by Marie Harte
Mason had never been one to use a woman just for mindless hot sex, but that one night he’d needed her, just as she’d needed him. No name. Only that big bed in the dark hotel room, where they’d done everything he’d ever heard and read about and more. They were like two rutting animals in heat.
When he woke up in the morning, she was gone, slipped away as if she’d never been there. And he’d carried a cloak of shame about it ever since then, because that wasn’t like him. Wasn’t his style. And making it worse? He’d do it again if she showed up in front of him because, even though it was supposed to be nothing more than sex, she’d imprinted herself on him. He had to work hard to get her out of his mind.
That hadn’t been easy, or even completely successful. Too many nights he’d lain in bed, remembering the feel of her sweet cunt clenched around his cock. The touch of her hands. The taste of her lips and her pussy.
It was all the worse because, after that night, things began to go wrong.
Some cattle went missing, a loss they discovered when they were moving part of the herd. One of the hands came upon the cut in the fence between one pasture section and a desolate area, and another cut on the Rio Grande side. Some of the cattle were drinking at the edge of the narrow stream of water. Sonofabitch. He was lucky they’d been able to find them and get them back. That they hadn’t injured themselves wandering around in the landscape with all the cacti and thorny bushes. Hadn’t been killed by predators.
But that led to the speculation about who had vandalized the fence.
Stick Montgomery, one of the older hands, was the first to discover the traces of smugglers crossing their ranchland from the border. He and a couple of the hands rode slowly over the entire area and found signs there had been people moving through there, all the way to a gravel road that cut in from the two-lane highway. Although the ground was hard, there were soft places where footsteps faintly showed, plus not everyone had been careful near the thorny shrubs. Little bits of material had gotten caught, something you wouldn’t notice unless you were actually looking for it. The fence had been snipped there, too. He’d guessed both people and drugs were being trafficked and cursed a blue streak about it.
Mason had to admit his security where his ranch connected with the border had been less than sterling but as the smuggling across the Southwestern United States—and especially in Texas—increased, he’d spent some bucks to beef it up. Sensors that they moved regularly so no one could map them, night patrols by some of the hands, double rows of barbed-wire fencing.
But somehow they—whoever they were—always seemed to be at least one step ahead of him. Four nights ago, two of his hands out checking the fence line and sensors after midnight had been shot and killed. He’d called the sheriff, who took pictures of the scene, removed the bodies to the morgue, and asked a lot of questions. But the man didn’t hold out much hope of catching anyone.
“It’s one of two things,” Sheriff Shaw said. “Poachers shooting foxes for their pelts or coyotes smuggling illegals. Either way, I hate to tell you, there’s not a lot we can do.”
“But you’re the law,” Mason insisted.
“And spread pretty thin,” the sheriff said in a rueful voice. “There’s nothing that points to anyone. Poachers are rodents who scurry away into hidey holes. And if it’s coyotes smuggling illegals, the Border Patrol is already overloaded.”
“So I’m just supposed to write off the deaths of two of my men?”
Shaw simply shook his head and sighed. “You’re supposed to be extra careful and not send people who aren’t trained for such dangerous work out to patrol the area. We’ll report the crime, but I don’t think there’s much else we can do.”
“This is why these people are never stopped,” Mason had shouted at him.
Shaw couldn’t disagree with him. But he’d had no answers.
For Mason, that was the last straw. They’d notified the families of the men, arranged for their funerals, and then Mason dug around to find out what his options were. Fuck the sheriff. Fuck the Border Patrol. This was his land and his men, and he didn’t intend to let some asshole use it for illegal purposes.
After getting recommendations from other ranchers in the area, he made a call to Mission Control, a security agency owned by a former Delta Force team leader. The call confirmed help was on the way. Tough, former military who could get any job done. They couldn’t do anything about the woman who haunted him, but at least they could make his ranch safe again.
“They coming?” Stick leaned against the doorjamb.
“They are. A six-man team led by some guy named Chris who was a member of the Nightstalkers and flew missions over in Afghanistan. Plus, all their equipment.”
“Nightstalkers?” Stick lifted an eyebrow. “I read about them. Those are some real tough guys. They’ll take care of this shit.”
“They aren’t all Nightstalkers,” Mason corrected him. “Just the pilot. But they are all former military. Different branches, though.”
“Well, whatever.” Stick shook his head. “We need help bad, that’s for sure. Where you planning to house them?”
“I told Seth Crowder, the senior partner, sleeping arrangements wouldn’t be a problem. We haven’t used the second bunkhouse in some time. It can also serve as their headquarters while they’re here.”
“Good idea. That would have been my suggestion, too.”
Mason pushed himself up from his chair. “They can’t get here a minute too soon to suit me.” He glanced at his watch. “Which, according to Seth, should be at three-thirty, about fifteen minutes from now. The guys finish fixing that last section of fencing?”
“They should be back any minute. Want to give them a heads up on what’s going on?”
“I do, so we’d best get to it. Come on. Let’s head out to the barn.”
