by Marie Harte
Storm didn’t wait. She grabbed her opportunity and darted out of the office with a wave goodbye. Her brothers caught her at the elevator.
Thorne reached for his keys. “So, what are your big weekend plans? Hell, it’s been a good month since we’ve had some time off. What are you two going to do?”
“I’ve got a date with Belinda.” Luc smirked. Thorne snorted. Obviously, communication passed between the pair because Luc laughed as the elevator doors opened and they stepped inside.
Storm hated being left out. She poked the ground floor button and crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s so funny?”
“Never mind,” Luc said. “Guy talk.”
Probably talking about Belinda the Bimbo’s bra size. Like Storm couldn’t figure out why her brother was dating the queen of easy.
“How about you, Storm?” Thorne asked.
She’d gotten a message from a persistent admirer who’d been trying to date her for months. Hank Cavidge wanted a dinner date in the worst way. He was cute, nice and funny. A terrific neighbor. But she hadn’t been wanting to go. She knew what would happen if she went. Still, resigned, but willing to do anything to prove herself wrong and have something to do on a Friday night, she finally intended to call him back.
“I might have plans,” she hedged.
Thorne raised a brow. “Oh? With a guy?”
“No. I’m a lesbian.”
Luc choked. “Are you serious?”
“No, dummy. I’m just tired of the third degree.”
Thorne chuckled. “So long as you keep your distance from the Westlake prick, I hope you have fun.” He kissed her on the forehead.
“Thanks for your permission,” she said, all sweetness and light. “At least I’m not going out with Hank because of the size of his—”
“Storm,” her brothers interrupted at the same time.
“Come on, Luc. Tell me it’s Belinda’s intellect that has you so infatuated.”
He had the grace to flush.
Thorne sighed. “God, I hate when you talk about stuff like that.”
“Sex?”
“Shut. Up.” He glared at her.
Luc made a face. “Ech. I don’t even want to think about my baby sister and some guy doing God knows what.” He ignored the finger she shot him. “So Thorne, how about you? What are you up to this weekend?”
The elevator reached the ground level, and they exited into the parking garage and sought their vehicles. They reached Thorne’s first.
“I’m taking the Deuce for a ride.” Thorne patted his motorcycle. “I might head to Atlanta. There’s a rally up there Saturday.” He mounted the flame-patterned, metallic blue bike and revved the loud pipes. “If you need me, I’ll have my cell. Storm, you have any problems at all, let Luc know. I mean it.”
Luc and Storm watched him ride off.
“If he ever finds a woman who can pry him from that bike for more than two seconds, he’ll be in love,” she predicted.
She moved to her own car, a sporty red number she’d had her eye on for months.
“Storm?”
She turned around to see Luc standing by his truck. “Yeah?”
“If that jackass you’re going out with this weekend gives you any problems, you call me. I mean it.”
She nodded dutifully to make him leave, then started her car and headed home.
Did they think she was totally helpless? Angered, she recounted each and every instance of their interference in her social life over the years. Twenty minutes later, she still pondered the overprotective males in her life. At least Uncle Max ignored the matter of her dating. He was all business, which she appreciated. Her mother kept her father mostly too occupied to delve into her social life. Weekly dinners with her parents normally ended with questions about who she was or wasn’t dating, but what could she do?
Family was family.
Storm arrived home and let herself into the quaint, bungalow style cottage she’d purchased a year ago. After dropping her keys on the oak table in the foyer, she adjourned to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of iced tea and plunked her tired body onto the down cushions of her comfy sofa.
“Jackass? Why are my dates jackasses and Luc’s hot babes?”
In the peaceful silence of her house, she sipped tea and stared unseeingly at the cordless phone on her coffee table. A pad of paper with a phone number written on it sat next to the phone. Why put off the inevitable? Morosely, she reached for the phone and dialed Hank’s number.
