“Shawn!” Heat filled his hands. Pressed down on him. Heat and flesh and her. “Are you okay?”
Was that concern in her voice? Worry?
Impossible. He’d given himself a concussion. Obviously.
One of his hands, curved over her head to protect her skull, now tingled as he realized that her hair was every bit as soft as he’d remembered. Her scalp was warm, her body fit to his in all the ways he shouldn’t have noticed.
But he did. As his muscles sent out prickling assurances of functionality, as adrenaline pooled and frothed and slammed through his veins, he noticed.
Shawn wasn’t that man. The one that could take everything human about himself and compartmentalize it. He wanted to be, had spent too damned long telling himself he could be, but he lied. Right now, as he inhaled through his nose and found the air a strangely intoxicating blend of wet metal and woman, he couldn’t find it in himself to hate. To forget.
She’d made him laugh. Caught him off guard. She’d made him run like hell, too.
Brave girl. Stupid, but brave.
Are you okay?
Why did it matter?
She shifted. Her hip dug into his thigh, too close to his dick, which had absolutely no sense of timing or taste as it stirred. Hungry, eager to remember the feel of her in his hands.
“Jesus,” he muttered from underneath a wave of scented silk. She smelled like soap, clean and fresh. “Stop wriggling.”
As if suddenly aware of her own precarious position, of the erection he couldn’t hide pressing into her thigh, she stiffened. An elbow dug into his ribs.
“Don’t you dare!” she hissed. Like a ruffled kitten.
His grip firmed. “You aren’t going anywhere,” he said tightly, banishing all thoughts of fragrance and femininity and soft. “What the hell were you thinking?”
A shudder rippled through her. “What the hell do you think?” she tossed back. “Run for help? Get away from you? Take your pick.”
“In the ruins? You idiot.”
The elbow at his side eased. A hand insinuated itself between his chest and hers. Though she pushed at him, he had nowhere to go between her weight and the ground, and he wasn’t letting go of her head or the warmth at her lower back anytime soon. Not until she knew the score.
He would win. The end.
“Let go,” she huffed.
He could. But he didn’t. Instead, slipping his right hand from her hair to curl over her nape, he gave her just enough room to push her head up, glare into his face with a scowl so fierce, he almost laughed outright.
The light, hidden somewhere behind debris, painted her dimly in shades of blue and gray. Shaped her mouth in ways that drew his attention. Her eyes, paler in this light, turned to silk and shadow.
Shawn’s urge to smile faded.
Hectic color stained her cheeks. Sweat plastered tendrils of her hair against her forehead, caught a strand against her mouth. He wanted to tuck a finger against the corner of her lips and stroke the glint of gold away.
And then he wanted to taste that bit of skin with his tongue. Follow the curve of her lower lip and find out if she was as indifferent to him as he should be to her.
He wasn’t. Maybe that other guy would have been, but Shawn definitely wasn’t. He’d proven that already.
Her shoulders tilted as she shoved at his chest. “I said—”
“I know what you said.”
Those eyes flashed. “I’m warning you.”
“I know you are.”
Panic twisted her mouth, swam behind her eyes. Another shudder slammed through her. He felt it sweep through her body, felt the way her body shivered into his. “Shawn, don’t . . .”
One knee slid between his legs, her thigh suddenly tucked even closer against his rapidly hardening erection, and he hissed in a breath.
She froze.
“Fact is,” he managed somehow through the jolt of sudden, adrenaline-fueled lust spiking through his senses, “I didn’t expect this. Any of . . .” His gaze skimmed to her mouth, to the gaping neck of her blouse. “This. Maybe I should have.”
That color deepened in her cheeks. Swept across her forehead, her jaw. “You had your chance,” she said, unsteady, trying so hard for angry.
He deserved angry. “I know. Believe me, Doctor, this”—because he had no other name for it—“isn’t what I want.”
“Then let me go.”
“I can’t.”