Stick had been with the ranch for a lot of years, and Mason relied on him more and more as time passed. The man was smart, savvy, and knew his way around ranch animals. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quite as good with people as he was with animals, which was why he would never be foreman. But Mason felt more comfortable with Stick than Greg Ruiz, the man who held that position.
When they reached the yard, he stopped in front of the barn, taking in the scene, inhaling the tantalizing aroma of hay, cattle, horses, and yes, even manure. He’d grown up with it, and nothing smelled better to him. It was the scent of his land, the ranch that had been in his family for three generations.
And now some asshole was using his land as a smugglers’ trail and killing his men when they got in the way. Thinking about it made his blood boil. He hoped Mission Control was as good as advertised.
He had just finished giving the men a heads up on the situation when he heard a sound echoing from above, a sharp noise as if something was slapping the air. He squinted at a dark spot in the distant sky that grew larger and larger as it grew closer. In seconds, a sleek helicopter, black with an interlinked MC on the side, hovered over the pasture closest to the barn then slowly descended to the ground. Mason was no expert on helos, but even he knew this was one fucking expensive piece of machinery. Well, he’d been told they didn’t come cheap, and the retainer he’d sent was a hell of a lot more than pocket change.
It was more than worth the expense, however. If his ranch became a known passage for people trafficking in illegal aliens, drugs, and who knew what else, the Border Patrol or the Texas Rangers, or maybe both, could come in and shut him down. Not to mention the danger of having such traffic on his land. He felt comfortable knowing everyone on the team was former military. Mason himself had served a tour in Afghanistan four years ago and had confidence he was getting seasoned warriors.
“Better bring the truck out,” he told Stick. “They’ll have equipment to haul to the bunkhouse.”
As the blades slowed their whapping motion, he left Stick to fetch the pickup and jogged out to greet the pilot and passengers. He was anxious to meet this Chris who Seth Crowder said was one of
his best, not only as a pilot, but also as a team leader. Hell, a Nightstalker pilot was aces in his book. Everyone knew they were the best of the best.
The door of the cabin slid open, and four men dropped easily to the ground. Others still inside began handing out duffel bags and hard-sided cases to them. They stacked it all efficiently, duffels to one side, cases to the other, ready for loading into the pickup.
The pilot remained in the cabin, checking the controls, head bent low and face shielded by a baseball cap. For a nanosecond, he thought there was something familiar about the person, but then he gave himself a mental shake. He’d never met any of these people before. None of their names were familiar.
He tried to get a better look at the guy still in the helo and thought he saw a ponytail hanging through the opening in the back of the cap. Great. Was this some long-haired asshole he’d have to deal with? What kind of team leader was that? He couldn’t imagine Seth would send a guy whose attitude would get in the way of the operation. Especially as the leader. Well, he guessed it made no never mind to him. He just wanted him to get the job done.
He waited until everything was unloaded and everyone on the ground before stepping forward to introduce himself. He was pleased to see they were all hard, seasoned muscular men with firm handshakes and a no-nonsense look in their eyes.
“We’ll want to sit down with you as soon as we haul all this to the bunkhouse,” the man named Ted Hollister said. “Our team leader wants to get going on this as soon as possible.”
“Can’t be soon enough for me,” Mason agreed. “The quicker the better.”
“We have aerial maps of the ranch,” he added, “but we’ll take anything else you can give us.”
“I have those the appraisal district uses. They’re pretty detailed.”
“Good.” Hollister nodded. “We need to be as specific in locations as possible.”
Mason glanced toward the chopper. “I’m anxious to meet your team leader. Chris, right?”
A tiny smile teased at the corners of Ted’s mouth. “Yeah. Give it a minute or so.”
A faint thread of anxiety wiggled its way through Mason. What was that almost smile about? Was something wrong here? Had Mission Control played some kind of big joke on him? For what he was paying them, they’d better not.
Finally, the door on the other side of the chopper opened. The pilot leaped down to the ground and came around to greet Mason.
Who nearly had a heart attack.
Holy fucking shit. This was the team leader? Was this a joke of some kind?
Standing in front of him was not the tough leader he’d expected, well-muscled and a hardened veteran of the battles in the sandbox. Instead, he stared at the woman who’d burned up his sheets in that hotel room a year ago. The one who wouldn’t stay out of his dreams or his memory. The one he considered his omen of bad luck.
Although her sunglasses partially obscured her face, there was no mistaking the delicate jawline or the body he’d explored every inch of. Lithe and slender, she came nearly to his shoulder. A Mission Control T-shirt fell softly against rounded breasts his hands had cupped and kneaded. Worn jeans clung to nicely curved hips and long, slender legs. High cheekbones highlighted an oval a face and a mouth with full lips—a face he knew he’d never forget and lips he could still taste, even after all this time. Aviator shades his her eyes but yeah, that was definitely a ponytail hanging from the back of her cap. Luxurious sable hair that he’d run his fingers through. Hair that had drifted over his belly when she—
Stop it!
Would she remember him? The sunglasses might have obscured any expression on her face, but he didn’t miss the way she came to an abrupt halt or the sudden stiffness of her posture. Oh, yeah, she knew who he was and was equally as shocked. For an endless moment, neither of them spoke.
