by Zoe Dawson
Hollywood said, “He’s a gourmet cook. He might be a man of few words, but in the kitchen his food speaks for itself. He’s cooking for an art gallery friend of his sister’s, whom I’m not allowed to meet, good ol’ lovable Hollywood.”
“Art gallery opening?” Kat asked in a skeptical way, as if a gunslinger couldn’t have facets.
“Sure. SEALs are like chameleons. We can be in fatigues one minute and rock a tux the next. We’re versatile guys. Anyway, he’s making all this stuff that sounds great. Goat cheese stuffed mushrooms, warm spinach mascarpone dip on sliced baguette, antipasto, caprese empanadas—finger foods and skewers. He’s even making strawberry shortcake on a skewer and caviar on white chocolate. Man, I bet that’s good.”
Huh? Guess he was paying attention after all.
Maybe there were more facets to his teammate than he was aware of. Then Hollywood turned his head as the glimpse of a blonde woman disappeared between one of the aisles. He never even said a word, just walked off.
“And, he’s gone,” Kat said, shifting when she realized they were alone. Their last conversation had been heated and she had been tired then, too.
He wanted to ask her what was up, but she wouldn’t tell him if he was the last sympathetic ear on the planet.
“I had no idea the guy knew the difference between gourmet food and gut junk,” Wicked said.
“Gut junk…” Kat said, a smile almost turning up the corner of her mouth. She looked like she never ate any crap at all with her gorgeous body, smooth skin, and shining hair. Her green eyes assessed him as if she were seeing him in some new light. It didn’t give him hope. He’d given up walking that road to forgiveness a long time ago.
She stiffened as if she’d read his thoughts or maybe she was remembering that last argument.
“No gut junk for you.”
Her eyes flashed and narrowed. “Are you saying I can’t have a good time?”
“No. Why do you have to always go to the negative?”
Hollywood came back, a smile on his face. “What did I miss?” he asked.
“Nothing,” they both said at the same time.
“Ookkaayy,” he drawled. “Hey, Kat. Why don’t you come to this art gallery shindig and you can sample some of Wicked’s…fare?” He grinned, proud of himself for using the sophisticated word.
Hollywood rummaged around in his back pocket and came up with a folded flyer. “Here you go. All the information you need.”
She snatched the flyer and said, “Maybe I will.” Her chin lifted a fraction, her eyes hard.
Wicked’s shoulders were tight and his chest was still reacting to the volatile memories. Without another word, Kat turned on her heel and walked away.
They stood there for a moment, Hollywood with a perplexed look on his face. Wicked cuffed him on the back of the head and he turned toward him. “What the fuck was that for?”
“Thanks a lot, motormouth.”
“What did I say?”
But Wicked was heading toward the meat section. He still had a lot of shopping and cooking to do.
It was going to be a long night.
Scarecrow leaned against the porch pillar as he stared across the road at his neighbor’s house. The lights were on and it was getting late.
A sultry breeze whispered through the branches of the trees. He could taste the excitement on the wind, the kind of anticipation that curled around his cells and jolted them every few minutes. The kind of feeling that tightened his muscles and heightened his awareness in battle. The kind of feeling when silk slid across skin, sweat beaded, and muscles contracted and released.
He took a deep breath. His mom was sleeping. They’d had a strained dinner where she’d barely spoken. He didn’t like this any more than she did. Reality was a fucking bitch.
His mom. God, how much he loved her. She had always been there for him. Her beauty had always made him stare in awe at her. Her toughness had been inside, a stoic strength that had borne her through the stages of her decline with dignity. She forgave him all his sins.
The sound of wind chimes tinkled as the chorus of bullfrogs and nightingales sang their songs of life into the night. A scrap of cloud scudded across the sliver of a moon. A sense of urgency raced over Scarecrow’s body, and he looked harder, sensing something. Straining his eyes, he stared into the darkness surrounding her house, seeing nothing, but sensing…a presence. The sensation lingered like a dark, intent gaze, and the hair rose on the back of his neck.
He stepped down the first few steps, automatically crouching as he skirted her property. Then he heard the music. It played on every nerve of his body, a sensual piece that was made for seduction.
Was she working him with that music? Had she known he couldn’t seem to stay away?
The bayou was a strip of dark green beyond the yard, and past the banks lay the tangled wilderness of the Atchafalaya. Wild and untamed, like Scarlett, unpredictable and deceivingly delicate, fragility in the guise of unforgiving toughness. In many ways, Scarlett was like his mom; even the touch of darkness that lingered in her eyes reminded him of his mom. Both of them had seen something that had put that look there, something in their pasts.
He wondered if his mom’s secrets had anything to do with his dad’s. He wondered what was going on behind Scarlett’s violet eyes. He ached and burned with the thought of discovering everything he could about her. Not because something was going on here that was just on the fringes of his consciousness, but because she intrigued the hell out of him.
He started across the lawn, staying to the shadows, his training as easy on him as his stride, his breathing even and soft.
As he got closer, he could hear the music. It was a soft and romantic croon as he reached the lit-up house. It seemed she’d turned on every single light inside.
