Dangerous Lover d-1

by Lisa Marie Rice

  “I could kill him for this alone,” he said. There was something in his voice that had Sanders’s eyes opening wide in panic.

  “No.” If there was one thing Caroline knew, it was that she didn’t want any more violence. She already felt sick to her stomach after her struggle with Sanders, ashamed that she’d never seen beneath his surface. Her stomach was knotted with tension. “Let him go, Jack.”

  He looked at her, hard, jaw muscles jumping. His entire body language was screaming that he wanted revenge. He could take it, too. Sanders was something of a gym rat, but he was absolutely no match for Jack, who had an entirely different order of strength and knowledge of martial arts. He had subdued Sanders with ridiculous ease, and Caroline had no doubt he could have wiped the floor with him.

  There was a shadow of extreme violence hovering in the room, visible in the tight lines around Jack’s eyes, in the hot light of rage in his eyes, in his stance. Caroline was certain as certain could be that Jack was capable of killing Sanders. He was physically capable, and he could do it without remorse.

  He was a soldier, after all, and that’s what soldiers did. Killed their enemies.

  “Let him go. Now, Jack,” she whispered, and it was enough. Jack abruptly let go of him and Sanders lurched to keep his balance. He rubbed the ball of his shoulder, glaring at Jack, then at her, as if he’d been wronged. His hair was mussed, and he was sweating heavily.

  “You son of a bitch, you’re going to live to regret this,” Sanders swore, slurring the words. It was a sign of how upset he was. Sanders’s normal speaking voice was deliberate, almost a drawl, but now he was gulping in great gasps of air, the words pouring out of him. “I’m a lawyer, you asshole and you better believe I’m going to sue your sorry ass for so much money it will take you ten fucking lifetimes to get out of debt!”

  The instant Jack released Sanders, he’d turned to Caroline, wiping away the little streak of blood at her mouth, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. But at Sanders’s words, he turned his head and looked back at Sanders.

  He didn’t do anything at all, just looked. Caroline couldn’t see his expression, but whatever it was, it sure scared Sanders. His face had turned red with rage, but at Jack’s glare, he turned white again, backing away, hands out in front of him.

  It occurred to Caroline that if she hadn’t been there to stop him, Jack would have used more violence than he had. He hadn’t needed to issue threats, because every line of his big, strong body was a threat, and not an idle one at that.

  Five seconds after Jack released his arm, Sanders had grabbed his hat and coat and was out the door so fast that the bell over the door was still ringing by the time he’d turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

  Suddenly, the adrenaline of her fight with Sanders and the violence that had swirled in the room swooshed out of her system, leaving her shaking and weak. She shivered and swayed a little on her feet, a chill at her core draining all energy. Sparks flew in front of her eyes…

  A second later, she was sitting down, a strong, gentle hand pressing on her neck until she put her head between her knees. Jack’s hand kept her there for a moment, then lifted. “Stay like that for a minute and breathe deeply. I’ll be right back.”

  She breathed deeply, eyes closed, thinking of nothing at all, until she heard his voice. “Here, honey.” He placed a steaming cup of tea in front of her. “Drink that up as fast as you can.”

  Caroline reached for it and sipped, wincing as the heat filled her mouth and as she struggled against a sugar fit. She raised her eyes to his. “How much sugar did you put in it? It’s more sugar than tea.”

  He didn’t answer immediately, only placed his hand under hers and lifted so that she was forced to take another sip. “You’re a little shocked so you need heat, liquid and sugar. If you were a soldier on a battlefield, it wouldn’t be tea with lots of sugar, it would be a glucose IV. I know it’s not to your taste, but drink up. You’ll feel better afterwards, trust me.”

  She did trust him, instinctively. Caroline tried to smile, a little ashamed of her reaction. “I’m not a soldier who’s fallen in battle. I feel foolish even needing the cup of tea.”

  “Don’t be.” His voice was quiet as he watched her drinking. “It must have been a shock. I imagine you weren’t expecting him to turn violent.”

