Playing For Keeps (Montana Men)

by Jaydyn Chelcee

  No matter what she said, she’d be convicted of murdering a CIA agent. She’d be locked so far away she’d never see daylight again. The agency didn’t take kindly to losing one of their own.

  “Don’t you dare die on me,” she yelled. She shook her finger at him like he was a child in grade school who’d done something very naughty.

  Duel swung his glance toward her, hit first gear and fishtailed out of the rest stop. “You said that already,” hitting second gear.

  “I’m reinforcing the order.”

  “Don’t worry about me, doll baby. You worry about surviving this fiasco.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  He glanced at her. “You tell me why someone took shots at you, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “How did you know—?”

  “I’ll ask the questions.”

  “I don’t know why someone shot at me.” She blinked. “I think I have a right to know how you know about it, though.”

  “How do you think I know?”

  “Because you’re some sort of bad man involved in something despicable?”

  He smirked, and slammed the car into third gear.

  Where on earth had he learned to sneer like that? “Okay, so that was uncalled for. You’re telling me in your own warped way, you’re on my side?”

  “Maybe,” he replied, finally hitting fourth. “I don’t know what your side is yet.”

  “I haven’t done anything to anyone.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “What?” She blinked. What did he know about her? They’d only just met hours ago. “You know nothing about me.”

  “I know plenty about you, lady.” His eyes darkened. Contempt smeared across his face. He raked his gaze up and down her, but there wasn’t a spark of interest. No, it was all revulsion she saw on his face.

  Flayme realized in that moment, this man felt nothing but scorn for her. An ache spread through her heart and settled, cold and painful behind her breast. She dreaded what was coming, but knew it was inevitable. Office gossip. What a bitch!

  “What about your hot little affair with Mac?”

  And there it was, out in the open, just as she’d known. For some reason, he couldn’t leave it alone. “Why do you keep picking away at it, keep bringing up Mac? Is he involved in all this?” She wanted desperately to ignore his derision, but found it impossible.

  “I’m not the one who brings up Mac.”

  Flayme felt heat scald her face. His double meaning had been said purposely to embarrass her. Miserable cowboy! She hoped the next horse he crawled upon bucked him off on his head. “It’s none of your business.”

  “I suppose it’s none of Marie’s business either.”

  “Mac’s wife?”

  “Yeah, Mac’s wife. Remember her? The woman you wronged? Marie has been his wife long enough to know some pretty unsavory men. Maybe she hired a hit man to bump off the competition for her husband.” He cast his gaze over her. “Yeah, I’d do you.”

  He’d do her? Flayme swallowed her sharp retort. She didn’t think he meant that in the least bit sexual. Right. It was just her and the lust she’d first felt for this man. He’d certainly killed that in a hurry. She bit her bottom lip. And damn, oh, damn. This just got better and better. She couldn’t defend herself, wouldn’t if she could. She’d spent days with Mac. Hours and hours. What was between them was no one’s business but the two of them.

  Eyeing the cowboy, she knew he thought the worst. She blinked back tears. Her lust for him had been squashed Let him think what he wanted. What did she care what he thought? Believed? But she did. For the first time since she and Mac—

  Crap! She refused to cry. The cowboy meant nothing to her. Mac meant everything.

  No matter what, their relationship was never going to change.

  And no matter how good a kisser the man beside her was, she’d always belong to Mac.

  Chapter Sixteen

  You know, Mike, I’m used to shells and bodies and cover ups as your big finale. Something starts off like this, I don’t want to think about the count.

  ~Special Agent Jethro Gibbs

  NCIS

  Washington D.C.

  The White House

  February 17, Tuesday

  Four hours and thirty minutes after the assassination…

  Special Agent Rydge Scott weighed in at approximately two hundred thirty pounds. All six foot two of him was, without question, solid muscle. When he was called before this man to answer questions he’d rather not have to, he felt like a whimpering five year old.

