Dangerous Lover

by Lisa Marie Rice

  Just one look, and he’d disappear forever.

  In the end, he didn’t have to track her down, though. The taxi driver in from the airport knew where she was.

  Here. Right here, where she’d been all along. In Summerville.

  Single.

  Jack had been planning on checking into a hotel, cleaning up, having a nice meal in a restaurant, then sleeping for twenty-four hours. He’d been in a firefight, and he’d been traveling for two days straight. He was exhausted.

  It was Christmas Eve. Everything would be closed on Christmas Day and the next day, Sunday. On Monday, he planned to start his search for Caroline.

  But then the taxi driver said Caroline Lake—his Caroline Lake—was still in Summerville and ran a small bookshop, and so there was no question where he’d go.

  Straight to her.

  Quick, light footsteps on the hardwood floor and shit, before he was ready, there she was.

  “Oh!” Caroline Lake stopped suddenly, the welcoming smile dying on her face as she saw him. “He-hello.”

  He knew what she saw.

  She saw a tall, heavily muscled man with long black hair tied back carelessly, dressed in cheap, rough, dirty, crumpled clothes. He hadn’t showered or shaved in three days, and he knew that lines of exhaustion creased his stubbled face.

  He knew what she felt, too.

  Scared.

  She was alone with him. He had unusually sharp hearing, and he heard no other human sounds in the small shop. The icy sleet storm outside was so severe that the streets outside were deserted, as well. If he turned out to be violent, there would be no one to hear her cries for help.

  There was nothing he could do about the way he looked—dangerous. The truth was, he was every inch as dangerous as he looked.

  Though Caroline couldn’t possibly see the Glock in the shoulder holster, or the tactical folder in the boot or the .22 in the ankle holster, an armed man carries himself differently than an unarmed man. He’d killed four men two days and two continents ago. At some subliminal level, she was picking up on this.

  She was standing very still, nostrils slightly flared, instinctively pulling in oxygen in case she had to run. She wouldn’t know that was what she was doing, but he did.

  He was an expert on human prey and how it reacted to danger.

  First, defuse her fears.

  He stood utterly still, watching her carefully. He would rather rip his own throat out than hurt her in any way, but she couldn’t know that. All she knew was she was all alone with a big, potentially violent man.

  “Good evening.” He kept his voice low and without inflection. Calm. He kept his body language utterly nonthreatening, moving only his lungs to breathe. Not smiling, not frowning.

  It was the only way he knew to reassure her. Words wouldn’t do it. Stillness would. If he were crazy, he couldn’t stay so still. Agitated minds make for agitated bodies.

  It worked. She relaxed slightly, nodded, smiled.

  He couldn’t smile back. For a second, he couldn’t breathe.

  Christ, she is so fucking beautiful. She’d somehow become even more beautiful than his memory. How could that be?

  Slender yet curvy. Not tall, yet long-limbed. Her hair was the richest color he’d ever seen—a wild mix of reds and golds, with pale champagne streaks running through it. Her coloring was so vivid the eye naturally gravitated to where she was. Jack couldn’t imagine looking at another woman while Caroline was in the room.

  She stepped back slightly.

  He was staring at her. Worse, he was scaring her.

  “Terrible weather,” he rumbled. His voice was deep, unusually so, but he kept his tone even and low.

  It took a huge effort, one of the hardest things he’d ever done in a hard life, but he took his eyes off her. Hungry as he was for the sight of her, he couldn’t keep staring, or she’d freak.

  So he looked around him, at what she’d created.

  It was a pretty bookshop, with a high, beamed ceiling, hardwood floor with what looked like expensive rugs scattered around, pinewood shelves and tables with bestsellers on them. The harp music had given way to an a cappella choir of women’s voices singing madrigals. Over the smell of her—soap, shampoo, and the scent of roses that haunted his nights—he could smell potpourri, candle wax and resin from the small Christmas tree decorated with miniature books standing in a big red ceramic pot in the corner.

  The entire shop was warm and welcoming, a delight to all the senses.

  Jack had good peripheral vision and kept looking around until she visibly relaxed. He turned back to her. “Very nice bookshop. My compliments.”

