These Boots Were Made for Stomping (5 page)

“Maybe,” Lydia said, but her heart wasn’t in it.

“So, what are you going to do? For a job, I mean?”

Lydia frowned, because that little problem had crossed her mind, too. “I’m not entirely sure,” she admitted.

“Maybe the Silver Streak can find you a job,” Amy suggested.

“I doubt it,” Lydia said. “I don’t even know where to find him, and—”

“I was joking,” Amy said. “That was my subtle ploy to lead you into telling me about him.”

And so Lydia did. Everything from the way she’d found the girl in the alley, to how Silver had shown up, looking all sexy
and competent, to the electric tingle she’d felt when he’d touched her hand.

“Sparks?” Amy asked. “There were really sparks? Oh, my God, Lyd. I’m practically swooning.”

“Well,
I
thought there were sparks,” Lydia said. “I’m not so sure about him. And since I haven’t a clue how to find him, I guess it
doesn’t much matter.” How stupid had she been, rushing off to work when her fantasy man was right there? And for what? To
get fired?

Idiot, idiot, idiot!

“Maybe if you go back to that alley . . .” Amy suggested.

Lydia shook her head, not wanting to get her hopes up. “Let’s get real. The guy’s a freakin’ superhero. What’s he going to
want with me?”

Amy looked pointedly down at Lydia’s feet.

“No way,” Lydia protested. “That’s not real. I’m just me. No superhero here,” she said, spreading her arms.

“Well, I think you should go for it. He’s your fantasy guy, Lydia. What harm is there in trying to snag him? I mean, come
on. A guy who can fly and beat up thugs has to be pretty darn good in be—”

“Amy!” Lydia protested, feigning shock.

“Well, it’s true,” Amy pouted.

“And it’s moot,” Lydia said. “Don’t know how to find him. Case closed. The end. Over and out.”

Amy just scowled.

“Let’s focus on getting me a new job,” Lydia said, taking a sip of the fresh Cosmo the waitress put in front of her—her fourth.
“That’s productive, right?”

“Productive,” Amy agreed. “But not fun.”

In the end, Lydia decided it wasn’t that productive, either. They batted ideas around, but considering the level of Cosmopolitan
in Lydia’s blood and the level of merlot in Amy’s, they didn’t get very far.

The best Amy came up with was Lydia standing at a major intersection and having her shoes kick the snot out of surly-looking
passersby. All with an open guitar case, of course, to collect the coins thrown in by other amused pedestrians.

“Can you
please
be serious,” Lydia begged, though she had to admit the idea made her laugh—the thought that she could not only stand out in
public like that, but actually beat somebody up. Maybe she could start with Mr. Stout.

“Probably better to print out a million copies of your résumé and deliver it all over town,” Amy admitted. “Not as interesting,
but at least you’d have benefits.”

By the time they finished drinking and planning Lydia’s future, it was near midnight, and Lydia had quite the buzz. “Wanna
split a cab home?” Amy asked, stumbling a little.

“No thanks,” Lydia said. “I think I’ll walk.” Her heels were at least twice as high as Amy’s—and she’d had twice as much to
drink—but she felt remarkably sure-footed. Light-headed and giggly, but totally sure-footed. More than that, she had a feeling
the cool October breeze would feel great on her alcohol-flushed face.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay?” Amy asked, but Lydia just raised an eyebrow. “Right. The shoes. Okay. But Lydia . . . be careful.”

“I will,” Lydia assured her, then saw her friend safely into a cab. After that, she turned and started walking uptown toward
the subway station that would whisk her away to her empty, boyfriendless apartment, now being paid for out of her savings
since she was a jobless loser.

Oh, hell
. Maybe she should have shared a cab with Amy. Her friend at least would have propped her up when her confidence started to
fail.

“Fat lot of good you guys are doing,” she said to her shoes. “What good does it do to beat up muggers if I lose the only job
I’ve had since college?”

The shoes didn’t answer (which was probably a good thing) and Lydia continued to stumble forward, her thoughts a collage of
bills, thugs, gorgeous superheroes, résumés, hunky tawny-haired men, Cosmopolitans, and, yes, the Silver Streak.

Not that she was obsessed with him or anything. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thought of anything else all day. She had. She’d
thought about her job. And losing her job. And telling Amy about losing her job. And she’d thought about Cosmopolitans and
hanging out with Amy.

And, yes, she’d thought about the guy. But not in an overly obsessive way. It wasn’t as if even now she could hear his voice,
low and sultry and slightly dangerous as if delivered on the wind from Mount Olympus or something, because he was certainly
gorgeous enough to have descended from the ancient Greek gods.

