by Jo Raven
But I guess we won’t be getting much sleep again tonight. And that’s totally fine by me.
***
When I roll out of bed the next morning, the other side of the bed is cold. Storm isn’t there.
We need to synchronize more. I wouldn’t mind waking up in his arms. Maybe we can negotiate something. Cuddling in the morning in exchange for… Well, I can think of a few things we could do.
Face heating as memories flood my brain, I pull on my skirt and tank top and head down to find Storm.
Laundry. Can’t forget laundry. And breakfast. My stomach rumbles. I’m foregoing any underwear today, since I don’t have any clean ones left. Feels kinda weird, but the thought of putting back on the dirty ones makes me shudder.
He’s in the kitchen, pushing a roast into the oven. He closes the oven door and turns to me, his gaze gliding over me, from head to bare toes. I wiggle them on the tiles and smile.
He pushes me back against the fridge, his hands on my cheeks, and kisses me thoroughly, with lips and teeth and tongue until I’m flustered and panting.
“Morning,” he says against my lips, then grabs me, lifts me and settles me on the counter before I can draw enough breath. He stands between my legs and wraps his arms around my back. “Sleep well?”
I hum in response. There’s a pleasant ache between my legs, which reminds me everything we did yesterday. My body wakes up, and I suck a sharp breath between my teeth when my nipples perk up.
“I think you need coffee and sex,” he says, running his lips over my cheekbone. “Not necessarily in that order.”
“Actually, I think I need a shower first.” I sniff at myself and make a face. “And laundry.”
“Bath,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“You need a bath. I know just the thing.”
I let Storm steer me back upstairs. A long, warm soak sounds good, and I’m dying of curiosity to see where he’s taking me. I follow him into a wing of the mansion where I’ve never been.
No idea why he’s so silent, though. His teasing mood seems to have evaporated, leaving behind grimness.
We enter a square, tall-ceilinged room, one side ending in a balcony overlooking the sea. There is an enormous sunken tub, set in a floor made of polished wood. Blue tiles surround it.
A Jacuzzi. A big-ass, pool-size Jacuzzi by the ocean.
Jesus.
Never even been in a Jacuzzi before. As Storm fiddles with the faucet, letting water gush into the tub and lights come on at the bottom, I wander over to the balcony.
A palm tree grows past the rail, and a climber has taken over the wall, covering it in green filigree. It’s warm out here. The sky is leaden. The ocean rumbles a few yards away, crashing on the sand.
A shuffling noise behind me makes me turn. I observe him as he gets up from the floor slowly, his shoulders slightly hunched, his back muscles taut. As he walks to one corner of the room to grab two fluffy white towels from a low table, he limps slightly. The old fracture in his leg has to hurt with the approach of rain. Looks like he could use a warm bath, too.
That urge to ease any pain he might be in, to soothe him, returns. It fills me every time I’m around him, I realize. I want to protect him just as much as he seems determined to protect me. As much as my body wants him, as much as my mind needs him to overpower me and take me, fill me up and mark me, this desire to hold and comfort him is stronger.
The desire to make him happy.
I go back inside. He hisses in surprise when I hug him from behind.
“Give a guy a heart attack,” he mutters, his laughter a soft exhale.
“A penny for your thoughts.”
“Only a penny?”
“Since I don’t even have that to my name, I could give you a kiss for your thoughts. You seem preoccupied.”
He twists around and draws me close. “A kiss sounds good.”
“You have a one-track mind, you know that, right?”
“Only when it comes to you.”
Warmth spreads through me. I kiss his lips, a quick press. “There.”
“Hey, that doesn’t even count as a kiss.”
“Full payment only after you tell me what’s on your mind.”
His mouth quirks. God, I love his smile. “You’re a tough businesswoman. I thought you said you never got involved in your dad’s deals.”
I actually never said that, but I implied it, didn’t I? They’re after me for money, and I don’t have it, that’s for sure. I don’t have it, and I can’t let them have me.
Should be enough.
