Surrender

by Lisa Renee Jones

  His lips curve. “I take it that’s a quote from your father.”

  “Yes,” I say, setting the slipper back on the shelf. “That was right before he handed me a quiz on types of ammunition.”

  He laughs. “What else would a father quiz his daughter on?” He folds his arms in front of that broad, impressive chest and leans on the door frame. “Speaking of ammunition: Blake Walker. I want to know what he knows. And I want to be sure our men guarding Sara don’t conflict with his. I arranged to bring him here.”

  “Here? Can’t he be tied to Sara that way? Should we allow him to be seen here?”

  “Exactly why I don’t want us in public with him. Adriel is doing a covert pickup. And he’ll enter the castle in the car, out of sight.”

  “Of course,” I say. “Why would I even question you having thought of this?”

  “Better to bring it up than not,” he says, proving yet again why I feel he’s a great leader. He makes decisions. He makes demands. But he is confident in himself and in his role to listen to others and welcome input. “I do miss things.”

  “Doubtful,” I say, “but you know I’m still going to give my two cents.”

  His eyes warm, and while yes, there is a hint of that sin and sex he does so well, there is a different kind of warmth I decide is even better. It’s trust and friendship. When he glances at the piece of paper in my hand, he asks, “What’s that?”

  “This is the chocolate shop I keep remembering,” I say, offering him the paper.

  He reaches for it and looks at the page, then at me. “I know where it’s located.” He folds the printout and sticks it in the pocket of his pajama bottoms. “You think the necklace is there?”

  “I can’t imagine there would be a place to hide it there, but I went there with it in my possession. Going there, when it’s possible, might be the final trigger to unlock my memory.”

  “I can at least go there and search the place when I’m in Paris.”

  “When you’re in Paris,” I repeat, my gut twisting with that idea. “I hate you going without me.”

  “You know—”

  “I know what you’re going to say. Sasha said it, too. But consider this: I could be used as a good distraction. I—”

  He reaches for me and pulls me to him. “No. Not this. You can help plan everything, and be involved in every way except putting yourself in his reach.”

  “Can we at least—”

  He cups my head and kisses me. “No. If that means we fight, we fight.”

  My hand flattens on his chest. “I’m really not feeling like fighting with you, Hawk, but I reserve the right to change that at any minute.”

  A low rumble of sexy masculine laughter escapes his lips. “Duly noted, future wife of The Hawk. We need to get you a ring.”

  “You choose it. That will make it special.”

  “I have something in mind.”

  “Then that’s what I want.”

  He gives me the tender, warm look that defies the dark, hard parts of him, and makes him even sexier and more alluring. “Blake won’t be here until this afternoon,” he says. “We have plenty of time for you to grab those slippers and use your studio upstairs. You can show me your moves.”

  The suggestion is unexpected, as is the jolt it delivers. “No,” I say, that jolt turning to a squeeze in my heart. “It reminds me of my mother, and right now, I need to just deal with my father. I’ll revisit that other part of me later—but I wouldn’t mind hitting the gym.”

  “I want to see you dance,” he says, his voice a gentle, stubborn prod.

  “You think I’m hiding from something.”

  “You haven’t resisted the idea of dancing before now, sweetheart. Something else is going on. I think you’re afraid that giving yourself permission to do something you love, just because you love it, makes you weak. It doesn’t.”

  He’s hit a nerve I didn’t know existed, and it’s far closer to the truth than the answer I’d given us both a few moments before.

  “When was the last time you danced?” he asks. “Really danced?”

  Okay, maybe there is truth to both answers. Because my chest tightens and I look to the ceiling, fighting an unexpected wave of emotion. “A little here, when I was alone one night.”

  “Before that?”

  “The day my mother died,” I grudgingly admit, refocusing on him. “And I haven’t relived losing her yet. I guess there are more things my mind is hiding from me than I realized.”

  He gives me a three-second intense look. “Would she approve of you turning your back on ballet?”

  “She’d roll over in her grave.”

  “And how long has it been since your mother died?”

  “Years,” I say, a firmer answer coming to me. “Right after my college graduation.”

  Those blue eyes of his fill with challenge and mischief. “In other words, you don’t remember how to dance.”

  He’s goading me and I don’t want it to work, but I grab the slippers anyway. “I promise you, I can handle these slippers as well as I handle a gun any day.”

  “How would I know that? You won’t show me.”

  “Fine,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  He smiles, and when this man really smiles, it’s devastatingly sexy. And before I know his intentions, I’m over his shoulder, his hand on my ass, and we’re moving.

  I inhale his spicy, almost woodsy scent that’s so addictive. “It’s a good thing you smell so great, because that’s the only thing making me forgive you for making the blood rush to my head.”

  Rather than putting me down, he simply says, “I’ll walk faster.”

  And that proves true. In a blink we are in the hallway and making our way up the narrow wooden stairs that lead to a small passage and an office halfway to the left. Continuing onward and upward, we enter the gym. “I’m seeing spots, Kayden,” I murmur, and moments later he sets me down in the middle of my newly finished dance studio.

  I sway and he catches me at the waist, his big hands strong and welcome. “We really have to talk about this habit of you carrying me everywhere,” I tell him.

