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“I want to talk about tonight,” she said. “What happened here.”
“I don’t.” He picked up a sandwich, bit into it.
“What do you want to do?”
“Eat this sandwich.” He took another man-sized bite and another drink of wine, then added, “And go to bed.”
“Here?”
“Here.”
“And you want to stay here because…”
“My daughter asked me to. I promised her I’d be here when she woke up.”
“You can do that by going to your motel and coming back early in the morning,” she said, trying on some logic that something in her hoped he’d ignore.
“True. But that would mean leaving you.” His gaze drifted over her face. A face she knew was drawn and tired. A face that warmed under his scrutiny. “I don’t intend to leave, Camryn.” His eyes dropped to her mouth. Stayed there. “And I don’t think you want me to.” He lowered his head, looked at her across his wineglass. “Do you?”
With that two word question, Camryn’s kitchen shrank in size; its oxygen depleted by half, and its perimeter blurred. All that remained was a man, a woman, and a razor sharp awareness. A high-voltage sensual jolt that caught Camryn wildly off guard. She hadn’t planned on this, hadn’t seen it coming—hadn’t seen Dan Lambert coming; over six feet of man and muscle, who turned into mush when he looked at the little girl who called him Daddy, and somehow turned into a potent, seductive male when he looked at her. A male who left everything to the imagination.
“I repeat, do you want me to go, Camryn?”
Her breathing, uncertain under his steady gaze, leveled off. She told herself not to forget he had an agenda, like Paul Grantman…like Adam. She told herself she was a fool for feeling anything, sensual or otherwise, for a man who’d come here solely to take his “daughter” from her. All these rattling emotions were aftershocks from the evening’s events, nothing more. Perhaps he was as opportunistic as Adam and saw her weariness as weakness, a chance to shorten that straight line he was so keen on. She told herself all of that, looked into his quietly waiting eyes, and said, “No. I think you should stay.” She swallowed, rose from the table, and picked up her plate and glass. She gave him another glance when she added, “After tonight, Kylie needs all the reassurance we can give her.”
“Is that a but, I don’t hear at the end of that sentence?” He stayed seated, following her with his eyes as she walked to the dishwasher.
When she’d put her dishes away, she rested her hip against the counter. Her gaze, when it again met his, was level. “Yes, and what follows that ‘but’ is this—your staying here, doesn’t mean I want you messing with my head—or my hormones.”
He stood, and wineglass in hand, walked toward her. When he was solidly in front of her, he reached around her and set his glass on the counter. He was so close the scent of his clean skin, the lingering hint of his aftershave, musk and cedar, drifted up her nose. All of it man scent, strong and primal. Even though hemmed in by his size and strength, she had no desire to cut and run.
He trailed the back of his hand along her cheek and followed its path with a reflective, focused gaze, finally smoothing her hair gently behind her ear. “You were right you know, about my ulterior motives.” His eyes met hers, dark and intense, faintly sorrowful. “I’d do anything to keep my daughter. And I did consider the idea that seducing you might be the way to do that.” His lips curved briefly into a smile, but it left his face as quickly as it had come. “I thought it would be less time-consuming, a way to avoid a messy and complicated legal battle, that Paul Grantman wouldn’t stand a chance against the two of us.” He rested his hand on her shoulder, caressed her throat with his thumb. The gesture both heated and idle. “But now…”
When he didn’t go on, Camryn waited, then raised a brow. “Now?”
“Now all I want to do is mess with those hormones you mentioned—without a base motive in sight.” He leaned toward her and kissed her, a lingering kiss that touched her lips like a shadow, an inquisitive kiss that slammed those hormones she was so worried about into overdrive. “Well, maybe a little base,” he whispered over her lips.
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When the woman came flying over the gate, Mike couldn’t have been more surprised—and disappointed. He’d expected to find his men. One, at least. She dropped to the ground, and he thought, that’s gonna leave a mark. Then he heard the troops, the gunshots and didn’t think about his decision to help. But she fought him, landing a kick to his shin and all he could do was drag her.
