Lord of the Wolfyn / Twin Targets

by Jessica Andersen

  Everything she’d told them had checked out. She was who she said she was, and events prior to her leaving for the island had occurred pretty much as she’d reported. She’d lost her funding following an incident with her immediate boss that’d been clouded with enough academic double-speak to tell him they’d been lovers. The fact that the knowledge bothered him—the fact that he cared at all—was just one more warning buzzer amidst the sirens already sounding off inside his skull.

  As he turned the car off the highway, he glanced over at Sydney, who’d stayed silent during the drive, lost in her own thoughts.

  She stared out the window, and the passing streetlights highlighted the soft curve of her cheek and the elegant column of her neck above the bulk of the Kevlar vest. When he turned off the main road down the side street that would take them to his home, the streetlights gave way to darkness. The faint blue glow from the dashboard dials gave her profile a dreamy quality, one that made him think of bedrooms and fantasies, which should’ve had no place in his head.

  He was willing to believe she wasn’t working for Tiberius anymore. Her relationship with her sister was real, as were her initial motivations for taking the job on Rocky Cliff Island. The decision had been a poor one, but she’d learned her lessons the hard way. She was cooperating as best she could, trying to fix the mess she’d helped make.

  But although she might not fall under the “suspect” category in his brain anymore, that only served to make her a witness. And he knew better than to mess with witnesses.

  Which begged the question of what the hell he thought he was doing now. This was so stupid it was almost laughable, yet he’d been unable to stop himself from driving to the safe house, unable to stay away any longer.

  He had, quite simply, needed to see her.

  What was it about her that made him so crazy? He didn’t know. Sure, she was pretty. A knockout, really, with those long runner’s legs and perfectly proportioned body. And her hands—he’d never really thought about a woman’s hands before, but he’d noticed hers. They were strong and capable-looking, yet tapered and feminine, and she had this way of lifting her fingertips to her face or brow as she spoke, making him want that featherlight touch on his own skin.

  And that was the point, wasn’t it? She’d drawn him in, wrapped him around those same fingers until, in that first crazy moment when he’d walked into the safe house and seen her for the first time in days, she could’ve had him with a single finger-crook.

  Something had to give. Starting now. Tonight. He had to find a way to purge her from his system, a way to convince himself once and for all that he had to stay away from her, had to keep his hands to himself.

  Either that or he had to have her.

  Iceman, my ass, he thought, as he turned the car down the narrow, treelined driveway to their destination. He hated the loss of control, hated feeling as if he was spinning in unfamiliar directions, ready to snap at a touch. But at the same time, the edgy energy was tempting—dark and delicious, and so unlike his normal self that he wanted to give in, just once, and see what it felt like to be ruled by the heat.

  It was full night, but the moon was out, showing the three-rail fence of the paddocks and glinting off the tin-roofed run-in sheds as he rolled the car up the dirt road to the house.

  “Horses?” Sydney glanced at him. “That’s pretty expensive camouflage for a safe house.”

  “It’s not a safe house,” he corrected. “And there aren’t any horses at the moment. Just the sheds and paddocks.”

  Horses were in his long-range plans, though, along with a dog. He planned to fill the place with life when it was time for him to slow down…in twenty years or so, when he retired from the job.

  He’d had a pony one summer, when camp plans had fallen through and he’d been packed off to his great-uncle’s place. The neighbors had a pony their kids had long outgrown, and John’s great-uncle, also named John, had borrowed the creature for the summer on the theory that every kid should have a pony at least once in their lives.

  The furry, stumpy creature of unknown ancestry had tossed the younger John in the dirt as often as it let him stay aboard, and it had bitten like a viper, but it’d been there every damn day, waiting for him to spend time with it, brushing and cleaning it, mucking its stall and hauling water and hay until his back had ached and his arms had quivered with the strain.

