The Naughty Nine: Where Danger and Passion Collide

by Nina Bruhns

  Granted the left one was slightly smaller than the right, but most women had one boob larger than the other, didn’t they?

  Assuring herself she was normal in that respect, she examined her muscular thighs and then her legs. Were her ankles too puffy? Did she have cankles?

  No! She silently screamed. Her ankles were fine!

  She pinched her belly. What was it that commercial said—if you could pinch an inch…

  Well, she could pinch an inch, but personally she thought bony models were overrated, and she was a real woman, and she didn’t care if she wore a size twelve or a two.

  Damn Sergeant Murdock for making her feel insecure.

  It’s been a long time since that prom fiasco she reminded herself.

  And she’d worked hard to get in shape and fit in.

  She wasn’t a knockout or anything, but she wasn’t hideous. Some men found her attractive.

  Yeah, the ones who talk to you on the phone—because they can’t see you.

  Or the horn dogs who would flirt with anything with two legs.

  No...sometimes other men looked at her, even talked to her. Like that guy with the thick glasses in her French lab. And the fellow she’d met at the coffee shop who had a speech impediment. And wait...there was a hunky man in her Chinese class.

  Although he had mentioned something about just finishing up fat camp and losing a hundred pounds.

  Well, there still was Benny who she and Lacy hung out with at the club. Of course, Benny really was gay so she wasn’t sure that even counted.

  And there had been others. Of course, when they discovered she had two master’s degrees and could speak five different languages they went running as if she’d launched a grenade at them.

  But she had seen a flare of something sexual in the sergeant’s eyes when he’d looked at her. Hadn’t she?

  After all, he was a man. And she wasn’t that illiterate when it came to communication...

  Anger churned through her, and she made a snap decision.

  She was not a dog or the naïve young girl who’d been used before to get to her father and then humiliated.

  She would make the sergeant see her as sexy.

  She ran to her lingerie drawer and started pulling out her most decadent pieces. A thin black teddy. A coral see-through nightgown. A cat-like bodystocking.

  In fact, she’d torture him so badly that he would want her.

  Then she’d send him packing, and he’d rue the day that he’d told his friends he’d rather be in combat than sleep with her.

  * * *

  “The damn general sent one of his men to play bodyguard for his daughter.”

  He released a string of expletives. That would screw up his plans. The general had to be punished. He had given orders that had cost lives.

  Of course, the general said they were casualties of the cause. Gave the usual spiel about being sorry for the family’s loss. That the soldiers who died in the line of duty would be remembered as heroes.

  Heroes, hell. They were dead. The families left without loved ones. Wives without husbands. Mothers and fathers without sons or daughters. Brothers without…brothers.

  Sons and daughters without fathers.

  “Who did he send?”

  “A man named Sergeant Max Murdock.”

  “What the fuck?.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out about him.”

  “Good.” But anger mounted. It was just like General Woods—he didn’t give a crap about his men or their families. But he’d use one of his soldiers to protect his precious little girl.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Keep me posted. I’ll think of something.”

  The general would not get away without being taught a lesson.

  And Willow Woods was the general’s vulnerable spot.

  If she had to suffer, so be it. He’d tell the general the same garbage the general had told him—war brings casualties. We all make sacrifices.

  It was time Woods learned that he had to make sacrifices, too.

  One Night to Kill: Chapter Four

  Max disconnected the call, his body riddled with tension. He’d told his buddy that resisting Willow would be no problem.

  If he kept repeating it to himself all night, he might eventually believe it.

  The floor squeaked, and the she-devil appeared behind him wearing nothing but a camisole and little matching pajama shorts that were so high on her thighs that his imagination immediately rode upward to the heat they were meant to cover.

  Blood red. Satin. Lace.

  Skin.

  The picture of sex and a good time. God, she was killing him.

  He stood, struggling with a physical reaction. How was he supposed to survive seven days of this?

  He’d sooner be tortured by the enemy.

  “I thought you were going to bed,” he growled.

  She sashayed toward him, her cleavage bobbing seductively and making his mouth water. He didn’t notice she was carrying a set of sheets in her hands until she bent to place them on the couch.

  She offered a saccharine smile “Didn’t want your body sticking to the leather. It can be so...cold.” She glanced down at his crotch for a long second, a second that made his body hum to life again. “Can’t let you be uncomfortable.”

  Her look was definitely making him uncomfortable. “I didn’t think you were interested in whether or not I was comfortable.”

  A flicker of mischief danced in her eyes. “The general ordered me to be nice to you.”

  He was positive that the general didn’t mean she should run around half naked.

  She tucked the sheet over the sofa cushions, and he mentally groaned as her satin shorts rode up even higher on her legs, revealing the curve of two delicious butt cheeks. And a wicked little tattoo of a rose.

  God help him...

  Her ass was round and firm, making him itch to grab it, push her legs apart and climb on top of her. And place his tongue on that little rose...

  Then she wiggled again, brushing his crotch with her butt, and he couldn’t help but put his hands on her hips.

  He had to move her away from him. At least that’s what he told himself.

