Crazy Cool

by Tara Janzen

  Quinn and Regan were there, along with her grandfather, Wilson, and a lot of other people Nikki didn’t know. The whole Chronopolous family had come to the cemetery after the funeral service, and there were dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins. Some of the other men at the graveside worked at Steele Street, Regan had told her. Others had come from Washington, D.C., from the State Department and the Department of Defense. A few people were there in uniform, with all branches of the military and the Denver Police Department represented. One man in particular was impossible to miss: Creed Rivera, the man who had been with Kid’s brother in Colombia. He’d been injured—tortured, Regan had whispered to her—and was only standing with the help of a cane and a friend. The strain of staying on his feet showed in the fierce tightness of his jaw and the trembling of his arms, but he refused to sit—not while J.T. was being laid to rest.

  In an odd, disturbing way, he looked like Travis, except bigger, and street tough, like Travis might look if he’d done the things Regan had told her Creed Rivera had done, if he’d survived what Creed had survived. It all gave Nikki chills, because she knew Kid had done the same things.

  Nikki hadn’t seen Creed speak to anyone since he’d been brought to the church, not even to the man helping to keep him on his feet. He was strikingly beautiful, though, beautiful enough to paint, despite his bandages and bruises, but definitely rough-edged, the prettiness of his features mitigated by the hard mask of his face. His eyes were a pale blue-gray and absolutely cold, like arctic ice. His hair was streaked by the sun and tied back at the base of his neck.

  She did know the man holding on to Creed. Regan had told her his name was Christian Hawkins. Nikki couldn’t remember how or where they’d met, other than he must have been one of the juvenile car thieves sent to work in her grandfather’s dinosaur digs so many years ago with Quinn, but she knew him. She knew him in her bones. She knew his tattoo. It came out from under the white cuffs of his shirt, darkly inked curves snaking onto the backs of his hands, and every time she glimpsed it, a frisson of recognition went through her.

  She’d have to ask him about it, but not today. Today it was all she could do to hold herself together.

  Kid was leaving her.

  She wiped her palms on her skirt for about the hundredth time and forced herself not to ball the material up in her hands. It had been like that for her all day—damp palms, tight nerves, moments when she couldn’t catch her breath—and it had all started this morning, when she’d awakened to the sound of Kid cleaning his weapons.

  Her studio kitchen table had been covered in guns, a rifle, assault weapons, two handguns, all of them broken down into pieces, and he’d been going over every piece with a soft cotton cloth. He’d been to Steele Street the night before, and the heavy duffel bag lying open at his feet had been full of ammunition of every size and grade.

  He was a warrior, and he was going to war. The knowledge had hit her like a blow.

  It wasn’t personal revenge, he’d promised her. He had a job to do, a government mission to bring his brother’s murderers to justice. He’d have a partner, Christian Hawkins, going with him, and everything was going to be fine. He’d be home in a few weeks, he promised.

  But he’d lied. Every word had been a lie. She knew it, even if he didn’t. She’d done nothing but watch him since he’d walked back into her life. She knew the driving force behind his long silences—and it wasn’t justice. It was vengeance.

  It invaded his dreams and spoke to her in his sleep—the crying out of J.T.’s name, a pained groan that curled him in upon himself and shut her out, the deep sadness that flooded his gaze every morning when he awoke.

  She loved him. He was like breath and beauty and life—and every fiber of his being was intent on death.

  His hand tightened around her shoulders as the first shovelful of dirt hit the coffin, and she wanted to sob with the heartbreaking sadness of it all, knowing all they’d had left to bury was J.T.’s charred bones—bones Kid had brought home.

  As the grave was filled, people began wandering back to their cars, the crowd thinning, until only the men from Steele Street were left talking quietly in a group. Two of them, her brother-in-law, Quinn Younger, and Dylan Hart, broke away after a few minutes.

  Christian Hawkins looked up and caught Kid’s gaze, and in that instant Nikki knew it was over. He wasn’t just leaving her. He was leaving her now.

