Nauti Enchantress

by Lora Leigh

  “Because of him.” Natches threw his hand in Graham’s direction. “If he hadn’t been lusting after you like a buck in rut then you wouldn’t be in danger.”

  “If I hadn’t been teasing him every chance I had, then maybe he wouldn’t have been like a buck in rut,” she yelled back at her cousin, furious with the accusations flying from his lips. “For god’s sake, Natches, you’ve not exactly lived a safe and peaceful life from what I’ve heard.”

  “Maybe that’s what I wanted for you and your sisters,” he snapped back at her. “I didn’t want you facing the danger the women we love have had to face.”

  “And who are you to dictate the life I was meant to live?” she retorted fiercely. “If something happens to Graham, I’ll never forgive myself. It will be my fault.”

  “Like hell,” Graham snapped, glaring back at her. “This is no one’s fault, Lyrica, but the one who began it.”

  “That won’t change how I feel,” she argued back, silently daring him to attempt to send her away. “Don’t you understand that, Graham? If I hadn’t sent that letter then the chances of them guessing at a weakness would have been nil. I put the ammunition in their hands, and the fact that I didn’t mean to do it doesn’t count. If I leave, they’ll still follow me.” She pressed her hand to her chest in emphasis. “It’s me they’re after to make you pay for attempting to stop them from committing a crime. If they can’t find me, then they’ll just wait, because I can’t stay hidden forever.” She shook her head at the thought, at the sheer desperate loneliness that would fill her. “I can’t live like that. I’ll face what happens here, with you. At least when it’s over, I’ll know some bastard didn’t make me cower.”

  Son of a bitch, how was he supposed to protect her when she stood in front of him like that, her eyes blazing with courage and a certainty that this was her fight, even though it wasn’t.

  And she had no intention of leaving. He could see it in her eyes, in her expression. She wouldn’t walk away, and if they made her, she wouldn’t stay away.

  “They’re right, baby,” he said softly. “If you go with them, just for a little while . . .”

  “While you set yourself up as a target instead?” Tears glittered in her eyes as she seemed to tighten her arms around herself. “And that’s what you’ll do, isn’t it, Graham?”

  “It’s what I’m trained to do,” he admitted, wishing he knew why his chest was so tight, why he wanted nothing more than just to hold her.

  “It won’t matter what you’re trained to do.” She shook her head. “They’re after me, not you.” Her gaze moved to her brother and cousin then. “I suggest we figure out exactly how to use the fact that they probably have no idea that we know what’s going on or why they’re targeting me. You know what Graham’s facing now. Help him fix it. And I’m not leaving here until it is fixed.”

  She turned and walked slowly to the doorway, then turned back to stare at Graham for long, silent seconds.

  “I’ll be upstairs.” Turning to her brother, then to Natches, she gave them a small smile, one filled with love and regret. “Let me know when the two of you have a plan. Leave me out of the loop, and I promise you, I won’t forget it.”

  She left the room then, catching Natches’s grimace and knowing that had been exactly what was on his mind. His first inclination was to wrap those he loved in cotton and surround them with bubble wrap to keep them safe.

  He may as well get used to the fact that she had no intention of being a spectator to her own life.

  It would be good practice for him, she decided. Several months before, his daughter, Bliss, had confided to Lyrica her dream of joining Homeland Security or the FBI when she was older. She wanted to bring men such as the ones who’d attacked her aunt Eve to justice.

  She hadn’t told her father yet.

  Lyrica sighed as she headed back to Graham’s suite. Maybe Bliss should wait awhile, a long while, before informing her father of those plans.

  EIGHTEEN

  “Hit me again, Natches, and I promise, I’ll hit back,” Graham informed the other man mildly as he watched Natches’s fist clench atop the table. “And I’m twenty years younger than you are. I promise, I do hit harder.”

  Natches’s hand jerked, one hard finger pointing back at Graham as he snarled. “You are becoming a pain in the fucking ass!”

