His Every Fantasy

by Delilah Devlin

  * * *

  Kara hugged the ground as shots rang out, loud ones coming from the weapons close by and soft pfffts of bullets striking bodies all around her. She lay rigid, her hands over her ears. She’d done it. Lucio had been shouting, calling her a whore and fucking bitch one minute, and then his eyes widening the moment he realized what she held in her hand. She’d felt an instant of fierce satisfaction, watching his fear the second before she pulled the trigger.

  And then everyone was shouting, turning their weapons inward. She dropped to the ground and rolled into a ball. Afraid again, waiting, but the grunts and cries were coming from around her. Bodies thudded against the ground.

  Above her, the grinding of metal on metal, the sputtering of the helicopter’s engine had her rolling to her back, to stare upward in horror as the helicopter canted in the air and dove toward the ground.

  Pounding boots approached. Her arm was jerked, her body flew upward and over a hard shoulder, and then the man beneath her was running. Her breaths gusted with each hard impact as she bounced on his shoulder. But he was running toward the house. She leaned up, staring at the helicopter, framed by a flash of distant lightning, the moment before it careened toward the ground.

  The explosion shook the air. Bits of metal hurtled outward. They went to the ground with a thud and the large man who held her rolled her beneath him and covered her body, head to toe.

  Sergei. She knew from his smell. From his weight. From the way he bent toward her, his face against her, his breath gusting in her ear. Sound receded. Muffled. Then returned. Shouts surrounding them. Sirens in the distance. She angled away her face, toward the iron gates in the distance. Blue lights flashed between tree limbs, glared above the forest canopy.

  She was alive. But the man atop her wasn’t moving. “Sergei,” she said, pushing at his shoulders.

  “Just shut up,” he rasped. “Don’t move.”

  She began to shake. The ground was cool beneath her back, mud seeping through her robe. “Is it over?” she whispered.

  Sergei raised his head, and she pushed off his ball cap. Rain ran down the sides of his cheeks and fell onto her own. Were there tears, as well?

  Suddenly, he sat up and moved his hands over her body, head, neck, shoulders, torso, down her legs, then he flipped her on her belly and smoothed them over her again. “You’re not hurt?”

  She nearly laughed, but coughed instead. Her breath caught on a jagged sob as she turned and looked up into his shadowed face. “I killed him.”

  His face, lit now by flashlights and car headlamps was harshly drawn, his jaw rigid. “I saw. Nice shot.”

  “I shot him in the face. And I’m not sorry,” she said it defiantly, expecting some reaction, not the crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

  “You’re alive. That’s the only thing that matters. And you saved the rest of us the bother of explaining why he didn’t make it into custody.”

  Her own mouth trembled. “He was surprised.”

  “Bet he was.” His smile slipped, and his eyes narrowed. “Why the fuck did you leave the panic room?”

  “They had Eric. And a gun to his head.”

  Sergei gave a single sharp shake of his head. “Wasn’t your call. If they had him, he would have taken the bullet. It’s his job.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “I couldn’t live with his death. Not doing anything.”

  His lips firmed. “We’ll talk about it later. When we’re alone.”

  And from the roughness of his voice, the talk would likely be another lesson in obedience. Not that she’d mind. “Is he alive?”

  He glanced upward. All around them, people and vehicles were flooding the field. “I don’t know. We better get you back to the house. Get you dry.”

  She pushed up and started to crawl onto her knees, but he plucked her from the ground, his arms sliding under her back and knees. “It’s too far,” she said, pushing against his chest. “I can walk.”

  He shook his head, his expression closed and somber.

  Frightening because she couldn’t read it. She lifted her arm, draped it over his shoulder, and leaned her cheek against his shoulder, done with trying to be brave. The tears she’d fought since she’d been pushed inside the panic room trickled down her cheeks, but no one would know because the rain was relentless. Around them, branches creaked, whipped by the wind. Rain lashed sideways in pelting gusts.