“Well, you can’t—” Her husky denial broke as his thumb dug into the soft skin just behind her ear. Her eyes flared. “You shouldn’t . . .”
When she trailed to silence, wild gaze glittering as it shifted away from his, Shawn almost groaned outright.
This wasn’t part of the plan. It had never been part of the plan, in any incarnation. He’d never imagined that his dick would find the concept of Kayleigh Lauderdale worth considering, much less thickening for.
Until she’d turned to him in her car. Until she’d kissed him. Now, as her weight shifted—as that leg pressed hard against him and she swallowed a wary, awkward sound—he wondered if her mouth would be cool and remote if he tried to kiss her again. If she’d respond the way she had in that car, a whole other lifetime ago.
Murderer, the vicious part of his brain whispered. She came from a line of them.
It didn’t help. The blood leaching out of his brain arrowed right for the greedy flesh between his legs, and he needed to reverse the flow. Now.
Only he didn’t want to.
“Wait—” The hand at his chest stiffened.
Too late.
He hadn’t even realized that his fingers curled into her hair. That he’d wrapped the tousled length of it around his fist. “Okay,” he murmured.
Her lashes flared, delicate fans around the wild panic in her eyes. “Shawn, stop.”
He wouldn’t. Not until he absolved himself of this temptation, this ridiculous need to taste her again. Mark her, brand her with his kiss as if he could burn it out in one go, get it the hell out of his system and off his mind.
It wouldn’t work. Shawn didn’t care.
Adrenaline surged as he tugged her closer, inexorably closer, until the wide shape of her diamond pale eyes filled his vision and her breath puffed against his mouth in rapid, shallow alarm.
“Just one.” A promise, a threat to his unruly body, each syllable ghosting over her lips as he framed the words. Her mouth parted on a gasp; she shuddered in his grip.
Just one fucking kiss.
Her leg jerked.
Pain lit up the inside of his skull like a blown fuse.
“Fuck!” A snarl, a wheeze, and then he couldn’t hang on to her anymore, too busy balancing the dual need to vomit with bone-deep agony spiraling up from his brutalized testicles. She flung herself backward, wrenched out of his lax grip, and crab-walked so fast, grit skittered out from her flailing limbs.
“Never,” she swore. A promise, an accusation. “Never again.”
He didn’t—couldn’t—answer, every inch of his body fighting the urge to go fetal, wrap around the soft flesh she’d jammed her knee into. Fucking hell. It’d been a long time since he’d let himself get caught that badly by anyone, much less a woman.
Much less this woman.
Racked by Kayleigh Lauderdale. For fuck’s sake.
Chapter Eight
“You have forty-eight hours.”
Director Laurence Lauderdale folded gnarled, shaking hands on top of his desk, stared blankly out the window as the recorded threat came to an end.
It wasn’t the first threat he’d ever fielded. It wouldn’t be the last, given his history. In his eighty-three years of life, in the years before the earthquake had destroyed everything he’d held dear, he’d handled death threats, litigation threats, even threats of prison time.
None of them came as close to his heart as this one.
His daughter. They had Kayleigh.
How?
Outside his window, some forty-odd sto
ries above the ground, he had a clear view of the silent side of the Holy Order quadplex. Situated at the top of New Seattle, home to the Holy Cathedral, the civics side, the remains of the witch-hunting Mission, and his own Sector Three research and development division, the area was the safest place in all of the metropolis.
He’d made sure of that. The last of the traitors were dead or would be soon. The Mission was filled with loyal agents of his Salem Project, run by him with oversight, for now, by the Bishop of the Holy Order of St. Dominic.
There was nobody on the roster he didn’t personally approve. Nobody who could have kidnapped his daughter, and definitely nobody with the wherewithal to smuggle her out of the quad security without him knowing.
His hands shook, pain flaring in arthritic joints.
That left only one option. One way that Kayleigh could have escaped his cautious eye.
She must have left the premises. Ignored his orders and gone on her fool’s errand.
