Table of Contents
Down & Dirty: Zak - Chapter One
Foreword
Disclaimer
About the Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
If You Enjoyed This Book
About the Author
Also by Jeanne St. James
About Down & Dirty: Zak (Dirty Angels MC, bk 1)
FREE Erotic Sampler Book
Damaged
Jeanne St. James
Copyright © 2017 by Jeanne St. James
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editor: The Twitching Pen
Cover Art: Susan Garwood of Wicked Women Designs
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Contents
Foreword
Disclaimer
About the Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
If You Enjoyed This Book
About the Author
Also by Jeanne St. James
About Down & Dirty: Zak (Dirty Angels MC, bk 1)
Down & Dirty: Zak - Chapter One
FREE Erotic Sampler Book
Foreword
Please note: This book was previously published under the title Banged Up. It has been reedited and republished for your enjoyment!
Warning: This book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. This book is for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice (BDSM or otherwise) without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. The author will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in this book.
Keep an eye on her website at http://www.jeannestjames.com/or sign up for her newsletter to learn about her upcoming releases: http://www.jeannestjames.com/newslettersignup
Two scarred souls: one physically, one mentally. Both on the mend, hiding from their pasts...
Mace Walker can't wait to get home.
Being buried deep undercover for the past two years, on the most complex case of his career, has torn him down physically and mentally. Now the FBI agent has come home to recover after having his leg badly injured from a gunshot wound. Arriving home late one night, his relief is short-lived as he's faced with a stranger pointing a gun to his head, acting like he is the one who doesn't belong there.
Colby Parks, a biochemist at the local university, had come to town a year earlier to escape an abusive relationship. She vows never to put herself in that situation again.
Then the perfect opportunity comes along: house-sitting for Mace's sister while making the house she purchased habitable. But she couldn't anticipate this big snag: the one wearing the tight Levi's and worn leather jacket, looking like he had just escaped prison.
Being forced to share a house creates sparks between them in more ways than one. However, things take a turn when their pasts catch up to them, threatening to pull them apart forever.
Note: This book was previously published under the title Banged Up but has been reedited for this release.
1
As Mace Walker slid the key into the lock, an immediate sense of relief washed over him. He hadn’t been home in…Hell, forever. Even though he owned the house and considered it his home, he felt like a stranger when he opened the front door. He chucked his keys on the table by the door with a sigh. He’d been home for a whole thirty seconds and restlessness already ate at him.
The house was quiet, and he wondered where his sister was. Probably sleeping, dummy, since it was—he glanced at his watch—freaking one in the morning. Most normal folk slept at this hour. But then, he wasn’t normal. He couldn’t be to do his job.
But, he couldn’t do his job right now, anyway. He’d been forced home to heal. Against his wishes.
Fucking bullshit.
The foyer was dark, but he didn’t need to hit the light. He still knew the house well enough. He made his way to the stairs where he dumped his duffle bags on the floor and ran a hand through his too-long hair.
Those two small duffels held little evidence of his life for the past couple years—just some toiletries and a few basic items of clothing.
He turned toward the kitchen, and the foyer lit up, blinding him for a second. He blinked against the harsh light, and a young voice rang out from the top of the steps. “Hold it right there! Put your arms up and back away from the stairs.”
What the fuck?
Mace had expected to see his sister bounding down the stairway of his two-story colonial, excited after not seeing him for the past two years. Actually, more like one year, eleven months, and fifteen days. Not that he’d counted.
But instead, he stared up into the deadly eye of a Glock. And from his viewpoint, it looked like a model 27, a .40 caliber—a compact, but still a decent sized gun in a very small, very uneasy hand. Instantly, the hairs on the back of his neck rose.
Damn.
He’d dealt with crime bosses and their flunkies—from drug to porno rings—and had managed to survive. Now he was going to be killed by some measly punk he surprised while burglarizing his house when he happened to come home? The cruel irony made him want to laugh. Instead, he did as instructed. With caution, he raised his hands above his head before stepping back toward the middle of the foyer. He avoided standing directly under the light, trying to get a better view of the top of the steps. But he didn’t have much success; the upstairs hallway and the upper section of the stairway were hidden in shadows.
If he played his cards right, this little situation would be under his control in no time at all. He just had to keep the kid calm and make the skinny punk believe he was the one in command. The Glock didn’t have a conventional safety. All the kid had to do was pull the trigger and pull it again and again until all the rounds in the clip emptied into Mace’s body. And from what he could see in the limited light, the kid’s fingers twitched from nervousness.