  Every light in the house appeared to be on, and she worried now about the fact she wore a thin robe, one soaked to transparency, but no gazes followed them as he trekked up the curved staircase then down the long hall to her bedroom. Once inside, he kicked closed the door and sat her on the edge of the bed, despite the fact she’d leave it soaked. He unknotted the belt at her waist and drew off her robe, wrapping a blanket around her, and then muttered something she didn’t hear and disappeared into the bathroom.

  The sound of water running followed. And moments later, he returned to carry her inside and set her in the deep tub, a rolled-up towel behind her neck. “Soak. You’re going to be sore tomorrow once the adrenaline wears off,” was all he said. At the door, he glanced back. “Don’t fall asleep. You didn’t make it through all of this to drown.”

  His surliness surprised her. Made her sad. Was he still angry she hadn’t remained in the panic room? Or was he shutting off, his job done? Was he pulling away because now that the danger was past, he was preparing for her to leave?

  She sank into the fragrant water and closed her eyes. Weary beyond anything she’d ever felt before. Ready to sleep. But one thought kept her from drifting away. Where could she possibly go?

  Not San Antonio and her old job. She doubted the practice would survive the disgrace of an investigation. And thinking of her tiny, cramped apartment made her feel even more dejected. The place wasn’t home. Anywhere Sergei wasn’t would never be that.

  Good Lord, she was in love with him. Head over heels. Her happiness was dependent on someone else. Something she’d been so careful never to allow happen.

  She sighed and reached for a washcloth from the stack on the ledge. He’d said to save the words for later. Even though the thought of baring her heart made her tremble and doubt burned bitter in the back of her throat, she’d confront him. The time was not later. It was now. She’d faced her biggest fear and shot him in the face. She could face one quiet, closed-up ex-SEAL and tell him she loved him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hot sunlight burned away the early morning fog. The air outside was thick with moisture, too heavy to breathe. Sergei hadn’t slept. None of his men had. Everyone had been debriefed by the FBI team that arrived an hour after they’d secured the estate. Ambulances and prison buses removed the cartel’s soldiers. Now, staff and security were working on clean up.

  Boone’s orders were to have everything sanitized before the women came down the stairs for breakfast. Which might be closer to noon because both had been interviewed, numerous iterations of questioning to the point they’d been exhausted.

  So were the men, but they were used to pushing through exhaustion, catching that second wind. Sergei took a sip of coffee from the large mug he’d brought outside and grimaced. The dark brew tasted burned and had the consistency of sludge.

  “You should have waited for a fresh pot.” Boone stepped beside him, his gaze going to the crew sweeping debris from the veranda and the flagstone patio beyond.

  “I’ve tasted worse.” Sergei shot him a sideways glance. “How are Eric and Bear?”

  “Eric’s got broken ribs, a concussion, dislocated shoulder. He’ll live. Bear’s in surgery to remove a bullet from his back.”

  Jaw still tight, Sergei nodded. “We lost three.”

  “Could have been a whole lot worse. I sent Linc and Jonesy to notify the families.”

  They both stood quietly. Casualties were part of the job, but it never got easier.

  Boone clapped a hand on Sergei’s shoulder. “The FBI wants Kara back in San Antonio. They’ve ma
de arrests at her uncle’s firm. His partners. They were in collusion—over the kidnapping and the attack here. They want to take her statement.”

  “They already have her statement. Three times over.”

  “They want her there for the grand jury hearing. They’ll be moving on it fast.” He patted him again. “I told them they’d see her in a week.”

  A week? Sergei turned his head and arched a brow. “And they accepted the delay?”

  “I told them we’d already moved her to a more secure location until they rounded up any remnants of Marroquin’s operation.” Boone’s smile was tired. “The Agusta’s fueled.”

  Sergei raised a brow. “And where’s it flying?”

  “To that little beach house on Saint Thomas. Local security is already lined up. The pantry’s stocked. The beach is private. Not a soul will disturb her.”

  So far away. Sergei squared his shoulders. “She’s not going anywhere without me.”

  “Choice is yours. But Tilly says you better be damn sure of how you want this to end, because she doesn’t want Kara’s heart broken.”