Drawing back, I grab my blouse and pull it over my head. When I throw it down, his eyes zero in on my breasts as if he’s never seen them before, going almost black with arousal, the topic forgotten.
I should feel ashamed for distracting him on purpose.
Maybe I do.
I turn and step down, into the sunken tub where jets propel warm water against my legs. Five seats are built in, low in the tub, and I slide down into one, looking up at him.
He’s still standing there, fists clenched by his side, a big tent in the front of his shorts. After a moment he moves, pushing his shorts down, and it’s my turn to be distracted when his hard-on springs free, long and heavy. He gives it a stroke or two, absentmindedly, his eyes locked on me, and steps down, into the water.
I reach for him, and he sits down next to me with a soft groan. I stroke a hand down his handsome face, down his neck and chest. His mouth goes slack when I brush over the head of his cock, but I continue south, to his thigh.
I press down, feel the bunched-up muscles, and he grunts. There’s a thin scar there, I realize. Surgery to set the broken bone. I keep pressing, kneading the muscle.
“God, that feels awesome.” His head falls back, on the rim of the tub. He groans when I hit a particularly hard spot, my fingers digging into the muscle. “How the hell are you doing this?”
We escaped from every town after a con job pretty much unscathed, but not always. My dad was beaten up once and his leg was broken. My brother got his ribs busted quite often, and his arm twice. They got all sorts of injuries. I know quite a bit of first aid, and a thing or two about post-injury management.
“Turn around,” I say, and he just stares at me, eyes wide.
I shouldn’t like catching him by surprise so much, but part of me wants to laugh out loud at his stunned expression.
He does turn, though, and just like that he’s turned the tables on me, because my chest goes tight. I run my hands over his muscular back, over the ink that explodes from the base of his spine up to his ribs, hugging his sides. The tangle of briar and snakes on his lower back is stunning, and from it blackbirds emerge.
Only one breaks free, flying up to his shoulder blade, dripping blood. Is that him? The one who survived his family? How old is this tattoo?
It’s a work of art—not only the ink but the perfection of his body, the smooth skin wrapped over sleek muscle and long bone, flaring into those broad shoulders and the vulnerable curve of his neck where his dark hair is so soft it curls a little.
Lifting up on my knees in the swirling water, I kiss the spot between his shoulder blades, and a tremor goes through him. Then I put my hands on his shoulders and knead the hard muscles there. God, they’re like steel, coiled tightly from his spine up to the base of his skull.
He tries to look relaxed and at ease all the time, but his body tells a different story. Always trust the body to tell you what’s going on in a person’s mind. My mom said that.
Obviously she never spent much time studying my dad’s body.
Squashing the thought, I work his upper back with all my strength, searching for the knots and massaging them until they unravel, making my way up his spine to his shoulders and neck. He’s quiet, one hand clutching the rim of the tub. When I bury my fingers in his wet hair, he makes a sound that might have been my name.
When I’m done, I draw him toward me, and he leans back into me, le
tting me wrap my arms around his torso, to rest on his flat stomach. The warm water pulses out of the jets, soothing, and we lie in the silence together.
I don’t want to break it. Don’t want to ask what he isn’t telling me.
But then he says, “I’ll go make some coffee. We need to talk.”
And the bubble breaks.
With a gunshot.
STORM
Fuck. I launch myself out of the water, my bad leg almost going out under me. My muscles don’t want to cooperate. Where I felt light like I could float a moment ago, the ache in my thigh and back gone, now my body feels heavy and awkward.
Perfect timing, goddammit. I stumble as I get out, barely manage to catch myself before I fall on my face, and grab my shorts to pull them on.
“Storm.” She’s right behind me, reaching for her clothes. “Gun?”
“Not here. Bedroom and bathroom. I’ll get them.”
But she’s already running, pulling on her blouse. “Got it.”
Shit. Move it, Storm.
Shorts still unbuttoned, bare feet slipping on the wet floor, I take off after her. Wondering if they’re here for her or for me.
