Warrior Without a Cause

by Nancy Gideon

  Too startled to move or to even cry out in her own defense, she stared like a paralyzed wild thing faced with a hunter's double barrel.

  It was not Chet Allen. She weakened a bit with relief. The age was wrong. Allen was her father's contemporary. This intruder was Jack's age. Although he wore an expensive dark suit and a peach-colored silk shirt with fancy cuff links, a watch of heavy gold and a diamond winking in one earlobe, there was no way to dress up what he was. A dangerous man.

  He wore the suit well. Obviously it was made for him, to encompass the impressive span of his shoulders and upper body bulk before tapering to narrow waist and hips. And to hide the added dimensions of his shoulder holster. His graceful hands were manicured and his grooming impeccable. But these things, including the metrosexual choice of shirt color, couldn't detract from the power of the man. With dark hair buzzed nearly to the scalp in a stubble to match the covering on his granite jaw, his features were hawkish rather than handsome. But his eyes gave him away. They were direct to the point of insulting, pinning her to the couch cushions with their steady stare. A dark and coldly opaque stare without a trace of emotion flickering behind it.

  This was the guy Jack was seeing about a guy.

  Tessa heard the front door open and glanced toward it. In the splinter of time it took for her to divert her attention, the man was gone. The porch was empty, as if she'd imagined ever seeing him.

  With a shiver, Tessa dropped her book to the tabletop and jumped off the couch. Though only seconds passed before she reached the front door, there was no sign of the mysterious man or of Jack, who'd gone out to meet him. She could either rush around foolishly trying to find them when they obviously didn't want to be found or she could wait for their return to hear what information had surfaced along with Jack's spooky friend.

  She hated to wait. She, who had once been so methodical, so calmly relentless, felt like screaming in frustration. This wasn't Jack's party, it was hers, and she was tired of his exclusionary tactics.

  Especially when the information was so critical.

  She paced the front foyer, growing more edgy and anxious with each turn on the stone floor. There was no doubt that Jack's friend was ex-military, probably Black Ops as he'd been. Would he have access to the kind of off-limits, need-to-know intel on Chet Allen that right now she needed to know? Things such as who he was working for, who he'd been working with, where he'd disappeared to when they'd erased him from the government database. Things such as whether his relationship with her father had continued after he'd supposedly died.

  Did she really want to know these things?

  What if they told her more than she was ready to hear? What if they told her the father she idolized was up to his wallet in dirty dealings? That he'd given in to the temptation offered by the dark side of humanity he strove to convict after she'd so rabidly protested his innocence? Was she the one being naive? A fool?

  Damn. Where was Jack?

  A soft scuffle of sound behind her had Tessa nearly jumping out of her skin.

  "Hola, Miss Tessa."

  "Constanza."

  "Did Mr. Jack say whether or not Mr. Russell was staying for dinner?"

  Russell. "No, he didn't. Mr. Russell comes here often?"

  "Not so often. He comes to arrange for new groups of men to stay here."

  "I see."

  And perhaps she did see a little too clearly.

  A pang of betrayal twisted low in her belly. Had Russell come bringing news of her father's case or was he here to set up Jack's next training session? Was Jack about to abandon her and her uninvited cause? He'd made it clear from the start that he wasn't going to join her crusade for justice. Did Russell's appearance offer the much-needed excuse to bail in favor of the detached work he preferred doing?

  "Where can I find Jack and Mr. Russell?"

  * * *

  She climbed the spiral steps, her temper and anxiety rising apace. Jack's private study and his bedroom were in a second-story wing at the back of the house. She could hear voices as she neared the top of the stairs and she paused to listen to the direction of their conversation before interrupting.

  "We could be in Afghanistan by the first of the year, if you think that would give you enough time to work with them."

  That was Russell. He had a cultured voice with an English accent that took her by surprise.