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to drop the F-bomb.” Graham arched his brow in query at the memory of Chaya’s disapproval whenever Natches used the word. “And that pain you’re feeling is probably hemorrhoids. I hear stress from screwing with everyone’s lives can actually cause those.”

  Natches turned to Dawg with a fierce glare. “I don’t like him anymore. Get Lyrica. We’re leaving.”

  Dawg breathed out as though tired and shook his head, exasperation marking his expression and filling the pale green of his eyes.

  “Lyrica’s not leaving.” Rising from the table and carrying his cup to the sink, Graham felt certain that the danger revolving around Lyrica had begun in Afghanistan.

  “Graham.” Dawg sighed heavily again, and Graham could hear the objection rising from him.

  “Removing her from sight isn’t going to help,” Elijah said, choosing that moment to weigh in. “Just as Lyrica said, the focus is on her. Besides, trust me, once Doogan learns the specifics of this, he won’t allow it.”

  “Chatham Doogan can kiss my ass!” Natches enunciated savagely, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a primal snarl. “That fucker gives me acid reflux for real.”

  “And I may agree with that wholeheartedly”—Elijah’s tone turned to ice, a rare occurrence for the laid-back former Texan—“but be that as it may, I’m still a duly sworn agent and I will be reporting this. Lyrica’s a friend, Natches, and this group has killed highly trained, skilled soldiers. She doesn’t have a hope of surviving if we don’t end this here.”

  Natches moved suddenly from his chair, throwing it back with savage disregard for the wood as he stalked across the room, his expression enraged. When he swung around on Elijah, Graham’s brows lifted in surprise.

  “That loyal to the agency, are you? Well, you can just pack the fuck up and get the hell out of town, boy,” Natches ordered the younger man. “Your services sure as hell won’t be needed once this is finished.”

  Sharp and mocking, Elijah’s grunt of amusement had Graham watching the scene in interest rather than putting a stop to it.

  “That’s it, Mackay,” Elijah stated silkily. “Throw your weight around and see where it gets you with me. Or with Doogan. He’s not Cranston, and I’m not Harley—remember that.”

  The air seemed to grow thick with nearing violence now. Coming to his feet, Elijah sauntered to the back door, his expression harder, colder than Graham remembered ever seeing it.

  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Natches growled, the sound dangerous, a warning that had Graham and Dawg both tensing now at the impending Mackay eruption.

  “Don’t I?” Elijah asked softly, opening the door as he stared back at the older man, his gaze filled with a flinty lack of mercy as it flicked over the youngest Mackay cousin. “Did you even wonder where he went when he disappeared after that beating you arranged for him?” He laughed, the sound sending a chill racing down Graham’s back. “Tell me, has Zoey forgiven you for it?”

  The door closed sharply behind Elijah, the silence he left behind him thick and heavy.

  The second the other man left the room, Natches turned to Dawg slowly, watching as his cousin came out of his chair, the older man’s expression heavy.

  “Let’s find Rowdy,” Dawg announced then. “We’ll take care of this little problem Graham brought home with him, make sure Lyrica’s safe, then we’re going to have a little talk, cuz.”

  It was evident Dawg was unaware of Harley or the beating Natches had evidently arranged.

  Without waiting for an answer, Dawg moved from the kitchen and headed for the front door. Moments later, th
e sound of the door closing with deliberate patience sent a small flinch through the muscles at Natches’s jaw.

  “You don’t seem the type to arrange a beating, Natches,” Graham remarked, actually feeling an ounce or two of compassion at the heavy look on Natches’s face.

  “Well,” Natches murmured as he propped his hands on his hips, hung his head, and shook it slowly, “I’ll be damned. That’s what I thought, too. That would have been a waste of my time, don’t you think?”

  Leaning back against the counter, arms folded over his chest as he crossed his ankles, Graham contemplated the other man’s expression thoughtfully.

