Sam hadn't envisioned their conversation taking this turn. Once again, she'd managed to surprise him, her words disturbingly portentous.
"Tell me you are not going overseas again," he exhorted.
"Actually, my father just got me a job with The Global Environment Facility. GEF is an international group that addresses environmental issues in developing countries. I'll be testing the impact of oil wells on the environment."
"Overseas?" he queried. The part about developing countries had tipped him off.
"Of course."
"You know, there are plenty of environmental issues right here in the United States," he pointed out. "You don't need to head overseas to make a difference."
She tossed her head. "That's like saying we have home-grown terrorists, so there's no need to chase after Al Qaeda," she countered sweetly.
Sam gripped the wooden railing until his knuckles ached. "Why do we argue every time we talk?" he wondered out loud. He would rather be finding out if she was wearing any underwear.
"I have no idea. Maybe it's because you think you have a right to tell me how to live my life."
His temples throbbed. She had to be goading him. "Obviously, you don't realize how small and defenseless you are," he concluded.
She tossed her head and glared at him. "Is that a threat?"
"What if it is?" One minute he was gripping the railing; the next, he was pulling her forcibly against him, crushing her breasts to his chest where his heart pounded with desire and frustration mixed. He didn't feel a bra.
"You don't scare me." The barest quaver in her voice undermined her taunt.
He'd never in his life forced himself on a woman. But in the culture in which he was raised, it was men who faced down danger. Women were meant to be sheltered from natural predators—mainly, other males. "You should be scared," he declared, overcoming her feeble efforts to free herself by holding her more tightly. "You think being an American gives you inalienable rights outside of this country?"
"I've traveled extensively. Of course I know that's not the case."
"Then you've been lucky. What happens when your luck runs out, and some man decides to abduct you and lock you up, sell you into the black market, or keep you for himself for as long as you bring him pleasure?" With every word, he inclined his head closer until his lips hovered threateningly over hers.
He could feel her trembling. Her eyes, luminous pools, resembled the blue gray waters surrounding Miami.
"Is that what you'd like to do?" she whispered.
Her words sobered Sam immediately. What am I doing? Realizing his grip on her arms was bound to leave marks, he abruptly released her.
* * *
Without Sam's arms to hold her upright, Maddy staggered backward only to be caught a second time and set her on her feet. His hands slid away, making her yearn again for contact.
Silence followed, charged with an undercurrent of excitement, desire, and frustration. Maybe she'd misjudged Sam Sasseville. She had thought for certain that if she explained her motives to him in just the right way, emphasizing how much they had in common, then he would understand. For reasons she didn't fully grasp, his approval meant a lot to her.
Except he didn't understand or approve. Instead, he'd tried to terrorize her into changing her plans. Maybe he wasn't the man she thought he was.
"Look, I'm sorry." His subdued tone kept her opinion of him from sinking too far. "I have a hot temper; I'll be the first person to admit it." He heaved a sigh. "If your work means that much to you that you're compelled to travel to unstable countries, then there's obviously nothing I can do about it," he grated. "But don't say I didn't warn you."
"It's not a compulsion," she insisted, still craving his blessing. "It's a calling. You of all people should know what a calling is."
For a long minute, he studied her in the dark, giving her hope that understanding had dawned. "We should go back," he said and started to turn away.
"Sam." She reached for him, tugging him back around.
Without questioning her actions, Maddy looped both arms around his sturdy neck, rolled up on her toes, and crushed her lips to his, taking for herself the kiss she'd hoped he would unleash on her seconds earlier.
A split-second's hesitation gave way to hungry participation. Palming her head in one hand, he angled her lips to better receive him, swept his tongue between her parting lips, and explored her mouth with a languorous, single-minded foray that stole her breath and made her head spin. With his other hand, he traced the contour of her hip, her narrow waist, and the delicate cage of her ribs, his palm sliding toward her left breast.