  "For what you have in mind, and the time frame, the training will have to be tremendously intense. You're talking about dropping into the middle of some nasty stuff over there."

  "And I want my men prepared. I want the best, Jack. That's why I came to you. I could have them here by the end of the week. Would that give you time to get things ready?"

  There was a pause. Tessa's heart clutched tightly as she waited for Jack's response. It was brutally vague.

  "I'm not sure. I'm kind of in the middle of this thing."

  "Jack, this is important."

  And she wasn't.

  "Mr. Chaney's schedule is clear," she announced as she climbed into sight. "I've taken up enough of his time."

  Russell came immediately to his feet. Jack remained rooted where he was, his gaze on her, his expression unreadable.

  She allowed herself a brief glance around. So this was Jack's getaway. The study had the same high turreted ceiling as the library. One corner was squared off by a huge fieldstone fireplace with a granite-slab mantel. The same irregular chunks of stone formed the walls on three sides, repeating the illusion of a north country hunting lodge. A bearskin draped the back of one of the chairs near the fire as if it had just been tossed there. The only sign that Jack Chaney wasn't some wealthy rancher retreating to tally his calf count was the massive gun cabinet on the far wall displaying everything from old-fashioned muzzle loaders to modem-day semiautomatics, and everything in between. And behind the glass of another case was every martial arts tool Bruce Lee could dream of. Jack was probably proficient in all of them. He seemed a hands-on type of collector.

  The two men had been sitting at a gorgeous red-felt multisided poker table where Russell had two queens showing and Jack a possible flush.

  She imagined a fire blazing with Tinker curled up on the skin rug while a blizzard wailed outside. A decanter of cognac and a game of Aces Wild. This was the kind of room she could retire to, where she could share conversations with the man she… But that wasn't about to happen.

  Jack never took his intense stare from her face.

  "Tessa D'Angelo, Zachary Russell."

  "A pleasure, Ms. D'Angelo."

  "I doubt that."

  Russell's impassive facade creased with a smile she found annoyingly charming. Had the circumstances been different, she might have enjoyed his company.

  "Forgive me for frightening you downstairs," came the soft purr of his voice.

  "You didn't frighten me," she lied. "You woke me up." Woke her from the dream where Jack Chaney was coming to her rescue. Thank goodness she'd been roused from it in time. So why did her insides ache as if ravaged by a strong bout of the flu?

  "Tessa."

  The way Jack said her name brought a shiver along the surface of her skin. She ignored it and him.

  "I'm sorry to have interrupted your discussion. I'll get out of the way.

  "Tessa."

  Dammit, she wouldn't cry. She squinted hard to defy the tears pooling along her lashes. She had no business expecting anything honorable from Jack. He'd said flat-out that he was no hero, that he was only interested in numero uno. Why hadn't she believed him?

  "It shouldn't take me long to get my things together. I don't think there's anything else you can teach me that I need to know."

  "I thought we agreed I would decide when you were ready to leave?" Jack challenged quietly.

  "I'm sure you'll get over it."

  "No, I won't."

  She didn't know how to respond to that flat statement. She didn't know what he wanted from her. She had never known. He'd kept her off balance since the first
time they'd met, telling her not to get involved in his life while pushing his way into hers. It wasn't fair. It wasn't what they'd bargained for.

  "I'll need you to drive me into town."

  Her cool command never rated so much as a blink.

  "I don't think so."

  Zach Russell expelled a breath. "I think I'm the one who should leave."

  Jack looked between his oldest friend, his link to the life he'd led, and to the irate and weepy-eyed Tessa who represented the life he dreamed of but could never claim. Instinct told him to tell Russell to sit and Tessa to pack her bags. That he should run, not walk, to accept the job his friend offered. That would be the smart thing, the cautious thing. Then life could get back to normal and he could be in control again.

  But he heard himself saying, "I'll call you later, Russ."

  Russell was too polite to grin at his predicament. But he was laughing on the inside. "I'll see what I can find out for you."

