by Lora Leigh
He was going to fuck her.
His jaw tensed, lust sweeping over him, consuming him as she knelt in the seat beside him, her upper body braced in front of him.
“Don’t make this mistake, Lyrica,” he warned her, one hand clenching the steering wheel, the other gripping her hip warningly. “Don’t think in your anger that you can make me pay for whatever slight you perceive.”
“Make you pay?” she whispered, the full curves of her breasts rising and falling temptingly. “You make us sound like enemies, Graham. I’ve never been your enemy.”
Releasing her hip, he let his hand move to her thigh, testing the firm muscle beneath, letting himself become immersed in the thought of those lovely legs gripping his hips.
He moved his hand from the steering wheel and reached up, intending to pull her to him, the only action, the only hunger he could make sense of at the moment.
“No, you’re not my enemy, sweetheart,” he agreed. He’d make damned sure of it.
She caught his wrist before he could touch her hair, her head pulling back, the anger he’d sensed in her earlier suddenly flaring in her eyes.
“And I’m not one of your bimbos, your snuggle bunnies, or your damned cheap-ass tramps that tromp naked around your sister as if she wants to see their silicone-filled breasts or nasty-ass bushes. And I’ll make damned sure my brother never sends you after me again.”
He watched her.
Eyes narrowed, his hand returned to the steering wheel as she jerked the door open and moved to leave the car.
“Lyrica.” He said her name softly, the warning in it bringing her to a stop. She turned slowly to stare at him over her shoulder. “If you ever need me, I’m here. But take this to heart, baby—tease me again, and I’m going to fuck you. Every way I know how, and I’m sure I’ll think of a few new positions just for you. But I will fuck you. When it’s over you’ll be hurt, I’ll feel bad as hell for it, and I’ll make an enemy of every Mackay I know. Do us both a favor, a big favor. Stay the hell out of my bed.”
Her lips curled in disgust. “Don’t worry, Graham. I never was into trashy studs or used seconds, no matter how damned good they think they are. No matter how damned different I thought they were.”
With that, she pushed herself from the car, closed the door all too gently behind her, then strode across the sidewalk to her patio door as though she were out for a midnight stroll. As though her body wasn’t burning for him. As though her need to return to him wasn’t just as high, just as imperative as his need to have her return.
In the end, it was far better she didn’t, because Graham knew he would destroy them both with his lust for her. And hurting her was something he didn’t want. He wanted that even less than he wanted to repeat the mistakes of the past.
THREE
June
As the elevator reached the fourth floor of the small hotel, Lyrica Mackay expelled a weary breath and wished she’d asked someone to make this trip with her.
Kye would have been the obvious choice, but Lyrica was trying desperately to stay away from the Brock house after her last confrontation with Graham. Her emotions were still too ragged, her body still too determined to remember every second of every touch he had whispered across her body.
Those memories tortured her, tormented her, and there was nothing she could do to hold them back.
The muted ping of the elevator reaching her floor sounded, forcing back her memories as the door slid open. What caused her to pause, she would never understand, couldn’t explain. Why she placed her hand on the elevator door to hold it open, she never questioned.
Her body tense, she stared up the long corridor to her room. Her gaze locked on her hotel room door, her senses heightening, certain her door was open.
It shouldn’t be open.
She remembered closing it securely when she left. She’d put out the Do Not Disturb sign, too. There was no reason for housekeeping to be there.
There was a strange sense of disbelief filling her. It sent adrenaline rushing through her system, a warning prickle of danger burning through her mind as she tried to tell herself to move. She should go directly to the lobby and complain.
No one had been at the registration desk when she’d arrived though. She’d considered stopping and requesting a cup of the coffee that smelled freshly made behind the receptionist’s counter. She’d even paused and looked around for the young man who had been there earlier, wondering where he had gone.
As she stood there, one hand still braced on the open elevator door out of instinct and the other tightening on her purse strap, a figure moved in the doorway.
Disbelief held her still and silent as their eyes met across the long distance. Dressed in black, masked, a handgun held firmly in his hand, the man’s gaze narrowed on her.
His black shirt fit snugly. He wasn’t in great shape, but overpowering her would be easy. He was taller, his legs longer. He could outrun her.
His arm came up slowly, a smile pulling at his lips as triumph gleamed in his eyes.
Instinct lent strength. Jumping back and hitting the door close button of the elevator, she was suddenly thankful for whatever urge had kept her hand on the elevator door. It closed quickly, moving swiftly back to the lobby as she began to pray.
Seconds later she pushed through the doors as they opened and raced into the lobby, searching desperately for the still-absent receptionist.
She didn’t dare wait. There wasn’t time.
Running through the doors, she considered the parking garage where her Jeep was parked, but knew that would be the first place her would-be assassin would look.
Assassin.
Who would want to kill her?
Running down the sidewalk, pushing herself to move faster than she ever had, Lyrica turned up the alley and began running through the dark shadows that lay over the backstreets. She didn’t know London, Kentucky, well enough. She only came there occasionally. She usually shopped in Louisville.
