Romancing the Alpha: An Action-Adventure Romance Boxed Set

by Zoe York

  The atlas was still tucked beneath her arm, but now that it was time to give it to him, she was having trouble handing it over.

  “Charlie…” he said softly, in a tone that was almost apologetic. It made her heart ache unbearably.

  She had to be strong. Just hand it over and push him out the door before she dissolved into a pathetic mess of tears at his feet.

  “Here,” she said, thrusting out the atlas without looking at him. “Just take it.”

  But he didn’t. And when she glanced up to see why, she found he wasn’t even looking at her anymore, but rather toward the back door. His shoulders were rigid and his jaw was tight.

  She followed his gaze but saw nothing. “What are—”

  Before she even realized what was happening, he’d grabbed her and clamped a hand across her mouth.

  “Shh.” The sound in her ear was little more than a breath. Her back was pressed against Jackson’s chest, her body trapped within the tight circle of his arm. Her heart was beating in her ears, and she was afraid to even breathe. What was he doing? What the hell was going on?

  The last time she’d been this close to Jackson was the last night they’d spent together. He’d smelled the same, and her body reacted the same way to his nearness—in a terrifying explosion of familiarity and desire. But he felt different now, felt stronger. She could feel the raw power in his arms around her, and she wasn’t sure whether that frightened or excited her.

  But before she could analyze that reaction too closely, she heard it—the small click click of someone fiddling with a lock.

  He held her so that they both faced the back door. Currently, the blinds were closed, so they couldn’t see out into the darkness of the backyard. But she could see the lock moving slightly, trying to come undone. Cold washed down her spine. Someone was trying to break into her house.

  Jackson’s mouth was still at her ear.

  “I want you to take the atlas and go out the front door,” he said. “Get as far away from here as you can. Don’t stop for anyone.” Just as suddenly as he’d grabbed her, his arms dropped.

  She stood there, stunned, then whispered, “What about you?”

  “I’ll find you. Go!” He practically pushed her toward the door.

  She still had no idea what was going on—What the hell had Jackson gotten her involved in?—but she saw the look in his eyes. Behind the fierce determination in his expression was something that almost looked like fear. She wasn’t going to question what he’d told her to do.

  She raced toward the door, pausing only to reach down and grab her purse from the floor. As soon as she got out of here, she’d be calling the police.

  The moment her fingers touched the handle, she heard the back door fly open.

  “Run!” shouted Jackson when she started to look back.

  She did.

  She threw open the door and bolted out into the night. Almost immediately, she heard a shout from around the side of the house—and then a crash from her living room, but she didn’t dare look behind her. Her car was parked right next to the mailbox, but even as she fumbled for her keys in her purse, a dark figure came running at her across the lawn. She didn’t have time to find them.

  She turned and raced down the street, gripping the atlas for dear life. Footsteps pounded behind her—one pair? Two?—and she couldn’t think of anything but get away, get away, get away. When she reached the end of her street, she turned down another. And then another. She knew she should scream for help, but every ounce of her air was going toward running faster, harder. When she opened her mouth, all that came out was a strangled croak, and even that made her chest hurt. Soon she was gasping for breath, and even still the footsteps were gaining.

  She never stopped. Never slowed. She ducked around cars and behind hedges until she was lost in her own neighborhood. Finally, just when she thought her lungs were going to explode, she found herself at the neighborhood’s clubhouse. Everything was locked at this hour, but she threw herself behind the building’s air conditioning unit and dropped down to the ground, hiding as best she could.

  For several long, terrifying seconds, she heard nothing but her own pounding pulse. Then footsteps approached—two pairs, for sure—and she held her breath as they neared and then passed her, circling around the side of the clubhouse.

  Those moments after they faded away were the longest of her life. She was too afraid to move, even though the strap of her purse was twisted around her arm and the atlas was pressed uncomfortably into her hip. She bit down on her bottom lip to keep from gasping for breath, even though her lungs were still begging for air. Her mind whirled.

  She’d known Jackson was trouble, but she’d always thought it was more in the guaranteed-to-break-your-heart sort of way—and her experience had certainly proved her right in that respect. But this? This was beyond any of her imaginings. She had people breaking into her house and chasing her through the streets and she didn’t even know why.

  A twig snapped behind her. She jumped—but it was too late. A figure appeared above her, and before she could scramble away, he grabbed her and pulled her back. And a hand clamped across her lips before she ever had the chance to scream.

  — TWO —

  “It’s me,” Jackson breathed in Charlie’s ear. “Don’t worry, it’s me.”

  Almost immediately, he felt her body relax in his arms. But though she seemed to realize she wasn’t in any immediate danger, her chest still heaved against his arm and her pulse still fluttered like mad where he gripped her at one wrist. She was terrified, and no wonder.

  Still, tangled as they were and with his face partially buried in her hair, his body was half convinced they were in a very different sort of situation. Her lips were soft as butter beneath his calloused fingers, and her hair smelled just as he remembered—like strawberries and cream. He was hard as a rock before he even realized he’d nestled closer to those silky strands. The last time he’d had his face in her hair, he’d been buried deep inside of her. This was always his favorite position—being curled around her from behind with her neck within easy reach of his mouth and her breasts within reach of his hand. There was nothing to muffle the sweet little cries that would come from her lips, and nothing to stop him from teasing that tender nub between her legs when he could tell she was about to come.