  “Don’t remember it, huh?” he asked.

  It really wasn’t Natches’s style. He liked exercising his own fists whenever the opportunity arose.

  “I don’t,” Natches murmured, frowning. “But you know what?”

  “Hmm?” Graham watched him closely.

  “Whatever the hell he’s talking about, he’s right about one thing. Zoey hasn’t forgiven any of us.”

  A hard shake of his head and Natches straightened, his arms dropping as he headed for the kitchen door, following Dawg’s departure. “Keep her safe.” Deadly menace filled the Mackay’s tone. “I’m sure we’ll be back.”

  Graham remained silent as the other man stalked from the house, the door closing a bit louder that time. Natches wasn’t known for his temperance. His temper, yes.

  With their departure the heaviness in the atmosphere of the house dissipated, and Graham found himself finally able to draw a deep breath.

  No one said dealing with Mackays was easy. Doogan had once sworn that working with them was like facing demented zombies whose main aim was the destruction of a person’s sanity rather than his life.

  “Dawg was spinning his tires as he pulled out, which usually means he’s pissed off with Natches,” Lyrica said as she reentered the kitchen, that flirty little skirt caressing the flesh of her silky thighs.

  The little white cotton tank was tucked into the low waistband, the strappy sandals making her feet look more delicate than normal.

  Restraining a sigh, Graham felt his cock swelling behind the zipper of his jeans and the arousal beginning to tighten his body again.

  “Who’s Harley?” he asked.

  She knew who he was talking about, at least. For a second, Lyrica’s eyes flickered with sadness as her expression became more somber, with a hint of pain.

  “Someone Zoey cared very much about.” A bittersweet smile tipped her lips. “Someone who left before she ever knew what she felt for him. Why?”

  He shook his head. Zoey’s life and issues with her brother and cousins would have to wait until later. “The name just came up.” Pushing away from the counter, he motioned for her to follow him. “Come to the office with me. I want to show you some pictures, see if you’ve seen any of these men.”

  “The men you suspect were involved in the theft?” She moved beside him, the somber look on her face as she glanced up at him clenching at his chest.

  “If one of them has made contact with you, it will narrow the field down to figuring out who, if anyone, was working with Betts. The faster we capture them, the faster you’ll be safe.”

  —

  The faster she would be out of his life, Lyrica thought painfully as she moved into the office across the foyer, the door closing behind them.

  Leading the way to the wide desk on the other side of the room, Graham seemed more distant, harder than normal, as though he were deliberately drawing away from her. And he was, she thought. Flavors weren’t lifetime commitments, she reminded herself. They were a moment out of his time—intense, a relief from whatever hunger plagued him.

  She could live with that for now.

  For now.

  “Here.” Sitting down at the desk, he pulled a thick folder from the file drawer at the side and slapped it to the top of the table before sitting back in his chair and patting his lap with a rakish grin that erased that distance with a suddenness she found completely shocking. “You can sit here.”

  On his lap?

  They would not be looking at that file long, but the experience promised to be more than the frightening venture she’d imagined.

  “Think that’s safe, do you?”

  “I didn’t say it was safe,” he assured her with another of those crooked, far too sexy grins he used against her at the oddest times. “I said you could sit.”

  “What if I can’t concentrate while I’m sitting there?” she asked then, her voice lowering. “It looks far too . . . pleasurable a seat.”

  He was hard. The outline of his erection beneath his jeans had her heart pounding, need heating her thighs and the sensitive flesh between.

  “Just turn around there, sweetheart, and sit,” he invited. “Let’s see if I can’t make it even more pleasurable than you imagined.”

  Turning her back to him slowly, a knowing grin tugged at her lips and she sat slowly, her legs resting outside his as he pulled her back against him and arranged her position to suit him.

  “Comfortable?” he asked, her back snug against his chest, the hard wedge of his shaft pressing between the cheeks of her rear and rising along her lower back.

  “Or something,” she murmured.

