In the Arms of Danger

by Madison Hayes

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  In the Arms of Danger

  ISBN # 1-4199-0661-5

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  In the Arms of Danger Copyright© 2006 Madison Hayes

  Edited by Pamela Campbell.

  Cover art by Willo.

  Electronic book Publication: July 2006

  This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Warning:

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

  S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

  E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

  X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

  In the Arms of Danger

  Madison Hayes

  Dedication

  …again, for Rhyannon.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Prince Valiant: King Features Syndicate, Inc.

  Chapter One

  “Get your hands off her fucking tits.” The harsh words echoed on the pub’s paneled walls.

  At the sound of that cold command, the young man crowding Julie froze. Trapped in the leather-lined booth, she’d found herself the unwilling recipient of his unwelcome attention. Now, a look of pure panic fell over his face as his thick, meaty mitt stiffened on her chest. Julie watched as perspiration bled from his pores to shine on his upper lip. With a sick feeling of revulsion, she leaned away from the mouth which hovered uncomfortably close to her face. His damp, sweating breath was an insult to her senses.

  “Hey, Dicky,” her assailant answered warily, without turning. “I didn’t see you come in.”

  Julie jumped when a dart slammed into the wall between the booth’s benches. The hand came off her chest as though her nipples were red-hot burners. The dart’s red tail shivered as she stared at the bronze point buried in the oak wall.

  “Christ, Dicky,” the man beside her hurried to protest, his voice strangling in his throat. “Take it easy! I didn’t know she was your girlfriend.”

  Julie leaned forward, craning her neck, eager to get a glimpse of her new boyfriend, but a set of beefy shoulders stood between her and her profane Prince Valiant. Although she couldn’t see the owner of the voice, she could tell the young man beside her was scared shitless of this Dicky.

  “How could you have known?” The smooth voice was forgiving without surrendering an ounce of menace.

  “She just walked in. I never seen her before. When did she become your girlfriend?” her assailant challenged in a defensive mutter.

  “When she ordered supper.”

  The short, clipped words sent chills down Julie’s spine, chills unlike the cold revulsion that had settled around her when the beefy lug had slid into her booth and—after a few words of introduction—had leaned over and slid a sweaty paw over her breast. This was a different sensation entirely, and one that Julie was unfamiliar with. A sensation filled with anticipation and apprehension, mixed with the melting gratitude of a woman extricated from an awkward situation.

  With a scrape of heavy boots on old wood floors, a young man sauntered into view. He dismissed her unwelcome companion with a flick of his head. “Piss off, Jimmy.”

  As Jimmy slid out from beside her, the newcomer slid into the maroon leather seat facing her. Julie watched him as he placed two red-tailed darts at the table’s edge.

  He was a bit of a shock. Because Jimmy was obviously afraid of him—yet Jimmy could have just about made two of him. At maybe five-nine, that made Dicky a good deal taller than she was, but he was neither tall nor broad. His frame was slim, his hips narrow. His shoulders were hidden beneath the long coat he wore but appeared wide enough for a man his size. Smooth hair, the color of vivid rust, tucked into the collar of his black coat and slashed over his forehead to almost hide his eyes. Every feature on his face had a hard edge, from his straight, narrow nose to his sulking, down-turned mouth. As his lips parted, she caught a glimpse of ragged white. One of his front teeth was chipped along its bottom edge. The effect on his face was harsh and unmannered.

  And his eyes. His eyelashes formed a fence of dark spikes around irises the color of smoldering wood. Those eyes fixed on her with a hungry intensity, making her draw farther into her seat.

  He might have been good looking, if he hadn’t looked so threatening. Dicky. Only a Brit could wear a name like that and carry it off like a threat, rather than a joke. He didn’t say a word. He just sat across from her with his eyes cutting through the dark ribbons of his hair.

  “That’s one pound fifty.” A girl slid a plate of golden, thick-cut chips onto the table and Julie dug in her backpack to hand the girl a five-pound note.

  When the waitress made change and put it on the table, Prince Valiant picked it up, handed the waitress a pound coin and pocketed the remaining money. “Two plates, Mary.”

  “Right, Dicky. I forgot. I’ll be right back.”

  The young man grabbed up a handful of hot chips as though he was starving and Julie watched his hand travel to his curved lips. “Eat up,” he commanded.

  “I’m not hungry,” she murmured, pushing the plate toward him. “Help yourself.”

  The waitress set an empty plate in front of Dicky and he pulled most of the chips onto it. “Why’d you order this, then, if you’re not hungry?”

  “I just wanted to get in out of the rain. A place to sit down.”

  His eyes flicked at her and she felt it like a knife’s caress. “You’re American.”

  “Yeah,” she admitted, unconsciously licking her lips, unable to pull her eyes away from his hands. His fingers were long and slender, like an artist’s. But his hands were hard, rough, capable, like an artist who’s fought for each day’s survival.

