“Not even twenty-four hours since I fixed it,” she said, and he sighed heavily. And muttered under his breath while she stared at his profile, the strong lines of his nose and chin, the way his hair fell over his forehead.
“I’m never going to make it,” he said finally. He reached under his shirt and she heard the ripping of the tape.
“You can’t do that,” she said, ended up half straddling him without thinking, in a futile attempt to stop him. But he let her grab his wrists and pull them away easily. Too easily. “Did you just trick me?”
“Yes,” he said. “The way you wanted me to.”
His eyes were heavy-lidded and she had no desire to move off his lap. In fact, she had no desire to let go of his wrists, and so she pushed them away from his body, not caring about the wound on his side or the fact that she might not be ready for this close proximity to him again—caring about nothing but leaning in to kiss him, the way he’d kissed her before.
The old Isabelle wouldn’t have made time in her life for a man like Jake—she would’ve pushed him away. Then again, she knew a man like Jake wouldn’t let himself be pushed away easily at all.
Everything she used to do was a lifetime ago; she was a completely different person than she was before she’d met Jake, and she was never going back.
He kissed her, teased the roof of her mouth with his tongue. She gripped his wrists so hard she’d probably leave bruises, held his hands down by his thighs, even though she wanted—needed—his hands on her.
She didn’t stop kissing him, not until she needed to stop for breath.
Still, when she pulled her mouth from his, she kept her forehead against his and her eyes closed. “What would you have done if your team hadn’t come that night?”
“I would’ve run faster.”
She couldn’t hold back her laugh, but still, she kept her eyes closed, listened to the sound of his voice.
“I told you we’d make it out. I knew we would,” he said.
“And you’re always right?”
“Yes,” he said. “Always.”
“Is there anything you do that isn’t dangerous?”
“No,” he said “But you like it that way, don’t you, Isabelle?”
“I love the way you say my name,” she said. He jerked his head back away from hers and stared at her. She wondered how the word love could scare a man who—to her knowledge—wasn’t scared of anyone or anything in this world.
“Say my name again,” she said, let her hands stroke the soft cotton of his shirt. His breath caught as she began to undo the buttons, uncovering an expanse of smooth, hard flesh.
“Isabelle, I—”
But she kissed him before he could say anything else, her palms sliding along his bare chest, skirting his nipples, traveling down his abs. Heat flared to her breasts, pooled between her legs.
He kissed her back, but still, he didn’t touch her, as if he knew instinctively that might cause her to become skittish again. And as much as she wanted his arms around her, holding her, she was better this way. Free. In control. Her hands twisted in his hair, her body molding against his, hungry sounds drumming up from the back of her throat to escape as groans into his mouth.
She was shaking, and still she didn’t want to stop. He just kissed her, until she could barely breathe, kissed her until her body was one big nerve ending begging for his attention.
The air was warm—she was warm—and maybe she should tell him she wanted him, all of him, right now, or climb off of him and go upstairs, locking her door behind her.
She pulled back, not to do any of that, but because she knew she wouldn’t be able to go much further than just making out with him on the couch, like a teenager on a first date.
Jake rested his head against the back of the couch, stared up at her, waiting for her next move.
“I feel like such a tease …” she said finally.
“You’re not.”
“I mean, that night … it was different, with you touching me. I mean, you’re not different, but I’m still …” She faltered, not wanting to admit what was already evident.
“You, ah, haven’t been able to … I mean, since …”
“That goddamned rescue?” She tried to keep her tone light, but it was a heavy subject they’d skirted earlier while driving, and there was no getting around it now. “I haven’t been able to. No, that’s not entirely true. I haven’t wanted to, either.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t think you do,” she said, wondered if she could tell him this. If she should. “I was kind of … waiting for you. To be first. I mean, you already were, in a way.”
She waited for him to shut down, push her away. But he did none of those things.
“You were engaged,” he said.
“I didn’t love him,” she said finally. It was a relief to say it out loud, without excuses, without the whole I’m not the same person I was crap. She wasn’t—but she had never been the person Daniel wanted her to be either. “I couldn’t … not with him. Not when I wanted you.”
His expression remained neutral, but his eyes … his eyes watched her in that all-knowing way he had. “Then touch yourself for me. I want to watch you come. If I can’t be the one to do it yet, let me see your face when you do it.”
Her cheeks flushed hot at his words. “Jake—”
“Reach behind you, into the drawer of the table,” he said. She hesitated, waited for him to say what she’d find in there.
When he didn’t, she leaned back and opened the drawer. A glint of silver caught her eye immediately.
She looked between the handcuffs and his face.
“For me, not for you,” he said evenly.
“You like being tied down?”
“No. I don’t like it at all.” His eyes remained steadily on hers. “Take them out and hand them to me.”
“But you just said …”
“I know what I said.”
She grabbed them and did what he asked. He put them on himself, cuffing his hands behind his lower back before he leaned back the way he’d been sitting before.
“Take off your clothes,” he murmured. “I can’t touch. I’ll just watch.”
