by P. A. DePaul
The second his lips met hers she knew he was right.
She leaned into him, pushing against his frame. He took a step backward, flattening his back against the wall. She melted against him, setting off sensory storms as every part of her front touched his.
He angled her head and ran his tongue along her seam. She opened her mouth and he didn’t hesitate to delve inside. Sweet Lord, he tastes so good. Their tongues danced and dueled with such intensity she didn’t want to come up for air.
Pressing closer, she sucked in a breath at the growing bulge poking against her stomach. Heck yeah! Her juices amped higher at feeling the proof of his desire. Tension coiled low in her belly and she dug her fingers through his shorn hair.
He lifted his hands from her face and smoothed them down her back until he cupped her butt, kneading it as he trailed a line of kisses to the sensitive spot below her ear. The same place he had kissed six years ago.
“My favorite spot,” she moaned.
“Mine too,” he murmured against her skin, and continued his exploration. Fire erupted over her hips and up her stomach until he captured her breasts through the fabric, one in each palm.
“Oh God,” she groaned, fumbling to grasp his shirt. She knocked into the gun holstered at his side and almost cried out at the spark flaring through her core. Such a masculine weapon displayed by a man who proved he’d protect others.
She needed to touch him. Now. Frantically, she yanked the bottom of his shirt free from his cargoes.
His thumbs grazed over her nipples and she saw spots. Throwing her head back for him, he got the message and kissed a path from the base of her throat up to her chin. She tilted until she could recapture his lips.
Greedily, she feasted on his mouth while pulling the rest of his shirt free. Once she had space, she slid her hands up his abdomen, brick by delicious brick, basking in the way his stomach trembled beneath her fingers.
His body stiffened and he ripped his mouth away. “Fuck.”
What? She blinked and stared at him, dazed. Then she heard it. His cell phone.
Chapter 19
Cappy gently set Michelle away from him and pushed off the wall. He yanked his phone out of the holder, wincing at the way his pants smashed against his unbelievably hard cock.
By the time he could focus his lust-hazed eyes, the phone stopped ringing. Almost immediately, it started its annoying tone again. He glanced at the screen.
Talon. Just the ice bath he needed.
He hit Answer. “You patched up?”
“So you weren’t sending me out of the house to screw the murderer, huh?” Talon answered coldly. “Care to enlighten me as to what type of interrogation technique involves sticking your tongue down her throat?”
Cappy’s eyes jerked to the sliding door but he only saw their reflection in the glass. Son of a bitch. He should have known Talon would slip back here before he called. It was one of the reasons the man was such a good operator, never taking things at face value, but it also made him a wild card and hard to control.
Michelle fiddled with her shirt then touched two fingertips against her swollen bottom lip. Satisfaction at seeing the evidence of her thoroughly ravaged mouth warred with his conscience at what a dumbass he was to allow it to happen.
A small crease lined the top of her nose and she took a step back.
Talon, he mouthed.
She nodded and increased the distance between them.
“No answer? Or would you rather continue your private conversation with the—”
“That’s enough.”
Michelle flinched at his harsh tone.
Talon just snorted. “Next time, turn the lights off. The house is like a fishbowl. Last time I peered through a set of doors, I witnessed Casper about to screw Wraith on the dining room table.”
Cappy winced. That had to have sucked.
Michelle rubbed her eyes and gave him a small wave. He could have stopped her retreat down the hall, but decided to let her go. No need for her to stick around while he bickered with his subordinate.
“. . . figured I’d call,” Talon continued, yanking Cappy back into the conversation, “before I had to burn my retinas when you repeated history.”
Cappy glanced out the doors but knew he wouldn’t see his teammate in the darkness. Operators like Delta Squad were trained to blend in, and standing under the glaring lights of the chandelier fried his night vision.
“So what’s the verdict? Broken nose or not?” Cappy asked to steer the conversation away from his temporary insanity and onto a safer subject.
A door clicked shut and Cappy leaned to the side to see Michelle had gone into the bathroom.
“Awww. Look at you showing concern for lowly me.”
Cappy pinched the bridge of his nose instead of flipping the man the finger like he really wanted to do. Counting down from one hundred backward helped settle his roiling system.
“Not broken,” Talon finally answered when Cappy reached forty-nine.
“Have you been to the store yet?”
“No. I raced back here, thinking you were wringing your hands, all worried about me.”
Prick. “Fine. We need basic food supplies, the usual stuff, and some clothes for Michelle.”
“Since you just had your hands all over her, what size should I get?”
“We’re done with that topic,” he snapped, wishing the man was in front of him so he could begin the attitude adjustment now.
Talon snickered.
“Pick up something she can wear to bed and a set of loose clothing for tomorrow. All with long-sleeves.” Cappy jabbed the Disconnect button. He hadn’t missed the way she kept adjusting her shirt to keep herself covered.
An image of her battered body filled his mind. That had to have left scars. Son of a bitch.
***
Ignacio Ramirez pressed Power then tossed the black remote onto the cheap bedspread. The oversized TV—which was the farthest cry from a flat-panel as possible—blipped then remained black while the tubes warmed up.