  And he’d loved every minute of it. He’d loved the responsibility, and the knowledge that the pony would be there at the gate, every day, waiting for him. He hadn’t had a pet in all the years since, but always figured he’d get back to it. Someday.

  He parked in front of the house, which was one of his few prides outside the job. Built in the late 1700s, it’d undergone a series of expensive—and often misguided—renovations over the years before he found it through a friend of a friend, who’d seen it as a good investment and nothing more. When John bought the place, it’d been covered in vinyl siding and faux Victorian trim, and had been inexplicably painted a weird blue-green.

  Slowly, layer-by-layer, he was pulling back the changes and unearthing the charm beneath.

  “Whose place is this?” Sydney asked as she climbed out of the car.

  John climbed out of his side and crossed to her, but he didn’t feel the need to rush her inside, out of the open. They hadn’t been followed, and there was no way Tiberius could connect him to the farm. He’d made sure of that when he bought the place, needing to know he had a refuge if and when it became necessary.

  “It’s mine,” he answered, using the remote unit on his key ring to disarm the perimeter alarms, which had started counting down from sixty seconds the moment he’d turned in the driveway. Once the motion sensors and alarms were deactivated, he reached into the car and collected the pizza, along with the plastic bag containing two six-packs of soda, one regular, one diet. “Come on in.”

  He headed for the side entrance, aware that Sydney hung back to give the place a once-over. He tried not to care that she’d see a house not unlike her own, with a bit of age on it, and a series of careful restorations designed to preserve the charm and character.

  That’s it, he thought with a slice of self-directed mockery, charm and humor. He didn’t have much in the way of either, so he left that stuff up to his farmhouse.

  He used his key to let them both through the side door, and quickly tapped his code into the security pad beside the door, telling the second level of protection to stand down.

  When he turned, he found Sydney standing very near him in the small entryway, eyes shadowed with speculation. “Let me guess—this place has more surveillance gadgets than the average safe house.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Are you implying that I’m paranoid?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Guarded, maybe, but not paranoid. Besides,” she quipped, “you know what they say about paranoids having enemies.” Then her voice and expression turned serious, and she reached out to touch his arm, very fleetingly, through the material of his suit jacket and shirt. “What exactly is going on here?”

  But he saw the heat in her eyes, and the acquiescence, and knew she felt the chemistry between them, too. “Don’t ask the question if you already know the answer.”

  He very carefully, very deliberately, closed the distance between them and undid the straps of the Kevlar vest. After he’d stripped it away, he leaned in to kiss her.

  She met him halfway.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT MIGHT’VE BEEN THE fear she’d lived with for so long that heated Sydney’s blood and had her diving into Sharpe’s kiss even though she knew it wasn’t smart. It might’ve been loneliness that had her pressing up against him so they touched everywhere. It might’ve been too long spent without a man’s touch, too long spent having to be in control, having to be on guard, that had her going pliant when he spun them and pressed her against the wall just inside the door.

  Whatever the reasons, it was a hell of a kiss. And then some.


  He filled her senses. Color and light burst behind her closed eyelids as she feasted on him, on the taste and smell of him, and the feel of his muscles beneath her fingertips. He was utterly, completely male, and as she felt him teeter on the razor-edge divide between control and wildness, she gloried in the knowledge that he felt the same way she did, needed the same thing she did.

  The thought of Sharpe wanting her so badly he’d pull her out of the safe house just to have her to himself was as erotic as the kiss itself.

  Blood thundered through her, knotting her muscles to needy fists as he pressed into her, grinding against her, all hard edges and raw male strength. She fought her way through the kiss, taking as much as giving, clutching his suit coat until the material crumpled beneath her grip, then letting go so she could run her hands beneath the jacket, along the crisp cotton of his shirt, and feel the man beneath.

  When that wasn’t enough, she gave in to the slide of his hand down her thigh and lifted both of her legs, wrapping them around his waist and hanging on for the ride.