  But when she twisted to face him and looked up at him with a flicker of hunger in her eyes, and her barely-clad breasts teased his bare chest, he silently confessed that he was in serious lust.

  Damn it to hell. He was just a man. He’d had to touch her.

  That camisole dipped low enough for him to glimpse one tight nipple, and the slinky fabric slid against his skin, sending a million erotic sensations blazing through him.

  Think about the general. The court marshal. His hands strangling you.

  He took a step back and called on every ounce of willpower he possessed, then dropped his hands to his side. “Go to bed, Willow.”

  In spite of his best efforts, hunger made his voice sound hoarse.

  Willow lifted one finger and traced it along his cheek. His beard stubble rasped beneath her touch, sounding loud and titillating in the silence, and her eyes darkened to liquid pools of sensuality.

  “I am going to crawl into my bed,” she said softly. “Sweet dreams, Sergeant.”

  Sweet dreams?

  What in the hell had happened to her? She’d been frosty at first, and now if he didn’t know better, he’d think she was flirting with him.

  With a taunting smile, she pranced back into the bedroom, her hips swaying in tandem with his beating heart.

  Max glanced at the lavender sheets on the couch, then realized they smelled like Willow. Maybe it was a good thing she’d put them on the cushions.

  If he ever did go to sleep, he’d probably have a wet dream about the woman he couldn’t touch.

  Of course her feminine scent would drive him crazy all night and might just trigger that dream anyway.

  * * *

  Willow’s little game of seduction/torture had backfired.

  Mistake number one—she sh
ouldn’t have touched Max.

  Mistake number two—she shouldn’t have brushed up against his chest.

  Mistake number three, four and five—she shouldn’t have looked at his crotch.

  Oh, heavens, no.

  The sexy sergeant hadn’t yet removed his fatigues, but the bulge straining against that material had been...huge.

  And hard.

  And now she couldn’t stop thinking about wanting to wrap her fingers around it.

  She closed the bedroom door, glanced over at her big empty bed and the cat who still lay sprawled on her vanity stool and disappointment flooded her. The feline was not the company she craved tonight.

  No, she wanted to feel Max’s strong arms around her. His firm thick lips pressed against hers. His fingers tracing fiery paths down her abdomen. His thick length against her thigh.

  His moan of pleasure in her ear...

  Agitated, she paced the room. Why had her father sent Max Murdock to protect her?

  Was the general blind?

  Granted, he was a man, but surely he was aware of the sex appeal that sergeant carried in every part of his masculine body? That he oozed testosterone?

  One finger would be all it would take for him to bring her pleasure. He could even use his pinky.

  Her PCP jangled, and she checked the number. Lacy.

  Knowing she needed emergency help, she punched connect.

  “Okay, give,” Lacy chirped.

  Willow plopped back on the bed covers, trying to banish images of her bodyguard’s body. “We have to do something,” she hissed. “I can’t put up with him in my apartment.” And in my head.

  “Maybe your dad will figure out who made this threat and he’ll pull him from the assignment.”

  “Maybe.” But she would drive him away first. If she came on to him, tried to sleep with him, then she’d have the leverage she needed in case he discovered her other life.

  “I have an idea,” Willow said, rising to pluck her hot red nail polish from the bathroom. Men liked color on a woman’s toes, didn’t they?

  “What?” Lacy whispered excitedly.

  “Let’s meet at the club tomorrow night. I’ll bring my bodyguard and show him who’s boss.”

  Lacy giggled. “I can’t wait.”

  Willow hung up then hurried into the bathroom and painted her toes a striking red.

  Yes. She needed fuck-me feet to go with her fuck-me clothes and her fuck-me attitude.

  Her mouth curved into a satisfied smile as she went back to her bed, sprawled on top of the covers and lay back waiting for her toenails to dry.

  She’d never been a foot fetish kind of girl, but she imagined the sergeant lifting one foot and tracing his tongue along her arch...

  She groaned and snagged her BCP. She knew who to call. Maybe if she closed her eyes and pretended the voice was Max’s as the caller virtually massaged her feet and licked her toes, she could actually enjoy herself.

  And rid herself of the tension strumming through her so she could execute her plan. After all, she wanted to seduce the sexy bodyguard and make him admit he wanted her.

  But she absolutely could not care about the man.

  Being in control was her mantra. She’d lost it once years ago and fallen for a man in a uniform. It had taken her years to pick up the shattered pieces of her heart.

  She would never make that mistake again.

  * * *

  Max was a man of control.

  But Willow Woods was sorely testing it.

  He momentarily considered calling the general and requesting that he assign someone else to handle this protective detail, but he’d never backed down from a mission in his life.

  No matter how dangerous.

  And the general’s sexy daughter was definitely dangerous.

  Shutting out images of her nearly naked body in those satin pj’s from his mind, he stretched out on top of the couch and stared at the sliver of moonlight weaving its way through the blinds.

  He was doing his job. Willow was safe from any threat tonight.

  Except the threat of him losing his sanity and slipping into her bedroom.

  Which absolutely would not happen.

  Running on weeks with little rest, exhaustion overcame him, and he closed his eyes and finally drifted into sleep. But voices seeped into his head.