And somehow, even though this was perhaps far more intimate than making love, it was right. She hesitated only briefly and then she unbuttoned the old flannel shirt she’d thrown on when she’d finished her bath. Her fingers trembled as she worked the buttons out of their holes. She left the shirt closed until the last possible second because she hadn’t put on a bra, and when she parted the fabric Jake drew in a quick breath, let his gaze linger on her breasts.
He shifted under her, but made good on his promise and kept his hands down behind his back. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth for a second before speaking. “Touch them,” he said. “Please.”
“I’ve never done anything like this in front of anybody.”
“I’ve always liked being first.”
She brought her hands underneath her breasts, and God, they felt so heavy, so ripe under her own touch.
She noted the strain along the fine muscles of his neck, the way his lips parted slightly while he stared at her. The way the hard bulge in his sweats seemed to pulse through the fabric, with a life of its own against her sex.
She shivered as she let her thumbs brush her nipples, and she never wanted anything so badly in her life as she wanted Jake’s lips on them.
“Jake, your mouth,” she murmured. She braced one hand against the back of the couch, moved her body closer, poised her breast near his lips. He paused until she said, “It’s okay. I’m sure.”
She watched as his tongue swiped the top of one nipple. Her mouth dropped, and an involuntary groan escaped. His mouth was hot as he sucked her nipple, until she arched and let her hand slip into her sweats and between her legs.
She stroked herself, the way she’d been doing earlier, and this time she was going to let it happen. Here, just like this, half-clothed on Jak
e’s lap, taking her own pleasure at his command.
“Jake,” she moaned, unable to stop saying his name or rocking against her own hand. He nuzzled her breasts with his cheeks before pausing to look up at her.
“You look so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and rough enough to spear pleasure right through her. “I want to be the one to make you feel like that, when you’re ready … want to be the one to put my fingers on you … my tongue … everything …”
She closed her eyes as the first wave hit, buried her face against his hair as her entire body stretched taut and then released the pent-up tension with wave after wave of intense pleasure that rocked her from deep inside her womb.
When her sobs started, seconds later, she was as completely unprepared for them as she’d been for her orgasm.
She heard herself telling Jake she was sorry, as he was wrapping her into her discarded shirt and stroking her hair softly, murmuring that it was going to be all right, that everything was going to be all right.
For a few, blessed moments, it had been. But she was crying too hard to tell him that, to convey her relief and her fear as it was all mixed together, into any kind of coherent thoughts.
She was vaguely aware of him carrying her up the stairs and putting her into the freshly made bed, but she did know she clutched at him. “Stay with me. Please.”
And he did, outside the covers, stroking her hair until she fell asleep. Her final thought was on the fact that he hadn’t needed her help—or a key—to get out of the handcuffs.
No one’s ever really in control anyway …
When she woke the next morning, he was gone from her bed.
CHAPTER
13
With Sarah driving through what were obviously shortcuts she knew well, they got to Ruyigi just before 1600, the wall of silence between them rarely broken. She’d thrown an old Eagles tape into the ancient radio, played it over and over until every skip and crackle of the songs was firmly embedded in Clutch’s mind.
She’d taken that tape from him. When she’d left, she’d taken the hope that had started to rebuild in his heart too, and that was something he couldn’t let go of.
He couldn’t let that matter—he was too busy thinking up plan Alpha, Bravo and beyond. If Sarah was still working for Rafe, he’d … well, he’d come up with something. He’d been mixed up with men far worse than Rafe, men who no longer killed because their lives depended on it, but because they’d begun to enjoy it.
There had been ten taken by GOST from different branches of the military, all of whom were originally under Witness Protection. GOST threatened to expose their identities—and the identities of their loved ones—to the people who’d wanted them dead, leaving the military men and women in the worst possible position.
They’d all accepted the offer, including Clutch. It meant moving to Africa, having their Witness Protection identities officially erased from the system, both military and otherwise.
After two months, the group had been down to eight. One had gone on the run—and gotten caught. Another had killed herself rather than live the way she’d been forced to live.
Clutch’s cell phone continued to buzz—every time it did, he rubbed the tattoo on his inner thigh through his cargo pants as though trying to ease the burn.
The Ako Ben tattoo etched on his inner thigh marked him, but only to the people who ran GOST, who knew to check that spot.
Countless times, he’d thought about taking a knife to the tender skin, cutting away the war horn symbol even though he knew it wouldn’t do any good—the black ink ran too deep to ever be fully erased.
He pulled his hand away impatiently and tried to forget he’d put Sarah’s life in danger in more ways than one—danger far greater than a man like Rafe ever could.
She’d stopped the car.
“We should walk from here,” she said. “It’s about a quarter of a mile—he’ll hear this hunk of metal coming, if he hasn’t already.” She was out of the car, around to his side and handing him his weapons as he was still pushing his door open all the way.
Clutch, in turn, stared up at the sky—dusk was coming, but not fast enough for his tastes. Still, waiting until nightfall might be too late, so his choice was made.