What kind of darkness was she trying to protect herself against? What demons lurked just at the edge of the glow?
He skirted the house, keeping his steps silent. As he rounded the side of the house, his breath caught. She was silhouetted under the light of the moon in some gauzy white garment that didn’t leave much to the imagination. The pockets of the shirt camouflaged her nipples, and a black thong covered that sweet woman’s triangle. Christ, she was gorgeous. Her white blonde hair stood out in the darkness like a tangled beacon, messy and untamed.
She was dancing in the water of the small pond behind the house. Her body swaying, the white wet cotton clung to every beautiful curve of her.
Her slender body moved to the music, and he was caught in a sensory vortex as if he watched some sprite dance among the delicate lily pads.
She had a glass in one hand, and she reached down and tossed water high, then laughed softly as it cascaded in an arc of liquid, shining bright for brief seconds in the light of the moon. He heard something off to his left, and he moved in that direction at a quick pace. He slipped into the trees. He was without a weapon. All he needed were his hands.
There was more movement, and he stopped to listen as the music and her soft laughter filled the night. He took a few more steps, his instincts kicking in. He crouched, his sense tingling. Someone had been here. There were footprints in the dirt.
She had an admirer who didn’t want to make his presence known.
Scarecrow sensed the person was gone. Hightailed it off into the fields that ran along the river where dense undergrowth would have masked his passing.
He retraced his steps back to where she was playing in the water.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Scarecrow?”
“I’m not spying on you, if that’s what you think.”
“You’re much too direct to spy. I don’t mind being looked at,” she said. “Especially by you. I very much like the way you look at me.”
“There was someone else looking at you from the shadows.” He gestured toward the clump of trees.
Her brows rose, and her lush mouth curved. “So what? I’m not afraid of anything out here in the bayou,” she said.
It
made him wonder what she was afraid of and damned if he cared.
She downed whatever was in the glass and fluttered her fingers toward a jug at the edge of the pond. “Would you be a love and help a girl out?” she asked.
He walked to where the jug was, picked it up, and unscrewed the top, sniffing. “Rum. Hurricane?”
“Well, when in Rome,” she said holding out her glass. He smiled. She hadn’t moved, and he’d have to go into the water to fill her glass. He’d play her game for now. “I bet your mates call you Crow.”
He shrugged. Kicking off his shoes, he waded in. The water was warm against his bare legs, and it went up to just below his knees. His body was still, but inside he was vibrating with the close proximity of this woman who made his senses dance and crash together.
“You are the poster boy for hero. You may be still like a Scarecrow, but always watching, predatory.”
He raised his brows.
“In a good, bad boy, bad ass kind of way.”
“I’m just a man doing my job every day. Nothing special.”
“I disagree. You put special in special ops, love. You like to move under the radar.”
“And you’re all over it.”
She pursed her lips in an adorable pout, making her mouth even more enticing. Her eyes went wide in a mock innocent way. “Aren’t you perceptive. I find that…”
“Interesting?”
“Annoying.”
“You want to know what I find annoying?”
“Not particularly.”
He laughed softly. This woman pushed a lot of buttons he never knew he even had. He’d never felt this way with any woman, not even Sarah whom he’d had an ongoing relationship with. He wanted…more. Had questions he wanted answered, wanted to do recon on her like a commando.
This felt like a sweet-hot-perfect time, when two people were just incredibly in sync. They were cut from the same cloth. Had the same desires and the same…demons.
Life, he decided, was going to continue just as it was, despite deployments, ambushes, knife fights, and any throats he’d slit. But to be with someone that got him… Well, that was pretty priceless.
She set her hand on his chest. “Wow, boyish. I didn’t expect that.”
He only maintained his composure by a hairsbreadth. She moved her palm down his chest, her violet eyes, dusky and direct in the night, never left his. Damn if he didn’t love this type of woman, one who was fearless, one who stepped all over his boundaries and dared him to react. He hadn’t reacted in a long, long time. He’d been watching, doing what needed to be done in quiet.
He knew that was going to bite him on the ass, compartmentalizing his dad’s death, his mom’s infirmity.
“You should smile every second of every day, Crow,” she said softly. Her hand molded over his muscles, and when she got to his abs, those eyes shone with approval. “Wow, again,” she breathed. “Very nice.”
When her fingers reached his belt, he clamped a hand around her wrist. This was nothing but smoke and mirrors, a distraction. Her MO. She used her sexuality as easily as she drew breath. But Scarecrow wasn’t going to be played in any sense of the word.
He wouldn’t admit to himself that he wanted genuine feeling, honest physical contact, not this game she was playing. He had to admit to himself, though, that she was good, and any lesser man would have already been on her with ravenous intent.
He wasn’t any man.
Did he want to kiss her?
Hell-the-fuck-yeah!
But he sensed Scarlett expected him to cave, and she was going to be surprised.
She curled her fingers into his waistband, and heat pumped through him as if he were absorbing the hot air and humidity of the sultry night.