“You think . . . defeated me . . . never . . . not . . . lifetime . . . impossible.”

Wait.
What?

The voice wasn’t in her head, it was in her ears. On the street.
Just around the corner.

She turned and raced in that direction, her heart stopping at the sight before her—a black-haired man dressed all in red,
his hand tight around the throat of Lydia’s beloved Silver Streak—or Silver Streak look-a like—who looked like he was about
to pass out.

She didn’t stop to evaluate, but instead ran forward, her feet leading the way.

“Let him go!” she screamed, then launched herself at the man in red. Her whole body hit his arm, and Silver was jostled free,
falling back with the oddest expression on his face. Undoubtedly gratitude.

She didn’t stop to chitchat, though. His attacker was turning to flee. “Oh, no, you don’t,” she said, running after him, even
as Silver leaped to his feet.

Lydia focused on her foe, attacking him with a solid kick to the face, but he surprised her by grabbing her heel and forcing
her to flip backward in the air, resulting in a stomach-churning aerial somersault from which—miracle of miracles—she landed
on both feet, knees bent to absorb the impact of the jump.

Those few seconds in the air, however, were enough. As she gasped and trembled, Red fired off a little salute, then disappeared,
his body glowing like a billion charged particles of Captain Kirk going through the transporter one too many times.

“He’s gone,” she said, not quite able to believe her eyes.

“He’s gone, all right,” Silver said, his voice cutting as sharp as a knife. “Do you have any idea who that was? Any idea at
all how many man-hours I put into planning this?”

She blinked at him, the world tilting a little as five Cosmopolitans sloshed around in her bloodstream. “I . . .
What
?”

“He’s gone, the mission’s blown, and I’d have to say it’s all your fault.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“My fault?” Lydia repeated, her excitement at seeing Silver again starting to fizzle away. “
My fault
?” The world was spinning, but whether from his words or from her previous Cosmopolitans, she didn’t know. “How the heck is
it
my
fault he got away? I
saved
you.”

“You screwed me,” Silver said, his eyes flashing. “I had it under control.”

“Look, Silver. I don’t know—”

“Dammit,” he said. “I
knew
it. I
knew
that was what you thought.”

She blinked, her entire defense crumbling around her. “Um, sorry?”

“I am
not
the Silver Streak,” he said, with way more force than she thought the situation warranted. “Sorry to shatter your illusions,
but—”

“Whoa there, dude,” Lydia said, holding up her hands in defense before he could launch into a tirade. “I didn’t say you were.
But you didn’t bother to throw an introduction in when you were screaming at me, now, did you?”

She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head, then almost fell over sideways. Either the shoes, her surprising new gumption,
or the alcohol was getting to her, because it certainly couldn’t be the guy. Gorgeous though he might be, she was beginning
to think that maybe looks weren’t everything. She’d saved his butt, and he wasn’t even being nice to her! What was up with
that?

She drew in another breath, all set to lay into him all over again, but he beat her to the punch. His face relaxed, the tight
jaw loosened, then actually curved up into a sexy smile—the kind that shows a dimple and a sense of humor.

“Nikko,” he said, holding out his hand. “And you are? Other than trouble, I mean.”

“Lydia,” she said. “Lydia Carmichael.”

“Well, Lydia Carmichael, you want to tell me how long you’ve officially been a Protector? And why you didn’t tell me when
we met earlier today? Because I think I can document about twenty-seven breaches of protocol here.”

“Protector?” she echoed, even as he leaned in to sniff her breath.

“Cosmopolitans,” he said, so close she could feel his hot breath on her face. “Don’t you know drinking on the job isn’t allowed?”

“Try
after
the job,” she griped. “I got fired this afternoon. And thank you
so
much for making my eve ning that much more special.”

“Fired,” he repeated, the tone of his voice making her feel even more like a loser. “You want to tell me why?”

She hung her head, her eyes going to her shoes, and that maneuver inexplicably gave her a boost of confidence. “A ridiculous
misunderstanding,” she said, looking up to face him. “But it all went back to this morning. I ended up being late, and then
everything just spiraled downward from there.”

“Dammit to Hades,” he said. “Did
I
do that?”

“Huh?” She stared at him, baffled.

“Did I accidentally interfere with a mission? This morning, when I thought you were in trouble?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “I—”

“Sorry,” he said, taking a step back and holding up his hands, looking so contrite that she decided maybe it was best not
to correct his mistaken impression. After all, he’d started out supremely pissed, and now he seemed to be warming up to her.

“Trust me,” he continued, “I know what it’s like to come under the Council gun for something that isn’t entirely your fault.”