Not a good sign.
Where had a young punk gotten an expensive handgun like that? It certainly hadn’t been in the house. And if it had been, it would have been locked up in the gun safe.
If only he could see the boy’s face. He needed to see the eyes. Without seeing those, Mace couldn’t even begin to predict what the kid would do.
“Don’t you dare move, or I’ll blow your face off!” The kid’s voice raised an octave, making him sound more and more like…a female.
Mace tensed when the person started down the steps. At first, he could see bare toes, a slim calf, then another. His g
aze flicked to the gun before returning to the shapely naked thighs which couldn’t belong to a kid. No fucking way. Especially not a boy. Those smooth legs definitely belonged to a woman, and he couldn’t wait to see the rest of her.
So far, the view almost made it worth being held at gunpoint. Almost.
He felt strangely disappointed when an oversized T-shirt—shit, was that Sponge Bob on it?—blocked his view of creamy flesh. His arms were tired, his leg throbbed painfully, and his patience was wearing thin. But he still wouldn’t move since he had no idea who this woman descending the stairs was. His curiosity piqued when she stepped down into the light, which highlighted her long, curly red hair and made her wide, glaring green eyes sparkle and snap.
Lightning shot through him and landed in his groin. Neither fear nor pain made him suck in his breath. No, her unencumbered breasts bobbing under the cotton shirt with each step she took did. Her nipples stood out like two beacons under the worn cotton.
Jesus.
He had to clear his throat twice before he could ask her, “You’re robbing this house dressed like that?”
Really, if it wasn’t for the gun being pointed at him center mass, he wouldn’t be taking this seriously at all.
When she hesitated halfway down the staircase, a look of uncertainty crossed her features, before disappearing as quickly as it came. Her eyes narrowed, and she scowled at him. “Am I robbing this house? The question is: What are you doing here?”
His leg began to throb again, the way it had earlier on his long drive into town. Although, he preferred the ache to no feeling at all. He was glad to even still have his leg. Hell, he was lucky just to be alive.
Well, alive at the moment. It wouldn’t take much to change that.
“I live here.”
She frowned, her eyebrows knitting together. No surprise that she didn’t believe him.
“Can I put my arms down now?” His fists clenched high above his head, and he fought not only the pain, but also the urge to drop them to rub his thigh.
“No! Don’t move! I’m going to call the cops. Back up.” She jabbed the gun in his direction.
He didn’t move. Instead, he released a long, very loud, impatient sigh.
“Back up, I said! Or I’ll shoot you.”
“It’s happened before,” he said dryly.
The redhead looked at him in surprise, her feet faltering on the last step. “What?”
“I’ve been shot before. So go ahead. Apparently, I have nine lives.” He tried not to smirk. Irritating a woman with a gun wasn’t smart. Experience, and he had plenty of it, had taught him that much.
Adjusting her grip on the gun, her knuckles turned even whiter. “Well, your luck has run out, asshole.”
Asshole? Damn. Harsh. He hadn’t done anything yet to be insulted like that. “What’s in your clip?” She glanced at the gun with just a quick flick of her eyes, but he caught it. “Ever shoot someone? Ever seen someone shot? Besides on TV or in a movie, of course. It’s pretty fucking messy.”
The arm holding the black, lightweight gun trembled.
“Did you ever hear of the saying, ‘Don’t pull it, unless you’re going to use it?’ If you decide to use it, make sure you use both hands. Be sure you kill me, not maim me.” He patted his palm on his chest. “Two shots. Right here. Center mass. If you’re going to do it, do it right.”
“Shut up!”
He did.
The woman placed her free hand underneath the butt of the gun to support it. At least she seemed open to suggestions. However, his talking had unnerved her, and he didn’t need her to squeeze the trigger by accident. No matter what type of ammo she had in that clip, all bullets tend to hurt. He frowned.
“Lie on the floor! Your hands behind your head! Now!”
Christ, the bitch was getting annoying now. But at this point, she was close enough to kill him, even with a bad shot. He had enough with the games for tonight. Exhausted, he just wanted to go to sleep in his own bed in his own house.
Mace judged the distance. “Can’t.” He only needed her a few steps closer. She waved the gun at him recklessly, her left foot moving forward. “Do it!”
One more step…
“I can’t kneel easily. I’ve got a bum leg.” The bum leg was true enough, but he exaggerated a bit on the kneeling part. He’d been known to lie when he had a gun directed at him. Sometimes lies came easier than truths. And he’d had a lot of practice at that, too.