  This isn’t the time for this, you idiot, he thought. What the fuck are you thinking? He released her abruptly. Nash’s men were still out there looking for them. He needed to get her somewhere safe. And fast.

  “Do you still have the atlas?” he asked her under his breath as she rolled over to face him.

  She nodded, her gray eyes wide with confusion and fear beneath the light of the moon. As he lifted his head to glance around them, she let out a little gasp—and he found her staring at the side of his face. He raised a hand to his cheek, and his fingers came away sticky with blood. Shit. He must have hit something during his scuffle back at the house. Fortunately, further investigation suggested that it was only a mild cut, though he’d need to make sure the blood didn’t get in his eyes. He’d knocked out the guy who’d come bursting through the back door, but there appeared to be at least two others still out there looking for them. He glanced back down at Charlie.

  Don’t worry, Goose, he thought, tucking a honey-colored tendril of hair behind her ear. I’ll keep you safe, I promise. He hoped she could read the message in his eyes—it was too dangerous to speak more than absolutely necessary.

  He couldn’t believe Nash’s guys had caught up with him so fast. That could only mean one thing: what Roth had feared was true. They’d been betrayed—most likely by one of their own. He’d need to update his leader as soon as possible.

  It was several moments before he dared to reach out and touch Charlie’s arm again, and the contact still sent a jolt of need through him.

  Control yourself, you horndog. This wasn’t the time to think about how much he wanted her, but fuck, was it hard to focus on anything els
e. He’d had nine months to forget her. Instead, he’d somehow built up nine months of fantasies that his body was aching to reenact.

  But he had no idea when Nash’s men might circle back around. Right now, they needed to get out of here.

  “Come on,” he whispered, helping her to her feet. “Follow me.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her around the side of the building. Her fingers gripped his, strong and sure, even though he knew she must be terrified. He wanted those fingers around his cock. Or digging into his back as she screamed out his name. But first he needed to get her somewhere safe.

  He’d parked his rental car around the corner from her house, at the end of a cul-de-sac. When they reached it—via a path around various hedges and across at least one backyard—the street was otherwise empty. Nash’s guys had parked in front of Charlie’s house, and most likely they were back there now, waiting for one or both of them to return.

  He pulled Charlie behind a large hydrangea bush while he scoped out the street. When he had convinced himself that the coast was clear, he glanced over at her. Her tender mouth was set in a hard line, and she had the atlas clutched to her chest. He saw her purse dangling from her other arm, and he let out a breath of relief. That would save him a trip back to her house, at least.

  “That’s my car,” he whispered, pointing. “When I give the signal, make a run for it, okay?”

  She gave a single nod.

  He gave the street one more good look before squeezing her fingers and tugging her out into the open.

  They ran. He was much faster than Charlie, but she kept pace well, and he only released her hand when they reached the car and they had to bolt to their respective sides of the vehicle. Within seconds, he had the key in the ignition.

  Unfortunately, a single car engine roaring to life in the middle of the night was hard to miss in a quiet neighborhood like this, even from a street or two away. Which meant they didn’t have much of a head start.

  But Nash’s men weren’t his only problem right now. As soon as he slammed his foot down on the gas, Charlie pulled her cell phone out of her purse.

  “What are you doing?” he asked her as he squealed down the street.

  Her thumb tapped against the screen. “Calling the police.”

  “Don’t,” he said. “That’ll only make this worse.”

  His eyes were locked on the road, but he could feel the disbelief rolling off of her.

  “What’s going on?” she asked him. “Who were those guys and why are they after you? Why are they after me?”

  “They’re after the atlas.” He shot a look in the rearview mirror. No sign of them yet.

  “But why?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her glance down at the book in her hands. “People don’t break into houses and chase people down for an atlas.”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that,” he admitted.

  “How?” When he didn’t answer immediately, impatience crept into her voice. “How, Jackson? What the hell are you involved in?”

  “Charlie, I don’t think—”

  “I have the right to know.”

  She had a point. As much as he wanted to keep her out of this, it was too late for that now. She was involved, whether he liked it or not.

  And as if to drive that point home, a car suddenly appeared behind them, going way too fast to be anyone but Nash’s men.

  He cursed and tore around the next turn, sending Charlie sprawling halfway across his lap. He had to lose them. Charlie sat back up and quickly clicked on her seatbelt, and he heard her breath hitch slightly when she glanced back and realized what was going on. He wanted to reach out and calm her, but that was impossible right now. The least he could do was fill her in on what he could.

  “I never told you much about what I do for a living,” he said, his voice calm in spite of the fact that his grip was like steel on the steering wheel.

  She looked at him. “You told me you worked in imports and acquisitions.”

  In spite of himself, he smiled at the description. “And that’s correct, in a general sense. The truth is that I work for a team that travels around the world finding and acquiring items of a certain value.” He’d reached the neighborhood’s entrance, and he took a quick right onto the main road. But the other car wasn’t far behind. The headlights lit up his rear-view mirror.