  He folded his hands behind his back and plastered a respectful look on his face. Not because he necessarily regarded the man he faced with high esteem, but because John Westcott was the Commander-in-Chief of the good old U.S. of A., and they both loved their country.

  His personal feelings didn’t matter. The American people had elected Westcott as their leader, and that made him the boss. Rydge was nothing if not loyal. He’d had a good teacher. Duel Remington not only taught him self-defense, but he’d taught him how to stay alive when the odds weren’t in his favor.

  Rydge respected the agent. He loved his job. The work was steady, the pay good enough so he wanted for nothing. At thirty-two, he was healthy, in good physical shape, and smart enough to remain single.

  Sex was something he took care of when time permitted, and the right woman came along to draw his attention, perk his interest and desire. But love? Rydge didn’t think about the big L. Hell, he wasn’t sure he believed in it.

  Maybe someday, if the right woman—

  The president slammed the door to the toilet behind him and stopped to eye him. With the precision of a surgeon wielding a scalpel, he yanked the belt of his loose robe tighter around his flat middle. “You better have good reason for disturbing me in the middle of the night. I’m a busy man.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rydge allowed no expression to cross his face. Yeah, he knew exactly what the president was busy doing—boffing the blonde he’d slipped away with at the dinner party when Molly supposedly retired for the evening.

  “Well? What is it?” The man prowled through a box of fine Virginia cigars on a round mahogany table.

  “Sir, it’s about your wife.”

  “My wife? I don’t want to hear a thing about Molly. She refuses to speak to me. Get the hell outta here. Now!”

  “I can’t do that, sir. The first lady’s been murdered. Until my relief shows up, I’m assigned as your personal guard.”

  He looked up. His face had gone pale. “Murdered?” he croaked. The cigar fell from his fingers and dropped onto the floor at his feet. “How? When?” His voice cracked with emotion that caught Rydge by surprise. He hadn’t believed the president cared about the first lady, but from the sheen of tears glistening his eyes, maybe the man cared more than anyone gave him credit for—unless it was an act.

  “She was shot at close range, assassinated, sir, a few hours ago. I’m sorry we couldn’t get word to you sooner, but the crime scene—”

  “Crime scene?” John Westcott was clearly shaken. His hands trembled when he reached for the brandy flask nearby and poured amber liquid into a glass. Quickly he downed the alcohol and poured another. “Assassinated?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. The crime scene—I’m sorry, sir, for your loss.”

  “You’re sorry? My wife’s been shot and killed, and you don’t think I’m the first who needs to know?” He clenched his fingers around the brandy glass so tightly that Rydge thought it might shatter. “What if the assassin walked right in here and shot me too? How did he breach security? How did he get inside her room? Where was the Secret Service?”

  Rydge frowned. “She wasn’t shot here, sir.”

  The president blinked, picked the cigar off the floor and tossed it in the fireplace.

  “Then, where? Molly retired hours ago.”

  “She left the White House, sir.”

  “Left? Unescorted?” He reached for anot
her cigar, snipped off the end of it and eyed it with acute interest. John’s fingers shook as he lit the cigar and took a deep pull on it. The overpowering aroma of fine tobacco permeated the room.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where the hell did she go? Why would she leave the White House late at night? You’re mistaken.”

  Rydge hid a wince as the cigar smoke trailed toward him. He was a nonsmoker, one who didn’t appreciate tobacco in any form. But right now, there were stronger issues at hand. He was not going to be the man who informed the president his wife was fucking another man and got herself shot dead in the process. No way.

  “Well? Answer me, Agent…Scott…is it? Where did this happen? You’re certain it was Molly and she’s dead?” He downed the second brandy and set the empty glass aside. “You’re sure it was my wife?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” Rydge ignored the president’s questioning his name. He knew very well the man didn’t give a rat’s ass what his name was. “Regretfully, it was the first lady, and it happened at the Ambassador.”

