Nauti and Wild

by Lora Leigh

  Because he had passed out.

  Sierra blinked up at the ceiling, fighting to just breathe through the incredible emotional burst of pain that flooded her.

  He had passed out. As though this moment in time meant so little, that he didn’t even struggle to stay sober enough to keep awake.

  Tears spilled from her eyes as she stared up at the ceiling, a sob tearing from her chest.

  “Shhh, baby,” he mumbled against her neck. “S’kay.”

  He settled closer, his hips shifting, dragging his cock from her a second before the lightest snore fell from his lips.

  Silent sobs shook her body as she managed to wiggle from beneath him, then she struggled to get him on the couch. Pulling his handkerchief from his jacket, she quickly cleaned the smear of blood from him, then cleaned herself before dropping the square of linen on the floor next to the couch, wondering if he would even connect the smears of blood to this night.

  She had dreamed of this night. Dreamed of him finally wanting her, and perhaps it served her right that it had ended as it had.

  Kneeling next to the couch, she brushed his hair back from his forehead, the light brown strands thick, not overly long, but framing his face devilishly.

  He was her personal heartbreak. For as long as she could remember, the love she had felt for him had driven her to impossible lengths to gain his attention. It had driven her here, to a night she knew would haunt her forever.

  “I’d rather have you hate me than have you marry that bitch,” she whispered painfully as she wiped at her tears.

  And he probably would hate her when he awoke. When reality surfaced and he realized the lengths she had gone to in ensuring his engagement was broken.

  She wondered, though, if he would remember her arrival here, or the brief time he had touched her as a woman, rather than the troublemaker he had always called her.

  Forcing herself to her feet, she left the penthouse, locked the door on the way out, and told herself, this was over.

  No more.

  Loving John Walker was a dead-end street, and Sierra needed more than brick walls to bang her head against.

  It was time to go on without those girlhood dreams.

  It was time to go on without her heart.

  ONE

  ONE YEAR LATER

  John C. Walker Jr., son of the formidable John Calvin Walker, had finally come home. He could feel the knowledge sinking inside him, filling all but one part of his soul and reaffirming a decision that had been made on a rainy Boston night a year before.

  Standing on the upper deck of the Nauti Dreams as it coasted slowly down Lake Cumberland, he drew in a deep, relaxing breath and felt something slowly relax inside him further. Some inner tension, a deep-seated longing that had finally come to rest.

  His father had left Kentucky years before, long before John had been born, and wiped the dust of the Kentucky mountains off his feet. Unfortunately, as his father liked to claim, some of it had managed to adhere to his children.

  One of his daughters, as well as his only son, had retreated back to Kentucky.

  The mountains rose around him like comforting arms, nestling him within a strong, nurturing embrace. A whisper of a breeze rustled through the trees and over his sweat-dampened shoulders, while the strong heated rays of the sun further bronzed his once pale flesh.

  He felt stronger here, more in charge. He felt as though, for the first time in thirty-two years, he was finally himself.

  The sun had bleached his thick, light brown hair almost blond, darkened his flesh, and put small lines at the corners of his eyes. The hard, physical labor of helping his sister and her husband build their home, and rebuild the bar that had been burned down by an arsonist the year before, had honed his muscles and sculpted his body.

  He’d been in good shape before, but now, he felt at his peak. He felt invigorated and alive.

  The houseboat he’d bought from the Mackay Marina was perfect. A floating home that suited the need to push away conformity and embrace that vein of gypsy wildness his father had always scowled over. It gave him peace. Or at least a large measure of the peace he had been searching for.

  For the first time in his life, John Walker was close to finding satisfaction. If there was one little niggling worry that continued to prod at him, then he fought to ignore it. Nothing was perfect. No life was completely serene, but he was as close as he had ever been to it.

  If dreams haunted him of one woman, a night he wasn’t so certain of, and a pleasure so perfect it couldn’t be real, then he tried to push it behind him.

  Other than that night, that woman, he’d finally found a place he belonged.

  Now, he understood why his sister had fought her family’s insistence that she return to Boston when the people of this county had turned on her for a brief time. Why the gypsy in her had rebelled and returned to where the mountains nurtured that spark of rebel fire inside her.

  He understood things now that he had never grasped before, and the regrets that had once filled his life began to fade away.

  All but one.

  Shaking his head, he refused to allow himself to touch that thought again. He was beneath the sun, the water lapping at the boat as it coasted gently along the channel. Above, an eagle soared and called out to its mate while a coyote watched him suspiciously from the far bank.

  Deer grazed in a small clearing close to the water across from the coyote, as though taunting it with its inability to reach them in time for a meal. It reminded him of the woman he refused to think of, and the months he had spent attempting to chase her down.

  The sounds of nature enclosed him. The traffic, squawking, blaring horns, and raised voices of the city were blocked by distance and by his own determination to put it behind him.

  He’d found friends here in the past year. He’d found purpose. And he’d finally figured out the sister he’d never understood before.

  Rolling his head, he let the breeze caress his neck as his eyes narrowed, his hands confident on the wheel of the large craft as he maneuvered it along the lake.