HANK PICKED HER UP at eight and they went to dinner at a popular restaurant known for its choice selection of Southern cuisine. He reinforced what she already knew about him. Hank had a great sense of humor, good looks and was a self-made man. She found herself really liking him. So far, so good.
When the waiter came to take their orders, Hank asked her what she wanted.
“Order for me.” A small test.
“She’ll have the country steak and collards.”
A good choice, and total chance that he selected what she would have ordered for herself. I am not manipulating him. No power, no psychic crap. Not tonight. She smiled before he continued.
He chose the entree, vegetables, salad dressing and beverage she wanted. Still, she tried to convince herself it was all a coincidence. The house vinaigrette was a popular choice. She couldn’t possibly have influenced him so quickly and with so little contact, could she?
The pleasant meal and conversation continued. Hank ordered them dessert. Her favorite. Peach cobbler. Her hopes for the evening took a steady downturn.
When they left the restaurant, she noted the slight chill in the evening air. Before she could finalize the thought, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, sheltering her with his body heat. Once at the movie, he led her to the middle seats in the front of the theater.
Storm always sat in the middle toward the front.
She couldn’t concentrate on the picture as she strove to shut down the power she hadn’t realized she’d been projecting. Why had it taken so little effort to get Miles Locklen to obey her, yet Savage hadn’t been affected at all? Hank, a man she might have had some fun with, was obeying her unspoken needs like a puppet on strings. No challenge, no will of his own, or so it felt to her. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
After the film ended, they followed the crowd out onto a side street.
“That was a great movie, wasn’t it?” Hank asked with a grin as they continued down the street, each step a fruitless journey toward another failed date.
Storm tried, really tried, to put some effort into her smile.
“Sure thing, Hank—great movie.”
The streets had emptied. Hank had parked between the restaurant and movie theater so they could walk after dinner. He’d mentioned he thought Storm might like that. Unfortunately, she did.
As they crossed the empty street, a car came out of nowhere.
Hank froze in shock as the car’s headlights enveloped them. Only Storm’s quick reflexes prevented the two of them from becoming hood ornaments. She shoved him to the sidewalk and leaped to join him, except she wasn’t fast enough.
The car clipped her and she fell next to Hank. As they both lay panting on the hard concrete, Storm watched the car speed down the road and out of sight.
“Stupid drunk driver.” Hank blinked at her. “Are you all right?” Still shaken by the near miss, he didn’t seem to notice her odd calm.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Stupid drunk driver.” A drunk that steadied the car right after he’d hit her. Interesting, and very, very painful.
RAFE BOLTED UPRIGHT in bed. Black sedan, midnight, gray eyes, a blond man. Images flashed through his mind like shards of glass, shooting daggers of pain into his brain. He groaned and reached for his head with unsteady hands. I control my visions. I don’t dream them, not since... Christ, what now?
He stumbled out of bed and tried to clear his thoughts, with little success. Rafe moved to his bathroom sink and splashed his face with water. Stari
ng into the mirror, he noticed dilated pupils in his bloodshot brown eyes.
He rinsed his face again and held onto the sink until the shaking stopped. Then he scowled as he realized what part of the vision meant. He knew the owner of those gray eyes.
But he wasn’t sure what to do about it.
Chapter Three
Friday night blurred into Saturday as Storm lay on her bed, careful not to put any pressure on her left side. She could barely tolerate her short sleep shirt. While sleeping, she’d rolled onto her left side and the pain had woken her immediately. The front left panel of that black sedan had slammed her high on her leg. The red welt she’d seen last night had transitioned nicely into a monstrous, purple bruise.
She thanked her blessings she hadn’t broken any bones.
Talk about a bad ending to a bad date. She’d forced Hank to leave her outside her door with a reminder to say nothing of their hit and run. She’d also convinced him to ask Sofia, the owner of their favorite coffee shop, out on a date. Sofia was more his type, anyway. He’d gazed at her blankly before leaving with a smile.