  “Ambassador?” President Westcott, for all his philandering and bedding other women, seemed genuinely upset over his wife’s sudden demise. He settled on the edge of a cushioned chair, his face devoid of color. “She was with another man?”

  “Sir…I—”

  “Answer me!”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” Shit! He hated this.

  “Who? Who was she with?”

  “Delacourt.”

  “The Spanish Ambassador? That horny sonofabitch! I’ll kill him!”

  “He’s already dead, sir.”

  “What? Shit…” The president rose and paced the length of the Oval Office.

  “Yes, sir, that it is…”

  “What have they done with Molly’s body?”

  “I’m not sure, sir, most likely the medical examiners.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I need to dress, Agent Scott. I’ll hold a news conference first thing in the morning.”

  Rydge hesitated. “Are you certain that’s a good idea, sir?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because sir, we don’t know yet if Delacourt was mistaken for you.”

  If possible, the president paled even more. “I see. Well, no matter, my voters will expect to see me, clearly they need to be aware of my deep grief. After all, Agent Scott, we have an election year coming up. This will sway the voters to vote for me, don’t you agree?”

  Rydge felt ill and clamped down the thought that perhaps the president knew all about Molly’s affair and had her and the Spaniard killed to gain voter sympathy. “Yes, sir.”

  First chance he got, he was talking to Duel. He had a bad feeling about Molly’s death. He eyed the president and felt nauseous. The lousy, stinking bastard, he didn’t give a shit that Molly had been murdered, after all. All he cared about was votes. Be damned if he’d vote for him! Rydge kept his expression calm, but he needed to find Duel, and he needed to find him fast.

  * * * *

  Castle Rock, Colorado

  February 17, Tuesday

  Six hours and thirty minutes after the assassination…

  Inside the motel room, Lacey shifted restlessly and shivered beneath the covers. Rafe sat up, frowning. She couldn’t be cold. The room was toasty, besides his body was like a furnace. No, Lacey wasn’t cold, he decided. She was caught in the throes of another nightmare.

  Fucking Smitt Davis had done this to her! The man had much to answer for—one day.

  Lacey’s pitiful cries tugged at his heart. Unable to sleep because he wanted his wife so badly he ached, Rafe was thankful he was already awake. Like his wife, after they’d eaten and showered, he’d crashed on the queen-sized bed and scrambled for the covers. He thought they’d both fall asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillows, but not him. His brain refused to shut down.

  Instead of sleeping, he’d recalled the first time he made love to Lacey. God, the sex between them had been incredible. He’d been so starved for her and Lacey—Lacey had just been starved for both sex and affection. Three months ago, he’d claimed her, Christmas day, and on her dining room table. It had been one of the wickedest moments of his life.

  He remembered how he’d raked all the dishes of holiday food onto the floor, oblivious of the waste or broken bowls. He’d ravaged her like a man whose appetite had built and built for months. Christmas day, the only thing he’d had on his mind was getting inside Lacey.

  Rafe sighed at the memory and folded his arms behind his head. It had taken some effort, but his sweet wife had finally taken every inch he had to give and God, she’d been so hot, so tight—whatever happened between them from this day forward, he’d never forget the first moment he sank inside her body.

  “No! Don’t! Don’t hurt me anymore!”

  The pathetic sound of Lacey’s tormented cries jarred him from his sweet memories. “Lace, honey?” He gently touched her bare shoulder, kept his voice soft and tender. God, her nightmares had to be frightening. “Sweetheart, wake up. You’re dreaming.”

  Rafe felt the heat scald his body as his hand brushed her left breast. Sleeping naked with Lacey was the most incredible thing. Her body felt like silk against his. He didn’t think he’d ever get his fill of having her in bed beside him.

  * * * *

  Moaning, Lacey jerked awake. Her heart hammered, sounding like thunder in her ears.

  “Shhh.” Rafe shushed her, tugging her closer against his warm chest.