  Her lips turned up in a slight smile. “Thank you. And it’s not usually so deserted. I was expecting a Christmas Eve rush for all the lazybones who haven’t bought their presents yet, but the weather has kept everyone indoors.”

  Jack tried not to frown and look disapproving. What was the matter with her? Jesus, the last thing she should do when alone with a man was point out just how alone they were.

  She’d always been like that, too trusting.

  Once, in the shelter, old man McMurty, doped up on God knows what shit he’d scored on the streets, had sidled up to her when she’d smiled at him.

  Jack knew what McMurty was like when he was high. The filthy fucker would have put his hands on Caroline if Jack hadn’t blocked him. After Caroline left, Jack had shoved McMurty up against the wall, showed him the Bowie knife he’d shoplifted and promised McMurty that if he even so much as breathed in Caroline’s direction, ever again, he could kiss his balls good-bye.

  Jack had meant every word.

  Pretty, slender ringless hands opened wide. “Can I help you with something? We have a fairly good selection, and I can order anything you want if we don’t stock it. It takes about a week to arrive.” She smiled up at him.

  She was a woman now. A stunningly beautiful woman, whose face showed the sorrows she’d suffered. The chatty taxicab driver had told him all about Caroline and the downfall of the Lakes. Jack had heard all about the car accident that had killed her parents and injured her little brother. The discovery at their death that Mr. Lake had been making bad investments, that there was no money to cover the hospital bills, with barely enough to pay for the double funeral. Then six years of caring for an invalid brother, only to lose him two months ago, saddling her with even more debts.

  All of that showed in her face. Faint lines starred her eyes, though they were still that haunting silver-gray color. She’d slimmed down even more. The young Caroline had had a lovely, open face with a perpetually sunny smile. This Caroline showed sorrow and serenity, the sunniness gone.

  And yet, Jack could still see the young Caroline, the heart of her—the lovely, gentle girl who’d befriended an outcast inside the beautiful woman who’d known heartache and grief.

  The young girl had haunted his days and nights. The woman in front of him nearly brought him to his knees.

  Christ, he was staring again, lost. She’d said something—something about books. He didn’t want books.

  “The sign,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?” She swirled a lock of shiny red-gold hair behind a small ear. He’d seen her do it a hundred times.

  “You’ve got a sign at the front of the shop. ROOMS TO LET. Do you still have a room available?”

  It had been the motor-mouth taxi driver who’d told him that Caroline rented rooms to boarders to boost her income from the bookshop.

  Caroline looked at him for a long moment, clearly sizing him up. He couldn’t shrink and he couldn’t take a shower and shave and he couldn’t change his clothes right then. All he could do was remain motionless and keep his expression neutral. There was nothing he could say or do to convince her if she didn’t trust him enough to want him in her home. The only thing he could do was wait.

  And hope.

  Finally, Caroline sighed. “Yes, as it happens, my boarders just left, so I do have a room. But let’s disc
uss it sitting down, why don’t we? You can leave those behind my desk if you’d like.” “Those” were his ancient duffel bag with the brand-new luggage lock and a suitcase.

  No way was he leaving them out of his sight. “Thanks, I’ll just put them down next to me so no one will trip over them,” he said casually, hefting the duffel bag over his shoulder and picking up the suitcase.

  She nodded and turned to walk between the rows of books to the back corner of the shop, where a small sitting area had been set up.

  Though she was more slender than when she was a girl, she was also curvier. She had a tiny waist that begged for his hands to span, rounding out to a perfect ass. He had to work hard to keep his eyes off it, in case she turned around and found him ogling her. That would have got him tossed out on his ass, PDQ.

  Jack recognized a couch and two small armchairs that had once been in her father’s study. They were old and worn but still looked comfortable. Jack put his duffel bag behind one of the small armchairs and sat down in it, hoping it would take his weight. He wasn’t built for old, delicate furniture, but he needn’t have worried. The armchair might be shabby, but it was of good quality.

  “Would you like me to take your jacket, Mr.—?” Caroline held out a hand.

