Scarecrow

by Zoe Dawson

  And he would take her, plunge into her, spread her, bury himself in her. He would die on his knees, engulfed by that hot, dark flood.

  She tilted her head back and he was mesmerized.

  He felt the darkness in him, always knew it was there, but it was like looking into a mirror with her. She was like him seeking justice, finding evil.

  He lifted his hands, not quite touching her. Her body seemed velvety with secret curves and paths. His own was hard in answer. His blood pulsed with arousal.

  He gripped her elbows and firmly set her away from him.

  She watched him. He expected…something…pique or indignation that he wouldn’t give in to her enticement. But she leaned against the edge of the table and smiled deliberately at him, stretched her neck like a big tawny cat washed with sunlight, her throat exposed, her hair falling down, lit by the window so that ivory sparkled brightly within alabaster—a sight that exploded inside him, sent force and weakness to his fingertips.

  While he stood paralyzed in black lust, she pushed back her hair and set the rest of the chilis in the container.

  “Giving in, getting what you want…that’s not a sin, Arlo.”

  He heard the conviction in her voice, the wisdom of a woman who had known pain and hardship. Like him. He wanted to push her against the counter, remove enough clothing to bare what needed to be bared, take that smart, sassy mouth, make her laugh, then cry out, her body like warmth and satin smothering him.

  He wanted it, was afraid of where it would lead them. Wondering if he could leave behind the pain, the brutality behind and be content with only her smile and her laughter. He was afraid all over again what he would do if he let it have him.

  Could he fight? Could he be the man the SEALs needed? Could he be the weapon he’d honed himself to be if he let her into him?

  If he let beauty and love into his life, would it destroy the warrior he was?

  He looked at her, wondering at her all over again. Wondering if she did this deliberately, reading him as if he were an open book. Wondering if his own paranoia was coloring every interaction with her. Was he seeing darkness masked by the pureness of her brightness or was he falling into a trap he’d made for himself with his own narrow-minded, self-sacrificing idea of how he had to fight evil?

  He slid his palms down the length of his jean-clad thighs, trying to wipe away the feel of her. He brushed past her, the scent of her, the heat of her, the fire on his tongue and in his blood.

  He needed to think. And it was too hot in here. She was making him look deeper than he had in a long time, even as he knew she was fighting her own battles. He didn’t want anything in common with her if there was something going on. And he felt it in his bones, right at the edge of his vision, like a ghost that darted away the moment he focused on it.

  Why did she scare the hell out of his dad?

  Why was she here?

  Why did he feel that she was the herald of a great downfall? His gut told him something wasn’t adding up.

  How was his mom’s decline involved and why was Hank so eager to help when family was the lowest item on his personal checklist?

  “Come by for dinner tonight. I’m giving jambalaya a go.”

  He didn’t acknowledge her. Wasn’t sure where his head would be tonight.

  Consumed, feeling outgunned by this little slip of a woman, he strode toward the door, taking a gulp of the hot, humid air free of her fiery scent, filled with boxwood and growing things.

  He filled his lungs with it and was still unable to escape the lingering aromatic spice of her trapped in his lungs.

  8

  The air was hot even on the water of Mission Bay in San Diego. Sweat soaked into the band of the snug baseball cap on Wicked’s head, from his vigorous rowing workout. As he pulled hard on the oars, the outrigger, the metal part that held the oars in place, made a rhythmic almost imperceptible bumping noise each time the shell he sat in glided over the glassy water.

  The early morning light was misty, but he could see the activity as people enjoyed Crown Point Shores Park with their kids. That life seemed a million miles away from him, the desire for a family something that was always present. Kids of his own was a stretch, not only because of his need for solitude, but because he was a Navy SEAL and a short lifespan came with the job description.

  He would also have to find a woman to put up with him.

  He chuckled to himself as he headed straight for shore. Yeah, not likely.

  He beached his shell, then lifted it and placed it on the rack on his roof. Collecting his things, ready to head home, but the early morning quiet was broken by the sound of a clattering and a splash. He turned to find a woman bent at the waist, cursing.

  He set down his belongings and walked over. “Need some help?” he asked. She glanced over at him, her face set.

  Then she did a double-take and stood up straighter, her gaze moving from his waist up his chest.

  “Hello,” she said, the light of interest sparking in her eyes. He thought for a moment he might just indulge in something unexpected and lusty, except he had a lot of cooking to do today.

  She was pretty, toned, and her smile lit up her face. What was not to like?

  “Help?” he asked gesturing to the shell.

  “Yes, please.” She touched her shoulder and moved it around. “I hurt my shoulder at the gym, and I thought it would be okay.”

  “No problem,” he said, bending over to get a good purchase on the small craft. As he straightened, he caught her checking out his butt. The corner of his mouth lifted.

  “Car?” he asked, and she snapped her eyes back to his face, not at all embarrassed. “Lead the way.”

  She started walking and said, “My name is Melissa.”

  Lissy, as he would find out at her place later, was her preferred nickname as he thrust into her in a mindless bid for pleasure. She slid her hands down the slope of his back, her fingers digging into muscle and flesh as she tried to drag him closer, deeper.