“If you go any further, you’re going to feel exactly what you expect to feel. My dick is hard,” he murmured, his voice as cool as he wanted it to be despite the heat scalding him, his body throbbing in tandem with his heart as though it beat in his groin. She gasped, but in a delicious way that did make him want to take that damn sassy mouth. There was no shocking this sugar pie. “But I didn’t come over here for raw sex or to act as a pool boy for your benefit, or even as a bodyguard.”
“Oh, for the tour, then? It’s a bit late—”
Her sarcastic words cut off as he jerked her forward. This time their eyes clashed as she dropped her seductive act and gave him the full force of her eyes. With her against him so that their hips bumped, she didn’t have to imagine a damn thing about what she was doing to him with this act.
This was for real, and there was a distinct satisfaction in him that he got her to reveal even that much before it was shuttered behind those knowing eyes.
The heat hung over them, thick and oppressive, pressing down on everything. The profound intensity of the swamp and the appetites that stirred made him remember how much the primal landscape affected him.
He was near to physical overload with her closeness, all those sensuous curves pressed up against him, all that sassy sugar practically in his arms.
He tried to remember what it had been like in Siberia, but he wasn’t even sure that would have been enough cold to cool him off where she was concerned.
Everything in him tightened. Everything tightened—the night, her body. It seemed as if the water stood still as they stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, their lips so close all it would take was an infinitesimal move to touch hers, take hers like he ached to. She focused on his mouth, her eyelids going to half-mast, the kind of response a man dies for because then he knows it’s in the bag—that kiss was going to happen.
“I want to know what the hell you’re doing here,” he said. “The real reason.”
5
“When you look at me like that, I’m not sure whether I should kill you, shag you, or marry you.” She breathed deep.
“Why don’t you just kiss me,” he growled.
She wanted to kiss him.
That thought shocked through her whole system. She hadn’t actually staged this night’s scenario to seduce him, but she wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Distracting him into putty to be molded and strung along like his cousin Hank had been at the back of her mind.
She bit her lip and gazed at his mouth. Damn, unlike his cousin Hank, she wanted Scarecrow in all his perfect glory. She’d been thinking about him almost non-stop since she’d met him at the airport and as a result felt the need for some physical and alcohol stimulation.
How the hell could he see right through her? She was the top of the elites in MI-6, and she never let her guard down. What was it about him that cut right to the heart of everything? And why was it that he made her feel so reckless, vulnerable, and needy?
She hated him for that.
His restraint grated on her, and in hindsight it hadn’t been the best idea to drink this much. For some reason she’d been thinking about her family, an indulgence she rarely allowed herself. She wasn’t going to be a chump and give in to emotion. Only there were times when she couldn’t seem to help it.
But she was here to track down the bastard who had killed her family, she was going to end him, and she would get her family possessions back, no matter the cost. Then maybe, just maybe, she could sleep at night.
There was something about Scarecrow that cut down to the core of her. His presence discombobulated her, and in the spy biz that wasn’t good. This might be her personal mission, but she was every bit as dedicated to it as she’d been to anything MI-6 had asked of her. She had given in to her baser instincts in her lone wolf job and enjoyed the sex that came with the job she had to do. She wanted her feelings and her emotions uninvolved with Arlo “Scarecrow” Porter.
She wasn’t used to being so naked, not with herself and not with anyone in her life. Pretty soon she’d have no place to hide from him or herself. And if anything in this world frightened her, that was it.
He wouldn’t let her go, and his question hung in the air between them.
&
nbsp; I want to know what the hell you’re doing here. The real reason.
She couldn’t tell him that information. Her trust didn’t extend as far as her desire.
She blinked, then blinked again and hardened her resolve against the unwelcome wave of emotion welling up inside her. Damn the alcohol. She rarely cried, that show of weakness not allowed except in her repertoire of spy tricks when she needed to cry to reel someone in. Then she could on cue.
He smelled so good, she ached with it. He was a hard guy, cold-hearted, cool-headed, and so appealingly primal—the strong angle of his jaw, the defined lines of his face, the bad-boy, bad-ass look of him. It flat-out stole her breath and had from the moment she’d laid eyes on him at the airport.
She wanted to have him, now, to get him out of her system and move on with her investigation and assassination. She was enjoying being this close to him, too much and she wanted the taste of him in her mouth.
She let out a soft, weary breath full of all her pent-up longing.
He made a hard sound in his throat and his grip loosened a tad.
“I’m here for a change, to plant and become one with the earth. You should try it.”
Apparently, his charm only lasted until he got serious about what he wanted. Her flippant tone made his eyes narrow, and it only thrilled her all the more to have him be so threatening to her as he tried to suss out why she was here. The battle between them was something she’d never anticipated. Men were her playthings, that’s how it worked. She didn’t allow herself to get bogged down with caring or emotion.
But damn it all to brilliant hell, Arlo was different. Which made him even more dangerous.
And made her adrenaline kick in. She was ready for a fight with this man. It would be so damned delicious.
If he won, she would be doomed.
“Scarlett.” He spoke her name softly, like that could possibly save them from themselves. It wasn’t lost on her that he wanted her, too. She closed her eyes, feeling woozy from all this testosterone overload and the hurricane she’d downed before he’d gotten there. His hand cupped her cheek. “Hey, are you okay?”
