by Angel Payne
Conquered
Honor Bound: Book Nine
ANGEL PAYNE
This book is an original publication of Angel Payne.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
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Copyright © 2018 Waterhouse Press, LLC
Cover Design by Waterhouse Press, LLC
Cover Photographs: Shutterstock
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All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For Thomas…for being my fantasy fulfilled.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Continue the Honor Bound Series with Book Ten
Excerpt from Ruled: Honor Bound Book Ten
Also by Angel Payne
Acknowledgments
About Angel Payne
Chapter One
Of all the days to vie for an Olympic medal in tripping over one’s own feet, Jen Thorne had to pick this one.
To be fair, however, maybe the circumstances had picked her. Most days, the most thrilling thing that happened in and around her little accounting office at Nellis Air Force Base was a freak desert thunderstorm or a UPS delivery. Because the legs on the UPS guy…
She wasn’t thinking of the UPS guy right now, though. Or much of anything else except staying upright as she and Lola, her assistant, headed back inside from their lunch break. In the Las Vegas Valley, wind was a fickle bitch. One second, the air could be eerily still, only to switch up and gust so hard, Jen wouldn’t have been surprised to see Auntie Em pedaling by with Toto in the basket of her bicycle.
Caught by such a gust, Jen was faced with saving the leftovers of her burrito or the hem of her dress. Normally, the issue would be moot, but the burrito was a Zapatas special, meaning she’d have a decent dinner tonight while working late to close out the pilots’ logs for the month. Besides, Lola was too busy trying to see through her own hair, a frizzy mass she’d just had hennaed to a deep purple, to notice Jen was flashing a similar shade in French panty lace—
As the wind rushed in again.
And had her stumbling, one suede-heeled boot over the other, just to maintain some semblance of upright balance—
Until a pylon popped up in the middle of the parking lot to help her.
Shit.
“Shit!” Only when Lola’s echo hit the air did Jen realize she’d blurted it too—for damn good reason. The pylon wasn’t a pylon. No pylon on the planet looked like this, with commanding muscles on a six-foot-plus frame that turned even his plaid shirt and jeans into an outfit worthy of Camelot itself. The guy’s stance was worthy of nobility too, with posture that bordered on arrogant and booted feet braced to steady both himself and her. None of that was even the most gulp-worthy part of him, as she learned when jolting her sights up to his face.
Oh, God.
He was worth way more than another gulp. Full-on gawking was now in order—but could she be blamed? Those thick ginger waves. That deep-dimpled grin. Those eyes, wolf gray and just as keen, seemed to take in every detail about her…
Including her exposed underwear.
Ohhhhh. Jeez.
And yeah, that had spilled out too—in the highest, most horrifying squeak she could imagine. Not true. Nowhere, in any shoot-me-now nightmare she’d ever had, did she let out a sound as obnoxious as that.
Lola, clearly agreeing, didn’t help by barking a giggle and snapping her gum.
Neither did Major Skip Tremaine, a man who’d never matched his call sign better. “Cat Five,” with his sharp nose and flawless high-and-tight haircut, rushed forward with the subtlety of an F-18 getting catapulted off a navy carrier. “Thorne! What the hell? You having the vapors or something?”
Lola yipped with another laugh.
Jen groaned beneath her breath. Kill. Me. Now.
She meant it, and even considered begging her ginger King Arthur to do it, but the only sound that emerged when she opened her mouth was another ridiculous whine. Why that made the hunk only smile wider and hold her tighter was just as irrational, if not fully dysfunctional—which, of course, only made him more irresistible. Holy hell. A lot more…
“Och, Tremaine. The vapors, man?”
“What?” Cat Five countered. “You taking full credit, Braw Boy? What, so the ‘lasses’ are now falling at your feet before you even meet them? Cocky son of a bitch.”
“Lasses.” It screaked softly out of Jen, doubling her horror as she also rasped, “Braw Boy.” Frantically, she grabbed at the hem of her skirt, newly taunted by a fresh blast of wind. “You’re…him. The—the hotshot from Scotland.”
“Captain Sam Mackenna.” His lips, composed of bold lines that emulated the cliffs of his native land, curled up a little at one end. “Also known as the cocky son of a bitch.” He offered his hand for a handshake. “And you are…?”
“Mortified.” Jen ducked her head, attempting to yank free from his grip. Though he was in civvies and she was no longer auditioning for the Victoria’s Secret Angels, this was still a thousand kinds of inappropriate—an impropriety her whole body begged her to continue. And though Sam allowed her to step free, he remained unusually close while issuing a quiet, easy reply.
“Bah. Mortified isn’t fun at all. How about…mouse?” Though with his Highland drawl, it came out much closer to moose—which pulled a giggle out of Jen before she could help it.
“With the silly squeak to match?”