  He wasn’t John Calvin Walker Sr.’s son here. Here, he was that damned Walker boy, and that suited him fine. He had family here that understood the mountains, brewed their own liquor, and laughed when he choked on it.

  Mountain parties, barbeques, and pig roasts. And he was loving every minute of it.

  Hell, he was more than loving it, he was reveling in it.

  He worked when he wanted to, took the legal cases that interested him, and the rest of the time he worked with a nonprofit group that built homes for the poor and looked after the elderly. And he let the mountains embrace him.

  The only thing he couldn’t run away from, though, was the damned cell phone he couldn’t seem to throw away, no matter how many times he tried.

  The bastard insisted on getting excellent reception, even here, deep within the forested land rising around him. Proof of it was the insistent beeping at his hip.

  Glaring at the water stretching out before him, he pulled the phone from his pocket, scowled at the number on the display, and against his better judgment, accepted the call.

  “No, I’m not bored yet,” he told his father as he brought the phone to his ear.

  A second of silence greeted him.

  “Of course you’re not,” his father’s cultured voice drawled sarcastically. “There’s rarely time to be bored when you’re pretending to be the luckless playboy of Lake Cumberland. The novelty hasn’t quite had a chance to wear off, has it?”

  “Not yet,” John agreed happily. “Do you know what I’m doing right now?”

  “Do I want to know?” his father asked warily.

  “I’m maneuvering my houseboat down the lake. I’m sweating like a pig and grinning from ear to ear. When was the last time you did that, Pop?”

  “You don’t want to know,” John Sr. growled warningly. “When are you returning home?”

  “I told you, I am home,” he retorted. “If you
called to argue with me again, then you’re wasting your time and I have better things to do.”

  He could almost see his father, an older version of himself, his lips thinning, his eyes narrowing in irritation at his son’s refusal to return home.

  This was home to John, and he couldn’t see that changing anytime soon.

  “You sound like your sister.” Anger throbbed in his father’s voice. “You’d think after what she went through in that damned county, she would have left before that sheriff managed to tie her to him. What are you doing, John? Why are you doing it? How many times do I have to tell you what’s coming? Those people will turn on you as fast as they accepted you.”

  John shook his head. The hell his parents had faced here had been the fault of the individuals who had kept a hold on the county, not the people itself. The few had ruined much for the many, for too many years.

  They were gone now, but John understood his father’s hatred for them, and his distrust of the county. He understood it, but he refused to return to what his life had been before.

  Here, he had a sense of purpose. There, he’d had nothing but his family. A damned good family, he admitted, but there had been nothing to anchor him, nothing to ease that restless hunger that tormented him.

  “How’s Mom?” he asked, rather than arguing again. He always tried to stem the flood of anger that rose between them each time they talked.

  His father sighed heavily. “She misses her children. This wasn’t what she wanted, John. She raised her children with love and now you’re all deserting her.”

  In other words, his mother was doing what she always did, refusing to step into the middle of the arguments that waged between John Sr. and his children.

  Not that the older Walker didn’t love his children. He did. Too much sometimes. He could never understand that he couldn’t shelter them from life, no matter how hard he tried. That he couldn’t force them to live the life he’d attempted to create for them.

  It was the same fight they’d had when John had joined the Marines just out of high school. The argument they had when John had gone into criminal law rather than corporate law as his father had done.

  The argument they had had when John had told his father he was asking Marlena Genoa to marry him.

  “Tell her I love her,” John said.

  “Sure you do,” his father grunted. “That’s why you’re cruising down a damned lake rather than having dinner with her today.”

  It was Sunday. Every Sunday it was dinner at home, no matter what, that was, as long as the particular child was in town.

  “I’m sure Candace and her children are keeping her busy.”

  Candace Salyers was his sister, the oldest of the Walker siblings. Married, with three beautiful kids and a doting husband, Candace had a life she thrived on. She swore she couldn’t exist outside of Boston, and abhorred anything even remotely “country.”

  Silence filled the line again, this time longer.

  “Fine, if you insist on bumming in Kentucky a little longer, then you can do me a favor,” his father finally growled, his tone darker now, assuring John that whatever was coming was serious.

  He waited, knowing it would take a moment for his father to perfect his pitch.

  “It’s Sierra, John. She’s in trouble.”

  John froze.

  He didn’t want to hear her name, he didn’t want to talk about her, hell, he refused to think about her. She had made the decision to run from him, not the other way around.

  “Last week, someone broke into the house and attacked her. She was hurt, John. Hurt bad enough that for a few days we wondered if she was going to come out of it.”

  Shock resounded through him. John stood perfectly still, fighting to take in the information, to control the rage tearing through him, threatening to release itself with such a wave of violence that for the first time in his life, John frightened himself.

  “What did they do to her?” Fury pulsed through him now.

  His father breathed out roughly as John waited. And waited. It seemed to take forever for his father to speak.

  “She was nearly raped. Bruised severely and strangled. She would have been killed, but her new roommate arrived and scared him off. The girl was terrified. After the guy escaped through the bedroom window, she was certain Sierra was dead.”