  He said something, the words coming out harsh and low, their meaning lost in another endless, soul-searching kiss. She pressed herself against him, glorying in the sensations: the rasp of late-day beard shadow along his jaw and the crisp material of his clothes and the hot, hard flesh beneath. Even the catch of her fingertips on his shoulder holster, and the hardness of the weapon itself were a turn-on. Who knew she was a sucker for a guy with a gun?

  But she wasn’t attracted to just any guy with a gun, Sydney knew deep inside. She was hooked on this one.

  Sharpe had rescued her from Tiberius and his men. He’d sent people to help Celeste right away rather than using her sister as leverage. He was quick on his feet and even quicker with his mind; he not only kept up with her thought processes, half the time he was a step or two ahead of her. Even better, he was about a fifteen on a scale of one to hot, and he kissed like she’d fantasized he would, only better. What was not to like?

  Warning bells sounded in the back of her brain, but they were quickly lost to a flare of heat as he banded a strong arm across her waist and spun away from the wall. He took two long strides—

  And froze in place.

  They drew apart and stared into each other’s eyes, both breathing hard. Sydney’s mind spun, and she imagined his was doing pretty much the same thing.

  “Wow,” she said after a long, still moment. “Wow. That was…”

  “Not very smart.” He relaxed his grip, letting her slide down his body as he fixed his attention on the wide-open door and the security panel, which he’d never reset. “I know. You’re right.”

  “I was thinking unexpected, actually.” It wasn’t really; attraction had flared between them from the first. But she needed to say something other than Let’s lock the door and head upstairs, because he was right. What they’d just done—and what undoubtedly would have followed if they hadn’t pulled back—wasn’t very smart at all.

  “Unexpected works, too.” But his attention wasn’t on her as he crossed the room, shut the door and keyed in the security code. He was staring at the night outside, scanning the scene for signs of company.

  “Nothing bad happened,” she said, but knew that wasn’t the point. While they’d been indulging in a little one-on-one, the door had been wide open, the security field down. It was only thanks to luck and circumstance that none of Tiberius’s people had been outside to take advantage of the lapse.

  His look said he knew she knew better, but true to form, instead of saying something redundant or unnecessary, he stayed silent.

  He moved across the living room and looked down at the pizza. He picked up a soda, then set it down again. Without looking at her, he said, “I’m sorry. I’m not normally so impulsive. This attraction…” He waved a hand between the two of them. “Chemistry. Whatever it is, it’s got me off stride. I’m all jumbled up, and I’m afraid I’m going to make a mistake because of it. I thought if we spent some time together, I could…I don’t know, work it out in my head or something.”

  Suddenly, he wasn’t the aloof, polished agent who spoke in clipped, precise sentences. In his place was someone who looked as frustrated as she felt, as his body told him one thing, his head another. The realization kindled a dangerous warmth in the vicinity of her heart.

  “I know what you mean. Not exactly ideal circumstances for starting a—” She broke off and, correcting herself, said, “For getting involved.”

  “Go ahead and say it. Starting a relationship. That’s where this seems to be headed, doesn’t it?” He looked at her, and she got the feeling that he was baffled, and way outside his comfort zone.

  “I don’t know.” She took one of the sodas, not to drink but so she’d have something in her hands, something to fiddle with. “The circumstances aren’t exactly normal. Once you’ve got Tiberius in custody and have control of the viral sequence, and Celeste and I are cleared to start rebuilding our lives—and just stay with me on the optimism here, okay?—what’s to say we’ll still be interested in each other? This attraction might just be a situation-and-proximity thing.”

  “Do you think that’s what it is?” His direct gaze caught her, forcing the truth.

  “No,” she said softly, nearly whispering. “I don’t.” Hadn’t she been wishing all along that they’d met under different circumstances? Hadn’t she thought they would’ve clicked if they’d met at a bar, or a bus stop or someplace equally mundane?

