by Nikki Logan
He shook his head. She still just didn’t get it. “Clare, like it or not, everything changed—permanently—the moment your convoy was intercepted—”
“Hijacked!”
He didn’t argue. “Whatever. From that moment on, there weren’t many paths leading to a happy ending for those dogs.”
Or for you.
She looked mutinous.
“It’s something.” He emphasized the words by looming over her, frustration turning to anger because his hands were tied. “I’m trying to help you, for God’s sake!”
If she only knew how fast he’d had to talk to stop Mbuutu from taking out his rage on those damned dogs. He’d felt like an idiot stumbling his way to the excuse they’d finally accepted. Wasted bullets. The truth was…he didn’t want to see the animals harmed any more than she did. Aside from the fact that once the killing started, there was no telling where it would stop. To these men, Clare was worth even less than the dogs.
Her back straightened. “I don’t need your damn help.”
He snorted. She really wasn’t living the same reality as the rest of them. “Yeah, Clare, you do. I gave you my word I’d do everything I can to keep you safe, but so far, you’ve done nothing but make things harder for me.”
And more dangerous for herself.
He’d thought nothing could touch him these days. He’d trained himself to manage his fear, always. But back there in the bush, he’d had to struggle to keep from panicking until he’d seen her crashing, loud as a rhino, through the scrub. He’d followed her unseen for a short while, and then had to take her down hard when he got a glimpse of Mbuutu coming toward her. He knew what would have happened if the giant African found her first. A vision of her— broken, gutted, and bleeding out into the parched earth was branded into his brain.
At least she had the grace to look slightly abashed, but it didn’t last long. Her voice rose, incredulous. “You expect me to be grateful?”
He wanted to deny it, to walk out, not to give a flying fuck. But he couldn’t. “Yes, damn it. Do you know how hard I’m working to keep you alive?”
She glared at him, caution warring with a glimmer of hope. Wanting to trust him but yet…not. “Why?” she demanded. “Why do you even care?”
He struggled for an answer that resembled the truth. And just couldn’t find one.
They regarded each other, measuring the tension between them—the bad and the good. A tingle started to grow low in his belly. He squashed it.
“Get up. I want you to fight me,” he growled.
“What?”
“Fight me,” he repeated. “I’m going to teach you self-defense.”
She gaped at him. “I’ll only use it to escape.”
“Not a chance.” No one was giving her a second chance at that. “Besides. I’m teaching you defense, not offense. In case you need it.” In case something—or someone—happened to him and he wasn’t there to—
He assumed a combat stance and hauled her to her feet.
“Come on,” he snapped. “Now fight me.”
Fast. Before he lost his inner battle…and gave her a lesson of a very different sort.
…
Clare yanked her arm free, sick and tired of being manhandled by Neanderthals, heart-sore enough about the dogs and confused enough about what was really going on to feel the volcano of pent-up anger bubbling to the surface. If he wanted a fight…
She shoved him.
If they weren’t here for the dogs then there must have been something else in the transporter. Something hidden in it. Drugs or diamonds or…something. Maybe she and the dogs were just in the way.
He picked her up and dumped her upside down on the protesting bed. She instantly moved to get up, the surprise triggering a rush of indignation. She lunged. He batted her away like a flying ant attracted to the flickering light in her room.
Unless she was the target all along?
But if that was true then why the hell would he be teaching her self-defense?
“If someone grabs you around your upper body, just drop to the floor. Slide right through their grip.” He pulled her to her feet, dragged her arms up over her head to demonstrate the move.
Okay, so he was serious. “But then I’m on the ground,” she pointed out. Conveniently positioned for murder. Or worse.
He grabbed her again and she went limp as instructed, raised her arms and slid right through to the floor at his feet. Huh. More effective than she could have imagined.
“Good. Now either roll onto your back so you can defend yourself kicking your legs, or punch out a fist on your way down to hit my groin. Whatever you can manage.”
God, it felt so good to be fighting back! She jockeyed around him like a featherweight boxer. Super-super-featherweight. They stood and tried the move again. He caught her. She jabbed. Her fist nearly connected with his groin.
He cracked a smile, just out of reach. “Trust you to go for the crotch straight up.”
She caught herself grinning back, and stumbled to a halt, caught in the glow of the first genuine smile she’d seen from him. It warmed her somewhere deep inside.
He shot out for her again, seeing her distraction, but this time she evaded him.
“Excellent.”
Her breath got heavier. His gaze grew more focused. A light sheen of sweat broke out on his brow and kept pulling her focus.
It was just sweat. It wasn’t sexy.
Even if it was.
She crouched into a more defensive position and gave him a flash of her tank-top cleavage to break his concentration. Whatever you’ve got, girl, use it… Turned out boobs worked pretty well. She jumped free of him and circled around for another attempt.
Twenty minutes passed as Alpha—her captor—taught her the simplest maneuvers that might well save her life. Ironic that her kidnapper should be teaching her survival techniques. She wondered what the men outside must have made of all the thumping and grunting.
They’d probably be delighted he was getting a run for his money as he punished her.