Out of sight, he gritted, “Stop fighting me, dammit.”
Clancy turned wide eyes toward the voice. An American. Where did he come from?
He didn’t give her the chance to ask, moving on long legs, pulling her with him, then paused long enough to toss her unceremoniously over his shoulder and grab something off the ground. Then he was off again, running hard, each jolt punching the air out of her lungs and making her want to puke down the back of his trousers.
“Stop,” she choked. “Stop!”
He didn’t.
So she cupped his rear and squeezed. He nearly stumbled. “Stop, dammit, please! she hissed. “I can run.”
Mike set her on her feet.
Clancy pushed hair from her eyes, then reached out when the world tilted. Her hand landed on his hard shoulder. “That was unnecessary. Nice butt, by the way.”
“We have to move.”
She met his gaze and thought he’s huge. “Who are you?”
“Help?”
“Yeah well, I was doing okay, sorta.”
“If you wanted a bullet in your head, sure. Get moving.”
Clancy was about to bitch when she glanced back and through the trees, saw troops. She looked at him. All he did was arch a dark brow.
Great, big, handsome and arrogant? “Lead the way.”
He didn’t wait for her, and Clancy struggled to keep up. For a big thing, he was agile, leaping chunks of ground while she raced over it.
“They took my jeep,” she said into the silence.
He glared at her and thumped a finger to his lips. He waded into the water, his machete in his hand as he turned back to her. She held out her hand. He stared at it for a second and she wiggled her fingers, her expression pleading for help. He grabbed her hand, pulled her the last couple feet to the shore. She smacked into him, her nose to his chest.
She met his gaze. Thank you, she mouthed exaggeratedly and his lips curved. She had a feeling he didn’t do that often. He turned away, kept the steady pace, and she thought, somewhere at the end of this better be a bed and a hot bath, and lots of room service.
No such luck. Just more jungle.
Mike listened for her footsteps instead of looking behind himself. She barely made a sound. What the heck she was doing in jail was something he’d learn later. Right now, getting out of here was essential. He didn’t want to be noticed and pissing off the Federales wasn’t good any way you looked at it.
When he felt they’d lost the troops, he stopped. She slammed into his back. He twisted, grabbing her before she fell. She was winded, sweating, not unusual in this country, but she looked like a drowned cat. Wisely, he didn’t say so.
“Okay, chief, you’re gonna have to cut the pace a little.” She bent over, her hands on her knees as she dragged in air.
“It was only a mile.”
“At top speed when it’s a hundred ten out here?” She tried to put some force in her words, but it just sounded like whining to Clancy. She hated whiners. “I’ve run five miles, three times a week for years. But you…you’d clean up in the Olympics.”
“Keep up or I leave you behind,�
�� he said coldly, then frowned at the GPS.
Cute and crabby, who knew? “Well, that would just ruin my day,” she bit back.
His gaze flashed to hers. “You want to be a fugitive?”
“No, but I’m still wondering why they wouldn’t let me contact the consulate.”
“Maybe because the nearest one is in the capital.”
“You’re kidding.”
His frown deepened. “Who arrested you?”
“Some jefe…Richora?” His features smoothed and Clancy said, “What?”
“You pissed off the wrong guy, lady. He’s corrupt as hell.”
She figured that out easy enough. “Abusive, too.”
Mike just noticed her swollen lip. “Richora won’t let this go. This is his jungle.”
Clancy didn’t need an explanation. He owned the people, not the land. Richora ruled and she didn’t doubt that the smugglers who took her jeep handed it right over to him.
His gaze moved over her slowly and she felt, well…so thoroughly undressed she looked down to see if her clothes had suddenly melted off.
“If they search you, what will they find?”
She cocked her hip. “Tits, ass and a gun.”