  “My parents are…were British. My mother died when I was young.”

  He took this information without comment, chewing on a mouthful of chips, staring at her lips as though ravenous. A deep ridge formed between his auburn brows as his gaze flicked around the dark little pub. “You here alone?”

  She shook her head. “I’m with—was with—a tour group. I missed the ferry this afternoon. I was in the public restroom when the boat pulled out.” She made a face. “I ordered seafood last night, for dinner. I haven’t been the same since.”

  Cocking his head to one side, he swallowed what was in his mouth. “You look a little pale.”

  Watching his Adam’s apple ride the column of
his throat, Julie wondered why the act should appear so sexy. She nodded and raised her eyebrows. “I feel that and more.”

  “Mary. Bring us some tea, will you?”

  “Two cups?”

  “Two cups.” He returned his attention to Julie. “English cure-all,” he offered briefly.

  She nodded, caught in the intensity of his stare, completely helpless to look away. The color of his eyes almost matched his dark hair. Just this side of red, his brown eyes burned like hot slag. The flame in his eyes spread over her skin, heating her more quickly than the enclosing warmth of the booth could ever hope to. Her heart did a savage little leap, body set to a fine tremble that accompanied a rush of heat suddenly pulsing through her wan, shadowy system.

  “Hey Irish.” A menacing snarl intruded into the booth, while scuffing footsteps brought the dangerous voice closer.

  Dicky stopped chewing and, for a moment, regarded Julie with complete regret. Slowly, he raised his eyes to the man with the voice. Men, actually. Two tall, ugly, hard-looking men stood beside the booth. A large hand settled on the table and cut sideways, slicing the darts off the table to skid across the pub’s wooden floor. With seeming disinterest, Dicky picked up a fork, stabbed up a dozen chips and stuffed them into his mouth.

  “Where you been, Dicky?” the first demanded in a voice like ground glass.

  He was a lean, wiry man with a mean lift to his lip and Julie disliked him instantly. His heavy companion ran a big, battered hand over his bald skull. Like a cold knife, the skinhead’s gaze slid into the booth where Julie sat. She shivered as it reached her.

  “Bertie. Skin.” Dicky acknowledged the men’s presence with two words just before his fork flashed down in an arc and pinned Bertie’s hand to the table, while the ceramic plate—gripped in Dicky’s fingers—slashed at the ugly man’s nose. Chips flew at Bertie’s face and shot over his shoulders as the plate’s edge hit him hard beneath the nose, snapped back when Dicky flexed his elbow, then smacked in under his nose again. There was a horrible cracking crunch as the plate broke beneath a fountain of bright scarlet.

  The skinhead gaped at Bertie in surprise, which lost him two seconds and earned him the idiot’s prize as Dicky reached for Julie’s plate and caught the man full in the Adam’s apple. Skin doubled over, clutching at his neck. The red-tined fork clattered on the wooden floor as Bertie reached to staunch the blood rushing from his nose.

  In a long swish of black coat, Dicky went over the back of the booth and disappeared through the rear exit. Choking and tripping, the two thugs followed him across the pub and out the back door.

  The restaurant was silent.

  “Shit.” Jimmy slammed his beer mug onto the bar, a look of pure worship on his face, while Mary, standing behind the bar with her elbows propped on the counter, watched the exit door with a dreamy smirk of admiration.

  Julie reeled in the suddenly empty booth, trying to catch a breath and trying to catch up. As though ejected from a bizarre fast-forward dream, she reacted slowly to collect her wits and her backpack. As she blinked around the silent pub, trying to regroup, Julie felt as though more things had happened to her in the last few minutes than had ever happened before, during her entire existence. She felt like something important had happened—and she had somehow missed it.

  Moving in slow motion, she slid to the edge of the booth, feeling faint, her weakened body weighted by shock and the quickly unfurling realization that she’d just lost her somewhat questionable prince. It made no sense, but she felt his sudden absence like an uncomfortable, gnawing ache in her very empty stomach.

  She felt bereft.

  The front door opened, revealing a strip of gleaming black night. Then Dicky was beside her, levering her out of the booth. “Come on,” he said with a hand on her elbow. “Time to go.”

  She leaned away from him, uncertainty on her face, the ache in her stomach replaced with a sudden surge of unsettling anticipation as his rough hands pulled her closer.

  “You don’t want to be here when those fuckers come back,” he pointed out. “They don’t like me and they’ll like my girlfriend even less. Come on,” he repeated and dragged her through the pub’s front door.

  Chapter Two

  Out on the narrow wet pavement, Dicky turned his collar up to fence off the rich color of his hair. “Where are you staying?” he asked.