  “Me, neither.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment while the heat built and the urges deepened. Sydney’s heart beat the tempo of do it, do it, do it, but she’d been in-cautious before and it’d cost her job, and put her in the position to make the wrong choice by going to work for Tiberius. She was determined not to make the wrong choice again. Not with something that felt like it could be important, if she let it be.

  “We should wait,” she said softly. “It’s all too complicated right now.”

  “Yeah.” He exhaled. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”

  “But…?” she asked, hearing it in his voice.

  His grin went crooked. “I don’t particularly want to wait.”

  “Me, neither,” she said, echoing his earlier words. But the tension lightened and the air between them thinned, and a bubble of nervous excitement expanded in her chest, because in agreeing that they were going to wait, they’d also agreed that there was something to wait for.

  She didn’t know what shape it would take, or how long it would last when it did happen, but it was something to look forward to. Something that went beyond Tiberius, who had been the focus of her life for far too long.

  “So what now?” She glanced at the pizza, which he’d set on the low coffee table, and the alluring length of a long leather sofa on the other side. “Should we eat? Head back to the safe house?” Go upstairs? she was tempted to add, but didn’t because she had a feeling he’d agree if she pushed, despite both of their better intentions.

  Sharpe sighed. “It’s just been a long bunch of days and I don’t feel like getting right back on the road. I can hack the temptation if you can.”

  He sat on the sofa, flipped open one of the boxes and worked a piece of pizza onto a paper plate. He set the plate on the coffee table for her, shoved a soda beside it and put together a similar setup for himself. When he was done, he stripped off his suit jacket and slung it over the arm of a nearby chair, then tossed his holstered weapon atop it.

  Then, balancing his pizza on his lap, he kicked off his shoes, put his feet up and leaned back on the sofa. Letting out a long sigh, he closed his eyes.

  He was inviting her to relax with him, to be with him. To get to know him in a way she had a feeling few people did.

  The sight of him stripped of some of the professional hard-ass veneer fascinated her, even as the sad lines beside his eyes and mouth, which didn’t smooth out even in repose, tugged at her.

  Telling herself that she could handle this—that
she was an adult, they were both adults—she grabbed the plate and sat down beside him.

  The couch gave under her weight, sliding her even closer to his warm bulk. She struggled for all of thirty seconds before she gave in, leaned against him and let her head fall naturally against the arm he’d thrown across the back of the couch.

  After a brief pause, he sighed deeply and curled his arm around her.

  They ate in silence as the old house settled in for the night around them. Unwilling to talk about what was happening between them, about Tiberius, or about how he planned to use the intel she’d given his teammates, Sydney finally said, “I like your house.”

  “Thanks.” His smile held pure pleasure, along with acknowledgment of the neutral topic. “The previous owners ‘modernized’ and ‘improved’ the heck out of it,” he said, sketching the words with one-handed finger quotes. “I bought it four years ago and have been picking away at it ever since. I’m not going all the way back to original, by any means. Outhouses are so 1800s, you know. But I’m going for the period feel.”

  “You’re nailing it.” She looked around, admiring the honey-toned wainscoting and wide-pine floors. They were king’s boards, she knew, so-named because they were over twelve inches wide, and thus should’ve been saved for export to England prior to the Revolution. The staining around the sunken nailheads indicated that the boards were original, but their unnatural smoothness and high-gloss varnish were familiar signs from her own house, as were the faint encrustations of paint at the carved edges of the wainscoting. “Let me guess, they put down wall-to-wall, added another layer of paint to the eight already on the trim and pulled down the horsehair plaster in favor of drywall.”

  His chuckle transmitted to her from the places where they pressed together, with her cheek on his shoulder and their torsos aligned. “There had to be a dozen layers of paint. One of them, I swear it was creosote or something. It was this nasty black color, and it took a good four rounds of paint stripper—and a couple of layers of skin—to get it off.” He shuddered. “You can’t imagine.”