Disappointment; sharp as a knife. With effort, he flattened his hands on the desk, pushed himself out of the chair that was supposed to—according to the doctors—provide him more back support and lessen daily stress on his spine. Kayleigh had insisted he use it. He’d obliged her, but he didn’t care for all the modern luxuries and high-tech devices his daughter foisted on him.
It was a chair. It did its job. That was all he demanded of it—and everything else.
Make a better world. That had always been the plan.
He walked carefully to the window, reaching up to feel the chill surface of the glass against his fingers.
Kayleigh was out there. Somewhere. In the hands of a monster.
How much was he willing to sacrifice to see this through?
A perfunctory knock on the door preceded his assistant’s respectful greeting. “Do you need something, sir?”
Patrick Ross was a good boy. Clever and efficient, though transparent in his bid for power in the kinds of office politics Laurence didn’t much engage in.
Why bother when he was already at the top? Or close enough that it wouldn’t matter soon.
“Yes.” He beckoned the young man in, turning away from the window to hobble carefully back to this desk. “There’s a small matter that needs to be handled with discretion.”
“Of course, sir.”
Lauderdale expected nothing less. No other answer would satisfy. “You heard the message.” It wasn’t a question. Patrick, lovely boy that he was, was one of the privileged few who had earned that right. That trust.
“Yes.” The cover on Patrick’s digital reader—similar to the type his daughter always carried—flipped open, and the young man tapped a few keys. The reflected light gleamed off his thick glasses. “I have the techs already attempting to run a trace. It’s a short call, however, which tells me the kidnapper knows about signal tracking.”
Smart boy. Eager to please. “Any luck?” he asked, easing his bony frame back down into his chair. With care, of course. Everything he did was with care, these days. His daughter often warned him about taking it.
Things were so much more fragile these days. Much different from when he was younger.
Everything was different then.
“Not yet,” Patrick replied simply. No sympathy. He’d learned. Laurence didn’t want sympathy; he wanted results. “I assume that answering his ransom is out of the question, sir?”
“Unequivocally.” Half of the people the kidnapper demanded go free were already dead. Unfortunate, but not unexpected. Some people simply weren’t suited to the demands the Holy Order placed on them.
And some were all too eager to live a little bit longer. “Organize a rescue team, Patrick.” Lauderdale rubbed at his forehead, digging at the loose flesh there. His wedding band, long since dulled with age, was warm against his skin. “Put Amanda Green in it.”
“What?”
He dropped his hand, frowning. “The team,” he clarified slowly. “Put her in it.”
“But . . .” Patrick cleared his throat, dark eyebrows knotted. “Sir, she’s virtually untested.”
“So, test her. I can’t think of a better time, can you?”
His assistant hesitated. Then, shaking his head, he keyed in a few more commands to his reader and confirmed, “It’ll be done. They’ll be ready to go at a moment’s notice.”
“Give them two goals,” he instructed quietly. “Bring my daughter back at all costs, and end this mongrel who put his hands on her.” Rage. It’d been a long time since the flickering heat of it warmed the cold, empty hollow beneath his skin. He nursed it, fists tightening, knuckles popping. “I want every last shred of his existence burned out, am I clear?”
The younger man nodded slowly. “Yes, sir.”
For a moment, neither moved. Lauderdale blew out a wavering breath, forced his brain to turn to less emotional tasks. Just as important.
He needed to shape the world his daughter was coming back to, didn’t he?
He flattened both hands on the desk. “Speak to me of the Mission repairs.”
“The damaged sectors need to be gutted entirely, but once everything is settled, round-the-clock work shifts will be ready to go. There’s been no problem from the remainder of the original agents.” If the boy had any problems keeping up, Lauderdale detected nothing.
Pleased, he folded his hands neatly—over the copy of the press release he had paused in approving—and gave Patrick his full attention.
“Right now, the Salem agents have stepped into the gap and there’s been no trouble with integration.” Now, he paused.
Lauderdale nodded. “Except when degeneration commences.”
“Except that.”