He paced the length of the pressed-wood dresser. “ComeonComeonComeon.”
The screen finally flashed to life and the volume blasted a commercial about tampons. Calmate guey! He lunged for the remote and jabbed the sound button down furiously.
The scene changed to a local news station with a heavily coiffed woman and a generic-looking man sitting stoically behind a large counter. The newsroom behind them bustled with activity as they fiddled with a stack of papers.
“The police are still searching”—the picture switched to a blurry video—“for the woman seen running from the Blakely Hotel.” The image showed a young female with a banging body fleeing from the front door. The camera angle was too far away to get a clear look but Nacio didn’t need it.
“Police are asking anyone with information to call the number listed below.” The picture changed back to the newsroom with a wide blue bar spanning the bottom of the screen, highlighting a phone number.
Nacio resumed pacing. He knew exactly who the puta in the video was. Did his revenge mean more than seeing her go through a lengthy trial and her name smeared in the news? He thought of the last six years on the run, avoiding his family because of that two-faced bitch. No way could that make up for those years or make his family forgive his mistake.
He spat on the carpet in front of the TV.
Bitter rage poured through him and he thanked God she hadn’t been found yet. He marched to the window and swished the heavy drapes back. Not much scenery to look at in this dump, but he couldn’t afford anything else and staying anywhere near the Blakely wouldn’t be smart. Too many cops nosing around, asking too many questions. Better if he set up his base in this dive and traveled in than constantly looking over his shoulder.
The dealers were worse than the cops. Most belonged to hi
s family and couldn’t wait to snitch on his whereabouts. As much as he hated them, he didn’t blame them. If his uncles found out they knew where he was and didn’t report it, they would be executed and replaced with someone else.
He paused, scanning the parking lot. Wait, is that still true? With Carlos Osvaldo’s murder last week, a civil war had broken out among the family to claim the crown. Many of his uncles and cousins sought to become the new head of the cartel. An opening like this hadn’t been possible for the last fifteen years when Ramon slid into the top spot. Then succession had passed to his two sons after he had been killed six years ago. When Sanchez had been executed seven months ago, his brother Carlos had run the cartel on his own. Without any more sons, Ramon’s legacy was now up for grabs, and every person vying for the spot egotistically assumed he or she had the right to the throne. Since only one could claim victory, the battle had begun in earnest.
No one would probably give a fuck if Nacio blended back into the fold. Shit, he bet he could even sway at least one of the contenders to grant him a pardon if only to piss off the other vying members.
A warmth he hadn’t felt since fleeing Colombia stole through his veins. Home. A flash of Michelle smiling at him from the back of the ATV flitted through his mind and shattered the fuzzy glow.
Talk about delusions of grandeur. Until that puta paid for her crimes, he could never face his family without shame.
But God had finally given him His blessing with a second chance at his quest. During his first attempt to strike at Michelle he had almost succeeded in taking out her mother, but the woman eventually pulled through. He had waited day and night outside the hospital, sure the tragic accident would draw Michelle out of hiding, but she never showed. Then before he could follow them home to try again, the hospital was surrounded by federal agents and he barely escaped capture.
When the video appeared online last night, clearly showing Michelle living in Indianapolis, he almost pissed his pants.
Finally, he’d be able to go after her directly.
It took almost all his money to buy the bus fare to Indianapolis but it was worth it.
The first break he had gotten in six years.
Michelle was going to pay for her lies and tricking him into taking her onto his family’s land. Uncle Ramon died because of her treachery and he had been disowned. Vengeance was his right to claim.
***
Michelle swallowed hard, thankful for the solid bathroom door helping her to stay upright.
She fanned her face. Holy moly. That man could kiss.
The tingling in her toes still lingered and her pulse beat erratically. None of her fantasies had even come close to the inferno she just experienced.
She closed her eyes and relived the feel of his hands against her face. The way he angled her head so he could deepen the kiss, how his palms kneaded her butt, the way his stomach contracted when she caressed his skin—
I’m in trouble.
Why had she started something she knew she couldn’t finish? Jeremy may have witnessed the aftermath in Colombia, but he had been in “soldier” mode, focusing on rescuing her to complete his mission. How would he react to seeing the scars and feeling the myriad of ridges as a man? Would they kill the passion like they had for the two men she had allowed see them since then?
The rampant desire raging a second ago died. She turned away from the mirror as she had done a thousand times before and unbuttoned her top.
This whole crazy situation was getting out of control. She had to remember to keep her guard up. Just because he arrived like a white knight and kept her from the FBI’s clutches didn’t mean he could be trusted.
Dumping her stained and dirty clothes in a pile on the floor, she ramped up the showerhead. The man had too many secrets and deftly dodged too many questions for her to blindly follow him.
Chapter 20
Griffin hated surveillance. Boring didn’t even begin to describe the tedious hours of doing nothing but sitting in a car—not that this foray had a chance to have the monotony settle in yet. The first hour he’d been delayed by the U.S. Marshals and FBI lingering at Michelle’s apartment, waiting on them to leave so he could set up his surprise. Then the next four hours were wasted on flying, with one of those hours being sucked up by a goddamn layover in Chicago before arriving in Kansas City International Airport. April Harris had a massive head start and when he landed, his tracker app showed she had driven another hour west.