  Sergei fisted his hands at his sides. “I would never hurt her.”

  Boone’s glacier gaze was direct. “Bro, if you’re not in love with her, let her go.”

  * * *

  Kara lay on a chaise beneath a beach umbrella. Finally, on her third day on the island, she was feeling rested. She’d slept all of the first day. Wandered aimlessly around the house the second, alone while Sergei had been busy in the “cottage’s” office on Skype, wrapping up details—of what, she wasn’t sure, because he hadn’t said. Today, she’d hoped Sergei might join her.

  When he’d whisked her away on another long helicopter ride, she’d been numb from exhaustion. Uncaring and not the least curious about their destination despite the miles of ocean they’d crossed. They’d arrived at a private landing strip, taken a jeep to a remote area of the island, where the houses sat on the sides of steep hills overlooking deep blue Caribbean waters.

  He called it a beach house. A cottage. But the place was large—five bedrooms, just as many full, luxurious bathrooms, a wooden deck that jutted out over the hill with steps that descended to a stone staircase carved out of the hill and leading to a pristine white-sand beach below. Completely private.

  And he’d said this little piece of paradise was his home. However, after he’d said that, he’d dropped her bags on the bed of a guest room. She’d thought he was only being courteous, allowing her to rest. After she’d slept nearly twenty hours, she’d waited but he’d never approached her. Sure, they’d shared meals, but barely spoke, him sitting opposite her, his dark gaze studying her, but his expression aloof. She’d taken his cues, and pretended the distance didn’t bother her.

  But inside, she’d fought a deepening sorrow. Loneliness crowded in around her. She had no one. And after the whirl of affection he’d shown her at Maison Plaisir, she was bereft and confused, realizing at last that he’d only been drawn to her in the first place because he’d been responsible for her safety. That he’d used lust and sensuality to distract her from the danger around her, to keep her strong and ease her fear.

  Well, he’d done an outstanding job. She’d have to give him a five-star fucking review.

  This morning, she’d awoken, staring at lemon-yellow walls and elegant white cornices surrounding the ceiling in her room, and she’d decided to make the most of her remaining days on the island. She’d work on her tan while she made plans for her future. A future without Sergei. A future that seemed pretty bleak since she no longer had a job and her savings wouldn’t see her through a month of bills. But finding another position didn’t seem nearly as scary as anything she’d faced recently. She’d survive. She’d do it on her own.

  The sound of footsteps sifting through sand drew her attention. She glanced to the side and found Sergei there. Her eyes widened on the sight. He wore a dark orange–and-navy pareo draped around his hips, which should have looked ridiculous on such a burly man, but somehow suited him. His dark hair was free and brushing the tops of his shoulders. He carried two tall glasses filled with orange liquid and held out one toward her.

  She glanced down at her bikini, and then upward again, scanning his bare chest and hoping she wasn’t drooling, because she was so over wanting him. She took the glass and sipped from the straw. Orange and pineapple and a touch of vodka exploded on her tongue. “Thanks,” she said, unsure what more she could say without blurting out her anger over his abandonment.

  So, maybe she wasn’t over him. The thought deflated her. Her gaze dropped to her drink.

  Sergei lowered to sit in the sand beside her chaise. “You’re rested?”

  “I am. The bed is very comfortable.” She couldn’t pull her gaze from him. His was directed at the sea, his strong profile achingly dear.

  The moment stretched, and she grew restless. After she’d missed her chance back at the mansion to lay it all out there, to bare her soul, she’d lost her courage. But anger rose again, giving starch to her backbone. “Do you feel anything for me?” God, had she really asked that out loud? How pathetic must she sound?

  Sergei’s face swung toward her.

  Reading what was going on behind his brown eyes was impossible. But his mouth, dear Lord, his mouth—the firm line was softening, curving into his familiar crooked smile.

  “Are you angry with me?”

  She was glaring. So maybe that question was looking for the secrets locked deep inside her. “I am. After everything we shared, you put me in a guest room.”

  “You needed rest.” His eyebrows rose. “You were swaying on your feet when we arrived.”

