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  Copyright © 2014 by Cindy Dees

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publisher at the following website: www.cindydees.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is purely coincidental.

  High-Stakes Bodyguard

  © 2014 Cindy Dees

  First Edition: 2014

  ISBN: 978-0-9960884-1-1

  Delta: Retribution

  Cristin Harber

  Fallen Navy SEAL and Titan Group’s Delta recruit Trace Reeves wants nothing more than a one-night stand to forget that his twin brother was killed-in-action. But when his one-time fling becomes his high value target, the lines blur between her rescue mission and saving himself.

  Dedicated to Sparks because everyone needs a girlfriend who is always on their side.

  Author Note

  This novella is the first title in the new Delta series, a spin off from the Titan series. It can be read as a standalone but readers will likely enjoy reading both the Titan and Delta series in order.

  Chapter One

  ‡

  Trace Reeves was lost in a woman he only knew by first name. Mallory. There had to be more to her than the crush of a hot-as-hell kiss and the sweet smell of her hair as it dangled around him. Her mix of daring and confidence had left him lust drunk. Then she batted those eyes, and he could’ve sworn the badass-babe act was a front for something so much deeper. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

  Well, actually, his fingers were all over it. All over her—and what a rockin’ body.

  She was the perfect way to escape after his day stuck at Landstuhl. He’d been nosing around the medical center near Ramstein Air Base. Seeing wounded survivors served as a constant reminder that he continued to fail the only person who mattered—his brother in blood and in arms. His twin turned soldier turned fallen comrade. Heart racing, he pinched his eyes closed, ordering his stomach to calm. It’d been weeks, but time felt as though it had stopped. So much anger lived within him, and he couldn’t let it go.

  Tonight, drowning the night in beer had been the plan. It made him forget about the fruitless questioning of wounded, shell-shocked soldiers who may’ve seen something after his brother’s attack. Screw it. He’d learned crap and had needed a drink—and a woman. Then, he’d had both.

  But the woman lying next to him was a surprise. An American. Maybe southern, given her slight accent. She was definitely fiery, given everything wild he’d heard come out of her mouth. If they’d been back in the States, she might not have been old enough to grab a beer with him. Not that it mattered in Germany.

  His hands had stroked her supple body, and God, he loved a woman who was more than skin stretched over bones. Mallory cradled a pillow. She was a terrific mix of innocent and sex kitten, and fuck, man, that combination worked for him.

  “That was wild.” She sounded breathless and sated.

  “It was.” Surely there had to be a better response than that. But he hadn’t expected stranger sex to make his mind go numb.

  Something had just worked between them. Sparks and fire that made for mind-numbing sex. Great chemistry. She had matched him for every crazy move he’d made in that hotel room, and damn, it felt good to burn off all the tension from the day. As if he could finally breathe when he fucked her. The deeper her nails had dug, the lighter his mind had felt.

  Her fingers skimmed over his biceps, tracing the outline of his intricate tattoos. The swell of her full breasts taunted him. Running his tongue over the tips of her nipples had acted like a stroke to his shaft, and now he wanted her again. He wanted to taste her neck and tease her collarbone, but what he most wanted was to watch her fall apart again while she called his name.

  She twirled a piece of hair and smiled while scrunching her nose. “Sorry. My hair smells like that bar.”

  “Didn’t notice.” Because she smelled like sugar—but he could keep that to himself. He nodded to the back of the room. “Take a shower.”

  “My mascara would be a mess. That’d drive me crazy.”

  “I’ll go start the water.”

  “You don’t listen very well.” She leaned against him and bit his shoulder.

  “But I do when it counts.”

  She laughed, nodding, then rolled back onto her pillow. “You are kinda cute.”

  Wasn’t that some shit? “No one’s ever called me ‘cute.’ Ever.”

  “Tough guys can be cute,” she said.

  What was it about this girl? It had to be her innocent eyes, coupled with his own stress, because he couldn’t keep his hands off her. A strong tug, and she was on his chest, laughing and kissing. His fingers threaded through her silky hair. “Playing to my ego, huh, babe?”

  Another light-up-the-room smile played on her heart-shaped face. “You don’t seem the type to need an ego boost.”

  “I don’t.”

  “So what do you need, Trace?”

  Easy answer. “You. In a shower. Now.”

  “That’s direct.” Laughter fell from her lips.

  “You weren’t clued in to that before?” How many beers had he had tonight? Noticing her laugher and her hair wasn’t his MO. Hell, paying attention to much other than himself was out of character. He set her to the side, rolled out of bed, and headed toward the bathroom. A quick glance in the mirror assured him that, in the last few hours with her, there was no question, he had not turned cute. But it had been some of the best hours in recent history. Damn. He slapped the water on in the shower, waited until it was steamy hot, and moseyed back to the bed. He couldn’t think of a better way to forget the day—

  The bed was rumpled and empty.