  Every muscle in John’s body tightened. Rage began to burn in his gut as he imagined the petite, fragile young woman being strangled, attacked.

  A wave of possessiveness tore through him, a distant thought that someone had dared to hurt what belonged to him tearing through him.

  “You didn’t call me,” he snarled. “Why?”

  For a moment, his father was silent before he answered heavily.

  “Because I knew something bad had gone on between you two before you left. I didn’t know if you wanted to be involved, John. I wanted to wait. But I need to get her out of town until I figure out why she was attacked. It doesn’t make sense. Hell, Sierra’s temperamental, but she doesn’t poke her nose in dangerous stuff. And it’s rare for a damned decorator to make the kind of enemies that attempt to kill you in the middle of the night. I have a bad feeling about this, John. I want her safe while my investigators check it out.”

  Someone had tried to harm Sierra. It was almost too much for John to attempt to take in. He couldn’t believe anyone would dare touch her. It was common knowledge that she was all but family to the Walker and Evanworth families. And John Walker Sr. had established that he took care of his own decades before.

  John himself had always been incredibly protective of her as well. And Sierra simply didn’t get into that type of trouble. She was nosy as hell, but only where her friends were concerned. She didn’t tolerate bullshit well, and liars even less, but still, that didn’t necessarily place her in harms way. “Serial attack?” he asked, wondering if perhaps Boston had acquired yet another serial rapist.

  “Not that my investigators have dug up,” his father shot that idea out of the water. “Don’t worry, I’ll find the bastard, John. But she needs to get out of Boston. Like I said, my gut is rolling on this one. I don’t think it’s over and I don’t think she’s safe.”

  Which meant she wasn’t. His father’s gut was notoriously right when it came to warning the man that something was wrong. It was a warning his son knew to heed. If he said Sierra was in trouble, then there wasn’t a doubt in John’s mind that Sierra was in serious trouble. Sultry, innocent, determined. She had seen to the breakup of his engagement when she’d caught his fiancée cheating. She had looked out after him, and despite her refusal to speak to him after that night, he would make damned certain he protected her now.

  “What does she think about this? She’s not exactly speaking to me at the moment.” Not that he cared what she thought. If he had to go to Boston and force her into his protection then that was exactly what he would do.

  “You’re the only choice,” John Sr. barked. “Dammit it John, she cried for you in the hospital. She was beaten, bloody, bruised to hell and back, and out of her mind with fear. When I got there, she was begging for you. They called me because they couldn’t find you.”

  His teeth clenched, his fingers wrapped so tight around the controls of the houseboat that he wondered he hadn’t broken the column. Pure, almost mindless fury surged through his brain at the knowledge that he hadn’t been there for her.

  “I’m not asking what went on with you, Marlena, and Sierra,” his father sighed. “I never asked. I figured if you wanted to talk, you’d come to me or your mother. But whatever happened, whatever Sierra did, she did because she felt it was right.”

  She had done it because she had believed herself to be in love with him. John knew the reasons why. He didn’t fault her for it now, but he had faulted her for it then.

  “Does she know you’re asking me?” he repeated roughly.

  “Not yet.” His father’s tone was filled with sudden weariness. “She’s terrified, John. She won’
t leave the house, and your mother and I have to head to Europe next week. Sierra won’t let me hire a bodyguard, and she’s threatening to run. She’s my goddaughter. I can’t let anything happen to her.”

  John stared around him, his jaw clenching at the thought that Sierra was threatening to run rather than coming to him. Damn her. She’d refused to see him after that night, wouldn’t talk to him. She’d went so far as to leave town for months. He’d taken the message and left her alone, hoping time would heal whatever he may have said to her.

  That night was a little sketchy. He’d been pissed, he remembered that clearly. Just as he remembered kissing her. After that, things were a little hazy and mixed with fantasy more than reality.

  “Do I need to drive in to pick her up?” he finally asked. And he would. There wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to allow her to face more danger without him at her side.

  “As much as I want to see you, I advise against that,” his father stated. “I’ll have her brought to you. Candace and her husband and kids are taking the family jet to the West Coast tomorrow. An unscheduled stop will be made at the Hickley landing strip. It’s private and Raymond Hickley will make damned sure no one knows they landed there. I’ll call you back with the details.”

  John rubbed at the bridge of his nose as he grimaced. “Yeah, I’ll be waiting.”

  Waiting wasn’t what he did best. His preference would be to go after her, but he understood that having her slipped aboard the family jet and deposited secretly in Kentucky would be far better.

  “John, your leaving destroyed her,” his father suddenly stated. “She cried for weeks. Whatever you did to her before you left, don’t do again. Please. I hate seeing your mother cry, and she made her cry.”

  Then Sierra shouldn’t have run. And that was exactly what she had done. She wouldn’t answer his calls, she wouldn’t answer the door when he went to her apartment, and she was never where she was supposed to be.

  She had run from him until he had stopped chasing her and chased what little chance he had of peace instead.