He stared at her, impatience oozing from every pore. “Listen, Doc, I told you from the first, if you ride with me, it’s my rules, 24-7. My job, whether I want it or not, is to protect you. When I agreed to do that, I made an oath. Whatever it takes.”

She shook her head firmly. “Nope. I’m not doing it. And I take full responsibility for anything that happens to me. I hereby relieve you of your oath,” she said, snapping off some sort of half salute, half finger pistol in an attempt to make it all official-like.

“I don’t think so. I made the oath to myself and no amount of”—he nodded pointedly at her finger pistol—“whatever it is you’re doing there relieves me of it. You can make it easy on both of us. Or not.”

The challenge in his eyes sent a sizzle of apprehension through her. Or was it? Fear alone would have made her want to cower. Instead, she found herself fighting the urge press him. What would he do if she said no?

She shook her head briskly to ward off the sudden buzz clouding her thoughts. It was just adrenaline. She’d always lived such a safe, sheltered life, and this was all new. Sex tapes and bombs and bodyguards. This mess would affect anyone. And that warm feeling spreading low in her belly had nothing at all to do with Gavin McClintock as a man.

Maybe it would be easier to go along and save her strength for the war she knew was brewing between the two of them. “Fine. But only to here.” She held up her hand to a spot past her shoulders. Was it her, or did he look surprised and slightly disappointed at her acquiescence?

“Sit on the chair so we don’t get hair on the bed.”

She sat on the rickety side chair with her back to him. “I’m thinking I should wet it first. I’m going to take it down and comb—” She’d moved to stand but stopped short as she felt a tug. The sound of something sharp sawing through hair reverberated in her head.

“Done,” he announced, handing her a thick, six-inch-long hank. “I’m assuming you can at least handle the dye part yourself or…?”

She ignored his question as she stared, flabbergasted, at the tail of blond locks in her hand. He hadn’t even taken it down or brushed it out. She reached her free hand up to the back of her head and gasped. A tiny stub stuck out from the back of her clip, like the tail of a Doberman.

“Are you insane?” she demanded, her voice trembling with anger as he closed his little pocketknife with a snap. “You didn’t even use scissors, and I said past my shoulders. That is so not how you cut hair. You comb it out first and measure to make it even. I’m going to look—”

“Alive. When I’m done, you’re going to look alive, which is a hell of a lot better than how you’d look if we’d been doing things your way up to this point, Doc. Now”—he held up the box of dye—“do you want to do the honors, or do you want me to?”

She snatched it from his hand and stalked toward the bathroom. “I think you’ve done enough.” She slammed the door and flipped on the light. Tears gathered behind her lids, and she groaned. She’d cried more in the past few months than in the previous ten years combined. It wouldn’t do at all for him to hear her, so she turned on the water to drown out her sniveling.

She stared into the mirror as she lifted her hands to her hair. Right now, from the front, she looked the same. Maybe she should just leave it that way. She took a steadying breath. Better to get it over with, and fast. Like a Band-Aid. She plucked the clip from her hair, and it fell like a curtain over her cheeks, brushing her chin. She blinked away the tears to see more clearly. She turned her head this way and that, and the bob swung with it. It wasn’t terrible. It wasn’t great, either, but she could live with it. Not that she was going to tell him that. He hadn’t cared whether it looked good or not, so the outcome didn’t absolve him. Still, she’d have to play nice because she needed him to snip the ragged pieces she couldn’t reach in the back to make it even. She gave another tentative fluff, then picked up the box.

She’d just finished mixing the concoction and was shaking it to a terrifying shade of chocolate brown when a knock sounded on the door.

“I’m going to take a nap,” Gavin called gruffly. “I put the bag of clothes right outside the door. Once you’re done with the dye job, change into them. You can’t be wearing what you left the house in, just in case any of the witnesses described your outfit. There’s also some…girl stuff in there. The lady at the makeup counter picked everything, so don’t blame me if you don’t like it.”

She paused, then gave her reflection a sheepish look. Whatever this guy was, he was also trying, albeit in a clumsy, oafish way, to help her. She vowed that, going forward, she was going to make his job a little easier. Her reflection raised a dubious brow, and she waggled her tongue at it. Okay, she’d make his job easier within reason, she amended. As long as he started being a little less ham-handed about everything. Maybe they could even come to some sort of agreement now that the immediate crisis was temporarily in check and cooler heads prevailed.

That settled, she put the bottle of dye down on the edge of the ugly, avocado-colored sink, anxious to see the clothes and makeup he’d gotten. She hoped everything fit. He hadn’t asked her sizes, so it was unlikely, but she’d take even close at this point. She peered into the bag and let out a groan.

…

Gavin tucked his hands behind his head and tried, yet again, to fall asleep. Every time he closed his eyes, another random noise came from the bathroom. First it was groaning, then what sounded like a muffled but semi-panicked laughter, and now the drone of a hair dryer. Women were strange, and this hardheaded one was no different, in spite of the conservative package.