Wondering how the hell anyone found us out.
The rooms flash by until I reach the bathroom. As I expected, she remembered best where the bedroom was. My SIG winks at me from under the sink. I rip off the tape keeping it glued underneath and check the magazine.
Full. I always have them ready. My uncle taught me that. He taught me a lot of things I didn’t want to learn.
Always be ready for the worst. Never trust anyone. Know you’re always on your own. Fight for your life.
But as I run through the house searching for her, waiting for more shots to ring, my one thought is to make sure she’s safe, that she’s okay. Because she has turned my world upside down, upset my rules, and there’s no going back.
“Ray, where the fuck are you?” Bedroom’s empty, and so are the other rooms on the floor. I grab my cell phone from the closet and keep looking. “Ray!”
A boom rattles the windows, glass shatters.
Downstairs.
Hell. I curse my uncooperative leg as I almost tumble down the stairs in my rush to get down and make sure she’s okay. I shouldn’t have told her where the gun was. No idea what I was thinking. I hope she doesn’t shoot herself in the foot by the time I reach her.
A crash and something whizzes past, slamming into the wall by my head. A bullet. Welcome to the party, Storm. I jump the last two steps and roll on the floor, coming up with my gun pointing at the nearest window. I release the safety of the SIG Sauer, scanning the place.
The broken window is to my left. The dining room. Nothing’s moving. Sunlight spears through the many windows, illuminating the sunken living room and the kitchen to my right. Raylin could be anywhere.
And so could our attackers.
Fuck my luck. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We were supposed to have more time. I still haven’t told her about myself. Man, the timing really sucks ass.
When seconds trickle by and nothing happens, I take a risk and get up, then run into the adjoining room. It’s the TV room where Ray rode my cock to the soundtrack of Spiderman, and fuck if the sight of the sofa doesn’t get me hard, even in a situation like this.
“Ray!” I move on to the study, my uncle’s papers still scattered on the desk. I swear to God, if anything has happened to her I’ll raze this place to the ground until everyone is dead. “Come on, Ray.”
Can’t panic. Not now.
A noise outside has my feet moving. I lift my SIG and inch back into the hallway. A slender silhouette is hiding behind the folded sliding door, the light glancing on a gun.
The gun swings in my direction. Dark eyes flick to me and widen. “Storm.”
Thank God. I struggle to hide my relief as I join her behind the door. “Hey. How are things down here?”
“Two shooters, I think. One in the front, one in the back.”
My assessment exactly. “They don’t know where we are. As long as we don’t shoot…”
She nods. “For now.”
Yeah. Because if we don’t get help soon, we’ll have to show our hand. “I’ll make a call.”
She grins. “Make yourself at home.”
The hell. She looks calm, even though sweat shines on her face and neck. Her hand doesn’t shake on the grip of the gun.
Filing this information away for later inspection, I pull my cell from the pocket of my shorts, about to turn it on, when a male voice rings from outside.
“Step out!” the man shouts, his voice so clear he has to be at the door or one of the windows of the main hall, less than twenty feet away. “Do it now, and we won’t harm your friend.”
Her face goes gray. “They’re here for me.”
“Fuck them.”
“Maybe he’s right.” She swallows hard. “Maybe I should—”
“Screw that. No, Ray, you shouldn’t.”
“But you—”
“I’m where I want to be.” I grip her arm and squeeze. “Stay put.”
I turn on my cell for the first time since I snuck out of the hospital weeks ago. It starts chirping immediately with alerts for messages and missed calls. She glances around the door, lifting the gun like she knows what to do with it. It’s my favorite, a Browning HP, 9mm.
I lift a brow at her and she shakes her head. She can’t see anyone. Damn. I’m about to call nine-one-one, when Hawk’s name flashes on the screen.
I connect the call.
“Fucking asshole,” Hawk’s voice thunders down the line. “Florida, huh? What the fuck? How about turning your phone on and telling people who give a shit about you that you’re still breathing, huh? Motherfucker.”