  His stomach dropped. The small room was the loneliest sight he could recall. On the nightstand, his wallet remained. Already knowing the answer, he double-checked, and all of his cash and cards were still there. She was gone and hadn’t left with a thing, except maybe a slice of his ego.

  Trace scrubbed his hands over his face and found a pair of shorts. He stepped into them and sat on the edge of the bed. Nothing was ever as it seemed. Beer and the bat of a girl’s pretty eyelashes had momentarily made him forget that.

  *

  Oh my God. What had Marlena done? She’d fallen into the eyes of a dangerous-looking man? For what? For insane, liberating sex? Well, yeah. But ugh, holy moly, she’d had a one-night stand. The words played over and over in her h
ead as if she were a dirty slut puppy who needed that shower she’d just ducked out of.

  A one-night stand? That was so not like her.

  Stomach churning, she thought she might puke, and that had nothing to do with a few too many drinks. Brian’s voice burned in her ears. No one will ever want you. They’ll use you and walk away. Just like me.

  But with his voice on replay, she’d hit the bar to drink a German. The bar crowd hadn’t actually been Germans. They were US military from a nearby base—the same base that she’d been brought onto and sneaked out of.

  All the slinking around made her feel dirty. They never wanted anyone to see her, but as soon as they could ditch her, they did. They watched her and protected her until they were done. Then she was released into the world, on her own until they flew her back home.

  If you were so smart, they’d make sure your work didn’t kill you. That’s what Brian had said. Could she ever ignore him? No. But maybe in this situation he was right. It seemed the US military wanted her brains but didn’t care much about her. He was right. He was always—

  No. Marlena shook her head. Well, Brian—her user of a father who wasn’t worthy of the term “dad”—was right, up to a point. If the wrong person knew that she was more than a college kid, that she was the designer of one of the most dangerous weapons the US had ever manufactured, they’d torture every bit of knowledge out of her then leave her to die. Maybe she should’ve played dumb when those military folks approached her, asked her a few questions, then promised the world if she came to work on a top-secret project. They’d played to her weaknesses. They’d said she’d make a difference, be important. Matter.

  What a joke. She was smart; they’d used her—were still using her—and she had learned barely anything about the dangerous world she was tiptoeing around.

  A familiar cold panic spread through her veins. She knew nothing about protecting herself, and making up a stupid fake name hadn’t done anything to make her safer. Mallory? Come on, Marlena. Too bad the glowing high from her sex with a stranger hadn’t last long. Tonight was the first time in a very long time that she’d let go. It felt so good, but wow, was it stupid.

  She pulled out her hotel room key and pressed her head against the door, shaking it. Mar hadn’t even been smart enough to have a one-night stand in a different hotel. Brian would laugh.

  Stop it. She sucked in a breath and pushed her shoulders back. She’d fake it until she had it—the “it” being confidence. That was her grand plan to get over the ridiculous ideas Brian had planted in her head. If uncertainty pricked at her thoughts, she’d shut it down with a faux confidence.

  That was complicated. Faking a backbone could easily be construed as bitchy. An ugly bitch, just like—

  Screw Brian and his promises that no one would ever find her attractive. She’d known better. Deep, deep down, Mar knew that if she could let go, she could be herself, and that self was a sexy handful. Even if that meant she had to try it with someone she’d never see again, she’d succeeded. That big, bad, tattooed man wanted her. The thought of his blond five o’clock shadow on her palms made shivers cascade down her spine. The hard set in his amber eyes turned her to mush, even while it said his soul was years older than his physical age.

  He had been out of her league in a built, brawny way, and she’d walked out on him without saying good-bye. Swinging the hotel room door open, she had taken enough steps to collapse on her bed in the dark. Running out on him wasn’t fake-it-’til-ya-make-it confidence. It was a complete-bitch move, coupled with a solid dose of insecurity.

  Marlena sat up on her bed and hung her head in shame. She’d be back in the States by tomorrow, and this would be a distant memory. Until then, her hair might’ve smelled like the bar, but the rest of her smelled like a rugged man who’d almost orgasmed her to death. She’d shower later, thank you very much.

  Chapter Two

  ‡

  Trace’s phone rang and rang on the hotel-room nightstand. He fell asleep then ignored his alarm clock. Finally, the door banged.

  Once. Twice.

  A kick threw it off his hinges, and Trace grabbed the gun under his pillow and jumped up, ready to point and kill.

  “Stand down, asshole.”

  Two men stood next to his commanding officer.

  “What the fuck?” He lowered his weapon. The two men glared. He didn’t recognize them. They eyed him up and down, assessing him, making him wish he’d slept in something besides boxer briefs.