  “Prescott. Jack Prescott. And no, thanks. I’m still a little chilled from the weather outside.”

  “I can imagine,” she murmured, withdrawing her hand.

  Jesus, he couldn’t take his jacket off. Out of reflex, and because he hated being unarmed, he’d grabbed his bag off the carousel and ducked into the nearest men’s room to slip his Glock into his shoulder rig. And then he’d completely forgotten about it. He’d had no idea whatsoever that an hour after landing, he’d actually be sitting down, with Caroline, who wanted him to take his jacket off.

  Jack was very very good at strategic planning. He’d been born with it. Then Colonel Prescott and the Army had taken that and refined it. Jack had been an outstanding operative, always able to think several moves ahead.

  The fact that he hadn’t thought to hide his weapon before entering the bookshop, where he might be expected to take his jacket off, was off his own personal radar. That was exactly the kind of mistake that could have gotten him killed on the job.

  But even without the weapon, he couldn’t take his jacket off. No way. Besides his weapon, he had a hard-on. A huge blue-steeler that felt like a club between his legs, and his pants were just loose enough to show it.

  Walking behind Caroline, watching the sway of her hips and the way her hair bounced on her shoulders, sniffing the air in her wake—every hormone in his body woke up and smelled her roses. All the blood in his body had streamed straight to his cock.

  Well, that was guaranteed to keep him off her list of possible boarders. No woman in the world would agree to have a man in the house who swelled erect just by looking at her.

  This was insane.

  Jack’s body was his to command. It did his bidding, always. If he needed to go without food or water or sleep, his body obeyed. Extremes of heat and cold didn’t bother him. Sex was never a problem. When he wanted to fuck, he got a hard-on and when he didn’t, his dick stayed right down between his legs.

  But watching Caroline’s graceful walk to the back of the shop, hips gently swaying, he got massively aroused with each step she took.

  All he’d wanted was a glimpse of her. Getting to live with her in Greenbriars within an hour of landing at the airport was something he hadn’t even thought to hope for. And yet here he was, maybe five or ten minutes away from actually living with Caroline, in Greenbriars, and he was about to blow it. He couldn’t think of anything more likely to disqualify himself as a potential boarder than his dick flying in her face.

  She was the only person on the face of the earth who could mess with his mind and his dick that way. Nothing ever got in the way of what he wanted. Certainly not sex. Sex was fun and sometimes necessary to blow off steam, but it wasn’t something he allowed to interfere with his life, ever.

  Jack was intensely mission-oriented. He focused narrowly on the mission, whatever it was, to the exclusion of everything else. The mission now was to move into Caroline’s house, and he shouldn’t have allowed anything to cloud his mind, let alone stiffen his cock.

  His boner shocked the shit out of him. That wasn’t how he worked. He was in control, always.

  Not now, though. All thoughts fled from his mind as he walked behind Caroline. She was wearing pretty pointy-toed shoes with high heels, impossible shoes for the sleety afternoon but perfect to showcase long, slender calves and delicate ankles. There was a slight, rhythmic hiss of stocking as she walked, and he had felt the pulses of it through his skin. The rhythm of her heels tapping on the wood matched his heartbeat exactly, the little flutter of a silk blouse as she walked echoing the flutter of blood rippling through his veins.

  “Here,” she said and, looking around, he thought, yes, here. Great.

  On the couch, on the rug, on the hardwood floor. Against the wall, bent over the counter. Anywhere, just as long as he could get in her and stay there for hours.

  It was only when she cocked her head to one side, a slight frown between auburn eyebrows, and said, “Mr. Prescott?” in a light, inquisitive tone, that Jack realized with a jolt to his system what he was doing.

  Fucking it up, that’s what he was doing.

  He never fucked up.

  So he gritted his teeth, managed a quiet “Thank you” through clenched jaws and sat, forcing himself to think of Sierra Leone, Obuja and Vince Deaver. Of blood and betrayal, torture and the screaming of women. So much blood the ground was soaked with it, running in red rivulets. Women bayoneted to death. Highly trained soldiers using children as target practice. The sniper’s red mist around kids’ heads as the shot went home…

  That did it. The images cooled his blood and sickened his heart. His cock went straight back down.