  "Thanks."

  "No problem. I always enjoy an excuse to come visit, especially now that the company has improved." He nodded to the stiff and stony-faced Tessa. A small smile crept out as he looked down at Jack. "I don't know if I envy you this evening or not, my friend."

  "Goodbye, Russ."

  Russell was definitely smirking when he walked past Tessa to jog down the steps. After the first couple of stairs, the sound of his footsteps disappeared and Jack was alone with a very big problem.

  "You're angry."

  "Your command of the obvious is overwhelming." She wasn't just angry—she was furious. And hurt. He could see the pain shimmering even though she tried to disguise it behind that magnificent temper.

  "I wasn't planning to ditch you like a bad date."

  "Really? That's not how it sounded to me."

  "I made you a promise, Tess."

  Her eyes glistened. "And that's supposed to mean something?"

  "You mean, from a man like me?"

  Her silence was his answer.

  "I promised to help you."

  "No, you didn't. You said you didn't want to get involved. Fine. I respect that."

  "No, you don't."

  "A lot more than you lying to me now."

  "I haven't lied to you, Tess. I haven't said one thing to you that wasn't true."

  He could see her indecision, her willingness to hope warring with her cold rationality. Her final summation devastated when he thought he was far beyond being wounded by mere words.

  "I have work to do, Jack, and my business doesn't involve you."

  "It does if you want to stay alive. I thought you wanted to see your father's killer brought to justice. The wheels are in motion, Tessa. If you get run over by them first, you'll never know the truth. Isn't that the important thing, that the truth come out?"

  "No. The important thing is that I be the one to find it."

  He could tell those words shocked her. She was silent for a moment as if she couldn't believe she'd said them out loud.

  "Why, Tessa? Why is that so important?"

  "Because I can't fail him now. It's my last chance to make him proud of me."

  "To make him love you?" Jack added softly. Her reaction said more than she ever would. She jerked back as if from a slap, her lower lip trembling. Then her grit returned to steel her spine and frost her gaze.

  "That's none of your business."

  "It is if it makes you throw yourself into the path of danger. You'll die if you do and I won't have you scarring my soul, too."

  She blinked at that "too" but before she could question it, he'd crossed to where she was standing. She stood her ground, not flinching when he gripped her upper arms.

  "He's not worth it, Tessa. He's not worth your life."

  "How dare you tell me what a man like my father was worth."

  Because he didn't know how to argue that, the only way to shut her up was to kiss her.

  When she got her breath back, she made a weak complaint. "You don't play fair."

  His thumbs sketched the fragile line of her jaw as her eyes fluttered open to look up at him. He saw his every dangerous dream in those desire-drenched pools of blue. "I said I keep my promises. I didn't say I won't cheat to do it."

  "Oh."

  With that sighing word, she sank into him, her arms encircling his middle, her mouth lifting to meet his.

  The taste of her was sweet heaven and hell.

  "Am I forgiven?" he whispered against the moist part of her lips.

  "No. Not yet. But close."

  He nuzzled her satiny neck, breathing in that intoxicating fragrance that always made his senses spin. Her head fell back as he nipped at her collarbone. "I'm working on it."

  "Work harder," she moaned.

  Her hands found his head, fingers spearing into his hair to pull him up so she could kiss him again, this time with a greedy urgency that dropped his resolve around his ankles. Which was where his pants would soon be as she moved one hand to frantically tug at his belt and zipper.

  "This isn't the best place for this."

  Anyone could come up the stairs. Rose… Her tongue speared into his mouth and the power of coherent thought left him. Finally she gave him back a scrap of sanity by leaning slightly away.

  "Jack, the only room in this house I haven't seen is yours. Please show me."