Both brows shot up this time.
“What could I be hiding? They killed Fuad, took my jeep and have my good panties and makeup.” She wanted to shout, to really let it loose, but that was just plain stupid. But whispering at him like a mad woman wasn’t helping her case either.
Mike grabbed her bag, and since it was still looped around her, the motion pulled her close. He dug in it.
“All you had to do was ask,” she said, yet understood this man didn’t ask for anything.
Mike fished and found what he was looking for. He opened her passport. “Grace Murray?”
“Here, teacher.” She grabbed for it.
He held it away, then found her wallet. It was empty except for some cash and a credit card. “No other I.D.? Who are you?”
Clancy just tipped her chin up, refusing to answer, and for a moment, she thought he’d give up till he pulled her close and ran his hand firmly over her body. A little gasp escaped when his hand smoothed between her legs, then up the back of her thighs.
“Shouldn’t we date before you get this familiar?”
Mike ignored the sound of her voice, but this close, her words skipped down his spine. His hand slid over her tight little rear and his look went dark as the ocean floor.
“Interesting hiding place.”
His big hand dove down the back of her slacks and pulled out the passport. Inside it was her Virginia driver’s license. He took a step back, examining it, then only his gaze shifted. “So Clancy Moira McRae, why two passports? CIA?”
“You know, that’s the second time someone’s asked me that. What is this area, spy central?”
“Other than intel operatives, people who are dealing in illegal contraband need more than one passport.”
“I’m neither.”
He studied both, then waved one. “This is the fake.”
She grabbed them back. “How did you know?” And did Phil screw it up on purpose?
“I just do.” He inspected her gun, checking the ammo. “Can you even fire this?”
She took it back. “Yes I can, and lay the hell off.” She cocked the slide and pushed it down behind her back. “I’m not your problem.”
“You are right now.”
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An unbuttoned white linen shirt lay on the floor by the hallway. As she stared at it, she heard a soft giggle float under the bedroom door and then a smooth, seductive laugh followed it, the sound that somehow reminded her of caramel.
Pig, she thought. No, that’s too harsh. Dog. Goat, maybe. No, a goat is too cute. Skunk then. Or just pig.
Sayblee walked to the bookcase, picked up photo frames full of happy people she knew well, his brothers and sisters-in-law, his mother Zosime. She stared into their eyes, and soon she felt the impressions of their warm feelings for him as she held the images in her hands. Funny guy, she heard, or really nice pulled into her mind as she moved her fingers over the photos. Why doesn’t he settle down? So handsome. All he needs is a good woman. If he wasn’t so adorable, I’d kill him. Can he ever be serious? What a charmer. Those eyes would do anyone in. That smile!
Sayblee’s shoulders dropped. She breathed in and took her hands away from his photos.
When she accepted this mission, she agreed to work with him, and work with Felix Valasay she would, even if it killed her. But it was hard to deal with someone who could live like this, who probably did a seduction scene like this every night of the week in this so-called post. Who could he possibly find here—in Hilo, Hawaii—that would lead any member of Les Croyant des Trois to Quain Dalzeil, the sorcier who was determined to destroy the Croyant way of life? The sorcier who had managed in recent years to affect all of Croyant life, creating fear, enchanting the best and brightest, leaving people to live in fear. Sure, Felix managed to come to the aid of people needing him now and again. He’d been there with her just a year ago when a group of Croyant had fought Quain and Kallisto in the English countryside. But the Big Island? This house that smelled like tacky perfume and was filled with enough sexual energy to make the very floor vibrate?
Another annoying giggle and then a lazy laugh slipped into the living room. The very air seemed to pulse with gardenias and hyacinths and rum. This was horrible! Intolerable. How was she supposed to interrupt that? She sat down on a beautifully carved wooden chair and sighed, staring at the rows and rows of hardback books, most of them probably uncracked since Felix graduated from Bampton Academy. What to do? She’d never known how to engage Felix, to move smoothly into conversation with him. Since their days together at Bampton, she’d steered clear of him, even though Sayblee was very fond of his older brothers Sariel and Rufus, boys who turned into solid, reliable men. Married men. Committed men. Men!
