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CHAPTER TWELVE
With late summer crawling into fall in Virginia, sometimes the days were hot, and sometimes Ella froze. But nights were another story. The temperature had dropped, and so had Bishop’s arm as they walked out of the bar. If she’d been thinking about anything besides her distraction-worthy ex-boyfriend bodyguard, then she would’ve remembered a sweater. Though at the moment, she wasn’t complaining as he rubbed her arm.
He guided her through the gaggle of people crushed together at the front of the trendy bistro, but as they hit the open sidewalk, he put a regrettable amount of space between them. Which was what he should have done. This was not a date, no matter what Jay’s impressions were or where her mind went.
But that kiss…
Ugh.That kiss. It was a pity kiss, an even-the-score kiss. The damn thing had singed her lips and scorched her mind. Ella had nearly melted to the barstool. The fire alarms were lucky they hadn’t blared for how much smokin’ hot heat had to have rolled off of her when he cupped her cheek. Could there be a worse reason for a man to press his lips to hers?
“I didn’t get you toasted,” he said, trying to break through the awkward tension that pulsed between them on the empty sidewalk.
Did she want his hands on her or not? Didhe?Did the kiss count toward their back-and-forth game?
“No. But I did get you fed.” They rounded the corner. “We both accomplished our goals—Oh!”
A man jumped toward them.
Bishop reacted before she could process what was happening. He pushed her against the wall, stepping between her and the fast-moving man. Bricks abraded her arm as her elbow hit, funny bone stinging. Stars shined while her temple throbbed.
The sound of splashes and a pop rained around her, and Ella stumbled, lost her footing in her long skirt, her sandal catching on the cotton. But she spun, still on her feet, and Bishop’s strong hands caught her, twirling her in a fluid motion, so fast and fierce that she wasn’t in control. One shoe on, the other foot bare, Ella’s face was pressed to his back, and her shoulders were pushed against the wall all before she could gasp out, “What the hell!”
“Hands in the air,” Bishop growled out, grabbing his gun. He looked as if he were right out of a movie, though he was so broad, and she was so pinned, that she couldn’t see. But his stance was deadly, and his weapon was in play.
“Hey! Hey!” The firstheyhad been playful, the second one concerned. “What are you doing?”
Ella had no idea who the young guy was, nor whyhewas confused. Bishop’s tense body relaxed, and his arms dropped enough that she could tell he was assessing the situation rather than reacting in a defending role.
“Put your hands in the air,” he ordered again, stepping away from her.
Only then did she see the dark, wet marks on the sidewalk. Ella took a cursory step to the side.Oh!Even in the early night light and streetlamp glow, she could see that Bishop was covered in green goo.
Across from him was a messy-headed guy with a messenger bag, easily college aged, who had his hands semi-tossed up.
Bishop holstered the gun back on his hip. “Geez, I’m not getting paid enough to do this.”
The guy dipped his hand into the bag and pulled out what looked like a water balloon.
Bishop’s fist flew before the guy could take aim, knocking the green-blob-throwing jerk on his butt in one solid punch. The balloon bounced and popped on the sidewalk. The same thick green goo that covered Bishop now formed a circle of demarcation between the men.
“What is going on?” she shrieked.
Bishop grabbed the guy by his T-shirt collar, lifted him, then slammed him against the wall. He removed the bag from the guy’s shoulder and tossed it. Two additional balloons rolled out of the bag’s flap.
“Ella.” Bishop ran his hands along the man’s pockets, from his stomach to armpits, then along his shorts. “Call the cops.”
“Hey, man,” their attacker whined. “Don’t do that. That wasn’t part of the gig. Come on.”
Part of what?Her mind reeled to make sense of what was happening.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Bishop spun the man to face Ella and him then pushed the guy back against the wall. “What are you talking about?”
“The game.”
“What game?” Bishop took a step forward, and when he was in protector mode, there was nothing sweet and gentle about him. “Scary” and “lethal” were the two best descriptors that came to mind.
“Are you not playing? I thought you were who I was supposed to…” The guy’s confusion scored across his forehead. “No. You are. I saw her picture.”
“Explain,” he growled.