Mason glanced at the other team members standing to the side, watching him with amusement on their faces. Apparently, this happened with regularity, that the man he’d been expecting was actually a female. They figured that was the cause of the sudden tension. To them, this was a joke, only the men had no way of knowing exactly how much of a joke. He had to fix this. No way could he be around her while the team worked to resolve his situation. Already, his cock was vibrating with the memory of her mouth and hands and the slick, wet heat of her pussy.
This couldn’t happen. He’d have to play the misogynist and let them chalk his reaction up to his distaste for women in lead positions.
“Okay,” he growled. “Prank time’s over. You can head on back to the office, little girl. I want to meet the real team leader.”
Hoots of laughter erupted from the men, but apparently the female in front of him didn’t think it was any funnier than he did. She yanked off her sunglasses and gave him a view of blue eyes that, at the moment, were as dark as the ocean in the middle of a storm. Eyes that had stared hard into his as the mother of all orgasms gripped them. The muscles around her jaw tightened.
“No joke, Mr. Rowell. And I don’t appreciate your comments.” She took a step forward and held out her hand. “Krista Gauthier. Everyone calls me Kris. That’s K-R-I-S. Not C-H-R-I-S. And, yes, I’m the leader of this team.”
Mason was aware the men were still enjoying the situation. Apparently, this wasn’t the first time someone had been caught like he was. But that was the least of his problems. The air between them suddenly filled with tension so thick he was sure it was visible to everyone watching. Fuck! On what planet had he ever thought they’d meet again, especially like this?
The rigid line of her posture was a good indication she felt the same way. They faced one another for what seemed an interminable amount of time.
“I don’t have any contagious diseases, Rowell.” Her tone held a sarcastic bite.
She still had her hand extended. Everyone was watched with evident curiosity, wondering what the hell was going on. He managed to pull himself together and grasp her hand.
The moment they made contact, he realized having her here would be a mistake. Big mistake.
Electricity sizzled between them like a downed high-voltage wire. Whatever had drawn them together that night, a year ago, was still there. Mason forced himself not to yank his hand away and took a step back. He hoped nobody noticed the sudden bulge behind his fly. Then Kris dropped her gaze, and he caught the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth.
“I can assure you,” she told him, “I am more than mission qualified.” Her voice was even, uninflected.
Yeah, but what kind of mission? With a supreme effort, he forced himself to focus on the business at hand. He couldn’t let the message his cock was sending him derail what was important here. After that first little jolt of recognition, she appeared to have herself under control. He needed to do the same.
“Fine.” He cleared his throat. “Seth says you can do it, so I’ll take him at his word. And, by the way, he wants you to check in with him and let him know you got here.”
She turned her attention to the men waiting with their gear. “Rich, text Seth and let him know we didn’t get lost.”
Shifting her focus to Mason again, she had the same unreadable expression on her face. She studied him for what seemed forever before nodding her head once, as if she’d come to some kind of internal decision. “All right. Let’s get all this stuff inside, set up wherever you’re housing us, and have a sit-down to go over the details of what’s needed. The sooner we get started, the faster we can resolve the situation.”
“I’m all for that,” he agreed.
“Is there a better place you’d like the chopper to stay?” Kris asked. “Or is it okay to park it here?”
“I’m good with whatever suits you, but feel free to check around and see if there’s a place that might be better.”
“It’s important your men understand they have to stay away from it.” With her sunglasses back in place, it was hard to read her expression. Did she think his men were idiots? That he was? Or was she merely flexing h
er very delectable muscles?
Mason tamped down the surge of irritation. “Trust me. My men won’t be anywhere near your precious chopper. They aren’t stupid.”
After one more hard glance at him, she hefted a duffel and strode toward the pickup. With an economy of fuss everything was loaded into the truck. Kris rode in the cab with Mason, Stick, and Ted. Thank god she chose the backseat in the dual cab. The others wedged themselves into the truck bed. Less than five minutes later, Stick pulled up in front of the bunkhouse and parked.
“I wasn’t expecting, uh, mixed company,” Mason told Kris. “This is just a big, open room with beds and some tables and one bathroom. My housekeeper cleaned it up good for the team, but it’s not exactly a co-ed facility.” He rubbed his jaw, wondering if he was about to put his foot in his mouth. “I can offer you a room up at the main house, if you want.”
The look she gave him could have frozen fire. “I bunk where everyone else does. I’ve been leading this team for a year, and we don’t usually have first class accommodations on an assignment. So, thanks, but I’m good.”
She turned and headed into the bunkhouse with a purposeful stride. Mason couldn’t help noticing the flex of the muscles in her ass as she walked and the straight line of her slim body. It took major effort on his part not to remember her naked and under him.
Damn! What the fuck? He better get his mind out of his pants. Of course, if he hadn’t been able to forget her in a year, what made him think he could turn it off now?
Because I’m not some horny kid. And it was just one night. Forget it. She and her team are going to catch the bad guys for me, so I’d better keep it in my pants. Hopefully, this will be over soon, and she’ll be out of my life for good.