He had finally caught up, only to have to take time to find the perfect hiding spot to see the front of the house. Then he performed a little reconnaissance by foot.
So really, the last hour shouldn’t have bothered him at all, but it was after midnight, he was tired, and he really didn’t feel like sitting here.
Nothing moved except the tall, wild vegetation surrounding him. Where was her protection detail? Normally he’d be clocking rotations and searching for patterns in their movements to exploit.
He squirmed for the umpteenth time and let out a disgusted sound.
“This is ridiculous. Just freaking get it over with.” He grabbed the empty wide-mouth plastic bottle he had tossed onto the passenger floor and unscrewed the cap.
Another strike against stakeouts. Pissing in a bottle.
“Should’ve gone in the airport,” he muttered, unzipping his jeans. Too worried about allowing her to get too far ahead of him, he had bypassed all the restrooms on his way to the car rental area.
He lifted his hips to catch the right angle and let it fly. And kept going. Damn. He glanced down at the growing contents.
Loud crunching plastic echoed as his prosthetic hand spasmed.
“Son of a bitch!” He yanked the bottle away before he castrated himself and managed to dribble on the floor. He slammed his finger onto the window control and threw the entire thing as far as he could.
Every curse word and phrase he could think of flew across his brain as he resituated himself. Thank God his pants had been out of the line of fire. He tossed a stash of napkins onto the floor and stomped on them. What is with my hand lately?
Three quick beeps sounded in his Bluetooth. He jerked his head up.
Seizing his phone off the passenger seat, he tapped a button. Loud ringing filled the device on his ear but the call wasn’t incoming for him.
“April, I’m sorry I’m late checking in,” Senator Harris oozed with his politician’s charm. “Did you make it there safely? Any incidents?”
“I’m here,” April replied with a ton of ice dripping off her voice.
Woof. The man was definitely in the doghouse. Griffin lifted his spotting scope and peered at the dark facade of a cottage beside the lake.
“You going to tell me what’s going on?” April continued. “Colin’s been murdered.” She whispered the last word, as if saying it louder would bring on the same fate.
Too late for the superstition. “You’ve already been marked,” Griffin murmured, scanning the rest of the property.
“What did you get into?” she asked.
“Yeah, Bob,” Griffin mumbled. “Why don’t you confide in your wife all about your hankering for swinging sausage instead of her delectable snatch? I’m sure she’ll be understanding and supportive when you tell her how your sessions have been captured on film and you’ve been draining the trust fund to keep it secret.”
“It’s complicated,” the Senator rumbled, sounding unconvincing even to Griffin’s ears.
“What, some reporter finally learn of your predilection for young men? They threatening to expose your bisexuality?”
Griffin jolted. The wife knew? His interest in the woman raised a notch. The Senator was an idiot not to fuck this smoking hot woman every minute. Christ. April was his second wife, a woman who had the benefit of helping to raise a son without the stretch marks. At only thirty-eight years old, she was fifteen year
s younger than the man and reaching her sexual prime.
“No,” Senator Harris replied. “A situation has come up I’m working hard to resolve.”
“Typical response,” she spat. “It’s what you always say. Don’t look for me to return to Indianapolis. I’m staying here at my parents’ summer house then going home.”
The Senator sighed. “I know none of this makes sense, but please don’t go anywhere without your protection detail.”
Griffin sat up and searched the perimeter again. What detail?
“They’re not staying here, Bob. I mean it. I need time away from everyone.”
Griffin let out a sigh and slumped back into the seat.
“I really wish you’d reconsider. Having them stationed down the road is not that effective.” Deep swallow. “You and Colin were close, and I get you need time to grieve, but please believe me when I say they’re a necessary precaution.”
Long pause. “Did someone threaten to kill me?” she asked in a smaller voice, the ice fully gone, now replaced with fear. “Am I next?”
“I hope not, sweetheart.”
Chapter 21
“NO! Stop!” Michelle screamed and twisted against the hold the two bastards had on her arms.
They yanked her back, causing her to lose her balance. She flailed to right herself and heard a sickening pop. Intense pain radiated from her shoulder and she gagged on the overwhelming nausea. Screaming didn’t seem to help, but she couldn’t stop.
Thwack. Her head snapped to the left, stunning her movements. Blood trickled from her lip, teasing the nerves on her throbbing cheek and chin. The two men capitalized on her frozen status and muscled her onto the bed.
She tried to fight them but the pain from her dislocated shoulder wouldn’t allow more than a few feeble jerks. Captor One clasped an iron grip on her forearm and twisted her arm up, jerking her joint back into place as he wrestled it to the edge of the headboard. Black spots dotted her vision and she screamed against another wave of agony.
Cold metal encircled her wrist and the sickening sound of a handcuff clicking shut reached her ear. Before she could comprehend what was happening, her other arm was locked into place. She pulled on the cuffs but they were too tight.