  This hookup was raw and primitive, a culmination of all the sexual desire he’d suppressed in too many months to count. The heat in his belly coiled down to his groin. His body was barreling toward release as her lashes fluttered open, and she met his gaze. It was Kat’s face, her bright green eyes he craved. The ache that only seemed to grow each time he thought of Kat and what he wanted with her took over. It was too much, that fantasy, as she whimpered and started to convulse.

  Her orgasm triggered his, and he followed her right over the edge with a rough, guttural groan. She wrapped her arms around him and it felt good. Pressing his face against her damp neck he struggled to come back to his senses, back to a reality where Kat hated the sight of him.

  Even a Navy SEAL had to think that some things were impossible.

  Hours later, Wicked stood in the Sampson gallery watching partygoers enjoy his many dishes as they roamed the gallery’s impressive domed central hall. Trees grew inside, the gurgling sound indicating a water feature that had been hidden by the tropical fronds.

  The party was in full swing, the band playing soft, tasteful music as people devoured both his cuisine and the paintings arrayed just so on the walls.

  A murmur swept the room, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He turned as she cleared the opening, male eyes watching her walk.

  He had to admit, the woman had a walk.

  Her effect on him was the same it always was every time he saw her. Coldcocked, restless, and resigned.

  Kat Harrington owned the space instead of moving through it. The murmur was all masculine. Her thick lashes brushed against her smooth cheeks as she paused, took a champagne flute from one of the waiters, and took a sip through ruby red lips. She was windblown and slightly damp from the rare rainstorm, nothing that Kat couldn’t carry off.

  A bad girl in red, the very color of danger.

  If Hollywood had been closer, Wicked would have coldcocked the bastard for inviting her. Within his gaggle of women, the ma
ny-colored silks, looking like exotic birds, parted. Hollywood slipped from the group like melted butter even before the females realized he was gone.

  Hollywood was an illusion, like smoke. He dissipated before anyone could get their claws into him.

  He greeted Kat with a smile that Wicked wanted to wipe off his face, his jaw clenching with the hot rush of jealousy that Hollywood could approach her the way he did. She greeted him with a smile and a compliment about how good he cleaned up.

  Moments later, as the Hollywood groupies realized their prize was gathering more exotic birds, they moved in a collective toward him, greeting Kat like they were old girlfriends out on the town for a night.

  Their eyes glinted like the edges of knives sharpened for the battle ahead. Who would go home with Hollywood?

  It damn well better not be Kat.

  Although he had no say in the matter.

  It damn well better not be her.

  He was aware of Hollywood’s MO. Fuck her and leave. There wasn’t anything else to that scenario.

  “Who do you want to hurt, big brother?” Selene asked by his side. “That’s the kind of scowl most people, including men, run from.” She followed his line of vision, and her mouth tightened, her eyes narrowing. “Oh, her.”

  Yeah, her.

  “You need to let go, Rion. It’s not doing either of you any good. She blamed—”

  “Enough, baby sister. It’s in the past.”

  “Is it?”

  He closed his eyes. “Yes,” he lied for his sister’s sake.

  She touched his arm. “Thanks for that.” When he turned toward her, she slipped her arms around his waist. “You are a godsend. The food is so fabulous. If you wanted to take off, I think that would be all right.”

  He hugged her tight and then nodded when they parted. “I’ll see you later.”

  She cupped his face. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”

  He was halfway to the door when he heard her mocking voice. “Where you going, Cinderella? It’s not even close to midnight.”

  “My work here is done.” He kept moving. But he wasn’t going to get away that easily. She grabbed his arm.

  “Your sister looks good. You one big happy family now?”

  He stopped and turned around, immediately using the SEAL breathing technique so he didn’t punch out the closest light post. His family? Happy? Not a snowball’s chance in hell. Unclenching his jaw to keep from sounding like he was chewing nails, he asked, “Are you here to make small talk, Kat, or to dig in your claws?”

  The look she gave him would have leveled a lesser man. “I so enjoy a good scratch.”

  Wicked didn’t flinch, not so much as a twitch. “Go find a post.”

  “If the shoe fits…”

  “Fuck you, Kat.”

  A satisfied smile crossed her face. “Fuck us both, Wicked.”

  “Hey, is this a party?” Hollywood asked, his voice as easygoing as a lazy day in the sun. Only Wicked was aware of the steel inflection underlining the words. That’s the way his teammate sounded right before a battle.

  Wicked just turned and walked away, the sound of Kat’s voice with her last words cutting him like broken glass to his gut. The unrelenting pain of what they had survived together would always stand between them. He could never tell her the truth.

  She’d eat her gun.

  He couldn’t live without her somewhere in the world. Hating him was all right.

  Pushing open the door, he stepped out onto the street. Even as the door closed behind him, he heard it open. He didn’t stop. Didn’t turn around. He unlocked his truck with a flick of his wrist. As he settled into the driver’s seat and started the engine, the passenger side door opened, and Hollywood slipped inside.

  Hollywood closed the door and pulled out his cell. One by one, Hollywood called their teammates. All except Scarecrow, who was in Louisiana, and Ruckus, who didn’t need to see what was going to happen next.