  She turned and buried her face in the manly hair that lightly furred the area between his flat nipples. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  Automatically his arms slid around her waist and he held her tight. “I was awake, sweetheart.” He lowered his head and rubbed his mouth against hers. “I hate that you’re still having bad dreams. Once we settle in Triangle, maybe you should see a doctor.”

  “No. They’ll stop…eventually. I hope they’ll stop.”

  “Promise me if they don’t, you’ll seek professional help?”

  “I promise, but for now, you’re all the help I need.”

  “I like the sound of that,” he whispered.

  Rafe took her mouth, parting her lips with the tip of his tongue. Lacey groaned and settled closer. His mouth felt soft and warm on hers, filled with the raw need she knew he’d suppressed for days. She glided her hands down his wide chest, past his washboard hard stomach and closed her fingers around his firm shaft. It still amazed and intrigued her just how large his cock was.

  He released her mouth and grabbed her hands. “Baby, you better not. I’m not sure about my control. The last thing you need is me pawing you.”

  “It’s exactly what I need, Rafe.”

  “What? No, honey, you need time to heal, both your body and mind.”

  “I need for you to stop treating me as if I’ll break if you touch me. I refuse to let that animal destroy what you and I have by cowering if you want to make love to me.”

  “Sweetheart, you’re the least cowering person I know—”

  “And I will never mend without you or your touch. I know what my body can handle. Yes, I’m still a little tender, but no more so than if I’d given birth. If it’s too much, we can stop.”

  “What if I can’t stop? What if I hurt you? Injure you?”

  Lacey sighed and climbed on top of him. His hardness pushed urgently between her damp thighs. The tip of his broad cock stabbed at her entry. “You won’t. Besides, you’d die before you hurt me. I need you, Rafe. I need to know you still want me, need me. I want to feel you inside me.” Tears welled into her eyes. “Don’t you see? I need you to make me whole again. That bastard took something from me, more than you can ever imagine. Smitt Davis filled my head with ugliness. I need you to take it away, give me new memories.”

  Rafe’s body quivered with fierce desire. “I don’t have any condoms. I’m not sure your body is ready for…anything. God, I wasn’t planning this.”

  Lacey smiled through her tears. “I
was.” She guided his firm shaft to her womanly sheath. “I want a baby, Rafe. Make one with me? Please? I need—”

  “Lace…I love you, sweetheart. God knows I want a child with you as quickly as possible, but I don’t think you’re—”

  “Shhh,” she whispered. “Let’s just let happen whatever happens. If we create a child, then it’s meant to be. If we don’t, well then, we get to keep trying.”

  Rafe nodded.

  She felt his heart hammer against her fingers as she stroked his chest. His body quivered with desire against hers.

  “Promise me if it’s too soon, if you feel any pain, you’ll tell me?”

  “I will.” She grinned. “But, with your size…you know how difficult it was before. I doubt anything’s changed since December.”

  “Lace…”

  “I’ll stop you if it’s too much.”

  “Then take what you want, baby. I’m all yours. I’ve always belonged to you.”

  * * * *

  Rimrock, Montana

  Blackstone Ranch

  Eight hours after the assassination…

  At seven a.m., Sheriff Danger Blackstone stormed out of the house and slammed the door behind him. God, he couldn’t take a minute more of Karen’s incessant demands for sex. Hell, he’d given her what she wanted in the early hours when he returned from the stables, but she was never satisfied.

  For some insane reason, he always expected her to devour him after they mated. It hadn’t been like that when they first met. No, she’d been hot and eager to please him, but lately, she gave him the creeps.

  Now, now he needed some freedom, a moment to himself, a chance to think. Granted, Karen gave a mean blowjob. She always had, but hell, there was more to a marriage than a woman sucking a man’s cock dry. There had to be trust. Heart. Love. Lacey...

  His heart jerked. Indescribable pain wrenched his soul apart until he thought he’d shatter. Hell, Lacey had been hotter and sexier than Karen ever thought of being. She knew how to take a man to his knees with her mouth, far better than Karen. So what the hell had driven him into the other woman’s arms?