I hold the phone away from my ear, sorting through the info. One thing sticks out at me. “How the hell do you know where I am?”
“You fucking kidding me? Who doesn’t? It was splashed all over the tabloids this morning. Online, man. Boom. Post went viral. Photos of you with a brunette at the house on the beach. I thought your uncle sold that monstrosity years ago.”
What. The. Fuck. “Hawk, I need you to do something for me.”
“I’m riding over to see you, asshole. Just parked my Harley so see what’s going on—someone’s been firing shots nearby. Hey, I’ll be at your door as soon as we hang up. You’re lucky I was around here—”
“Stay right there,” I hiss. “Someone’s shooting at us.”
“What? You in that paranoid mood again—”
A bullet slams through the folding door, crashes through and strikes the wall a few feet away, leaving a hole.
My blood roars in my ears as I jerk back. I check on Raylin. Her face is white, but she looks okay. I grab her hand and drag her away from the door, expecting any moment now more bullets to tear through. The store room will have to do for now. I pull her inside and we crouch there.
“Holy shit,” Hawk is yelling in the phone. “What the fuck was that?”
“Hawk, shut the fuck up and call the police. Now, dammit.”
I hang up, shove my cell back into my pocket. I stare down into Ray’s pretty eyes, and pray we survive until the cops arrive.
Chapter Eleven
RAYLIN
The storeroom smells musty. The only light comes through the door. No other doors, no windows. We’re trapped here, and the way Storm stands close to the door means he realizes it, too, and doesn’t like it.
We should get out of here. Walls won’t protect us from these bullets. This isn’t like the movies.
I point to the right, and he’s already rising and moving, his hand wrapped around mine, pulling me along. He checks around the corner, the gun in his left hand, thumb on the safety. He seems to know how to use one. I wonder if he brought the guns with him, or if he found them stashed here.
Still haven’t figured out if he broke in here or if he was telling the truth about knowing the people who own the place. Mixed signals there, wh
at with his vague “something like that” answers.
As if that matters anymore.
Storm drags me to the study and releases my hand. We crouch and scoot by the window. Sunlight dapples the rich wood of the floor, bringing out red and yellow streaks. I stare at it, unable to hold on to anything but this one question: how in the world was I found? I was so careful. I thought I was.
I think again of the gardener I saw, then the flash and the figure I thought I saw moving behind the fence. Again it makes no sense. If they’d found me, why wait? What’s going on? And if they’re after Storm…
A shot cracks through the house, and I flinch. My fingers clench around the handle of the Browning. One more shot. Something crashes in the direction of the kitchen.
Then I hear sirens wailing. They’re approaching fast. Several cars, from the sound of it. I glance at Storm. He’s crouched beside me, gun pointing up, his gaze flicking between the door and the window. His jaw is set, his hand on the gun steady.
More shots are fired, and I’m not sure where. Storm grabs my shoulder, squeezes. He’s such a solid presence. Gives me courage. Gives me strength.
The door in the main hall bangs open, and I jerk. Storm’s hand keeps me down as heavy steps sound, nearing us.
“Storm!” a man’s deep voice calls. “Where the hell are you, man? Place is clear, come on out.”
Storm lets out a long breath and stands up, pulling me with him. “In here.”
“Who’s that?” I mutter, my heart still racing.
We step out into the hallway, and a tall, blond guy in a leather jacket, jeans and biker boots is striding toward us.
“This is Hawk,” Storm says and lets go of me to grab the guy in a man-hug, complete with back thumping. “Good friend of mine.”
“Your only friend.” The guy grunts and turns his gaze on me. Light gray, it gives him a fierce air. His pale hair is cropped close to his skull. The dark lines of a tattoo climb up his thick neck. “So this is the girl.”
“The girl?” I glance from one to the other. Storm rubs a hand over his face. “What’s going on? How did they find me?”
“Your photo was all over the internet, sweetheart,” this guy, Hawk, drawls, eyes narrowing. “By the pool, with Storm in the background. How do you think that happened?”