Pleasure engulfed Maddy. Behind closed eyelids, her world tipped off center. Had she known on some primal level that he would kiss like this? Her intent to convince him of their commonalities took a back seat to the passion flaring between them. Thankfully it didn't require conversation, which tended to get them into trouble.
Sliding her fingers into crisp hair at his nape, she let a whimper of want escape her lips as he slid his mouth to her cheek, her jaw, her neck, blazing a trail of pleasure as he went.
"Christ, you smell so good," he muttered thickly. "What is that perfume?"
"I don't wear perfume," she replied in a breathless voice.
"No?" He lifted his head, raking her dazed expression with a predatory look before capturing her mouth again and searing her with a deep, blistering kiss.
Maddy's toes curled inside of her high-heeled shoes. She clutched Sam's broad shoulders praying this moment would never end. "Don't stop," she begged, and he kissed her again, long and leisurely. His hand closed warmly over her breast and gently squeezed.
He tore his lips from hers. "Don't you ever wear a bra?" he asked incredulously.
"When it's appropriate."
With a growl, he kissed her again, thumbing her stiff nipple and sparking shocks of pleasure at the juncture of her thighs. Sliding a hand down her spine, he grasped her bottom and pulled her hips to his, rocking her subtly against his glaring arousal.
Dear God. She'd never been swept away like this by any man.
He sucked her lower lip, releasing it reluctantly. "You're too much, you know that?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you're so fucking hot it's just dangerous."
"Me, dangerous?" She'd never been called that before.
"Are you wearing any panties?"
She loosed an incredulous laugh. "Is that what you've been wondering all evening?"
"Just answer the question."
"Why don't you find out for yourself?" The brazen invitation astonished her. Clearly, the two martinis she'd imbibed had robbed her of her inhibitions. On pins and needles, she waited to see if he would take her up on the offer, half-hoping, half-afraid that he would.
His glittering gaze raked her face then focused on the breast he was cupping. He circled the stiff peak, leaving her breathless as she anticipated his next move.
"You sure you want to go there?" he asked, his other palm sliding up under the hem of her dress toward the curve of her derriere.
She wet her upper lip with the tip of her tongue by way of an answer. Expectancy alone had summoned moisture between her legs. Slowly, he slid the hem of her dress higher. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Cool air touched her steamy heat. He would touch her there at any moment. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back as his lightly callused fingers inched ever closer.
But then, not too far away, Maddy heard a twig snap and then another. Sam stiffened and his hand slid away. Damn. Her expectations took a nose dive as he straightened and turned his head.
"Someone's out here," he whispered.
"It's probably just another guest."
He hushed her. "Let me listen."
Maddy hung her head. It didn't matter if the interloper turned out to be a deer. The moment was shattered. She would take off for Paraguay a week from today and probably never see Sam Sasseville again. She hadn't exactly obtained his bless
ing, but at least he'd realized he couldn't stop her from answering her calling—no more than she could stop him from being a SEAL.
If only she could thrust him from her thoughts completely. That was going to be the hardest part—forgetting the desire that blazed inside of her whenever he was near.
* * *
It took Sam's dulled senses several seconds to categorize the data he was taking in. They were definitely not alone. Someone was prowling through the woods at the edge of Lyle Scott's lawn. Probably one of the security guards.
"Don't move," he breathed in Maddy's ear. At the same time, he cursed the approaching guard's competence. He might never get to feel up under Maddy's dress or bring her to climax the way he'd been anticipating moments earlier.
In spite of his mistrust regarding her motives, he now felt distinctly cheated. Considering the way she kissed, she would probably go wild on him, and he loved wild women. The perfume of her arousal had done a number on him. And now this damn security guard was going to ruin his night, the son of a bitch.
Annoyed and frustrated, Sam peeked around a tree that blocked the man from view. The lamplight in Lyle Scott's yard emitted just enough of a glow for him to spot the man's silhouette, facing the veranda, oddly—not him and Maddy. And why was he so furtive? Sam tightened his grip on Maddy as she started to pull away.