  “Kid” was all she got out, before her voice failed her. She wasn’t ready for this, for being without him.

  “It’s all right, Nikki,” he said, turning her into his arms, holding her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He lifted her face and kissed her mouth, once, twice, then whispered in her ear, his voice rough with emotion. “Being with you . . . it’s not like anything I’ve ever known, Nikki. I love you. I know I’ve told you that about a thousand times. But it’s true, and nothing’s going to keep me from coming back.”

  She wanted to believe him, with all her heart she wanted to believe him, but as he walked away, she knew it would be a miracle if he survived in South America, and a miracle if she survived without him.

  CHAPTER

  27

  IT WAS ANOTHER perfect day in a South Pacific paradise. A blue green sea stretching to the horizon, the soft froth of breakers crashing into the island’s surrounding reef, the silence broken only by the distant sound of birds.

  Hawkins lay half asleep on the double chaise longue sitting on the end of a dock that stretched thirty yards out into the lagoon. A thatched tiki roof cast him and Mrs. Christian Hawkins in a pool of shade, a cool pool of gray amidst the blazing splendor of sea and sky.

  Mrs. Christian Hawkins. He liked it. He liked it a lot.

  There had been times these last two months when he’d wondered if he was going to make it to this point. Times when he and Kid had pushed too hard, taken too many chances. They’d gone back to Colombia within days of finishing up the Prom King murder mess. Albert was the only one who had died that day at the Traynor mansion. Stuart was in jail awaiting trial, and Philip was out on bail while the judicial system and his lawyers tried to figure out precisely which crimes he’d committed, and which ones had been committed against him. Big Jon Traynor had survived being shot but, according to Marilyn, was struggling with the truth of having employed Jonathan’s murderer for thirteen years.

  Those problems seemed miles away with the trade winds gently blowing through their bungalow.

  Katya had hated for him to leave her for the job in Colombia. She’d cried salty sweet tears all over him for days, but in the end, she’d let him go with hardly a sniffle.

  Not so Nikki McKinney. She’d been almost frantic by the time they’d left, which had only made it that much harder on Kid. Hawkins understood. Nikki was young, barely twenty-one, artistic by nature and spoiled by design, and she hadn’t done well with the thought of Kid leaving again.

  A lot of that had to do with Kid. Hawkins had been going to do a job, to honor his friend. Kid had been filled with far more powerful motivations, far more dangerous needs.

  Hell, he was still filled with them. Hawkins didn’t know when Kid would get enough and come home—which must have been Nikki’s fear.

  It had been hard, and fast, and dirty, what they’d done. He’d known what it was going to be like going in, and he’d had no regrets coming out. Sometimes the world was a hard place, and in those places, only hard men survived—and even they didn’t always make it.

  J.T. hadn’t, and neither had the hard men who had tortured and killed him—all except for two.

  Two of the bastards had gotten away.

  Creed had recovered enough to replace him, and Creed and Kid were still after the last two rebels. Creed had needed to go and be part of it. Hawkins understood that. He understood it better than his own need, which had been to leave and get back to Katya. He’d always been the last man standing, the last one to leave a bad situation—but not now. She’d been a siren lure, and toward the end, getting b
ack to her had become more important than getting the job done—which had been his wake-up call to get the hell out of Colombia, before he got himself or Kid killed.

  Creed was fresh, though, fresh and running on the bloodlust of revenge. Hawkins didn’t pity the poor bastard guerrillas when they caught them—and they would catch them. Neither Creed nor Kid knew the meaning of the word quit.

  He’d been learning it, though, been thinking about it a lot—quitting. He had enough money for him and Kat to get by for a few years, or even longer, depending on how they decided to live. Katya still had the galleries, and he could see himself in the art world. He loved art, had a collector’s appreciation that could be honed into something more.

  And if he never slit another throat, he wouldn’t miss it—which was not exactly what he wanted to be thinking about on such a totally excellent day.