  Charlie was twisted around, watching the road behind them. “I still don’t understand.”

  And he still wasn’t quite sure how to say this. “We’re a very specialized team. That means we have the skill to find and retrieve things that most people would consider impossible—or at least not worth the extreme effort and risk it would take to get to them in the first place. Artifacts, long-lost works of art, sunken cargo—”

  “Like a pirate.” The doubt was clear in her voice.

  “Not like a pirate at all,” he said, though he felt a grin creep on at the image of himself with a parrot on his shoulder. “Most of us prefer the term ‘treasure hunter,’ but I think even that is—”

  “Jackson, this isn’t the time to joke.”

  The fear in her voice smacked the grin right off his face. He glanced in the rear-view mirror again. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like his last two sharp turns might have gained them some ground against their pursuers. He risked a glance over at Charlie.

  “I’m not joking,” he said softly. “I’m dead serious about this, Charlie.”

  Her huge gray eyes turned his way, but she said nothing.

  “I know it sounds ridiculous,” he rushed on, “but it’s the truth. The team I’m on hunts down items of value. Sometimes we’re hired to do so by museums or local governments or wealthy collectors. Other times we catch wind of something and conduct our own investigations.” He tore through a traffic light just as it turned red, then whipped around the next corner.

  Charlie seemed to be absorbing this latest bit of information. “And this atlas is somehow involved in that? Who are these guys chasing us?”

  “Unfortunately, my team isn’t the only one out there. And if we’re right about this latest hunt, that atlas might help us find the biggest haul of our lives.”

  “How big?”

  “Big enough that a lot of people would kill to get it.” His gaze flicked to the rear-view mirror once more. There was no sign of the other car behind them, but that didn’t mean they were in the clear.

  For a few minutes, they rode in silence. Charlie seemed to be processing everything she’d just heard, and he was focused on getting them as far away from their pursuers as possible.

  “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” she said finally. “Why did you give me this atlas in the first place if it was this important? And why is all of this happening now? It’s been almost a year.”

  “That’s the thing,” he said. “I had no idea.” He remembered the night he’d given her the atlas—the way her eyes had lit up like he was giving her the world. He saw the way that, even now, her fingers curled protectively around the book’s edges, and it made his chest ache with an emotion he didn’t want to analyze.

  “That atlas belonged to a man named Vincent Rinaldi,” he continued. “I bought it at his estate auction.”

  “Was he someone famous? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”

  “Not famous, no—at least not outside the treasure hunting world. But he was rich. Incredibly rich. He was also what you might call an eccentric.”

  She let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Are you sure you aren’t making any of this up?”

  “It sounds like a joke, I know,” he said. “And trust me—it gets even more ridiculous. Vincent Rinaldi was… well, he was a little touched in the head. There are a lot of different kinds of treasure hunters out there, Goose. Some will slit your throat as soon as look at you,”—he caught her throwing a glance behind them—“and others just want to play at being adventurers. Rinaldi was one of the latter. He was, for many years, the laughing stock of the treasure hunting commun
ity. He’d follow all sorts of rumors and stories and pour hundreds of thousands of dollars into dives for sunken ships or digs for Inca gold. I’ve even met a fellow who once swindled him into paying ten thousand for a plain old map of Australia.”

  “And this atlas was his?” she asked. There was something almost tender in her voice as she looked down at the book in her lap.

  “Yeah,” he said, suddenly feeling like a jackass again. Why’d she have to love that damn atlas so much?

  “As I said, I bought it at an auction,” he continued. “Rinaldi died last year. Left everything to Alyssa Berry, his fiancée. According to reports, there was very little cash left, so she mostly just got a bunch of treasure-hunting equipment. State-of-the-art stuff, but not exactly anything a young bride-to-be wants or needs when her intended dies. She turned around and auctioned most of it off immediately. My teammates and I made a few purchases. Mostly tools and stuff, but some of us picked up a few of his personal things—his old journals and notes and that sort of thing—just for fun. Rinaldi was a loony, but he was one of us, you know? He was a legend, in his own way.”

  “And the atlas?”

  “I thought of you the moment I saw it. I knew you’d love it.” And now I’m going to take it away again like a heartless bastard. He tried to assuage his guilt by reminding himself that it was safer this way, that as long as she had the atlas, she was in danger—but it didn’t make him feel like any less of a shithead.

  “Why now?” she asked softly. “What’s changed?”

  His eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror. For a split second, he thought he’d seen the headlights again, but it was a false alarm. Pull it together, man.

  “Alexei—that’s one of my teammates—he was looking through some of Rinaldi’s old travel journals,” he said, still keeping an eye on the road behind them. “I’ll give Rinaldi one thing—the man kept great records. Wrote down everything he encountered, every detail of his expeditions. Of course, most of his instincts were wrong, but he had an adventurous spirit. And there was something interesting about the last journal he kept before his death.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lean a little closer to him, her eyes bright with interest. “In most of the notebooks, he wrote almost like he was addressing himself—making notes of things for future voyages and all that. But in the last one, he kept addressing his fiancée. He was writing to her.”