  “I don’t do it often enough?”

  I laugh. “That’s it,” I tease. “You need to carry me everywhere.”

  “Careful what you ask for,” he teases back, and I feel his mischievous, light mood becoming contagious. “Put your slippers on and let’s see you dance,” he orders, because he can’t help but give commands, but he doesn’t let me go. He glances around the rectangular room with the new hardwood floor that he, Carlo, and Adriel installed over the old flooring for me just last week. “You need a bench to sit on and mirrors in here. We’re still a work in progress.” He refocuses on me. “I’ll hold onto you so you can change into your ballet slippers.”

  I grab his arm for balance and make the change, staring down at my pink-covered feet, memories exploding in my mind. Dancing. More dancing. “I auditioned for Juilliard.”

  “What?”

  “I auditioned.” The memory is sharper now and I wait for some emotion to hit me, but it just feels like a fact.

  “And?”

  One of the questions we’d wanted answered is my answer. “The CIA showed up.”

  “Did you make it into Juilliard?”

  “I don’t know. The CIA withdrew my application the minute I said yes to them.”

  “Why’d you say yes?”

  That sharpness becomes focused, and I know why I’m recalling this again now. “I was never a dancer after I killed my first two men.”

  “Your father’s murderers.”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “Oddly unemotional. Joining the CIA appealed to me because they were an extension of my father. I think I wanted a family unit. Little did I know that’s not how t
he CIA operates, but I made it work.”

  He doesn’t comment, but I know he gets it. No family. No one to worry about. Until there was us. “Do you remember anything else?” he asks.

  “No, but I will.” There is confidence in my tone. “That’s becoming evident.”

  “It is. For now, though,” he kisses my forehead, “be a dancer.”

  A bubble of excitement fills me. “I’m eager to try out my new slippers.”

  “Good. I’m eager to see if you really can handle them like Annie.”

  “Game on,” I say, accepting the challenge. “But I need music.”

  “I have about every song released in the States in the past five years, as well as the biggest hits by decades. They’re programmed into the panel in the corner.” He walks that way. “Any idea what you want?”

  Feeling determined to steal any power Neuville still has, my answer is quick. “ ‘Take Me to Church,’ ” I say, choosing a song that we both know reminds me of that monster.

  Kayden returns to me instantly, his hands settling at my waist. “No. You will not dance to a song that reminds you of Neuville raping you. This place is about you having something special for you. Should you invite me here on occasion, I would love to join you. But this is your place, our new life, and he doesn’t get to be a part of it. Understand?”

  In this moment, Kayden slides a little deeper into my soul. This man who can be hard and cold should he need to be, yet so very tender and gentle. “The many shades of dark and light that you are, Kayden, is so damn sexy and perfect.”

  His eyes soften, and those sensual, sometimes punishing lips curve. “I could say the same of you, sweetheart. Now. What music do you want?”

  I shove his chest. “You go stand somewhere. I’ll pick it.” He hesitates. “Not that song.”

  He smiles, obviously pleased with my eagerness, and so am I. I haven’t felt this light-spirited in a very long time and I want to enjoy every moment. I walk to the electronic panel and find it’s pretty close to having the entire iTunes library installed. I scan my choices and smile when I see Jason Aldean’s “Just Gettin’ Started,” deciding to connect with the Texas boy Kayden is at his core.

  I turn it on and move back to the center of the room, finding him leaning on the wall, hearing the song begin: “I knew the minute that I picked you up, it was gonna be a wild ride.” “That doesn’t sound like ballerina music,” he says.

  “The ballerina gets to decide what ballerina music is,” I say, feeling pretty darn playful.

  I lift my arms and try out the first position, my eyes meeting Kayden’s, a smile mixed with heat in the depth of his. I go to my toes, and oh, how I love this. Toes. Arms. First position. Second position. Plie. I am back. I start dancing, falling into my old steps far more easily than expected, and throwing in some new moves. Giving a sexy shake of my hips here and there, and throwing Kayden an equally sexy look over my shoulders.

  “That doesn’t look like ballet,” he accuses.

  “The best dancers have a creative side,” I say, moving around the floor, and as my confidence grows, so do my sexy little moves, and before long we’re having a great time, both of us singing and laughing. I really love that he’s singing too, that he lets down his guard with me. That he can let himself be my man, not The Hawk, right now. It’s just us having fun, and there’s not a flashback or inhibition in sight. I love that, too.

  I go all out and present him with my backside, pull up his shirt, and dare complete silliness. I twerk. I have no idea how I know how to twerk. Probably the kids at school, but I seem to be good at it.

  “You can’t do that to Jason Aldean,” he objects. “It’s just wrong, though it looks very right when you do it.”

  I face him, both of us laughing, and knowing the lyrics coming up, I close the space between us to stand in front of him just as the words I’m waiting for fill the air: “Ain’t even had a taste of your love.” “I haven’t had a proper taste,” I dare.

  “What is proper?” he asks, dark hunger in his blue eyes, and I suspect my green eyes are dancing with the same.