He didn’t return the laugh. Instead, with his hooded gaze dropping to her mouth, he murmured, “Silly wasn’t the first word that came to my mind, lass.” As the parking lot was hit by another whomp of wind, making it hard to hear anything more than a few inches from one’s face, he leaned over and murmured close to her ear, “But adorable, hot, and sexy sure fucking did.”
And now, the wind wasn’t the only force walloping the crap out of her.
Maybe the gust had simply made her hear him wrong…?
One quick glance over. One stare full of his blatant flirtation.
Nope. Not a thing wrong with her hearing.
Jen concentrated on taking several long, steady breaths. But still, her heartbeat galloped. Her bloodstream ran viciously hot and then ruthlessly freezing. The wind kicked up again, mighty and merciless. Dear God. All they had to do was lengthen her skirt a little and then turn his sweater and jeans into a jerkin and kilt, and this would be a reenactment from the Highlander romance she’d finished last night in the tub. Including the part about how connected she already felt to him…
Fiction, Jen. Fiction. Remember? The fun little word bringing the reminder that strapping Scottish hunks don’t come wrapped in kilts and romance and carnal promises in fluent Gaelic? And technically, this one’s not even here for pleasure—though with Sin City right out the front door, he’ll likely find his way to it soon enough. Yeah, after talking rockets and guns and blowing enemy jets out of the sky all day, he’ll want some recreation—not a night pointing at constellations from your apartment balcony.
“All ri
ght, all right.” She held up both hands, managing to insert a laugh that sounded halfway casual. “Why don’t we just try for ‘Jen’?”
He tilted his head. The wind whipped hunks of whisky-colored strands across his hewn features. She pretended to clutch her Zapatas bag harder, which helped her resist clearing the brilliant strands away herself.
You: geek sandwich.
Him: alpha male filet.
And if the two are offered on the same plate?
Grab the stomach pump.
As if she needed an even bigger reminder of that mental sticky note, Tremaine strode up and swept in at once, clapping her on the back as he would one of the mechanics in the hangar. As Jen’s teeth found their rightful places again, he declared, “Thorne here is your ace inside the office, Mackenna. She’ll keep your ass in line with the administrative song-and-dance, and since this air combat cross-training program with the RAF includes twelve of you Scottish jocks, there’s going to be an ass-load of those hoops to hop.” He interrupted himself with a hissing grimace. “Annnnd there I go, harshing the girls’ Zapatas high. Sorry, Thorne—but once you see what Braw Boy and his crew can do to redefine the High Yo-Yo move alone, you’ll be damn glad we invited these boys over for a few weeks of friendly collaboration.”
Lola, having locked and come around the car, broke in with a snarky snort. “Oh, I think she already is, Major.”
Tremaine glanced over as if she were a three-year-old shouting “pwanes!” at the F-35s lined up on the tarmac in the distance. Just as callously, he turned back to Jen and Sam. “So maybe the two of you should get together for a few minutes, after Sam gets to know his way around the hangar and shit?”
Jen clenched her bag of leftovers even tighter while plastering a completely fake smile to her lips. “Sure thing. Whatever will make things easier for Captain Mackenna.”
“That’s my girl.”
She was damn glad she’d kept her teeth clenched. One, it meant the man didn’t knock any fillings loose with his shoulder smack of “encouragement.” Two, it helped cinch back the rejoinder that never failed to percolate when Tremaine used the diminutive.
I’m not your girl.
Locked molars or not, she was sorely tempted to fling the words—and didn’t even try to disguise why. In the space of three minutes, Captain Sam Mackenna had definitely upended her axis. Flipped the freaking tables of her awareness. Slammed a cosmic can opener on the lid of her composure and made her inhale a scoop of pure, raw, chemical attraction from the inside.
In three minutes.
How the hell was she going to see him—talk with him, interact with him, work with him—nearly every day for the next month?
The answer came in a strange, swift, relieving rush.
She simply hadn’t seen this coming. Hadn’t known the superstar Scottish pilot would look—and talk, and smolder, and flirt—more like a kilt-clad warrior who’d walked out of her favorite novel and right onto her boring old blacktop. And because she was caught with her defenses down and her skirt flying up, she hadn’t been prepared for the shock. And really hadn’t anticipated what Mackenna himself would do with that vulnerability.
Decisiveness was good in a pilot.
So were ruthlessness, boldness, and confidence.
All the reasons why she stuck to fictional hunks instead of real ones.
All the reasons why her wildest dreams involved one of those heroes handling her in the same ways.
Dominating her in the same ways…
But she wasn’t a plane. And the man needed to focus on his strategies and his flying.
A realization reached too late—especially when Lola was nearby. Oh yeah, the woman was all over her Sam Mackenna scope-out like white on rice. With a wry chuckle, she twirled a couple of indigo curls around two fingers and nudged Jen in the shoulder. Joined in commiseration, they stood with the wind behind them, watching Mackenna and Tremaine striding off to the hangars.