"Hold still," he urged.
She craned her neck to peer up at him questioningly.
The intruder, who—now that Sam could just make him out—wasn't wearing a security guard uniform, stopped moving. As Sam continued to watch him, he put his shoulder to the trunk of a large tree and raised his weapon.
The silhouette of an Mk-11 sniper rifle sent a shaft of alarm up Sam's spine. The bulge of a suppressor on the end of the barrel congealed his blood. Only snipers out to assassinate people carried suppressors on their rifles. Whoever that man was, he sure as hell wasn't a security guard.
Chapter 3
Adrenaline flooded Sam's bloodstream, counteracting his arousal. At the back of the house, the sultry strains of a viola played descant to the sounds of voices and laughter. The party had clearly moved outside onto the veranda. And one of the guests was about to be shot and killed if Sam didn't take immediate action.
He clapped a hand over Maddy's mouth and dragged her down to crouch with him. Her wide, perplexed eyes reflected the faint moon glow.
"Someone's aiming a rifle at the house," he informed her on a whisper, "and it's not a security guard. You promise to keep quiet?"
At her nod, he withdrew his hand, pulled his cell phone from his pocket, thumbed his security code, and pushed it into her palm. "Call 911. I'm going after the shooter."
"Go." She gave him a not so gentle push.
Sam didn't need any incentive. In full SEAL mode, he crawled into the dark, unfamiliar forest, wishing he hadn't left his Desert Eagle semi-automatic pistol in the glove compartment of his car, but where could he have concealed it? And without night vision capabilities, all he could do was feel his way toward his target, avoiding the occasional undergrowth and branches that snagged at his uniform. He had to get close enough to tackle the man. Scaring him might goad him into firing randomly.
A glance back at Maddy showed her holding her position. The display on his phone lit up briefly as she called 911. Fifty yards away, oblivious to their presence, the sniper adjusted his aim. Sam strained to follow the man's line of sight. Without the telltale dot of an infrared scope, he could only guess that the silver head of Lyle Scott milling amidst his guests was the likeliest target. Oh, hell, no.
The strains of Barbara Steisand's The Way We Were created a poignant backdrop to the unfolding drama. The assassin settled in, ready to fire, but Sam was still several yards away. He couldn't afford to wait. He abruptly charged the man without any attempt at keeping quiet.
But he was still too late. With a pop and a hiss of the suppressor, the hypersonic zing of the bullet cut the air. Glass shattered and people screamed as Sam tackled the shooter, bearing them both to the ground. The rifle bucked a second time as it fell from the shooter's grasp. The bullet struck a branch overhead, showering Sam and his opponent with bits of wood as they grappled for the upper hand.
Sam gained the leverage required to plow his fist into the man's face, only to grunt in surprise when his knuckles cracked against a granite jaw. The man jackknifed, utilizing a wrestling move that Sam had only experienced once before during close quarter combat skills training. Finding himself flat on his back, he jerked up a knee just in time to deflect an elbow to the gut. He seized the man's head and tried to gouge out his eyes, but the man had already gone for his throat.
A savage grin glinted in the darkness as the assailant squeezed Sam's windpipe. The power in the man's grip might have dismayed Sam if he didn't immediately free himself with a counter-move. He lunged upward, hooking an arm around the giant's neck as he sprang on top of him. But again his opponent dodged his efforts with another wrestling move that heightened Sam's concern. He was a trained fighter, half again his size.
Spinning in the opposite direction that Sam had anticipated, the man pulled back a hand to punch Sam's face. A glint of light was Sam's only warning that the man wore a ring. Precious metal, a gaudy gemstone, and four knuckles plowed into Sam's cheek. He turned his head hoping to diminish the blow, but pain radiated through his skull, and a ringing filled his ears.
Just then a high powered beam strafed the tree trunks and caught his assailant full in the face. The man blocked the light with his arm, and Sam used the distraction to send him sprawling onto his side. The shooter rolled, managing to snatch up his fallen rifle and come to his feet in one athletic move. Ignoring the guard's shouted command to freeze, he bolted into the dark, and the guard crashed through the woods after him.