“From all those times being shot, huh?”
“Actually, yeah.”
“Down on the ground, or I’ll blow your brains all over the foyer.” Her slow words, muttered through gritted teeth, made him think she might be serious. Her right foot moved to keep her balance.
Now was his chance.
Mace lunged. He cracked her extended arm with his fist, causing a sharp cry of pain from her. The gun dropped, skittered across the tile floor, and she grabbed her injured wrist. He grasped both her flailing arms by the wrists and pushed her backward. When she fell back onto the stairs, air whooshed from her lungs, and her head missed the edge of a step by a fraction of an inch. He planted his knees on the outside of her bare thighs, pinning them together.
Mace stared down at the woman trapped beneath him. His weight crushed her into the carpeted steps. And he didn’t care. He was in pain, so why shouldn’t she be?
“Oh, God, please. Don’t—” she whispered, her voice catching. Eyes wide, she sank her teeth into her bottom lip.
He scowled. “Don’t what? Hurt you? After you just had a gun pointed at my head, you don’t want me to hurt you?”
The pulse in her delicate neck pounded like it wanted to escape.
“If…if you leave now, I won’t call the police. I’ll forget this ever happened.”
Liar. If she got the chance, she’d grab the nearest phone and dial 911.
Mace had no sympathy for her discomfort since he felt a little of his own. Damn, not just a little but a lot. His leg muscle burned like hell. “If you call the police, the only person they'll take away is you.”
She twisted underneath him, making him wince in pain. He gritted his teeth to avoid groaning out loud. That groan would not have been a pleasurable one. Not at all. And what a pity. It had been a while since he’d been with a beautiful female like the one beneath him. He’d have to do something about that and soon.
But right now, he had a problem to deal with, and that problem continued to squirm. He didn’t feel at all charitable, but he would to have to let her up. For his own sake.
Mace stood, lifting her with him, careful not to release her wrists. He angled away from her slightly, making sure a knee or foot didn’t connect with any of his vital areas. He was in enough pain already.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same.” She exhaled loudly, visibly regaining control of herself.
With a shake of his head, he tightened his grip on her wrists—a little reminder of the change of power. “No. I’m in charge now. Unless you want me to have you dragged out of here cuffed, you’d better answer my fucking questions.”
“I’m not going to tell you, a…a criminal who I am.”
If the situation wasn’t so serious, he’d laugh. “I’m not a criminal.”
She eyed him skeptically through the long mane of red hair falling over her face. “Okay, so who are you, then?”
Mace let another impatient sigh escape. Maybe he should close his eyes and count to ten…Nah, fuck it. “I told you, I live here. And stop trying to screw with me. Just answer my questions.”
“I’m not screwing with you. Go ahead and call the police.” She flattened her lips together and tilted her chin toward the ceiling.
Christ, she was stubborn. Was he going to have to try another tactic to get her to talk? He was trying to be reasonable, but his options were limited. He really didn’t want the local police involved. Not if he could avoid it, anyway. And it wasn’t necessary; if
he couldn’t handle one skinny-assed woman by himself, he needed to give up his day job.
Hell, that wasn’t fair, she probably wasn’t skinny-assed. She probably had a nice rear on her, one which matched the very nice front. He wouldn’t mind checking it out, just to make sure. He loved a woman who was nicely balanced—tits and ass.
“If you don’t tell me who you are and what you’re doing here, I’ll strip off this skimpy shirt of yours and anything else you’re wearing—which probably isn’t much.” He raked another look down her long, supple, hot little body. Fuck. It had been too long. His cock was already at half-mast just imaging her naked.
The threat was empty, but what little color she had drain away from her face.
Her lower lip trembled, and her eyes widened. “So, you’re going to rape me?”
Oh fuck. No. Nononononono!
Hell no, he wasn’t. But he might let the threat idle there between them if it would get her to talk. It made him feel like a complete shit for not clearing up her misconception, though.
And when he remained silent, so did she.
He couldn’t believe it; she actually wasn’t going to talk. He grasped both her wrists in one hand, and with the other, began to slowly pull up the hem of her nightshirt, revealing pink panties. Hot damn. His dick stood at complete attention now, and unfortunately caught in an uncomfortable position. But there was no way he would adjust himself and prove what a horny shit he was.
Before he could raise the soft cotton shirt above her belly—Goddamn, she was an innie—she jerked her hips away from him, the color returning to her face in full force.
Damaged Page 1