He slung his bag over his shoulder and followed her lead through the thick underbrush. Her steps were quick and quiet and sure, her weapon remained drawn—and all of it nearly broke his heart, just when he’d figured it had finally healed.
He should’ve known better. And when she stopped and pointed, he laid a hand on her shoulder out of habit, out of need. She didn’t shrug it off.
“It’s on the left,” she whispered. “Just past this next clearing.”
He dropped his bag behind some bushes and prepared to move ahead toward the freestanding hut in the middle of nowhere. There was no cover around it at all—he’d have to make a run in there.
“You should stay back, let me go in first. He’ll bolt if he sees you—he’s expecting me,” Sarah urged.
He used the hand that was still on her shoulder to give her a light tug. “Stay back here. Stay covered. If anything happens, go back to the car and take off.”
“I wouldn’t leave you behind.”
He didn’t bother to remind her that she’d been all too prepared to do so a few hours earlier and instead began to move forward.
She didn’t listen, followed at his heels, her own gun drawn, her body bowed with tension. He humped a fast pace toward the porch, his gut still clenched despite the fact they remained unscathed.
There was a smear of red on the porch railing. Fresh blood. He pointed her outward once they’d made it onto the porch. A lookout.
She nodded, and he went inside.
The air was heavy—thick with the metallic smell of blood and hate and fear, although the only signs that there had been a struggle were the two dead men on the floor. American. They’d had their necks snapped. No sign of Rafe, and the place was sparsely enough furnished for Clutch to know that Rafe was prepared to go on a moment’s notice.
Still, this meant the blood could be Rafe’s.
He moved toward the opened back door and scanned the wires that ran along the inside of it—trip wires, set up to kill whoever came in through the door.
Sarah was behind him and he put a hand out to hold her back. “It’s a trap.”
She drew in a sharp breath and when he turned, he saw she’d paled.
Shots rang out over their heads—Clutch pulled Sarah to the ground and together they moved on their elbows across the floor, to clear the open doorway. The windows were long gone and they took shelter in the farthest spot from the shots, weapons drawn.
“Is that him?”
“Could be. These bodies are still warm.” He waved the bandanna he’d had stuffed in his pocket and when no shots followed, peered out the window. “If it’s him, he’s going for the car.”
She shot out of the door and back up the path before he could stop her, and he cursed and followed, passing her quickly enough.
His bag was still where he’d left it, which meant Rafe was in too much of a hurry to look around. It meant the man did have some fear. Someone else had put a bounty on Rafe’s head, and he was on full alert.
The car was, however, gone, tire marks dug into the soft earth where he’d peeled away in a hurry. Clutch stood in the tamped-down clearing and stared up at the now darkening sky as Sarah ran up behind him.
“Who were those men?” she asked once she’d caught her breath.
“No ID. Looks like former FBI or CIA.”
“We’ve got to go after him. He’s headed out of the country—he’d planned to go to the States for a job. We’ll grab a car from a neighbor—the closest one is two miles down the hill.” She looked at him expectantly, and he prepared to crush her.
“There is no we.”
“You need me …”
“I don’t need you. You need to stay away from me. This is what my kind do—we kill and we hu
rt innocent people. We take away people’s fathers and brothers and husbands,” he told her, as though his past was on display, an array of all the people he’d made disappear over the years for no better reason than he was told to do so. It made him no better, in so many ways, than the man he currently tracked.
He turned on her, shook her hard by her shoulders while she tried to jerk out of his grasp. “This is what you’ll become if you stay with Rafe … if you had stayed with me. That’s why I let you go. You might already be too far gone after what you did to a woman who still thinks you’re her friend.”
She fell apart in front of him, sank to her knees on the dirt, curled in the fetal position and began to rock back and forth.
He told himself to leave her there, to find a car or a plane, to step over her prone form and go on with his life.
Jake had stayed next to Isabelle for as long as he could, until he thought he’d lose his mind, if he hadn’t already. At one point, her head had rested in the crook of his neck, her hair tumbled over her shoulders. Even his own bed wasn’t helping—it still smelled like her, like woman and sex and Isabelle’s shampoo.
She’d sighed softly in her sleep, murmured his name once and snuggled closer.
Snuggled. And worse, he’d liked it. Still, it was never a good sign when a woman cried after sex—and Christ, it hadn’t even been sex.
He needed to get the hell back to work, and fast. Real work. Exploding bridges and jeeps, and flying helos with the Navy fighter pilot who was training Jake to fly the fast birds, the way he’d trained Nick.
He headed for the weight bench and geared up for a light workout. As he started lifting, he noted the bruising on his wrists where the cuffs had been. He’d had both his weight and Isabelle’s pressing against them, and at the time, he hadn’t cared.
One more rep and he’d be out of his body, flying. Racing up a beach or getting pulled out of the rough ocean to a waiting helo.
He wanted that, needed that. Christ, this wasn’t going to work for much longer.
He hadn’t told Isabelle everything—but the problem was that she wanted so frigging much. She’d never be satisfied with anything less.
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