  “I needed comfort. I was scared.” Her fingers tightened on the wooden arm of the chaise.

  “But you were safe. You had nothing to fear.”

  “I wasn’t afraid of being attacked again, you moron. I was afraid you didn’t love me.” She clamped her jaws closed and stared at him wide-eyed. Nothing like blurting out my feelings.

  His mouth stretched and he began to laugh. Loudly. Holding his belly and bending.

  Infuriating. With a determined move, she reached out and tipped her glass over his head.

  Then he laughed harder. “Better run, sweetheart. You’ve earned a spanking.”

  Her heart thrilled, and she pushed off the chaise, squealing as she ran for the water. She was thigh deep when a strong arm looped around her waist and pulled her hard against a solid wall of muscle.

  “So I’m a moron?” he growled in her ear.

  “I don’t know where that came from,” she gasped. But she was lying. She’d wanted to call him a bastard, a motherfucker, every foul name she could think of, she was so frustrated by the distance he’d placed between them.

  In the next instant, she went still, remembering what he’d just said. “You’re going to spank me?”

  “Later. Promise,” he whispered. His hands roamed her naked belly. Fingers slid beneath her swimsuit, sliding right between her folds. He penetrated her, curling the digit to swirl inside her.

  She trembled, her thighs clamping around his hand to hold him there. “I hate you,” she whimpered. Another lie, but the truth was too frightening if he didn’t love her back.

  “Liar,” he said, giving her another swirl.

  Liquid heat drenched his finger, and she sagged against him. She’d wanted to be brave. Instead, she was throwing up more armor to protect her pride and her very fragile heart. Perhaps she didn’t deserve him after all.

  Kara closed her eyes, then drew a deep breath, filling her lungs, forcing strength into backbone. Not enough to turn and meet his gaze, but enough to whisper, “I love you.”

  A kiss brushed her cheek, and he removed his hand and turned her in his arms. “Look at me.”

  She hesitated for a brief second, hoping she wasn’t alone in this, praying with all her heart she’d see the answer she so needed in his eyes. Then she glanced up and locked her gaze on his expression.

 
His smile was soft, and his eyes glistened. He cleared his throat. “I love you too, Kara. I’m sorry you didn’t know that. I thought I should give you time. Let you think about what you really want. I’m older than you. I pushed you into this relationship. You’re so young, and you probably have plans for your life I don’t want to spoil.”

  She shook her head, blinking away tears because she needed to see him, needed to know that what was there in his eyes was real. “I don’t have any plans, can’t think of a thing past the fact I don’t want live without you, Sergei Gun.”

  His smile tightened. His eyes blazed with sudden heat. “I’m a little rough around the edges, baby. My life’s been filled with violence and war. I can’t promise to always do or say the right thing. But if you stay with me, if you marry me, I’ll keep you safe. I’ll love you with every breath.”

  Kara stared, suspended in the moment as joy flooded her body. She reached up, framing his rugged face with her trembling hands. “All I ask is that you love me. Always.”

  His head bent toward hers. “There’s no going back,” he rasped, his hands gathering her closer.

  She rose on her toes. “I’m yours, sir,” she said, and then rose higher.

  Their kiss was the sweetest they’d ever shared. A brush of their lips that quickly deepened. He tugged at the loose knot at his hips and stripped away the fabric, tossing it over his shoulder. He was nude beneath it, and she dropped a hand to wrap it around his straining shaft, reveling in the heat she felt.

  Sergei lifted his head, grabbed her hand, and pulled her toward the sandy beach. He whipped out the pareo and lay it just beyond the lapping waves, then tugged her downward, fitting her beneath him, his knees gently nudging open her thighs.

  The moment he entered her, she cried out, so filled with happiness she could have died in that moment, every dream fulfilled.

  His arms encircled her body, and she wrapped her legs around his hips, lifting to meet his slow thrusts. She wasn’t alone anymore. Would never be again. The man who filled her now would be the center of her new world, one she’d joyfully enter. She’d be his wife, his lover—his everything, if he’d allow it.