  “So, naturally, I agreed with the old guy,” he said, picking up a conversation they’d sort of let drift off. It was one of the luxuries of being with her in this place, letting things drift off, picking them up later, with no one else getting in the way of their stream-of-consciousness honeymoon. “A man’s got no use for a woman, I told him. None.” Belying his own words, he rolled onto his side and licked his way up her rib cage to under her arm, stopped to tickle her with his tongue, then continued on down to her elbow. She tasted like saltwater and coconut oil. She smelled good enough to eat.

  She giggled when he tickled her. God, how he loved that sound.

  “Did you tell him you practically had me tied naked to the chaise longue out here in this little thatched hut on the dock?”

  “No.” He nibbled his way down to her wrist. “There aren’t that many women on the island. I think it’s better if the old geezer figures he doesn’t need one.”

  “That’s the last time I let you go into town for a six-pack on your own. You just get up to mischief.”

  “Town?” He laughed. “Honey, it’s a dive shack and a pop stand. Oh, God, will you look at the time? Three o’clock.”

  “Christian,” she said with a laugh. “My temperature was not up this morning.”

  “Well, mine was. Now where’s that sexual device?” He looked over the side of the chaise longue, hoping to hell it hadn’t fallen in the water. That was the thing about living in a little thatched hut on a dock out in the middle of a lagoon. Everything ended up in the water.

  “Sexual device?” she queried with a lift of her brow. “You mean the pillow?”

  “Aha.” He found it underneath her sarong. “Lift up.”

  She did, and he shoved it under her very pretty, bikini-clad bottom. Then he untied the two sides of her bikini. She was already topless.

  “I don’t have to elevate my pelvis until afterward.”

  “That’s what you think.” He grinned, already kissing his way down the smooth, satiny skin of her belly.

  She was ripe for this, for making a baby. He knew, just like he knew so many things about her, and the more he knew, the more fascinated he became.

  He took his time, teasing her, before he slid his tongue into those soft, sweet folds that simply drove him crazy every time he touched her. She instantly tightened beneath him, then melted back onto the pillow with a little moan of pleasure.

  Damn, he was good at this, and that gave him absolute boatloads of pleasure. Pleasing her had become his favorite pastime.

  “Christian?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “This isn’t how you make a baby.” Her voice was so soft and breathless, yet serious. Sweet thing, she was giving him advice.

  He lifted his head. “Yes, it is, honey. This is how you make a boy baby,” he said, then went back to doing what he did so very well, thank you, and she lifted her hips ever so slightly for him. He loved reading her: to the left, Christian, please, up, down, oh, right there, Christian . . . yes . . . yes . . . yes. He loved following all her little hints and silent directions, listening to her body language and following the path she wove into her own pleasure. He loved being the instigator of it all, the catalyst.

  “With your tongue?”

  Of course with his tongue, he thought. Everything with his tongue. His tongue had been made for exploring her.

  Then he remembered the subject under discussion, and lifted his head again. Honestly, how they were going to get anywhere with all these interruptions was beyond him.

  “It’s in the book, Kat. Haven’t you been reading the book?”

  She giggled, which he took as a no.

  “Step One,” he said. “Bring the woman to orgasm, which will change the pH of all her most lovely secret places. That’s where we’re at right now, the middle of Step One.”

  She just grinned at him, obviously not taking all of this nearly seriously enough.

  “Step Two, proceed to intercourse.” He crawled up her body, balancing himself on the chaise. “Step Three, continue intercourse until ejaculation. That’s my part.” He leaned down and kissed her, long, slow, wet, and deep. Then he kissed her again, short and sweet. “Thanks to you, I think I’m getting pretty good at my part.”

  She laughed again, and he truly had to wonder when sex had gotten so damn funny—but he was grinning while he wondered.

  “Step Four, don’t let the woman move for at least half an hour. May elevate pelvis if so desired.”

  “Do you want a boy, Christian?” she asked, more serious now.