Sam pushed to his knees, his cheek throbbing mercilessly. He tried to get up on his feet and go after him, but the snout of a pistol gouged his spine, arresting his tentative ascent.
"Don't move," grated a voice over him. Apparently, the first guard had come with a partner.
Pain encapsulated Sam's whole head. He wasn't certain he could move in any case.
"Who are you?" the security guard demanded shining a penlight in Sam's eyes.
"He's the guest of honor, Ken," Maddy called, announcing her approach as she moved toward them.
The guard eyed her in surprise. "Looks like the perp was the other guy," he concluded, removing his pistol from between Sam's shoulder blades.
"You'd better help catch him," Sam advised, deciding it was both safe and feasible now to rise.
The guard split a considering look between them then took off after his partner. Sam deliberated whether he should join them in their hunt. He was still unarmed and not altogether certain he could run in a straight line. Maddy's gentle touch kept him where he was.
"Are you okay?" she queried, turning him toward the light. "Oh, your face!" she cried, cupping his jaw lightly.
"I'm fine." Fingering the welt on his left cheekbone, he winced. He had leaves in his hair and dirt on his uniform but if he'd saved Lyle Scott's life, it was worth it. "He was shooting at your father," he added, curtailing the fierce hug she threw around his chest.
"What? Daddy!"
As she spun away from him, he shot out a hand to catch her back. "Not so fast. There could be a second shooter," he warned. Tugging her behind him, he ignored his aching face and led her across the seemingly deserted lawn, using his body to shield her.
The scene awaiting them made Maddy gasp and pull free. He roped her in a second time as they approached the chillingly deserted veranda.
The guests had clearly fled into the house. The sniper's bullet had shattered one of the large French doors, and glass littered the surface of the veranda. It crackled under their shoes as they passed the toppled orchestra stands and scattered musical scores to enter the house. At least there wasn't any blood that Sam could see.
They came upon the guests huddling in the interior
hallway, the only place in the house where there weren't any windows.
"Daddy!" Maddy caught sight of her father first and ran toward him.
Pacing protectively before his guests, his expression taut with concern, Lyle Scott whirled at the sound of Maddy's voice. He opened his arms in time to catch her as she hurled herself at him. "Maddy!" His eyes closed briefly in visible relief.
"I'm okay," she assured him. "How are you?" She pulled back to look at him. "Was anyone hurt?"
"No one." His gaze traveled over the top of her head and focused on Sam's swelling cheekbone. "My God, what happened?"
Maddy answered before he got the chance. "Sam saved your life, Daddy. I was showing him the stream out back when we heard someone in the woods."
The guests reacted with chorused dismay.
A fiery light entered Lyle Scott's eyes. "You saw the shooter?"
"We didn't just see him," Maddy replied. "Sam fought with him, and the man ran off!"
Astonishment gave way to wonder as Lyle Scott contemplated the guest of honor. "So now you've saved my life as well as my daughter's," he exclaimed. Setting Maddy aside, he laid his large hands on Sam's shoulders and stared deeply into his eyes. "Thank God you were here with us tonight," he added, giving Sam's shoulders a squeeze. "I don't know how I'll ever repay you."
"Just doing what I'm trained to do," Sam muttered self-consciously.
"What happened to the shooter?" Lyle asked, dropping his hands.
Chagrin heated Sam's face. "I'm afraid he got away. Your security guards are chasing him now."
Lyle Scott paled and nodded. "I see."
The wail of several sirens penetrated the house's thick walls. Maddy ignored it, tugging on her father's sleeve until she had his attention.
"Who would want to shoot you, Daddy?" she demanded. "What's this about?"
Lyle Scott patted her hand. "Don't worry, honey. I guess it goes with the territory. Not everyone's keen on having an oil man as their next Texas senator."
Danger Close (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 1) Page 4