He almost smiled as he recalled the look on her face when he’d cut her hair. Priceless. He was so not going to sit there for two hours and play Vidal Sassoon while she directed him on what kind of hairdo she wanted. Way easier just to cut first, ask questions later. She had clearly not found it as amusing as he did. He had to hand it to her, though. Considering the circumstances, she’d proven to be a trouper. If she would get in line with the rest of the plan, they’d have a shot at getting out of this unscathed.

He closed his eyes again and wondered idly if the clothes fit. He hadn’t asked her measurements for the same reason he hadn’t asked about her hair preferences. No need to spend any more time than he had to in the store hunting down a pair of kitten heels—whatever the hell those were—or some other item he had no clue how to find. Besides, he’d dressed and undressed enough women to have a fair idea of her sizes. The most important thing was that she didn’t look like the Sarabeth Lucking who had left her house this morning. He was contemplating whether he should’ve picked up a pair of dark contact lenses to camouflage the unusual sea-glass green of her eyes when the bathroom door swung open.

His breath left him in a whoosh as she stepped into the room. She’d gone from looking like a high school principal, albeit one that some of the smarter, more mature male students would fantasize about bending over something, to a flat-out bombshell. Her newly darkened hair cupped her jawline in a jagged but flattering cut, drawing attention to her high cheekbones. The saleswoman behind the makeup counter had been dead-on with the makeup, too. Her lips were a glossy rose that emphasized the fullness he’d appreciated when they’d first met.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on where you were sitting, he’d missed the mark on the clothes. He let his gaze sweep over the rest of her, ignoring the hands fisted at her sides. The plain, V-neck black T-shirt should have been nondescript and casual. Instead it clung to her like seaweed to a mermaid. And what a f**king mermaid she was. The br**sts that had seemed modest at first glance had jumped ship and strained against the thin cotton, a perfect handful, and his fingers twitched with the urged to test that theory. Her lithe frame was showcased by a second-skin pair of jeans that made her legs look long enough to wrap around him once and half again, and this time another part of him twitched.

“We’re, ah, going to need to get some other clothes. I look ridiculous.” She tugged at the shirt, her gaze flickering away from his.

Part of him, the part concerned with his own peace of mind and self-preservation, was totally on board with getting her other clothes, but the protector in him won out. He sat up and cleared his throat. “You don’t look ridiculous. I understand it’s not what you’re used to, but that’s a good thing. That’s what we’re trying to achieve here. You don’t look anything like the woman I left with this morning, and that is an asset right now.”

She shot him a dubious frown. “I think I’m more conspicuous like this. It’s very…showy.”

“If you think that’s showy, you should drive past a nightclub once in a while. Or maybe check out your local high school. You have on jeans and a T-shirt. It’s not exactly a lace teddy, Doc.” Bad move on his part, as instantly an image of her in exactly that forced its way, front and center, to his brain. Black. Or white, even. Garters. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “At any rate, you look fine.”

“Still, next time I’d like to come with you so I can get something a little looser, okay?”

There was a slight edge to her voice, but her expression bordered on pleasant. She wasn’t screaming over the hair dye or cursing him about the cut, so he gave a noncommittal shrug. No point in getting her all stirred up again by telling her he had no intention of taking her shopping. He’d won the battle, and the results had been even better than he’d hoped. She didn’t just look like a different person. She looked like a different kind of person. Sexy. Confident in her body, if she would only stop the damned fidgeting. All in all she appeared to be ready to take on the world. What better way for a wren to hide than by disguising itself as a peacock? He’d stumbled into something, but if it wasn’t broken, he sure as hell wasn’t about to let her try to fix it.

“So what’s the plan now?” she asked, crossing the room to sit on the opposite bed.

“Let’s see how much has hit the news already.” He tore his gaze from her newly emancipated bod, picked up the remote, and turned on the small TV. Odds were fair that the bomb hadn’t made national news yet, but with such a high-profile, media-sexy case like this one, it wasn’t out of the question. The second he flicked on the twenty-four-hour news channel, his stomach clenched as her picture flashed in the right-hand corner of the screen. He’d banked on a bit more time. Apparently one of her neighbors had a conscience after all.

The auburn-haired, stiff-faced newswoman shook her head grimly and continued with her report: “…is the granddaughter of hotelier Stanley Lucking and his wife, Lucinda. There was an attempt on the young doctor’s life today. Authorities are treating this as a possible homicide, but have set also up roadblocks in the greater Chicago area as one witness, a neighbor of the victim, claims to have seen her leave the premises in a dark sedan.”

Shit.

“We’ve got to call my grandparents. Let them know I’m all right,” she whispered.

“Owen is en route to Chicago now to take care of that, but understand we can’t tell them any specifics. Not who you’re with, not where you’re going. The less they know, the better.”

She hesitated, but then nodded. “I understand.”

She was stubborn, but she was smart. That was something, at least.

“The stress of being splashed all over television again is going to send my grandmother into a fit, though,” she said with a half smile.

He studied her face. There was pain in her eyes and a tightness to her voice that belied that smile. He was very familiar with what it was like to have a parent who didn’t live up to the potential the job required. There was more to the young doctor than met the eye. A steel in her he was beginning to appreciate in spite of himself. “She’ll get over it. The important thing is that you’re safe, and I’m going to keep it that way. That’s a promise.”