  Soft sultry tones. Whispers.

  “Yes, I painted my toes red just for you.”

  He shifted restlessly. Red toenails.

  “Your fingers feel good on my feet...oooh...I like it when you massage my arches...” A low moan. Then a husky laugh.

  “Your tongue feels so sensual...so wet...so soft...so right...”

  Max rolled to his side, confused. He felt something wet between his toes. Something soft. Something right.

  A tongue. Lapping at his feet.

  He moaned. Willow. It was her voice. Her erotic whispers. Her tongue on his feet...

  Hunger spiked inside him, and he reached down, wanting to touch her. To see her face.

  His fingers brushed through soft fluffy hair. Mountains of it. Curling through his fingers. He wanted to feel it against his belly.

  Rain began to splatter softly on the roof, the melody a sensual song of seduction. Another tongue lick, and he moaned then opened his eyes, but it was so dark he could hardly see. Then he felt the warmth of her hair against his thigh, heard a low purr...

  Wanting Willow closer, on top of him, naked and lapping her tongue against his throat, he reached down to pull her upward, but suddenly a pair of sharp nails dug into his leg and a loud hiss followed.

  Pain shot through his calf and he lurched upward, yelping.

  Willow’s cat screeched and darted across his abdomen, then his face, leaving a path of angry claw marks across his body.

  Her bedroom door swung open, and he stared at it, wondering if she’d turned the cat on him on purpose.

  “What’s going on?” Willow asked.

  “Your cat attacked me.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Willow sashayed in, still wearing nothing but that skimpy lingerie, lifted the cat and petted it. “Come on, Teensy. We can’t have the sergeant being mean to you.”

  “Me being mean?” He gestured to the scratches on his chest which were stinging like hell. “I thought he was declawed.”

  “His front claws,” she said, then leaned closer to examine his chest wound.

  The scent of her body wash and sex permeated his nostrils, and he threw up a hand and stepped back. He could still hear her murmuring those erotic nothings and wanted her whispering them to him.

  If she touched him now, he’d lose it.

  “Please, go back to bed,” he said gruffly.

  Her gaze met his. “I could get some ointment and rub it on your chest—”

  Oh, hell, no. “Just go.”

  She licked her lips, then reached out to touch him, but he crossed his arms. Touching him would be the beginning of the end.

  “I said go to bed.”

  His tone came out sharper than he’d intended, like a military command, and anger flashed in her eyes. Obviously Willow didn’t like taking orders.

  Either that, or she sensed he was on the edge, because she hurried into her room and slammed the door.

  Max cursed. He had to do something to distract himself from her. Desperate, he scavenged through her bookshelf for something to read. Maybe a manual on car repair or a how-to guide on extracting your own teeth.

  But he found nothing that would help. Only romance novels, several language books which surprised him, especially because the two he flipped through focused on erotic words in German and French.

  What was she doing? Practicing how to seduce men across the world? One from each country? Was she into some international seduction ring?

  Annoyed at the thought, he dropped back onto the sofa and rolled to his side, punching the pillow with both fists.

  Rocky and Dane were probably well on their way to drunken bliss and sexual
heaven while he was being mauled by a feline and tormented by her owner.

  He closed his eyes, but kept one ear cocked for Willow’s voice again. She had been murmuring about red toenails, hadn’t she?

  Or had he been dreaming?

  Outside, the rain continued and finally in the wee hours of the morning he dozed into a fitful sleep.

  But this time he was in Iraq. The air was dry, hot, suffocating. The heat had been oppressive for days, dust sticking to the sweat on his skin, the stench of smoke and death permeating the air.

  Now the bombs were exploding, gunfire blasting all around him.

  Then they were on him. The insurgents. The commander he’d been sent to rescue trapped, a bomb strapped to him. A bomb Max was supposed to diffuse.

  Two of their own men dead. Two more injured. Then another shot out of nowhere, and another man went down. He dragged him to safety behind a supply truck. Tried to keep him alive. Put pressure on the wound, but the man choked out blood, then went limp.

  Emotions crowded Max’s chest. Now they’d lost three. Three heroes who would never see their families again.

  More gunfire exploded.

  His leg throbbed from where he’d been shot.

  Rocky and Dane ...where were they?

  The barrel of a machine gun dug into his side. Another appeared at his temple, the hum of the bullet already echoing in his brain. At close range, he wouldn’t feel it, he’d be dead in seconds.

  Then the enemy jerked him to his feet. Pushed him forward. His feet sank into the dirt and mud. Smoke filled his nose and eyes. The bomb.

  A village was burning. People’s screams filled the night, shrill and haunting.

  The man beside him spoke in Arabic, giving the other man his orders.

  Max’s life flashed in front of him. He had no family. No one who gave a damn if he lived or if he returned stateside in a body bag. But he’d tried it with a woman early on, and she’d cheated on him when he’d been deployed and sold his ring to finance a trip with her new lover.

  He’d given up on ever having a family back then.

  And now he was a dead man walking.

  * * *

  The sound of a man’s groan woke Willow. She sat up, disoriented, the rain pattering against the window reminding her of the long hours she’d listened to it during the night unable to sleep.