But there was something about Felix that was just plain dangerous, and Sayblee had recognized that when she was twelve. She’d turned a corner one afternoon after a long class on levitation, and there stood Felix, smiling at her with that smooth, slightly crooked smile, his almost green eyes full of a fire so unique, Sayblee herself didn’t have a clue how to kindle it. Even back then, his black hair was long, held back for classes with a leather string, strands always coming loose and falling in front of his face. Hair she’d wanted to touch, push away, tuck back into place.
She’d barely managed to hold on to her textbooks and keep walking, ignoring his taunt of, “Baby, can I light your fire?”
Now sixteen years later, Felix still had the ability to disarm her. The last time they’d been together had been at Adalbert’s house at Rabley Heath, and she’d left one morning early to avoid an awkward goodbye. Her awkwardness. She hadn’t wanted to see him smirk, listen to him tease her about her school pranks, rattle on about how she used to set the cafeteria cooks’ hats on fire when meat loaf was on the menu. She hadn’t wanted to look into his lovely eyes and see, well, so much satisfaction.
And this situation here? Well, it wasn’t going to be easy to pull Felix away from Hilo and his little lifestyle. But Sayblee had no choice. What had Adalbert said to her just before she left? He’d stared at her with his kind eyes, his hand running through his long gray beard as he spoke.
“We have the chance, finally, to end this troublesome situation with Quain once and for all,” he said. “I think you’d do just about anything to make that happen, Sayblee. Am I not right?” He’d looked at her from where he sat in his deeply upholstered armchair. A fire crackled in the hearth. His dog Zeno, a Hungarian Kuvasz, dozed at his feet, the dog’s breaths full of quick rabbit dreams. And Sayblee could see the image of her brother Rasheed flicker in Adalbert’s mind. The Armiger was ri
ght. As always.
More than anything, Sayblee wanted to find Quain. They’d been so close to catching him last year. For a moment, he’d been right in front of her in the cavernous room of the Fortress Kendall as she fought with Felix and the rest, but, like always, he’d gotten away. Oh, how she’d wanted to push her fire at him, subdue him, flatten him to the floor. Sayblee wanted to lean over him and demand he tell her what happened to Rasheed. She wanted the impossible, to have Quain croak out a “Your brother’s still alive.” She wanted Quain to tell her that Rasheed hadn’t left on his own free will, that he’d been enchanted, charmed, drugged, coerced. She wanted to strangle out of him the truth that Rasheed was good, that he’d never turned his back on Croyant life or his family. She wanted to have the perfect answer to give to her mother, Roya, so that she would burst into life again and forgive Sayblee from not saving Rasheed in the first place. She needed to obtain all the information she could from Quain and then…and then…
Sayblee closed her eyes and sat back hard against the wooden chair, trying to ignore the further giggles that floated toward her. No. She wasn’t just doing this for Rasheed and for her mother, who had never recovered from Rasheed’s betrayal of all that the Safipour family believed in, and his alliance with Quain. Sayblee was on the mission for all Croyant, and what she had to do was get Felix Valasay out of his bedroom, preferably dressed, hopefully alone, and she couldn’t sit here one moment longer.
She stood up and in her mind she moved down the hallway, into the bedroom, and heard the noise of two people moving together—their bodies warm, their minds full of anticipation—could hear Felix whisper into the woman’s ear, “You smell so good. I just can’t breathe in enough of you.”
Sayblee opened her mind and shot out a thought. Yeah, she smells like your house. In about a minute, I myself will be smelling like a cheap drink from Chevy’s.
She heard his intake of air, his body moving away slightly from the woman’s. Sayblee?
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