Beneath the Surface by Melynda Price Page A

time that didn’t want him. It wasn’t just that gorgeous face and killer body that made her so damn irresistible. That was the icing on the cake. It was what was underneath—her standoffish, abrasive attitude that drove him nuts. It also courted his inherent nature to conquer and possess.
    Muttering a foul oath, he shut off the shower and snagged the towel he’d draped over the door. After a quick rubdown, he fastened it around his waist and headed for his bedroom. She’d been here only a day and already it felt like he was invading her private space.
    Before exiting the bathroom, he rapped his knuckles against the door to warn Quinn he was coming out. He’d learned from her mistake last night not to assume the room was empty. Silence answered him and he slowly opened the door. The bed was still rumpled, the pillow indented from where she’d laid her head. Annoyingly, something in his chest tightened at the sight of seeing his bed in her disarray.
    Grinding his molars, he marched over and jerked the covers back into place. By the time he was finished, all evidence of Quinn was gone, and not even a wrinkle in the bed remained. He quickly dressed and headed downstairs. When his foot hit the landing he abruptly stopped, his grip on the railing tightening as a rush of anger flooded him, erasing any chill lingering in his veins.
    Quinn was sitting on the corner of the couch watching TV. She hadn’t changed the channel from the CNN station it’d been left at the last time he’d turned that fucking thing on, before promptly hurling the remote into the fireplace. This time, there were news anchors chattering on about something irrelevant, but it was the headlines flashing across the bottom of the screen that caught his attention. Nisour Square Massacre . . . Peterson’s trial expected to conclude by the end of the week. Iraqi officials are demanding justice for the death of seventeen civilians and officers. Asher Tate, owner of Tate Security, acquitted of criminal charges against . . .
    At the sight of his name, Asher quit reading and marched over to the TV. He jerked the cord out of the wall and the anchors’ voices cut out, leaving the room in silence. He ignored the look of surprise on Quinn’s face, his own expression locked down to contain the rush of guilt and anger that assaulted him every time he heard Peterson’s fucking name. He should have shot that bastard when he’d had the chance.
    It didn’t matter that Asher hadn’t been the one to pull that trigger; he was still to blame. Those were his men— his responsibility. The White House didn’t see it that way, though, and after an exhaustive investigation, he’d been cleared of any misconduct. But it still didn’t stop the press from breathing down his neck.
    “I prefer the TV stay off,” he told Quinn gruffly, giving her no more explanation before heading for the kitchen.

    Did he just rip that television cord out of the wall and tell her she couldn’t watch the news? Quinn stared at him, too shocked for words as she watched him walk away like he hadn’t just revoked her First Amendment rights. Was this guy for real? She shoved herself to her feet and followed him out with a mind to give him an earful, then thought better of it when he pulled his gun from the breadbox and chambered a round before sliding the weapon into the holster behind his back.
    “You ready to go?” he asked, barely shooting her a glance as she hovered in the doorway.
    “Aren’t you worried you’re going to shoot yourself in the ass?” Her annoyance over his stunt in the living room sharpened the edge in her voice.
    He looked at her now, his raised brow posing the unspoken question, Are you serious? “If I shoot myself in the ass, then I have no business protecting you. Might be worth the bullet . . .” He grumbled the last part under his breath, but she heard him.
    So this was how it was going to be? Lovely. “Look, I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier. Okay?