“Okay, freeform,” he panted, the workout hurting even him.
Clare sucked in breath. “What’s that?”
“Just do whatever you can, no particular sequence. No rules. Whatever gains you the advantage. My job is to stop you.”
She circled round, chest heaving, thinking fast. He watched her intently, not moving an inch. Then, without warning, he snatched her toward him. He’d be expecting a counter-measure so, instead, she moved closer into his arms, effectively loosening his hold.
But instead of dropping, she stretched up and smacked her lips to his surprised mouth.
The distraction worked perfectly and she pressed her advantage, kneeing him neatly in the groin, breaking from his grip, and dashing around the room in a victory lap. Her triumph was short-lived. Either her knee had missed its mark or he had steel-capped balls, because he barely paused before lunging after her.
“The problem with surprise tactics,” he said, backing her into a corner and twisting one arm behind her effortlessly in a way that had her crumpling toward all that sweaty heat, “is they only work once. And they can be modified to use against you.”
He closed the gap, grabbed both her wrists, and dragged them overhead, pushing her against the wall. Before she could protest, his mouth found hers. He stood hard against her so her pinioned wrists were immobilized and she could not kick out. And he kissed her. Hard. The only part of her free to offer defense was her mouth. So she bit him.
His body jerked, but the metallic taste of blood only inflamed him. He deepened the kiss. Her own blood rushed from her head, making it spin, thundering for parts of her farther south. She stopped fighting and his hold on her softened. He let one arm drop so she could push away…if she wanted.
She didn’t want. She leaned into him instead, kissing him back, a half-moan wanting its voice. It was stupid and crazy and weak—and she’d never needed anything so badly in her life. Kissing him, having the
control, was as heady as any narcotic. A thrill raced through her body.
He tastes like he smells. Dangerously good. Her hands reached up and tangled in his hair, the movement causing her breasts to lift toward him. His hand found the small of her back and splayed across it while the other inched across her midriff to her ribs. She surfaced from the fog of desire long enough to notice how he paused there and didn’t automatically fill his hand with her breast. He ran his knuckle lightly along its full underside instead.
Gentleness from him was almost her undoing.
“Clare…” He groaned into her mouth and her breath came thick and fast, causing a foggy light-headedness. He held her while she ran her hands over parts of him she didn’t know she’d been dying to feel. His chest. The swell of his biceps, the muscles of his back. How could one man feel so good? Such a wrong man.
He reached around and threaded his fingers through hers in a simple, intimate hold, and pulled her hands around behind her. It was a gentle restraint which didn’t break their body contact right away.
“Clare, stop…” His voice was thick as he leaned over her. “This isn’t right.”
Blood coursed through her, making it hard to hear, or understand. She leaned toward him.
“No.” He reluctantly stepped back from her, still holding her hands, while the spell lifted. She focused on his face and knew hers must surely mirror his expression of desire and astonishment. And regret. “We can’t, Clare. This isn’t right. It isn’t real.”
“Why not?” she breathed. It felt real enough. About as alive as she’d ever felt.
“It’s… You’re frightened and alone and relying on me. You’re desperate—”
The blood in her veins congealed. She’d had that same word thrown at her before, five years ago. “I am not desperate.”
His smile was strained. “You’re counting on me to get you out of here.”
Sanity prevailed, dangerously late but better than not at all. She stumbled away from him. Was this what happened when khaki fever met Stockholm syndrome? This pulsing, burning, hungry need to be naked with someone completely, utterly, and appallingly wrong in every possible way?
She was alone, frightened and powerless. He was charismatic, capable, and in control. And there was no ignoring the massive dose of sexual chemistry between them. He was a hot-blooded man who had made no secret of the fact he found her attractive, and she’d thrown herself at him. The thought of a little roll in the veldt grass with her to pass the time didn’t make him a monster, just human.
She rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth as if it could wipe away her indiscretion. And her mortification.
“Call that one-to-zero in my favor?” she murmured as he moved toward the door.
As comebacks went, it would have been much more effective if her voice hadn’t wobbled.
He didn’t answer. But he turned at the door and took her in for one long moment before pressing it closed and clicking the lock in place.
Paralyzed, she stared after him, myriad emotions pelting her.
Oh, God. What was she thinking—
But no, her brain had had so little to do with it. That was one hundred percent her body at work. And her body she could deal with later.
With a jerk, she snapped out of it as urgency—and opportunity—drove everything else from her mind.
She sacrificed precious seconds listening at the door, making sure he’d actually left the house, before hurrying to the base of the bed, shoving it aside with her hip and hoisting the floorboard up. She pulled out the syringe with shaking hands, fit a sterile needle from the pack, and kept her ears tuned to the hallway. Grabbing one of the two vials she stabbed the hypodermic through the seal into the liquid within. Her eyes darted to the door while she sucked the sedative into the syringe.
Come on… Come on…
She wouldn’t have time for two. She flicked the air bubbles out of the syringe, recapped the hypodermic and eased everything back into its hiding place.
Diving back onto the bed she lay down, heart pounding, the picture of compliance should he return.
Only then did she let herself remember the kiss.