God, she had to find someplace to hide. She had to find a chance to call her cousin’s husband, the chief of police in Somerset. Alex would send someone after her. He would call someone he knew in London and make sure she was safe.
She couldn’t hear anyone behind her, but she knew how little that meant. She didn’t dare pause or slow down. She didn’t dare let herself believe she was safe. Turning at the next shadowed corner, she kept running, trying desperately to be quiet, grateful she’d worn sneakers rather than the low heels she’d considered.
Why was she being chased? Who would want to hurt her?
Unless …
Someone had targeted her older sister two years before. Eve had been placed in danger because of Dawg’s enemies. Had they returned?
They couldn’t have. Dawg was certain they were dead.
Coming to a hard stop, she realized she’d turned into an alley with no exits. Brick walls surrounded her now, and the only way out was back the way she had come, toward the dark figure with his ever-ready gun.
A cat squalled out from beyond the alley entrance, the clatter of metal meeting cement brief, but assuring her she had only seconds. Whoever wanted to kill her was getting closer.
Looking around in terror, she moved quickly to the heavy Dumpster at her side and wedged in beside it, praying he didn’t think to look there. As she all but crawled behind it, her breath escaped in a muffled sob as she realized there was a deep indent at the base of the building.
It had likely been covered once, but the bricks had been chipped away and disposed of at some point. She squeezed herself into it, huddling as close to the boarded back as possible and holding her breath as the footsteps came closer.
“I know I saw that bitch turn in here,” someone hissed.
“I’m telling you, she backtracked to the garage,” another snapped.
“I saw her take that last turn coming this way,” the first argued furiously. “Check behind the Dumpster.”
Footsteps shuffled, moving closer.
There was the scrape of a shoe, of clothes against the Dumpster as someone breathed out harshly. The Dumpster shifted, but it didn’t move.
“There’s no one back there,” the second voice retorted in disgust. “I can see behind it and it’s clear. She’s not here.”
“Fuck!” The curse was filled with anger. “I can’t believe you didn’t see her come into the lobby.”
“She was supposed to be in her room, dammit. You didn’t see her leave it.”
“Fucking moron,” the other man growled. “Let’s go. She has to be close. She couldn’t have gotten far.”
Lyrica didn’t dare breathe. She couldn’t breathe. Terror was like a fever, weakening her, tearing through her senses, shredding her control. Her entire body shuddered, chilled, shock and fear racing the adrenaline tearing through her body.
How long she waited she didn’t know. She didn’t dare move from the precarious hiding place. They were waiting for her, watching for her.
Moving slowly and reaching into the purse she clasped desperately to her chest, she pulled her cell phone free. It hadn’t been working earlier. She’d tried to call her sister to let her know she’d arrived, but the automated message had told her to try again later.
Fingers shaking, she hit Alex Jansen’s number again. When it didn’t go through, she began calling every number in her contact list, one after the other.
None of them were going through.
“We’re sorry, but this number is no longer accepting calls. Please try again later.”
The message played again, the computer-generated voice completely unsympathetic to the small, barely muffled sob that escaped Lyrica’s lips.
Hands trembling, she pulled the phone from her ear, closed her eyes, and huddled deeper into the small crevice she’d found in the brick building behind the stinking Dumpster.
She was too terrified to move out from behind it, the stark, mind-numbing fear rising from the depths of her soul at the very thought of it.
She couldn’t make a call out. Her texts weren’t going through to any of her family. Not her brother or her cousins, not her sisters or her mother or even her mother’s lover, Timothy Cranston. She’d tried everyone and nothing worked. She stared at the muted display, fighting desperately to think, to figure out what to do.
Even Alex Jansen, her cousin Janey’s husband and chief of police of Somerset, Kentucky, was unreachable. And she needed help. Oh god, she needed help.
She had no idea how to navigate the alleys and backstreets of downtown London. She was trapped here with no idea how to identify who was after her or why.
Why?
What had she done?
She’d just driven into town to meet some friends for dinner, then to go shopping early the next morning. The party she’d been invited to at one of her brother’s friends’ home in a few weeks required a new outfit. She wanted to look good. She wanted to get new shoes, something girly and pretty. Something to draw attention …
She’d checked into the hotel just before dark then left for dinner at a nearby restaurant where her friends were waiting for her. She could have never anticipated that someone would be waiting to kill her when she returned.
She shuddered remembering the muted pop that the gun had made as she had quickly stepped back into the elevator. The bullet had missed her by inches. She could have been killed. She would have been killed if she hadn’t held that damned elevator door open.
What was she going to do now?
Dawg had taught her and her sisters how to fight. He and their cousins had taught them how to survive in the mountains. But she had no idea how to survive here, in this dark alley, without a weapon.
The vibration of her phone had her turning it in her hand, staring at it in breathless hope.
Lyrie, this is Kye. My phone is acting really wonky. Using Graham’s. Where the hell are you? I’ve tried to call all day.
The text shocked her.
Kye? Kye had gotten through?
Graham would know what to do. He would get hold of Alex. Someone. He would help her. He had sworn he would come if she needed him.
Desperation spurred her as she quickly typed back.
Kye. Need Graham. In trouble. Help me!