  Fuck us both. He gunned the engine and pulled away from the curb.

  He wasn’t coming. Never in her life had she had this happen and damn if she didn’t respect him for it. She loved his cheekiness.

  Sweeping her hand across the table, she knocked bowls of food, wine glasses and cutlery onto the hardwood floor with a satisfying crash. She headed to the stairs.

  In the upstairs bathroom, she stripped off the gorgeous flesh colored dress that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

  When she got her hands on him, she was going to thrash him, and she would follow through on that threat, if she had to chase him all the way back to San Diego. It didn’t matter how intimidating he was. She didn’t care that he had more guns than a small army or years of combat experience. She was taking him down—hard.

  She turned on the faucets, dumping in bubble bath. The water poured into the tub, hot and foaming. She leaned down and braced her hands on the lip, her mind betraying her, her body betraying her, the heart she thought was dead beating stronger than it ever had in her life.

  She’d tried in vain to keep all these feelings from forming. She had it down to a science. Then he had to go do what he did in the shed. Stand so close to her, holding her gaze, devilish lights of sin and seduction in his eyes. She’d been helpless in there as a wave of liquid heat washed through her. Her eyes had strayed to the sexy curve of his lower lip, and she remembered the feel and taste of his mouth on hers.

  Her nipples tightened into hard, aching peaks, and she got wet and hot between her legs. She wanted him in ways she hadn’t wanted a man before.

  It was insane, this attraction between them. She didn’t want a man in her life. She had all she could manage trying to keep her cover and dig at finding her family’s killer. And Arlo “Scarecrow” Porter could not be managed. He had a stillness in him that masked something deeply wild.

  The offer he made with that mouth and those eyes was tempting. She could almost feel the way his hands would glide over her, how he would feel deep inside her. And, God, she shuddered with the pleasure of that thought. She wanted him so deep.

  This place, this bayou, this beautiful Southern town, Arlo Porter were all driving her stark-raving nutso.

  She didn’t know who she was anymore. She felt more Scarlett than her real name, the one she’d been born with. She felt like she was already his. She reached over and turned on the radio so that classical music boomed with a gorgeous echo in the acoustic bathroom.

  “Damn you,” she whispered as she got into the tub just as he appeared in the doorway.

  She met his darkened gaze as a rush of adrenaline shot through her and a heady mixture of awareness and delicious anticipation curled low in her belly. “You’re late.”

  There was no mistaking the desire that flared in his striking eyes. He was done fooling around and denying the electric chemistry between them. The alpha male was staking his territory, and his intent was quite clear. “Is that what that storm was about downstairs, sugar? I was looking forward to jambalaya.”

  “You can eat it off the floor.”

  He laughed, threw his head back, and the rich sound wound through her like magic.

  Mesmerized, captivated, she laughed. “You bastard. Get over here and shag me like we both want. If you don’t, I’m going to kill you. I swear on the Queen mum’s life.”

  That stopped the laughter and brought out the sultry, dangerous Arlo. Giddy with anticipation, she watched every powerful move of his body as he crossed the room, kicked off his shoes, and leaned over the tub. Her body was already quivering, aching. He grabbed a handful of her hair and lifted her up in the water until she was so, so close to his tantalizing mouth.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said softly. His body was wired with determination and an underlying impatience that said he was through with waiting. “And when we’re done, you’re going to tell me everything you’ve been hiding.”

  “I am?”

  His next words tightened every muscle in her body with an edgy desire that only Arlo seemed t
o be able to pull from her. “Yes. I don’t interrogate women I sleep with, and Scarlett, I am going to fuck you for a long time.”

  The subtle threat he was giving off didn’t detract from just how devastatingly gorgeous the man was. And sexy. And so incredibly hot. Arlo Porter was all male, from his close-cropped caramel brown hair, to those wide shoulders of his, to his lean hips, and strong thighs…and certainly everything in between.

  “I see your mouth moving, but not in the right direction.”

  He was more than a physical threat, he was an emotional one, too. And for a woman who had denied everything to pursue her one and only mission, he was daunting. He was a challenge, no doubt, but that’s exactly what she liked about him and what attracted her so strongly.

  He was a cut above any man she’d ever met, ones that wrapped so easily around her finger in no time flat. And once that happened, the thrill of the chase always diminished, and her interest, which was sketchy at best, waned completely.

  It was a cycle she played out too often.

  With Scarecrow, he refused to bend to her will. At least not without a whole lot of work from her, including dancing in a pond almost naked. It seemed that she’d finally cracked that stillness to the wildness beneath all that control.

  And the loneliness. She swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat because, God, she knew about that. Her breath caught as everything in her surged toward him. She gave in to the urge to place her hands on his chest because she’d thought a lot about his incredibly honed body and what it looked like naked.

  As soon as she touched him, his muscles flexed beneath her palms, and his breathing hitched. She felt the heat of him through his shirt, along with the way his heartbeat accelerated.

  With her gaze on his, she skimmed a hand down his torso, past the waistband of his pants and lower until she caressed the hard heat of him, satisfaction curling through her when she found him aroused, his size impressive.