  My hands settle on his hips, then find their way under his shirt to shove it upward. He rewards me by pulling it over his head, his delicious muscles flexing as he tosses it aside, while my palms have already pressed to warm skin and hard, ripped abs. The instant he looks at me again, I slowly lower myself to my knees.

  He gives me this heavy-lidded stare that is all sex and hunger and that does all kinds of crazy things to my body, warming it all over, driving my motivation, my desire for him. My lips find the line right above his pajama bottoms and I trail my tongue back and forth, while my hand lightly strokes over his already thick shaft through the thin cotton material. Just the idea of pleasing him this way, of him completely letting go for me, as I have for him, has my nipples aching and my sex clenching.

  But before I can lead him down that road his hands come down on my shoulders and he lifts me to my feet, turning me and pressing me against the wall. “We’re equals,” he says, snagging the hem of my shirt, his shirt. “Which means you have on too many clothes.” He caresses the cotton slowly up my body, his hands now warm on my skin, branding me in a way only he can, his touch radiating through me. My breasts are heavy, nipples tight, and my thighs slick.

  Finally, he pulls the shirt over my head, tossing it aside, and while my unbound breasts had not been ideal for dancing, the hot swipe of his stare, followed by his hands, prove them quite ideal. He strokes my nipples, tugs and then thumbs them until I am panting, aching. Then, he repeats exactly what I had done moments before. His eyes find mine, and he lowers himself to one knee, anticipation burning through me.

  “I wanted to do things to you,” I say, wondering how I lost the chance to please him for once.

  He gives me a steamy look. “You can. You will. I just can’t stop thinking about how you taste.” As if those words weren’t enough to melt me, his lips find my belly, as mine had his, but there is no me pulling him to his feet. His tongue flickers, licks, teases. He takes his time. He builds anticipation that is killing me.

  “Kayden,” I plead, and demand.

  This must be what he was waiting for, because he drags my leggings down my hips, and doesn’t stop there. They are at my ankles and then over my ballet slippers in a few blinks. He tosses them away and then looks up at me, his hands wrapped over the pink ribbons at my ankles. “The slippers stay,” he says, and when he looks at me, there’s a message in his eyes that he wants me to read.

  I think . . . he’s telling me that the person I am when I dance stays with us. I’m not just an agent. And I have officially never been so willingly naked for any man, ever.

  He begins trailing his palms up my calves, goose bumps rising in their wake, every inch seducing me, like he seduces me. But the moment he’s at my thighs, about to touch me where I need him to touch me the most, the music changes. While it’s changed several times before, this song, Tim McGraw’s “Live Like You Were Dying” has a meaning that renders us immobile.

  At any moment, we can die. Any moment, we can lose each other. We both freeze, our eyes locking and holding, the words speaking to us about past losses and fears of more to come: “I hope you get the chance to live like you’re dying.” That line, which is all about living right now in case you die tomorrow, jolts me. It must jolt Kayden, too, because he stands up, his hands tangling in my hair, his stare meeting mine, a million words in his eyes that all land in one silent place: I can’t lose you.

  A moment later he is kissing me and I am kissing him, and we are wild, hot, desperate. In stark contrast to last night’s slow, seductive lovemaking we are all over each other, touching, licking, biting. And it isn’t long until his pants are gone and he’s lifting me, the thick, hard length of him pressing inside me, all the way inside me. He holds me. I hold him. All my weight is on him, our bodies melded close, my face in
his neck, my nostrils inhaling that delicious scent of him I never want to stop smelling.

  I lose everything but him, and this, and I don’t even know where we start and end.

  When it’s over, he turns and leans me against the wall, and despite the fact that his legs have to be exhausted, he doesn’t put me down. “No one is taking this from us, or taking you from me. You have my word.”

  “Don’t do that to yourself,” I warn again. “Don’t put that pressure on yourself or us. Let’s just spend every day like this. Let’s live—”

  “Like we’re dying,” he says, his forehead finding mine.

  “Yes,” I whisper, my fingers curling around his jaw. “Live like we’re dying.”

  fourteen

  After Kayden and I have showered, we both coincidentally dress in black jeans, boots, and T-shirts. I’m not sure what that says about his mood, considering our amazing morning, but I’m shifting gears, moving from pink slippers to Warrior Princess, should I need to be her. And, I just want to be sure Blake Walker takes me seriously. He needs to hear what I say to him. He needs to protect Sara.

  By noon we’ve joined Marabella in the kitchen and she is all about stuffing our faces with pancakes, and filling our cups with delicious frothy coffee.

  “I need to hit the gym. I can’t keep eating like this.” I look at Kayden. “Maybe we should come up with a routine. We go in the morning before we do anything else?”

  He sips his coffee, his gaze warm, a wayward strand of light hair brushing his brow. “A routine would be good.”

  “A routine for Kayden,” Marabella says, hands on her robust hips, and ironically, her dress a pale ballerina slipper pink.

  “We could continue exactly as we did this morning,” he offers, mischief in his voice.

  “Did you work out this morning?” Marabella asks innocently, making my cheeks heat.

  “We did,” Kayden replies, winking at me. “A perfect way to start the day.” His phone rings next to his plate and he grabs it, pushing his seat back. “Carlo.”