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  « ^ »

  Curtains were drawn across the windows, shutting out light to create a cavern of dark, inviting mystery, as inviting as the heat and enveloping power of Jack Chaney. He closed the door behind them then stepped in to pull her to him. His kiss was hot, openmouthed, without a trace of reserve or restraint. At that moment any thought that she might not be doing the right thing, the smart thing, melted before the scorch of his blowtorch intensity.

  She wasn't sure what to expect from him. She liked that he didn't just toss her on the bed and have at her. Although, who was she kidding, that would have been just fine with her. Instead, while they stood toe-to-toe in the dark room, unable to see one another clearly, he took his time, learning her by touch like a blind man who needed to be sure of the way.

  He started with her hair, slowly combing his fingers through it, then leaning to nudge his face into its softness. She tried to turn, to catch his mouth for another steamy kiss but he was already easing away.

  "Like silk," he murmured. "Sweet-smelling silk."

  A trembling started deep in her belly.

  He charted her features with his fingertips, lightly following the smoothness of her brow, lingering where the stitching had left only a tiny scar on the outside but a tremendous tear to her psyche. His thumbs traced down the narrow bridge of her nose to its impertinent upturned tip before fanning across her cheekbones and circling to ride the contours of her mouth. Her breath brushed them in quick little puffs.

  "From the first time I saw your police file, I thought you had the most kissable lips I'd ever seen."

  "My police file?"

  He leaned in close, his mouth sealing in her surprise. He took his time there, too, learning the shape, the taste, the feel of her lips, first with his own, then with the slow pull of his tongue. She groaned, parting the way to deeper exploration but again, he pulled back.

  "I was right," came his husky whisper.

  His fingers rested on the padded shoulders of her beige linen suit jacket while his thumbs rode the lapels down to their overlap, resting there where her breasts began a tempting swell. She managed to break from the sensual spell he was weaving long enough to undo the three buttons holding the jacket together. Her knees were shaking. She wasn't sure how much more of this tender assault on her senses she could withstand without them buckling.

  He brushed the linen with its slick satin lining from her shoulders, letting it slide down her arms. Beneath it, she wore an ivory camisole with a stretchy bra built in. She took a tortured breath as his touch skimmed over the web of lace covering the upper curve of her breasts, ignoring the tingling ti
ps that ached for his attention. Instead, his palms smoothed down the quiver of her sides to the waistband of her matching skirt. He charted the flare of her hips, following the trail downward to where fabric ended midthigh and her stockings began. His thumbs ran under the hem of her skirt, over the tops of her thighs, until they met in the middle. And then they moved upward.

  "Jack."

  His name escaped her with a fragile tremor as her skirt hiked up and his hands stroked higher.

  "Who would have thought legs this luscious could put in five miles and still kick my butt?"

  She started to laugh, relieved at the break in tension, but the sound strangled in her throat as he reached the very damp reinforced cotton crotch. Again, instead of lingering as she longed for him to do, his hands slid away to safely brush down her skirt. By then, her body was a quaking mass of need.

  "I don't think this was part of our original agreement," he stated with a maddening calm. Surely he didn't mean to stop. She took a protesting breath, then he continued. "Perhaps we should amend it to cover any potential breaches of contract that might occur in the next few hours."

  "I'll put together a waiver releasing the both of us from any claim that might be made at a later date or time based on what I hope to God happens very soon and continues for at least the next few hours."

  "I love it when you get litigious."

  He took her mouth for a rough savaging. All the restraint and leisurely movements were gone. He was now a man with a mission, with a definite goal in mind. A common goal they both pursued with vigor and determination.

  She unfastened her skirt and let it shinny down her legs. Her panty hose were rolled down after it. As she straightened, he dipped his head, his lips scorching through the lace at her bosom to heat the skin beneath it. She clutched at his head, her back arching as he finally took a nipple between his teeth. A wavering moan escaped her. He shifted back long enough to pull the camisole over her head then went back to work, teasing, feasting, with lips and tongue and fingers until she was so alive with sensation, the briefest touch would have sent her flying.