Another problem Kayleigh had caused. Or rather a problem she hadn’t fixed. Yet. He needed her back for that reason, too. Not only because she was his daughter—the last of his flesh and blood, he thought with a pang in his old heart—but because she was the only key to a riddle his late wife had left him. Matilda was brilliant, there was never any doubt about that.
And wily. She’d always been three steps ahead of him.
He waited for anger; all he felt was a sadness so keen, it was as if razor blades bit into his chest. His head drooped, bloated knuckles whitening, cracking in protest.
His first daughter, missing after the earthquake. His second hadn’t lived past twenty years of age. Kayleigh had been his own miracle, a gift from God. Yet, as if that weren’t enough hell for one family, his wife had betrayed him, left him with a small child and a lab full of subjects he couldn’t use.
All because he’d wanted to make a better world.
Kayleigh understood what Matilda hadn’t. She recognized the potential where his wife had only seen madness.
Matilda was no longer a factor, but he wasn’t a stupid man. He’d never been a stupid man. If he knew Kayleigh’s mother, she’d have left contingencies in their ongoing game of chess. The queen had fallen, but a game could be won by pawns just as easily.
The solution was simple: clear the board. Knights, rooks.
Bishops.
And crown a new queen. “Patrick.”
“Sir?”
“Do whatever you have to,” Lauderdale said thickly. “Bring my daughter home.”
“We will, Director.”
He nodded, but when Patrick didn’t immediately rise to leave, Lauderdale lifted his weary gaze. “What else?”
Patrick hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “Given the circumstances,” he said slowly. “Do you want to hold off on—”
“No,” Lauderdale interrupted, straightening his spine with effort. The chair underneath him conformed, supported the gesture. “We will proceed as planned. There is no room for delays in the schedule, Patrick.”
“All right. Probably best,” he added with a faint smile. “The lead specialist isn’t, um, kind when he’s interrupted.”
The least of his problems. Lauderdale reached for the press release briskly. “You have your orders.”
“Yes, sir.” Finally, Patrick took his reader and left, the door shutting quietly behind him.
What would be, would be. The team would find Kayleigh, bring her safely home, end this annoyance of a threat, and the pieces would fill the chessboard like good little players.
At least until he found the right trigger to shake the board.
He was decades into patience. No reason to rush now.
Chapter Nine
What the hell had possessed him to kiss the devil’s own daughter?
Shawn dragged his captive back to the dubious safety of the dark prison, ignoring her stiff gait and muttered, unintelligible complaints. His body hurt subtly enough to warn him that he’d really regret his life choices tomorrow, and his pride stung like a bitch.
Not that he didn’t deserve it. It wasn’t any worse than what he’d done to her.
“Do you realize we’re in Old Seattle?”
Her shrill demand drilled a hole through his head, setting his teeth on edge. “That so.”
“What kind of suicidal moron willingly travels through the ruins?”
“The kind with nothing to lose,” he growled. He tucked his hands at her waist, ignored her sudden, shocked breath to boost her up over the ledge leading back inside. The light hooked around his wrist bobbed wildly. “Get up there.”
Her options were obey or fall. To his relief, she made the smart one.
It took her a moment to find a grip, to edge a knee over the jagged rim. For every second the resistant doctor worked it out, his fingers transmitted exactly how soft her backside was beneath her dusty, grime-smeared slacks. How warm her body, how easy it’d be to span her waist with his hands and perch her on that damned ledge with her ass hanging over it and—
And what? Let her jam another lethal limb into his balls?
Hell, no. Lesson learned, thanks very much.
He’d gotten his one taste. Two, if he counted when she didn’t consider him an asshole. He was done.
He shoved her over the ledge with a harder push than necessary, jaw locking as she bit back a startled gasp, something laced with what sounded suspiciously like pain.
She could join the club. The scratch on his arm burned. His body sang a note that would translate to sheer, balls-out aggression tomorrow. To say nothing of said abused balls.
Karina Cooper - [Dark Mission 05] Page 9