  It was a question. “No, not at all. I never would have even believed Sanders was capable of behaving like that. I’ve known him for ages.” Time to get a little unpalatable truth out there, too. “We’ve even…dated, now and again. We’ve had an on-again, off-again relationship for a long time.”

  Jack’s dark eyes sharpened. “Since your teens?”

  Caroline stared at him over the cup. “Why yes, how did you know that?”

  He just shrugged. “Lucky guess. You feeling better?”

  The icy feeling, the tremors—they were gone. “Yes, I do, actually. Though I’m also feeling stupid and a wimp. I’d like to think that Sanders caught me totally by surprise, but the truth is that I didn’t defend myself very well.” The least she could have done was bite Sanders’s tongue and kick him roundly in the shins. “When you set up your self-defense school, I’m going to be your first customer. I want to learn to kick butt in a major way.”

  “Yeah?” The tension in his big body had gone, and he looked at her with a half smile.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well, you’re going to get as many free lessons as you want.”

  “Can you teach me the knee-in-the-balls thing?”

  He nodded. “Count on it. And the thumb on the carotid thing, too. Done right, it makes your opponent drop like a stunned ox.”

  “Sounds great.” It did, too. “I don’t ever want to be in that position again. Helpless, unable to defend myself.”

  “No,” he said soberly. “Never again. It took years off my life coming in and seeing you being hurt. We’re going to get you to a point where you can at least whip the ass of a softie like this guy—what was his name?”

  “Sanders. Sanders McCullin.”

  “Stupid name.” Jack shook his head. “Name like that, you should be able to learn to take him down in ten lessons. Next time he gets near you, you can toss him on his back.”

  Caroline smiled. It was a nice thought. She was feeling very much herself again, thanks to the thought of learning some basic self-defense—which would be good exercise, too—and thanks to the massive sugar infusion.

  Jack was watching her closely.

  “You’re feeling better. Good.” He looked out the window at the sleety afternoon. Nobody in the past half hour had even appeared on the street. He put his hand over hers, and gripped her hand warmly. “What would you say to knocking off now and going home?” He lifted her hand to his mouth. “We could have an early dinner, then fool around a little. I’ll let you throw me. What do you say?”

  Jack Prescott sitting on his chair looked like an immovable force of the universe. No way could she ever in a million years throw him, but it was nice of him to offer.

  It was so wonderful sitting here with him, his hand on hers, looking forward to the evening and then—God! — the night. It had been a long long time since she’d looked forward to things, and he’d given her this gift.

  “Thanks,” she said softly.

  He’d been scanning the street outside, but he turned his head at that, with a frown. “For what?”

  “Oh, for taking care of Sanders without breaking his arm, even though you were dying to, I could tell. For stopping by to pick me up. For just—being around.”

  She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. He took the kiss over immediately, hand to the back of her head.

  It was exactly the gesture Sanders had used, but oh the difference. Jack wasn’t using his strength to control her, though he was probably ten times stronger than Sanders. It occurred to Caroline that every time Jack had touched her, he did so carefully, careful never to hurt her.

  A quick meeting of lips and he
pulled back, his eyes searching hers. “Let’s go home, warrior princess,” he whispered.

  Vincent Deaver slumped deeply in the booth at the diner across the street, head curved over the cup of coffee he’d been nursing for a couple of hours, and watched Jack Prescott leave First Page with his arm around Caroline Lake’s waist.

  He needn’t have worried about being detected. He had on a watch cap and heavy dark nonprescription horn rim glasses. Prescott wasn’t expecting him, and anyway, all his attention was on the redhead with him. He’d scanned the street out of habit, but he wouldn’t be expecting trouble from someone in the diner. The street was empty, Prescott’d checked up and down, then his attention was riveted once more on the woman.

  Interesting.

  Deaver’d learned a lot since he’d watched a tall, handsome and elegant blond man in a cashmere coat just like the one Deaver was going to buy once he got his diamonds back walk into First Page. The woman—Caroline Lake—had greeted him as a friend. They’d talked, the woman keeping her body language neutral, then they’d started fighting and Cashmere Coat guy grabbed her and started shoving his tongue down her throat. The woman had fought but wasn’t getting anywhere.