Pressing her palm to the residual ache between her legs she concentrated on banishing the inexcusable feelings. She’d never felt like this. So raw. So hungry.
So…fertile.
Sleeping with her ex had never come close. Craig had taunted her about their lack of chemistry at the end of their relationship—and blamed her, of course—but he was right about how beige they’d been together.
But this… She blew out a steadying breath.
She was still throbbing, and the only trace of Alpha left in the room was his smell on her skin. That was turning her on, too. Her body reacted to him in total defiance of her mind. As if it knew something she didn’t. She should have been shuddering with revulsion at his hands on her skin, not with pleasure. He was a criminal—dangerous and soul-dead—and yet her hairs vibrated at his closeness and the cloying darkness that consumed her captivity lifted in the moments they were together. Just as her body had known what kind of a man Craig really was below the flashy veneer, it was shouting secrets about Alpha. Branded in living Braille on her hyper-sensitive flesh.
About the man he really was, below the uncivilized, unforgiving exterior.
Something wasn’t right about him. He walked, talked, spat, and swore just like the other men, but he wasn’t made of the same cloth as them. Her skin knew that, even as her brain struggled to puzzle out what he was doing here, how he’d become mixed up in illegal wildlife trafficking.
No matter how wrong her logic told her he was in that picture, there was something intrinsically not wrong about him. Down deep, where it counted most.
And for her, that made him twice as dangerous.
Chapter Five
“When?” Simon sat across from the African in the dilapidated kitchen, idly spinning his knife by its blade tip in the ancient timber of the table. Two dozen matching holes pocked the surface.
“Tonight or tomorrow night. In Mazabuka,” Mbuutu said in his thick accent.
“That’s a day’s drive away,” he calculated. And a day’s drive back. The thought of Clare bound and locked away for forty-eight hours was unthinkable. Especially after what had happened between them yesterday. “One of us has to stay.”
“No. We’ll all go. In case there’s trouble.” Sergeant pushed away from the kitchen counter and loomed over them all. But even seated, Mbuutu was almost taller than the bald man.
“We’re not taking her,” Dyson stated, tossing his head in the direction of the bathroom.
“I’ll stay,” Corby was quick to offer.
“You’ll go!” Simon barked.
Mbuutu’s eyes narrowed suspiciously before Corby asked “Then who?”
Simon plunged his knife into virgin wood on the table and recommenced his spinning.
Dyson rolled his eyes. “Surprise, surprise.”
“You four go in the bakkie today,” Simon improvised. “And Sergeant can come back for me and the girl. We’ll head out in the morning, dump her in Lake Kariba, and we’re free and clear.”
“Or we could do it right now and dump her on the way.”
The flat nothing in Dyson’s voice… As though they were just talking about who had to fuel up the bakkie. Simon’s heart hammered. “You ever had a corpse on your lap when those sphincters start to give way, Dyson? Besides—” he took a breath for effect “—I’m not done with her yet. I’d love to see what she’s capable of when she thinks it might literally save her life.”
Voicing the words degraded her. And shamed him.
Then Corby spoke, stupidly, one conversation behind. “We could put her in the back?”
Dyson threw Corby a seething look. “Yes, because that would look good to the Republic Police, wouldn’t it? Five men, with a corpse bouncing around in the tray?”
“Fuck you, Dyson.”
“I’d fuck her first,” he sne
ered.
That’s it boys, fight each other. Whatever it took to keep the focus off Clare.
“Four go. One return for you.” Mbuutu’s accented voice cut through the bickering. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke everyone listened. He looked hard at Simon. “You kill her. You dump her. You bear the consequences of not being there if the transfer is tonight.”
He hoped to hell the transfer would not be tonight. He needed to be there for it. But he was too relieved to have bought Clare a twenty-four hour reprieve.
Twenty-four hours to work out how the hell he was going to save her life, his cover, and this whole freaking fiasco.
…
“What do you mean they’re going?” Clare took one look at the color of Alpha’s face and the furrow of his brow and knew something was up. “Where?” Her sudden uneasiness was palpable in her voice.
“It’s nothing. They have some work to do. They’ll be gone for a while.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“All of them?” The thought of a day without them, without their threatening presence was so welcome, but that meant the bakkie would go with them. And that vehicle was her ticket out of here.
He misread her stifled gasp. “Don’t get excited, Clare, this is not good news for you.”
She swallowed, thinking it best to say nothing. He roamed the room, seemingly struggling with something. Finally, he spun back. “You have until the morning. I have until the morning…”
A day and a night without them! That felt close enough to freedom to make her smile. Surely she could persuade him to let her go? Work on the soft streak in him? Her excitement grew. This time tomorrow she could be free.
“Why are you smiling?” He was angry now. “Do you not understand? Clare, they want to kill you. They want me to kill you.”
She had no idea why those words didn’t strike fear into her soul, but they didn’t. He looked so wretched it melted her heart. “But you won’t.”
He took a long time to answer. When he did it was barely a whisper. “You’re risking a lot counting on that.”
She stepped closer. Needed to be closer to him. “I know you.”