  “You missed check-in,” his commanding officer said, arms crossed.

  He didn’t have a response for that, because he didn’t give a shit. Some things were more important, and that meant tracking down the fuckers who’d killed Michael.

  The man who looked as if he went toe-to-toe with the devil on a regular basis stepped forward. “Trace Reeves?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The answer is ‘Yes, sir.’”

  He tilted his head. “‘No, sir’ is coming from me. Fix my door, and I might consider not laying you on the ground.”

  The man stepped closer. “Say again?”

  “Fix the door, fucker.”

  The man’s fist knocked his jaw faster than he expected for a guy with at least fifteen years on him. Trace jumped him, punches flying. Punch after punch met an equal retaliation. They hit the floor, destroying a table. Then they were rolling and falling, with head butts and throat shots. Blood flew, and anger made his body fight without thought processes.

  The man pinned him against the wall. He pulled a gun and pressed it to Trace’s temple. Fuck. Trace tossed up his hands.

  “I said stand down.” Sweat and blood covered the man’s face. Pure, 100 percent badass poured from him. “You have one chance. Listen closely.”

  Trace dropped his hands when the man stepped back and holstered his weapon. “One chance for what?”

  His CO stepped forward. “Everyone’s sorry about Michael, but it’s not an excuse. Missing check-ins. Disappearing without notice—”

  “I have my reasons,” Trace growled.

  “You’re a bad day away from dishonorable discharge and time in the brig.”

  Trace dropped his gaze. He knew that. Fuck, he knew it. But it didn’t matter. Nothing did.

  The dark-haired man wiped his nose. “You’re a good fighter, kid.”

  “I know,” Trace said.

  “You’ve got an attitude for shit, you pussy-face bitch.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “My name’s Jared Westin, and I’m your only chance.” He pointed to the other man. “That’s Brock Gamble, Delta team leader for Titan Group.”

  Well, hell. That got his attention. Titan was legendary. “Okay.” Trace bent over, grabbed a shirt, pulled it on, and then kicked on some shorts.

  Brock nodded.

  “We’re recruiting.” Jared eyed him. “Twelve months of training and testing says you’re a smart fuck. Two years of combat operations says you’re a skilled operator. But you’re deteriorating, and no one wants anything to do with you.”

  Trace coughed a bitter laugh. “I have my reasons.”

  “I know what they are, and I don’t care.”

  Brock stepped forward. “You want a spot on my team, you get a pass from Uncle Sam. Titan owns you.”

  “No one owns me.”

  Jared shook his head. “I would. But you’ll get your time to do what you need to for your brother. You work ghost jobs, and when you’re off, you’re off. I don’t care if you sift through desert sand or fuck pretty girls. I don’t care. But when I say work, you work.”

  He belonged to no one. Not even the infamous Titan Group. “No.”

  “Fine.” Jared turned and walked through the downed door. Brock followed, and neither turned back when two military police walked in.

  His CO shook his head. “You’re AWOL, Reeves. You didn’t show up. Hell, you didn’t have permission to leave. Your ass should be in Afghanistan with your team. Not goddamn Germany.”<
br />
  His muscles tensed. He could get past two MPs and a CO. He could fight and take them out, or die trying.

  “Before you do anything stupid, there’s a dozen more of them outside the door. Choose wisely, Reeves.”

  “Goddamn it.” He rubbed his face.

  Jared Westin stepped back into the doorway. “You come with me now, you walk out unshackled.”

  “Fuck!” Trace tore at his close-cropped hair. “Goddamn it.”

  But there were no options. And it was Titan Group. Hell, Delta team was an urban legend, and he was being recruited for it? With time to continue his hunt without anyone asking questions?

  He looked from the MPs to his CO and over to Jared Westin. “Fine. Titan. You own me.”

  Chapter Three

  ‡

  Two weeks later…

  The leather chair creaked as Trace leaned back into it. He stared down the giant war-room table. All around them were computer and television screens. It was his first time at Titan’s HQ, and after running through hell with Jared and Brock, he was okay with a cushy leather chair—for a moment.

  Delta had been called home and was in a rebuilding phase. The men already on the team had seen it coming with the recent catastrophe in Somalia. They’d lost four men, then Brock had become their new team leader. Everyone seemed about as comfortable as Trace had been with the idea of returning to civilization, even if no one minded a comfortable chair every once in a while.

  Delta was a ghost team. They weren’t meant to traipse into war rooms. They received their orders wherever they were, appeared, did their work, and disappeared. They defined “off the grid,” melting into their own shadows when they were done with a job.

  Trace found comfort in that, more than he had in the last few weeks with his SEAL team. God, that had killed him, and he’d changed. Cracked, really. There was no saving him.