“You do?” she asked, wondering what the heck the Council was.

He nodded but didn’t elaborate. “Okay, back to square one. You got fired today?”

“Pretty much,” she said.

“And how long have you been a Protector?”

She shook her head slightly, trying to keep up. The man certainly did change topics quickly. Or maybe her fuzzy brain simply
wasn’t processing fast enough. “Um.”

“Were you on a mission this morning, or weren’t you? Surely that wasn’t your first.”

“Oh!” she said, finally getting it. He thought she was a superhero, too. That must be what Protector meant. And the only reason
he’d think that was because she’d been kicking butt. And the only reason she’d done
that
was because of the shoes.

Did he know something she didn’t? Like, maybe the shoes came with instructions and an assignment? If so, she’d clearly missed
it.

Her head pounded, the alcohol pulling out the big guns now and blasting away inside of her skull, reminding her loudly and
painfully of why she rarely drank.

“Right,” she finally said. “Yes. My first.”

“A Halfling, then. Just passed your tests?”

“I—” She couldn’t think with the hammering in her head.

“And then you went out drinking, got your powers all mucked up, got cocky, and stepped in and tossed a giant monkey wrench
into my operation. Honestly,
what
is the Council teaching you newbies?”

“
Nothing,
” Lydia wailed, all the stress of the day falling right on her shoulders. Because she’d wanted so desperately to help. She’d
thought she was helping. And now this gorgeous stranger—whom she’d at first thought maybe she had a teeny-tiny hint of a spark
with (
that
was obviously only happening in Lydia Delusion-Land!)—was standing here berating her. “Nobody taught me anything. I got the
shoes, I got the power, and everything just went wonky!”

“So, you’re a brand-new Protector
and
you got fired today?”

“Pretty much,” she said, though she didn’t see what one had to do with the other, unless it was the fact that she’d been a
total loser-girl with Mr. Stout. She
really
should have had the gumption to tell him off. But even with the shoes on, she’d kept stupidly silent.

She opened her mouth to tell Nikko all that, but then shut it again the moment she got a glimpse of his face.
Sympathy.
And something even softer. Something that made her insides melt and made her crave his touch.
This
was the man she’d fantasized about, and when he reached for her in a sympathetic hug, she moved into his arms without thinking.

This was the man she’d spent long nights fantasizing about, and she wasn’t sure if it was the cocktails, the guy, or a pending
electrical storm, but the air around her seemed to shimmer, looking exactly like it had when Red had up and disappeared so
very abruptly.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That has to be hell, getting in so much trouble on your very first day.”

“It wasn’t fun,” she admitted. She leaned back, then tilted her head up to look him in the eyes. “But I have to say it’s getting
better,” she added, her voice low, sultry and definitely inviting.

Whoa
. Had she actually said that? She’d never come on to a man in her life. Never even considered being so bold, and yet here
she was, and so far at least, the ground hadn’t fallen out from under her.

She didn’t know if it was the shoes or the man or the alcohol that had loosened her inhibitions—not to mention her tongue—but
she had to admit she liked it. And from the spark of interest reflected in those deep gray eyes, she had to think that maybe
he liked it, too.

“I’m sorry if I seemed harsh earlier,” he said. “They’ve got me working a killer mission, and the key to our brilliant plan
just disappeared in a puff.”

That, she realized, was his polite way of reminding her that she’d screwed up royally. Obviously she had a lot to learn about
this Protector thing. Hopefully the manual wasn’t too long, because she intended to read it cover to cover tonight.

He shifted, and she felt the press of his long, lean legs against her, and the caress of his hand along her back. Immediately
she decided to ditch reading the manual. He’d pulled her to him in sympathy, but if she was reading the signs right, there
was a subtle shift in the tenor of his touch.

He smiled at her, warm and dreamy, and she said a silent prayer that it really was interest she saw in the depths of his eyes,
and not an alcohol-induced hallucination. “Will you accept my apology?”

She nodded, her knees feeling a little weak from the way he was watching her so intently. “I . . . I think I better get home.”
She swallowed, then pressed on boldly, surprising herself, and yet at the same time somehow feeling more like herself than
she ever had before. “Would you come with me?”

The corner of his mouth curved up. “You live near here?”

She shook her head. “Brooklyn,” she said. “I was on my way to the train when—”

“You’re not in any condition to walk,” he said.

“Unless you have a pumpkin you’re planning on turning into a carriage, I haven’t got a choice.” She frowned, remembering with
crystal clarity exactly why a taxi was out of the question.
Fired
. She couldn’t freaking believe it.

