highway.

Ana was shaking with so much fury, frustration and so many other emotions that she couldn’t name that words deserted her, as did her hope of going home alone and leaving all of this behind for a few weeks. How could she truly leave, let it all go, with a bodyguard dogging her every step? And how was she going to explain him to her mother? Her family?

Her fiancé?

She watched sullenly as they turned down a dirt road that led to a small airport and pulled into a hangar where a man waited for them, obviously having been preparing the small turboprop plane that he was standing beside. A plane painted in gray cammo.

Chance shot her a look. “Wait here.”

He got out of the car and, this time, opened the back, grabbing her bags and tossing them to the other man. Ana got out of the car and followed.

“Thanks, Don, for getting her ready on such short notice,” Chance said to the other man.

“No problem, Chance. I was out here doing some other work already. Glad to help,” he said with a smile aimed at Ana.

Chance stepped between them, blocking Don’s view and not bothering to introduce her. Ana stepped around him, holding out her hand, starting to say hello.

Chance took her elbow and turned her away, saying something else to Don over his shoulder as they walked out.

“What is the matter with you? That was rude!” she said, pulling her elbow away.

“I told you to stay in the car, first off. Don is trustworthy, but the fewer people who know who you are or that you were even here, the better.”

Ana took a deep breath, trying to hold her temper. Maybe she could reason with him.

“Cut the Jason Bourne act. Don’t you think this is taking things a little too far? I doubt my stalker has the kind of reach or ambition to follow me home. I’ll be fine. Please, just take me to the airport and leave me be.”

Chance turned on her, his light green eyes burning into hers. He was dead serious, she could see.

“You’d be surprised what determined people are willing to do when they want something badly enough. Take my word for it. And don’t worry about being rude. Don isn’t offended. He knows the score.”

“Is he the pilot?”

Chance smiled. They approached the tarmac as the engine of the small plane came to life behind them. Don rolled it out of the hangar, and they watched as it came to a stop.

“No. I am. It’s my plane. I flew it up here last night from Philly.”

Ana saw her hopes of visiting in Mexico alone vanish. As the engines of the plane became too loud for them to say anything, Ana growled in frustration, the sound lost in the noise. It looked as if she was stuck with Chance Berringer, whether she liked it or not.

* * *

C
HANCE
HAD
TO
ADMIT
THAT
he was a little gleeful at being able to take the King Air—a plane that he had refurbished completely on his own—for a long flight. He hadn’t had the chance to do that in a while. Taking Ana to Mexico was an added perk to the job, and he could even bill the production company for the expense. Sweet.

Being cozied into the little space with Ana for several hours wasn’t any hardship, either, even if she was a bit high maintenance.

Chance could handle that. He loved things that were fast, dangerous and presented a challenge. Sliding a look to where Ana’s skirt had brushed up higher on her thigh, he knew she wouldn’t disappoint on any of those points.

But she was also in trouble, whether she wanted to admit it or not. It wasn’t unusual for people to rail against protection. No one wanted their privacy invaded to the degree that bodyguards often had to insert themselves into a person’s life. And the loss of control was harder for some to handle than others. Chance could relate—he didn’t like losing control of a situation,
either, and for that reason, he didn’t plan to let anything happen to Ana Perez.

And if she wasn’t just flat-out one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, she was also fascinating. He’d read and researched her background well into the night and had never met anyone quite like her.

Ana had grown up in the small village of Hatsutsil, just outside of the larger Yucatán city of Mérida. Chance spoke decent Spanish, having spent four years in high school studying and several vacations in Central America, but he didn’t know much about the Mayan people.

“So do you speak Mayan at home?” he asked as he checked the controls and did his preflight routine. It would be a long flight if they wouldn’t speak to each other.

“There is no such thing,” she said, arms crossed in front of her and her eyes straight ahead. Still pissed.

“What do you mean?”

She frowned but then answered his question. “Most of what my family speaks is called Yucatec Maya, one version of Mayan, but largely they also speak Spanish and most are proficient to some degree in English.”

“I thought Maya was how the group of people is referred to? The language, as well?”

“Mayan is a class of languages—like Italian and Spanish are Romance languages. There are many variations within Mayan. Maya is how we refer to our people. You won’t have any trouble finding that most people speak and understand English.”

Chance nodded, silent as he signaled Don and then started down the runway.

“Good to know. Anything else I should know about the people or the area so that I don’t put my foot in my mouth?” he asked in Spanish this time.

She looked at him, seeming surprised at the question.

“You will be fine. And you may not be there long, after all.”

“We’ll see,” he said with a smile, enjoying the thrill as the small plane lifted into the bleak winter sky and he banked southwest, taking them away from New York.

What he also knew from her file was that she had funneled most of her earnings back into the village, building schools, security and small businesses. She’d made her hometown stronger and less of a target for crime, including that which resulted from local drug wars.

Ana was mistaken if she thought she would shake him once they were down in Mexico, if for no other reason than he had discovered her name mentioned twice in recent chatter about possible kidnappings. Of course they knew she was coming home, and it wasn’t unusual for celebrities and people who had money to become targets for a number of groups in that part of the world.

“You may be mistaken about being in danger in Mexico,” he said, floating the idea for her consideration. “There have been some rumors about possible kidnappings. I have a friend in the FBI who gave me a heads-up.”

To Chance’s surprise, Ana laughed.

“That’s funny?”

“Not funny, just not unusual. There are always threats for kidnapping. And worse. I don’t pay any attention to that,” she said dismissively.

“You’re not worried?”

She looked him directly in the eye. “No. We grew up with the drug runners terrorizing our village. We’re near the coast. It’s an easy delivery route. Once you’ve lived with that, it’s hard to be worried about rumors. If there is any real threat, the police in our village will handle it. I’m perfectly safe there.”

She wasn’t just putting on a brave facade. Ana really had no fear, and that made her even more attractive to him.

She wasn’t married, and there weren’t any current boyfriends. They would have been part of her profile. Not interested in men?

No. He’d seen the heat in her eyes a few times when he’d touched her. She felt it, too.

As they reached the right altitude and leveled off, he set the autopilot and leaned back, relaxing in his seat.

“So who do you think could be doing this? A fan? Or maybe someone closer?” he asked, deciding that this was as good a time as any to talk about who was harassing her.

“It’s clearly a fan.”

“Or perhaps someone trying to appear like a fan.”

“What do you mean?” Ana asked, sitting up, her eyes sharp.

“I talked to your landlady, and she said she didn’t let anyone into your apartment yesterday. She was very clear on the issue. There was also no forced entry.”

“So you suspect...who?”

“Anyone who might’ve had access to your keys during the day. Anyone who could have grabbed them and ducked out while you were too busy to notice or who knows your schedule. When you are and are not home.”

Ana started to say something, then dropped back into her seat again, silent.

“Anyone on the show have it in for you?” he asked.

She barked a slight laugh that was not humorous. “Every contestant that hasn’t won. So many. Who knows?”

“That bad?”

“It can be. I make a decision that changes people’s futures, makes their dream come true. When those dreams are ruined, people can be very...upset.”

He nodded. “Anyone in particular? Someone who might want to give you a hard time or throw you off your game?”

“Nothing throws me off my game,” she stated, making him smile. “There is Lionel. He’s been a problem. I can’t imagine he would have done anything like this, though.”

“Tell me about him.”