  Uninvited, his arm went around Julie’s waist as naturally as breathing. She slumped into his hold, still feeling pale and watery, as his arm tightened to support her and he pushed her up the street. “Where are you staying?” he repeated.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m supposed to be in Dublin tonight with the rest of my group. It was all paid for in advance.”

  “You don’t have a room? Where were you last night?”

  “The Admiral…Ansted?”

  “Anston. I’ll take you there. You have money?”

  “A little,” she answered, remembering how he had appropriated her change in the pub. “My wallet and passport were in my bags on the ferry. My credit card, too. But I had some money in my backpack.”

  “How much?”

  She swallowed hard. “Eighty pounds,” she told him reluctantly.

  “I’ll take you to the Anston. They’ll ask for fifty pounds but they’ll take forty. They’ll have a phone. You can contact your tour group when they get to the hotel in Ireland. You have an itinerary,” he asked, “phone numbers?”

  She nodded as he pushed her along the pavement that widened to become a sidewalk. She gave him a nervous glance. “What did those men want with you?”

  “Bertie and Skin? I owe them money,” he grunted as he threw a glance over his shoulder. “Or some reasonable facsimile.”

  “Reasonable facs—”

  “Money. Cameras. Automobiles. Drugs. They’re not picky.” Ducking his head toward her, he gave her a hard smile. His teeth flashed in the darkness, the chipped incisor putting a wild edge on his unmannered smile. “They’re not picky, they’re just a bit brutal.”

  “They called you Irish.”

  Dicky shrugged one shoulder in response.

  “Are you from Ireland?”

  “I’m Liverpool. Been here all my life.”

  With a tug, he pulled her into his side as he hurried her up the road. His hand on her waist was firm and commanding, his arm a tight band of support wrapped around her. Walking Liverpool’s dark streets with a man who had the potential for more trouble than she’d ever encountered in her life, Julie felt unreasonably safe as well as breathlessly excited. She welcomed the presence of his arm and the thrill of warmth she experienced as he wrapped her body to his in a strong grip that was almost possessive.

  It was a good ten blocks to The Anston.

  Two blocks into the trip, Dicky suspected he was being followed. Five blocks and he was sure of it. Brown hair, short black jacket, dark trousers. He smoked.

  Dicky shrugged. He’d deal with the “tail” after he took care of the girl.

  His arm tightened around her as his gaze stole sideways and slid across her elegant features. As they walked together, her straight hair swung to hide her face behind a glossy curtain of dark gold. Without thinking, he reached out with his left hand and tucked the sheet of hair behind her ear. She answered this action with a startled look of surprise. Internally, he shrugged. He was used to helping himself when he wanted something. And he wanted to see her face.

  She looked like something you’d find on the cover of a magazine, only better, because she was here and now—small and warm—her slim frame tucked into his arm and fitting him perfectly.

  The girl was a far cry from the sort of Liverpool slag he was accustomed to. Measuring her against the women who were his normal fare, he could only express the idea in terms he was familiar with. If he were to take all the women he’d ever fucked, they probably amounted to no more than pocket change when compared to this one. This one was more in the league of everything-inside-a-bank-vault, including the e
ntire contents of the bank’s safety deposit boxes—jewelry crusted with diamonds, ownership deeds, bearer bonds, you name it.

  Those reflections led him to think of the last woman he’d fucked.

  He’d been playing darts at the Swan with a couple of tossers from the south when she’d wandered in with two of her friends. The three women were older, in their mid-thirties—married women, most likely—bored with their husbands and looking for sex. Dirty sex. They had trawled the pub with their dark avaricious eyes, lingering where they found unattached males, proclaiming their interest with sultry glances and evocative body language. When Dicky had caught one of them stroking him with her gaze, he’d smiled back at her.

  He’d chosen the one in the skirt. She wasn’t the prettiest of the three, and he hated red lipstick, but her companions wore trousers and it was easier to seduce a woman in a pub booth when she was wearing a skirt. Easier to fuck her up against a wall, as well.

  With his hands under the table and his fingers inside her panties, he’d pulled her legs open and played with her sex while pretending to hold a conversation with her. Dicky grinned. She’d almost come in the booth. The sounds she had made in the middle of their “conversation” had been so awkward, he’d thought he’d have to cover her mouth—and he hadn’t fancied that red lipstick. The woman had smelled of stick deodorant and heavy makeup.

  When she was slippery and his fingers were sliding easily inside her pussy, he’d taken her outside and found a dark corner a few blocks away. She’d put her teeth in his earlobe as she came, causing him to surge violently as he’d hammered her into the stone wall at her back. She came again about two minutes later, but he’d had a hard time getting off himself. At that point, he’d wondered if he shouldn’t have gone for the trousers, after all. Eventually, he’d turned her and pulled her away from the wall. The woman was accommodating. She’d leaned forward and braced her forearms against the wall while he shoved her skirt up over her ass and fucked her from behind.