  “Boy, girl, it doesn’t matter to me.” He leaned back down and kissed her nose, licked her lips, and whispered, “I just like making you come.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes all dreamy with love, and for a second he felt struck through the heart, the emotions he felt for her like a breath caught in his throat.

  “Kat?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I love you, Kat.”

  “You already said that today,” she murmured. “This morning at breakfast, and again at lunch, and twice over pineapple snacks.”

  “Yeah, I know, but this time I mean it. I really mean it.” And he did, with all his heart, and he needed her to know it, to believe it as strongly as he did.

  “That’s what you said yesterday.”

  “I know, but this time it’s different, Kat. I swear. This time it’s like sunlight on your skin.” He reached over the side of the chaise and picked up the bottle of coconut oil. “This time it’s like the ocean flowing through your veins.”

  He saw the dreaminess disappear from her eyes, saw her gaze narrow in concern. He didn’t care. He was heedless. He was in love, and he went ahead and popped the top on the bottle.

  He looked down the length of her body, all those curves just running into each other and taking off again. It was enough to drive any man crazy with love.

  “Christian,” she warned.

  “This time it’s like the tides, Kat. Inevitable.” He slowly upended the bottle and squeezed a small stream of oil over her breasts, down her torso, onto her legs, back up between her legs.

  “Christian . . . honey.” She wrapped her hand around the arm of the chaise. “The last time you went crazy with the coconut oil, you slid off me into the water.”

  “I know, but this time it’ll be different.”

  “You mean like the day before, when we both slid in like a couple of greased pigs and could hardly get back up on the dock?”

  “Yeah.” He grinned and squeezed on another layer, because he loved the way it smelled on her, loved the way it felt on her, loved the way it felt on him when he was inside her. “It’s so sexy when you say greased pigs.”

  She fought a grin—and lost, fought a laugh, and lost that one, too. “You know you’re going to hurt yourself, don’t you? If you don’t get this coconut oil thing under control?”

  “Don’t worry, babe,” he assured her, a very confident smile on his face. “I can handle coconut oil. I’m Superman.”

  Oh, yeah, Kat thought, when he finally slipped inside her, filled her. He was Superman.

  Don’t miss

>   Quinn Younger’s story in . . .

  CRAZY HOT

  Now on sale

  Read on for a preview

  Coming soon . . .

  Crazy Wild

  Creed Rivera’s story

  on sale February 2006

  Crazy Kisses

  Kid Chronopolous’s story

  on sale March 2006

  CRAZY HOT

  Now on sale

  NOTHING MOVED in the shimmering heat.

  Good God, Regan McKinney thought, staring over the top of her steering wheel at the most desolate, dust-blown, fly-bit excuse for a town she’d ever seen. The place looked deserted. She hadn’t seen another car since she’d left the interstate near the Utah/Colorado border, and that had been a long, hot hour ago.

  CISCO, the sign at the side of the road said, confirming her worst fear: She’d found the place she’d been looking for, and there wasn’t a damn thing in it. Unless a person was willing to count a broken-down gas station with ancient, dried-out pumps, five run-down shacks with their windows blown out, and one dilapidated barn as “something.”

  She wasn’t sure if she should or not. Neither was she sure she wanted to meet anybody who might be living in such a place, but that was exactly what she’d come to do: to find a man named Quinn Younger and drag him back to Boulder, Colorado.

  Quinn Younger was the only lead she had left in her grandfather’s disappearance, and if he knew anything, she was going to make damn sure he told the Boulder Police. The police never had believed that Dr. Wilson McKinney had disappeared. Since his retirement from the University of Colorado in Boulder, he’d made a habit of spending his summers moseying around the badlands of the western United States, and according to the results of their investigation, this year was no different.

  But it was different. This year Wilson hadn’t checked in with her from Vernal or Grand Junction, the way he always did, and he hadn’t arrived in Casper, Wyoming, on schedule. She’d checked. It was true he was a bit absentminded, but he’d never gone two weeks without calling home, and he would never, ever have missed his speaking engagement at the Tate Museum in Casper.