Storm asked herself for the hundredth time why she couldn’t settle. She awkwardly left the bed, awash in pain, self-pity, and dangerously close to tears. As she hobbled into the bathroom, took care of her needs and left for the kitchen, she tried to convince herself that Hank might have been okay if she’d given him a chance.
“He’s got a good job. He’s a decent man, nice, handsome enough.”
And he does whatever I want him to do.
Why couldn’t she simply control herself on a date? She huffed as she limped to the coffee pot and prepared it.
In her professional life, having nothing whatsoever to do to with matters of the heart, Storm controlled her abilities. Yet when it came to dating, to trying to find someone with whom to share her heart, her yearnings got the best of her. Every time.
At first it had been exciting. Boys wanted to date her. Men would treat her exactly the way she wanted to be treated. Then she’d notice the lack of excitement in furthering those relationships. They held no zip, no challenge. The few men she hadn’t been able to control had been utter slimeballs.
Once the coffeepot beeped, she poured herself a cup. Hell, the only somewhat normal person who hadn’t fallen under her spell was that arrogant Westlake prick.
He’d made her blood boil, both with anger and with a sensual heat she found hard to believe. She tried to convince herself she’d made more of their association than there was. Hell, Storm couldn’t remember the last time she’d had sex. No wonder she’d responded so readily to him. Then too, being sexually dominated by a stronger man had always been a fantasy of hers. Was it any wonder he’d made her go off like a rocket?
“He’s Westlake. They’re not to be trusted,” she repeated aloud the words she’d heard since she’d started working for her uncle. Her brothers and fellow investigators had an aversion to Westlake types. Business was business, and the more Westlake took away from them, the harder they had to work to keep their jobs. What none of them realized was that her distrust was personal.
The doorbell rang, scaring the crap out of her. Hell, that was all she needed—one of her overprotective brothers to see her bruised after a date. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair in an attempt to look less rumpled.
“Hold on,” she shouted and limped to her bedroom.
Her sleepwear exposed her bruised leg, so she put on a blue silk robe that hit her mid-calf and made her way to the door. It was only nine o’clock—a little early for Luc if he had indeed gone out with Belinda.
She started to grow angry. Couldn’t she at least try to have a love life without one of her brothers checking up on her? What if she’d invited Hank to stay the night? She yanked the door open expecting one of her siblings.
The sight of her visitor stopped her tirade before it had begun.
“May I come in?”
A chocolate brown gaze swept over her thin robe and rose to stop at her mouth. When Storm made no move to allow him entrance, Rafe closed the distance between them. He lifted her out of the way and moved past her.
Before she knew it, he stood in her house, the door shut firmly behind him.
“What’s for breakfast?” Rafe asked, all the while skimming her features. She didn’t look any the worse for wear, so perhaps last night’s odd happenstance had just been a dream. But dreams didn’t leave him feeling sick and dizzy. He normally controlled his visions though, and last night had hit him squarely between the eyes.
“Wh—what...why...?” Storm continued to stare, obviously thrown by his untimely appearance. “What are you doing here?” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared.
“Storm Buchanan, I’m Rafe Savage. It’s a pleasure to officially meet you.” He turned on the charm and she blinked in bewilderment. Without asking, he reached for her limp hand and brought it to his lips.
Touching her made him hard as a rock. Thankfully, she continued to stare into his eyes, as if searching for answers there. He smiled, and her eyes widened. Her ripe lips parted on a breathy gasp.
He wondered if he’d gone overboard on the charm when she continued to say nothing. Then he noticed the rough abrasion on her palm. He turned her hand over, his heart racing.
“Where’d you get this?”
She pulled her hand away and moved to her sofa. Her movements were slow and clumsy, and he watched with suspicion as she carefully lowered herself to sit.
“I don’t know. Must have happened when I tripped the other day.” She settled into the cushions and gave him a wary look.
Not believing her in the slightest, Rafe followed her. He scooped her up into his arms, ignoring her protests, and moved as gently and quickly as he could.