  His teeth were clenching so tightly it was a miracle he didn’t have shards of enamel coming out his ears.

  Caroline must have felt something wrong in the air, because she sat gingerly on the edge of the armchair, knees and calves and feet aligned, arms crossed tightly across her midriff, body language tight. Unconsciously ready to stand up or even leap up if he made her any more uncomfortable than he already had.

  He was a man who kept his cool in armed combat, but seeing her change her body language scared the shit out of him. He’d done that. He’d made her feel edgy and wary, when he should have done everything in his power to reassure her.

  Maybe it was the exhaustion and jet lag. Nine time zones, a total of thirty-six hours in the air and maybe six hours’ sleep in all.

  Whatever it was that was making him groggy and horny and a dumb-ass, he had to shape up fast or he’d be tossed out on his ear.

  He cleared his throat. “So, ma’am.” He looked her straight in the eyes, heroically never allowing his gaze to drop to her breasts or legs, and made his expression impassive. “As I said, I understand you have a room to let. I’m looking for a place to stay, and a room sounds just fine for now until I find my feet. You said you have a room free?”

  Caroline breathed in and out. Jack knew what her head was saying—no, no way. Are you crazy? This guy’s scary-looking and could be nuts.

  But Caroline also thought with her heart. Her eyes dropped and fixed on his boots. They were his combat boots and were ancient and cracked and stained. The heels were worn.

  A soldier always looks after his feet. In the field, a blister can get infected and turn a foot gangrenous in twenty-four hours. His combat boots were comfortable and waterproof and had served him well. He hadn’t even thought about changing into better shoes when making his way back.

  What Caroline saw was a man with worn clothes, stubble on his chin and down-at-heel boots. A man who looked like he’d traveled hard and long and was down on his luck. He could see the softening in her eyes. She lifted her gaze to his and uncrossed her arms and sat back slig
htly.

  His heart thudded.

  Yes. Oh shit, yes! It was a done deal. It was going to be okay. Bless her soft heart. She’d made the decision. Now it was just a question of finding the right words, the ones to convince her head to take a chance on him because her heart already had. He could still fuck it up, but not if he paid attention and said the right things.

  Caroline had relaxed a bit, but she wasn’t smiling. “Um, yes, I do. I have two rooms, actually, a single and a double and they are both free. One boarder left two weeks ago, and the other two boarders left four days ago.”

  “So I’m in luck.” He tried on a small smile. “I’ll take it. The double, because I like my space.”

  She sighed and dropped her eyes to where a long, pink-tipped finger was playing with a loose thread. She bit her lips, clearly struggling with something. She sighed, a light exhalation of breath. When she lifted her eyes to his, she’d come to a decision.

  “The double room I have is spacious and comfortable, Mr. Prescott, and in a beautiful old home about a mile and a half from the city center. The price includes meals and”—she smiled—“I assure you I am a very good cook.”

  Oh, Jesus. Caroline and food. Jack nearly fell to his knees weeping. He hadn’t had a decent meal in…shit. Since before Afghanistan.

  He dipped his head. “Sounds wonderful, ma’am. Exactly what I need, since I can’t boil water myself. I’ll—”

  “Wait.” She put up a slender hand and took a deep breath, as if to brace herself. She looked him straight in the eyes. “That’s the good news. The bad news is that the house comes with the Boiler from Hell, which unfortunately has been going on the blink every other day, even after having been fixed by the Repairman from Hell.” She glanced at the whiteout outside the window. In the sudden silence, they could hear the icy needles pinging against the windowpane. “And in this weather…well, let’s just say it can get uncomfortable. And the lighting is sometimes erratic, there’s some wire crossed somewhere, and no one can find it. If you work on a computer, it makes it hard, and my last boarder lost several important files. And since I seem to be in confession mode, two treads of the staircase are broken, so if you forget and walk down the stairs at night to get a glass of milk, you’re fairly likely to break your neck.” She let out her breath with a whoosh, tensely watching his face to see his reaction to her words. “So there you have it. And I understand completely if you decide you don’t want the room after all.”