Would it go through? Oh god, please let it go through. She watched the bar, nearly crying out as the “Delivered” message showed next to the text.
What if he refused to help her? He wasn’t too happy with her but, god, she needed him now.
She was dead if he didn’t find a way to save her. And she really didn’t think she’d like being dead.
—
Graham stared at the text, his senses hardening, turning to ice at the realization that Lyrica was in trouble.
“Graham,” Kye whispered, her face pale.
Graham dialed Lyrica’s number quickly before hitting the speaker option and hearing his call go straight to voice mail.
Inputting the secure encryption key on the stealth phone, he quickly dialed her number again.
“Kye. Kye, please help me.” Terror lanced through her tear-filled voice and shoved a dull blade through his chest. Her voice came quickly across the line. “I’ve called everyone. No one’s call is going through.”
“Where are you, Lyrica?” He was moving as he spoke, watching the readout on the screen of his phone and hitting the jamming signal that would keep the call from being tracked even as the program tracked her location. “Quickly.”
“Graham?” The hope, the terror in her voice ripped through his guts like a dull blade.
“Quickly, Lyrica,” he snapped.
“London.” Her voice was hushed, shaking. “I don’t know where. I was running, trying to get away. It’s a brick building, down an alley close to the new London Suites in town. I’m behind a Dumpster. Some guys are trying to kill me! They haven’t found me yet.”
“I have your GPS. Turn the phone off and pull the battery now, Lyrica. And don’t fucking move. If you have to run again, find a safe place, insert the battery again for three minutes, then pull it. You hear me? I’m coming for you, honey. I’m just a minute away.” He tried to reassure her. “Now do as I said.”
“Graham? Please hurry.” The whimper of terror had his guts turning to mush as he grabbed his duffel bag from his bedroom closet and raced to the front door.
“Do as I said, now. They’re tracking you and I won’t be able to block it for long once I leave the house. Pull that fucking battery and stay where you are. I’m on my way.”
The call disconnected.
“Graham, what’s going on?” Kye was rushing behind him, fear filling her voice as well, though she spoke low, nearly whispering, as he jerked the door of his car open and threw the duffel bag in it.
“Stay here.” Turning on her, he caught her shoulders in his hands and gave her a quick little shake as he spoke just loud enough for her to hear him. “Do not use your phone, Kye, it’s being monitored. Do you understand me?”
Frightened gray eyes widened, dilating with shock and fear at the information.
“Why?”
“Someone’s trying to track Lyrica. Stay off the phone. Do not answer it. I’ll call Sam and she’ll be out here to get you soon. Leave the phone here; don’t take it with you.”
“What if your phone is being tracked, too?” she whispered, still following him as he moved around to the driver’s side.
“It’s not or I wouldn’t have gotten through to her. It’s encrypted and secure. No one tracked it. But I want you to go with Sam and stay there until I call.”
“You’ll call soon?” she implored, stepping back from the car as he revved the motor of the powerful Viper.
“As soon as I can, sweetie,” he promised. “Now get in the house and lock up until Sam gets here. Now!”
Shifting quickly into gear, he tore out of the driveway, checking the rearview mirror just long enough to see her racing into the house.
“Call Sam.” He activated the Bluetooth calling option built into the p
owerful vehicle.
“Detective Bryce,” responded the strong, feminine voice that came over the line.
“Sam, could you check the house for me?” Graham kept his tone casual, pleasant. “I’m going to be late getting back and Kye’s phone is acting up on me.”
Sam would know exactly what the request meant—that Kye might need protection and to get her out of the house.
“Sure, Graham,” she answered, her own voice never changing, though he knew she was moving, prepping. “I was heading that way anyway to visit with a few friends.”
“I appreciate it,” he drawled. “On your way back, stop by the Mackays’ and ask Zoey if she’ll make a reservation for you tomorrow night. She’s still pissed at me for running off that hoodlum last week who was flirting with her. But let’s not let her family know I butted in. Dawg gets cranky over that shit and he’ll just piss her off when he questions her about it.”
What he said wasn’t important. The fact that he said it and the name he gave was all the detective needed. They’d worked together long enough that she was well versed in reading between the lines.
He didn’t want anyone alerted to the fact that Lyrica was in trouble until he figured out what the trouble was and the danger she was facing. The fact that Kye’s phone was being monitored and jammed each time she attempted to call Lyrica was warning enough that any information going to Lyrica’s phone, or her family’s phones, would be overheard.
“Yeah, we try to keep Dawg calm,” Sam laughed, the ease of the sound assuring him that anyone listening would be none the wiser that Graham was on his way to London. “Talk to you soon, then.”
Disconnecting the call, Graham pushed the little sports car harder, taking the curves at a breakneck speed as he raced for the interstate.
London was forty-five minutes away. In the Viper, he could cut that time to less than twenty. He didn’t worry about being stopped or trailed. Once his tag number was called in, law enforcement would let him go. He made certain he used the privilege often enough that he was rarely questioned over it. It shouldn’t so much as blip anyone’s radar. At least not until he collected Lyrica, and only then if he was seen.