  Deaver watched as Prescott came around a corner, saw what was happening through the shop window, and broke into a dead run.

  Cashmere Coat was soft.

  He came out of the shop at a run and got into a black Porsche. He put it into gear and took off fast, the back sliding on the icy roads.

  Deaver got the tag number. He’d be easy to track down.

  Blond Cashmere Coat was really lucky that the woman exerted some influence on Prescott and was able to stop him, because Prescott was a mean fighter, knew all the tricks. He also undoubtedly had a combat knife on him somewhere, and Cashmere Coat was lucky he hadn’t been gutted.

  Deaver had never seen Prescott lose a fight or back down from one. But all the woman had had to do to stop him was touch Prescott on the arm and say a few words, and it was as if she’d waved a magic wand.

  Prescott, standing down. That was something Deaver had never seen.

  Deaver watched Prescott and Caroline Lake disappear around the corner and clenched his fists. The urge to get up right now, run after that fucker Prescott and shoot him dead was almost overwhelming. Deaver would make sure to kill the woman first, just to make Prescott suffer, then a double tap to the head, and Prescott would be down forever.

  Deaver could see it, feel it, nearly smell it, and the temptation was so strong he broke out in a sweat.

  But much as he’d love to nail Prescott and his woman right now, he needed his diamonds back first.

  Then he could have his fun.

  Fourteen

  Jack nearly missed it.

  He was so intent on getting Caroline safely home, relaxed and curled up before the fire, that he’d tunnel-visioned, just like in battle. All he’d seen was Caroline, all he could think about was Caroline, taking up every ounce of space in his head.

  He was still battle-primed, adrenaline still coursing through his system, without a proper outlet. The proper outlet would have been to smash that fucker Sanders’s face in, then haul him into the closest police station for assault and battery.

  If he lived to be a million years old, he’d never forget glancing through the big glass panes of Caroline’s bookshop and seeing her struggling against a man.

  He’d broken his own land-speed record getting in there and getting that man’s hands off Caroline.

  She’d been in shock, though she’d come out of it with humor and grace. Still, all he wanted was to get her bundled up and into the house as fast as possible.

  Jack had excellent situational awareness. Even with one goal in mind, he paid attention to what was around him. Only Caroline could mess with his head so much that he actually had the key in the lock and was turning it before seeing the faint scratches on the lock. Scratches that hadn’t been there that morning.

  In an instant his Glock was in his hand, and he was rushing Caroline back to his rented SUV. He bundled her into the driver’s seat, made sure she had the keys and slammed the door shut.

  “Jack!” Her voice was muffled through the closed door. Her eyes dropped to his weapon, then back to him. She looked shocked. “What’s going on?”

  There wasn’t time to explain or reassure. Whoever had broken into the house could still be there, and Jack had to get in there, fast.

  “Stay there and don’t move!” he mouthed, tapping on the window. Caroline nodded, face white, silver-gray eyes huge in her face.

  Good girl.

  Jack loped back to the front door and entered silently with the key, weapon out, in a stance guaranteed to cover a 180-degree field of fire in two seconds.

  Entry, clear. Living room, clear. Kitchen, clear.

  Moving fast, moving silently, he went methodically through every room in the house, basement to attic.

  Out of habit, he’d left telltales in the bedroom and there were clear signs that someone had rifled through his things, Caroline’s closet and the dresser. Someone—or several someones—had gone through their personal possessions. It was harder to tell in the rest of the house, where he hadn’t left telltales.

  As far as Jack could tell, nothing had been stolen. The TV and stereo were there, no artwork was gone from the walls, certainly nothing of his had been stolen, though there wasn’t much beyond dirty socks and underwear. Everything of value he had was in his new bank account and the bank vault.