“I think I can do you one better than a pumpkin,” he said, even as he pulled her close and held her tight around the waist.
And then, without any warning at all, he shot upward, leaving the ground far below. Lydia trembled in his arms, thinking that
a day that had started out like crap was seriously looking up.

Lydia Carmichael.

Somehow, it seemed like the perfect name. She’d been on his mind since he’d rescued her that morning—or, rather, since he
thought he’d rescued her. Now that he knew she was a Protector, her earlier protestations made sense.
She’d
rescued a girl who’d screamed, and he’d somehow interfered in her follow-up. True, she’d looked to be in trouble, what with
the gun in her face, but that could have been a ruse. Much like the one she’d inadvertently interrupted only moments ago.

Already, he forgave her that. There was, quite simply, something about this woman. Something that made his heart beat a little
faster and his Protector instincts fire. He wanted to gather her up, to keep her safe. Apparently he’d been lonelier than
he realized.

Empirically, the girl was trouble: a new Protector, obviously clueless, she’d gotten in the way of one of the biggest stings
of his career and one of the most important operations in Council history.

And yet, here he was, feeling all warm and fuzzy toward her.

Libido,
he reminded himself. Not real, just lust.

Still, he thought, as her soft body clung to him and the lights of the city twinkled beneath them, it was the sweetest kind
of trouble. And if she’d set him back a week or two on his mission—well, sometimes payment could be delicious, too.

Lydia was floating in the night sky, the stars as background and her head as light as a feather. Best of all, she was in her
dream man’s arms.

True, he’d been a teensy bit grumpy at first—not exactly sweeping her off her feet—but the reality was that he’d been as confused
about her as she was about herself. Now, he’d both warmed up to her and was warming her up, because she’d never felt safer
or more heated than she did at that particular moment with her arms tight around him, his body hard against hers, and the
world whizzing by below.

He shifted then, and her stomach rose all the way into her throat, then did a hard nosedive into her toes as he started a
descent over her neighborhood. Had she told him where she lived? She tried to mentally push rewind, realized her brain was
basically mush, but had a vague memory of him asking for details and her describing her apartment through an alcohol-and-lust-induced
haze.

“Did I get it right?” he asked, setting them down gently on the fire escape.

“Wow,” she said, which pretty much took all of her effort. “Um, yeah.”

“Wait here,” he said. Then he shot off into the sky while she stayed behind, looking stupidly up toward the stars.

Less than a minute later, he was inside her apartment and pulling the window open. “How did you—? Never mind.” She decided
against asking.

“I like your place,” he said, and she smiled wryly.

“I’m thinking I need to have the locks checked and an alarm system installed. You got in far too easily.”

“Now you’re thinking like a mortal,” he said. “You’ve passed your test, right? You’re a Protector now.” He tapped his head.
“I’m full-blooded, so I’ve grown up with it, but eventually you’re going to have to simply accept that the way things work
for Protectors aren’t always the way things work for mortals.”

“Believe me,” she said dryly, “I’m figuring that out.”

She headed across her apartment and pulled a bottle of water from her tiny refrigerator, then offered one to him. “So what
exactly were you doing that I messed up? I’m sorry about that,” she added quickly, her cheeks heating.

He hesitated, and she felt her blush deepen. “I guess I shouldn’t be asking you those kinds of questions, right? For all you
know, I’m working for the bad guys.”

“For the record,” he said, “I don’t believe that. But you’re right about my needing to be careful. Hopefully you’ll never
be on probation. Trust me when I say you have to watch yourself every step of the way.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “I get it.” For that matter, she really did understand. She’d read enough complicated comic book
plots to give her some idea of what she’d stumbled onto. “I thought you were trying to take that guy down, but that he’d somehow
turned the tables on you. But it was all a ruse, and you’d planned on getting caught all along so that you could find his
secret lair where he’s hatching his evil plot.” She waggled her eyebrows, then crossed her arms over her chest and looked
up at him. “So, how’d I do?”

He didn’t answer, but his lopsided grin was enough to tell her she was right on the mark.

She licked her thumb and smashed it on her hip, then made a sizzling noise. “Am I good, or what?”

“I have a feeling you’re very, very good.”

She nodded her head, feeling bold, smug, and a little bit sexy. “Touché.” She moved to the couch and patted the cushion next
to her, inviting him to join her. “So riddle me this, Batman. If this mission is so important, how come you’re here with me?
My sparkling personality? Sexy legs? Keen fashion sense?” She blinked, a little amazed at her own gumption. Whatever happened
to shy Lydia?

Apparently, she’d been kicked to the curb. And that, frankly, was just fine with the new model.