“What the hell are you doing?” She didn’t try to leave his hold, conscious of her injury, no doubt.
“Where’s the bedroom?”
“The bedroom?” Her eyes flickered to the left. “Are you on drugs?”
He walked with her down the bright corridor to a bedroom that had to be hers. Done in soft blues, the room had feminine touches but wasn’t overly frilly. Her queen-size bed, to his disappointment, sported rumpled cotton, not silk sheets. He lowered her to the mattress and waited for her to try to escape.
She didn’t disappoint him.
He stopped her awkward attempt, pulled her to the edge of the bed and opened her robe.
Ignoring her stunned silence and his own heated reaction to her short nightshirt, he examined her first with his eyes, then his hands, conscious of her sudden stillness. Rafe felt the same curves he’d touched just Thursday night and shifted to relieve the building ache in his groin.
She flinched and he froze. A glance at the flesh under his hand told him the unfortunate truth. A large, purplish bruise covered her upper left thigh.
“We should get you to a hospital,” he murmured, still looking at the bruise. A surprising anger filled him. Storm had been hurt, and he was taking it personally, which made little sense. Conscious of what had to be extreme pain, he wanted to take it away, maybe kiss it better. His cock throbbed and he swore to himself, trying to get a handle on his suddenly whacked-out libido. This was no time to be lusting after the woman.
He wondered if she’d broken anything.
Storm wondered if she’d been hit on the head, or worse, maybe suffered from some strange delusion. She hadn’t moved a muscle while a near stranger—albeit a darkly handsome one—groped her. She wanted to attribute most of her response to shock, to deny the fact she actually liked the sensual pleasure of his touch.
She swallowed as his large, callused hands left trails of heat in their wake. She prayed he hadn’t noticed she wasn’t wearing any underwear. But if he inched her shirt up any more, he’d see an eyeful.
“What are you doing?” she asked, wishing she didn’t sound so breathless. He crouched beside the bed, on the floor between her thighs, and studied her bruised leg. “And who gave you my address?”
Rafe ignored her. He grasped her leg at the knee and slowly pushed her thighs apart. Her hip protested, but the pain wasn’t so bad if nothing directly touched her skin. He ran a hand over her leg to the bruise. The sensation gave her goose bumps until he reached the injury. When she sucked in a breath, he stopped and trailed his hand back to her knee.
His gaze met hers. “I don’t think it’s broken, but I’m no doctor. You should see someone.”
Storm took a calming breath, trying to sound relaxed and not horny as hell for a Westlake agent. “First of all, my leg is fine. It’s a little bruised. Okay, a lot bruised,” she amended at his raised brow. “But who the heck do you think you are, busting into my house, issuing orders, touching me...” Her world centered on the large hand still covering her leg. His fingers stroked her knee and she had trouble breathing.
God, he is making me so hot.
He forestalled her next comment with a finger across her lips. It was all she could do not to taste him.
“I’m glad you’re all right.” He looked away from her face and examined her nearly naked body with burning interest.
Storm knew she was pretty but didn’t consider her looks anything out of the ordinary. Thanks to good genes and a steady exercise regimen, she had a slender build and long, toned legs. The thought of them wrapped around his waist made her wet, and she prayed Rafe wasn’t a mind reader. Talk about embarrassing.
His eyes darkened and he traced her lips with his thumb. “I’d love to know what you’re thinking right now.”
Thank God. Not a mind reader. But— She gasped when he slid his other hand to her uninjured leg.
“Hmm. Does it hurt here?”
“N-no.” Move, Storm. Tell this guy to take his grabby self and leave.
“How about here?” Rafe’s hand slid between her thighs. He teased closer and closer to her clit while subtly pushing her legs farther apart, careful not to hurt her. By now her lack of undergarments had to be apparent.
“I’m okay,” she rasped. Her nipples beaded under her shirt, needing to be touched.