  Of course, Caroline’s TV and stereo set were at least ten years old and worth zero on the resale market. Though he didn’t know anything about art, he suspected that what was left on the walls wasn’t worth stealing. More or less everything of value in the house had already been sold, and not even the best thief in the world could steal walls and a roof.

  When Jack was absolutely certain the house was empty, he pushed his gun into the waistband of his jeans and went out to get Caroline.

  He hustled her up the steps.

  “What was it, Jack? Is there someone in the house? Has the house been robbed?”

  Damn, but he hated that white, pinched, anxious look on her face. If he had the fucker or fuckers who’d broken into Caroline’s home, he’d break their hands, finger by finger, to ensure that they never picked another lock again for the rest of their natural lives.

  Not that Caroline’s locks were hard to pick. They weren’t, a two-year-old could get through them. They were worth shit. He could pick them blindfolded, with his hands in casts.

  He closed the front door behind them, turned up the heat and folded her in his arms.

  Too much stuff happening, all of it bad. He needed the feel of her in his arms like he needed his next breath.

  “Jack?” Her voice was muffled in his jacket, shiny locks of red-gold hair escaping her wool cap to curl along his jacket. Jack bent to kiss her lightly, hand along the softness of her neck. His thumb grazed the pulse in her neck, beating a light, fast tattoo.

  Feeling her safe in his arms, heart beating, calmed him a little.

  “Jack.” Caroline’s voice was stronger and she pushed at him a little. Jack opened his arms, and she stepped back to look him in the face. “Tell me what’s going on.” She looked around carefully, then brought her gaze back to him. “I don’t see any damage.”

  “No, no damage. Whatever it is they were looking for, it wasn’t here. What they usually look for is plasma TVs, high-end electronics. Expensive artwork. Meltable silver.”

  “All gone,” she said. “A long time ago.” Her eyebrows drew together as she looked up at him. “Jack…when you got to the door you pulled out a gun. You had a gun. Where on earth did you get that?”

  Uh-oh. Jack had to be careful here.

  Caroline had just entered his world.

  He wanted her to become security-conscious without being afraid of him. Jack was perfectly aware of the fact that most people considered men like him to be paranoid. If you’ve lived your life in safety
and comfort, and you haven’t traveled to the places he’d been, where humanity was at its rawest, most cruel, and where greed and lust were unbridled, then you looked at the precautions Jack took as a matter of course to be the result of a sick mind.

  “I’m always armed,” he said gently. The heavy weight of his Glock in the small of his back felt good and right. “Or I know how to get my hands on a weapon pretty damn quick.”

  “You mean, all this time we’ve been”—she waved a pink-tipped finger between them—“you’ve been armed?”

  “Yes.” He let the word drop like a stone between them. This was part of him, an integral part. She had to learn to deal with it. Jack was willing to compromise, but not on this.

  Caroline blinked and gave a half laugh. “I don’t believe this.”

  “Believe it. I’m fully licensed to carry a concealed weapon, and I know how to use it, don’t worry about that.”

  She was staring at him. “To tell you the truth, that hadn’t even occurred to me. I’m still trying to come to grips with the fact that someone I’m”—she swallowed—“someone I’m seeing runs around with a gun on his person. I don’t think I’ve ever even met someone who owns a gun, besides the sheriff. Not that I know of, anyway.”

  “It’s a bad world out there, Caroline,” he said gently. “You have to be prepared.”

  Fuck, but that was true. He’d seen it, he’d lived it. In the shelters he’d grown up in, a beauty like Caroline would have been raped the instant she’d reached puberty, probably even before. In Afghanistan, she’d have been dressed in a head-to-toe burqa and beaten if a man could hear her footsteps. There, too, she would have been raped, with the added pleasure of being sentenced to death for fornication.

  In Sierra Leone—Jack’s back teeth ground together. He’d seen the shattered remains of the women who’d fallen into the hands of the Revolutionary Army. Death for them had been a release.

  He knew what the world was like. Being armed, willing and able to defend the things he cared about, was deeply embedded in his bones, in his very DNA. And right now, Caroline topped the list of things he’d defend to the death.