But first, she had to figure out what was going on with Marco.

Finished with her part of the closing routine, Alyssa made her way into the bar and leaned against the flip counter where the waitstaff placed their orders.

Marco was sliding clean drink glasses into an overhead rack. He'd discarded his button-down over the far edge of the bar and wore only a tight black tank. Alyssa couldn't help but stare at the way his ripped muscles moved as he worked. And the undershirt left little to the imagination about just how cut he was underneath.

He turned and grabbed more glasses from a dishwasher tray behind him, continuing what he was doing, never looking at her, but Alyssa knew he was aware of her by the tension in his shoulders and the way his gaze avoided her. Loner complex or not, she refused to believe he wanted to keep her at a distance, too. Not after everything they'd been through together.

She drummed her fingers lightly on the bar. Once. Twice. Her concern morphed into exasperation, then annoyance, and finally anger. "Any chance you're going to explain the silent treatment?"

He glared her way, then set the empty dishwasher racks off to the side on the floor.

"Marco, I don't understand-"

"You got that right."

"Got what right? I don't even know what we're talking about. All I know is you're kinda being an asshole and I haven't the foggiest idea what I..."

The words died in her throat as Marco abruptly turned, stalked across the space behind the bar, and flipped up the counter in front of her. She retreated as he stepped through the gap, and then he grabbed her by the arms-firm enough that she knew he had her, but not enough to hurt.

"How many times did you get grabbed out there tonight? Huh?" He pushed her back one step, then another, until her spine came flush against something unyielding. He braced his hands on the wall above her shoulders and towered over her, six-foot-three-inches of pissed-off versus five-foot-four-inches of turned-on. "How many guys laid their fucking paws on you?"

Alyssa could barely breathe, let alone respond. Her heart was a speeding train in her chest. How had he even known what had happened on the floor, anyway? Besides, she'd handled it. Kim had prepared her for the rowdy ones, plus you didn't grow up in a violent household without knowing how to dodge some unwanted contact. The self-defense classes she'd taken in college taught her the rest. So what if one guy kept putting his arm around her shoulders when she leaned in to take his orders and another grabbed her ass? No blood, no foul, and all that.

"I can tell you this goddamn much. There is at least one man in this town who is lucky to be alive tonight."

"Marco," she whispered.

He pounded his fist on the wall. "I can't...you c-can't..." He shook his head.

"Marco," she said again. "I'm okay."

He stared at her a long moment, blue eyes blazing and his breathing hard. Slowly, he leaned in, his tongue flicking his bottom lip.

Alyssa's mouth dropped open. Oh, God, how many times had she dreamed of this? She tilted her head and held his gaze, her whole body alive with anticipation. Her hand fisted in his shirt, pulling him in or pulling herself up-she wasn't sure which.

The second she touched him, he blinked and his eyes went wide, like he'd just realized what was happening. The fire in his gaze disappeared and his expression went dark. "You're not okay. You're too nave for your own good." He spun on his heel and stalked away, slamming the folding counter down behind him.

Chapter Five

He'd been about to kiss her. Hard and deep. Right there against the wall of the bar.

What a fucking animal.

Marco knew giving in to the bone-deep urge to possess Alyssa was wrong on more levels than he wanted to admit, but that didn't keep his body from aching for it.

He slammed his locker shut. He had to get out of there. No way he could trust himself to run into her again. Of course, leaving Whiskey's meant he was screwing his job of watching over her. But tonight was all about the lesser of two evils.

Even outside in the night air, her scent still filled his nose, sweet like apples and vanilla. His tongue conjured tastes he imagined were hers, and the beckoning heat in her dark eyes was a picture he couldn't forget.

Jesus. When had she become so damn appealing? Of course, she'd always been sweet and kind and loyal to a fault-just like her brother. But now she was...so much more than that. Confident. Outgoing. Beautiful, but down-to-earth.

He had to stop thinking about her this way because it was so easy to want to lose himself in her. Too easy. Alyssa represented his old life, his old self. She made him remember that person. That must be why she appealed to him now-she made him believe he could be his old self again. But it was just a mirage. That life, that man-they were gone, buried in the ruins of a mud hut thousands of miles away.

Marco gunned Betty's engine and tore out of the rear parking lot. A line of traffic waited to exit at the light. Sitting at that damn signal tested the last thread of his patience, and the leather steering wheel creaked under the stranglehold he had on it.

Green. Fucking finally.

He turned right before he thought to do it-away from home. Last thing he wanted to face right now was the horrific nightscape of his usual REM pattern, especially on the chance his dreams would be as vivid as last night's.

Ten minutes later, Betty came to a halting stop in a space in front of Max's, the local gym he'd worked at in high school and continued to patronize ever since. His fists were jonesing to make contact with something, and since the jackoff who had pawed his Alyssa was off the menu-for tonight-he'd take option B, thank you very much.

When had he started thinking of her as his?

It was just her easy familiarity. Their shared past. That's all it was.

Goddammit.

From the trunk, he retrieved a gym bag, and then stalked inside, head down, shoulders hunched.

"Marco," Max called, affection coloring his voice. "You're here late. Looking to spar?"

Marco glanced at Max, who never seemed to change. With salt-and-pepper hair, bushy eyebrows, and a face grooved with deep laugh lines, the man was one of the few things Marco could count on to stay the same. "Hey, Max. Yeah, I am. Anyone around?"

Max frowned, his gray eyes giving him a once-over, but then he nodded. "Nick?" he called over his shoulder. "Got a match for you."

"Thanks," Marco said, not waiting around long enough to allow a conversation to spring up. Max was almost a father figure, and little got by him. Marco couldn't handle that kind of perceptivity right now. In the locker room, he changed into a pair of black athletic pants, wrapped his hands in tape, and dug his gloves and a towel from his bag. Next thing he knew, he was standing out on the mat across from a guy who kickboxed competitively-exactly the kind of skilled competition he needed right now. He wanted a workout, after all. "Nick."

"Vieri." They bumped fists. "Two-minute rounds?"

Marco dropped his towel at the side. "Three."

Nick's eyes went wide. "You up for that, old man?"

Tugging on his gloves, Marco ignored the comment, let it add to the big pile of pissed-off he needed to exorcise. "You gonna talk all night, or are we gonna box?"

They started circling, and Nick threw the first punch. Marco bobbed around it easily, then faked with his weaker left hand and hit home with a right hook to his opponent's ribs. Nick retaliated with a back kick Marco just barely avoided. Facing off again, Nick barreled in with a series of uppercuts. Marco took a few hits but distracted the other man with a parry that allowed him to deliver a sweeping kick that knocked Nick off balance and took him down to one knee. Marco spun on the ball of his foot and delivered a roundhouse aimed at Nick's head, but the man feinted and popped up to his feet.