Lola’s humor turned into a wistful sigh. “Ho. Lee. Fuuuuck. That backside belongs in a G-string downtown.”
Despite the weird curl of tension still lingering in her belly, Jen laughed. “It’s…impressive.”
“Ohhhh, girl.” Lo patted her forearm. “Something tells me he’s going to need the deluxe version of the talk.”
“Hm.” It was more commiseration than consideration. “Which one? Keep-the-ego-in-the-cockpit, or keep-the-libido-in-the-locker-room?”
“Both.”
Jen groaned. “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”
Jen kept true to her word and gave him the speech. All right, not a speech speech, but she managed to drop enough hints about not “flying the flyboys” and “sampling the joysticks in her own hangar” that Captain Mackenna, with his miss-nothing focus and boulder-steady command, clearly didn’t miss an iota of her subtext.
And she was secretly, giddily gratified to sense he hadn’t.
Not that she would ever change her policy. As policies went, they needed to be in place. For circumstances just like this.
For unexpected arrivals like Captain Sam Mackenna.
Because just a week into this “special” assignment of his, she already knew that as pilots went, he was something special—and as men went, she would never meet anyone like him again. And yes, she thoroughly ran both conclusions past her usual internal reality check, because any self-respecting girl with a historical-romance addiction the size of hers was used to situations just like this. The giddy rush from watching him approach, imagining a sword swinging from one of his lean hips and a flintlock from the other. Replacing his olive-green flight suit with buckskins, muddy leather boots, and a broad-brimmed hat molded low over one eye—complete with pheasant feathers angled off the back. Or better yet, pretending the jet mechanics he waved at were actually loyal servants attending his ornate carriages—if billion-dollar planes could be kind of sort of considered “carriages”—along the lane leading to the grand mansion, where she waited for him with a glass of sherry and her pantaloons conveniently “in the wash” for the day…
But then the reality check cranked into gear. Big-time.
Her world was full of straight lines and order, where variations of one-plus-one always added up to the same thing and could never change. Even in her volunteer hours at the library, Dewey and his decimal system put order to the chaos. In every book she borrowed or bought from the used-book sales, there was a happy-ever-after to make the world right.
But Sam Mackenna? Well, if he really was the god he looked like, he’d rule over fire or battle or mischief—or a combination of the three. His world consisted of changes that happened by the second and the reaction speed to match: where half the time, the earth was up and the sky was down; where he took risks that meant living very much in the moment…
A philosophy that likely extended to his love life.
Wrong. Not his love life.
His sex life.
Because guys like him were always, always reminded that the dangers they faced in the cockpit directly corresponded to the action they could get in the sack—and because guys like him usually had the perfect skills to measure up to those demands as well. Because arousing a woman was probably a lot like guiding a fighter jet to Mach Five. And if even half that assertion were true, then Sam Mackenna’s prowess between the sheets was probably—
Nothing she should even dare to consider, let alone dwell on.
It was time to move on.
As in, right now.
Despite how the man proved out every single one of her theories, in exquisitely agonizing detail, during his approach across the main hangar. Strolling like the undisputed ruler of everything he surveyed. Then smiling as if his little “inspection of the estate” was a predawn thing and she was the sun who’d just risen on his day.
Moving. On.
Right. Now.
Only…a funny thing happened on the way to the great land of her noble follow-through. The man got within touching distance again. Not that
she was going there by any stretch of the imagination—though by now, that distance had been proved in colorful detail—but just one good inhalation of him was making the path a hell of a lot harder to maintain. How could a guy smell that good after several hours in a cockpit barely wider than his shoulders? And even right here, where used jet fuel, heated steel, and fried rubber competed for the discretion of her nose? His scent was the stunning opposite, reminding her of a walk through the forest after a storm, with earth and spices mixing in the most evocative, erotic way.
More urgently, why was it easier to think of the mountain of filing waiting on her desk—hell, even the mountain of laundry waiting for her at home—than keeping true to her noble policies?
No. Just keeping true to them when it came to him.
Magnificent, maddening man.
Magnificent in all the best ways. Maddening in all the most dangerous ways.
Because even as they exited the hangar and started back toward the conference room, the energy radiating off him was palpable…and intentional. She knew it from the curious looks tossed at him by the guys they passed in the hall, as well as what she could see simply observing their hazy reflection in the windows. No doubt about it… Sam Mackenna needed a classification of his own. A category she could never hope to reach—no matter how intensely his wolf grays tempted her otherwise after they rounded the corner into the conference room and sat down.
After he shoved a figurative middle finger at protocol and pulled out her chair for her.
After he followed that up by striding back and quietly closing the door—doubling the potency of his allure in a single move.