  Trying to control her breathing was all but impossible, and there was no lowering the rate of her heartbeat. It was thumping like a drum being used with a heavy hand.

  “You feel good against me, Lyrica.” Lifting her hands, he placed them on the arms of the leather chair as his legs spread, parting hers farther as he leaned forward. “Now, let’s see if you know anyone here.”

  As he flipped the file open, the first picture stared out at her.

  Commander Jimmy Dorne. A ruffian, she thought.

  A bully.

  “I’m pretty certain Dorne was her lover,” Graham revealed. “He was enraged when she died.”

  Barrel-chested, his blond hair thinning, the man wore an expression that was faintly cruel. And the woman who had betrayed Graham preferred that over the man currently running his fingertips along the edge of the skirt Lyrica wore?

  That was not a mistake she would have made.

  There were several more pictures of him, in combat gear as well as in street clothes. In each one, the cruelty she could see in his hard eyes and unsmiling expression was apparent.

  “I’ve not seen him.” She shook her head. “And if I had, I would have remembered him simply to ensure I avoided him.”

  His fingers paused in their caresses before slipping beneath the edge of her skirt and to the inside of her thigh. Evidently he liked the answer, she thought as her heart rate began to pick up quickly.

  Several dozen pictures of other men, all soldiers, eyes hard, a few bitter, followed. Staring at each closely, Lyrica made certain they weren’t men she had come in contact with at any time.

  Not that they were men she would have been attracted to at any rate. They weren’t Graham.

  The next pictures were not of soldiers. Soft green eyes stared out from the photos, framed by heavy, thick black hair cut short to frame the delicate features of the woman whose pouty lips and sensual expression seemed to shout “experience.”

  She didn’t look cruel, petty, or mean. She looked a little lost amid the sensual knowledge in her eyes, though, as if happiness wasn’t something she had ever attained.

  This was Betts Laren.

  She stared into the camera as though to seduce the photographer in each photo, always aware, Lyrica thought. This was a woman who always seemed to be aware that she was never alone.

  Lyrica’s resemblance to her was unmistakable. She could have been a distant Mackay relative, it was so close.

  “I do look like her.” Lyrica breathed in slowly, deeply, to hold back the flash of pain that he could have loved this woman, even unknowingly.

  “No.” He sighed. “She looked like you, Lyrica. I took one look at her and all I saw was her resemblance to you.” Graham brushed her hai
r from her shoulder, his lips moving over the bared flesh there with a light, destructive caress. “I left here that summer with the scent of you in my head, the hunger for you eating me alive, and a month later she walked into my tent with that same secretive little smile you have, without the innocence I was so damned afraid of breaking in you. I wanted you so damned bad it was eating me away from the inside out.”

  “I wasn’t running from you,” she reminded him, her head lowering, eyes closing as his lips moved to the back of her neck.

  “Maybe I was the one running, Lyrica,” he stated softly. “I never even thought to question the dozen similarities she displayed to your expressions, your mannerisms. I should have.”

  “I sent the letter the week you left for Afghanistan.” Her lashes fluttered as his fingertips trailed up the insides of both thighs, his short nails rasping the sensitive flesh. “I wanted you to know . . . I missed you.”

  That wasn’t exactly what the letter had said.

  “A real letter?” The scrape of his beard against her shoulder sent a shiver racing up her spine.

  “Written in real ink with my real hand,” she drawled a second before her breath caught at the little nip he delivered to the shoulder he’d been caressing.

  “I wish I could have read the letter,” he whispered as the hands caressing her thighs moved higher, to the edge of her panties.

  His fingers were a whisper stroke of pleasure against the damp material of her panties. Her inner muscles clenched at the sweeping sensation of static heat and aching want. Even her nerve endings felt restless and far too close to the surface of her flesh.

  Gripping the arms of the chair, Lyrica surrendered to him, to whatever he wanted, to one more memory to hold for the day when he no longer wanted her.