The blade grew to a saber, beautifully balanced, aching to sing. The pavement slapped hard against his feet, and the rest of the world—the fields, the fences, the livestock—went hazy and unimportant. Only those men in the vehicle before him—men who had chased Natalie, men who had threatened her, men who could never be allowed to do it again—only they mattered.
Their bloody-nosed expressions sharpened, cycling from confusion to high alarm. One fumbled with a gun, briefly sighting down on Devin through the windshield—but his buddy smacked it away, snarling a few words at him.
The man didn’t stick around to argue. He bailed—and by then Devin had made his swift way to the driver’s side; when the door started to open he instantly kicked it shut again. The man gaped at him—down at the sword, at the bloodstained sweatshirt. But it was what he saw in Devin’s eyes that triggered the flood of response—hands up, gesturing and warding at the same time. Big guy, no neck, no hair, tough written all over him, fear in his eyes. “No harm, no harm,” he said, words tripping over each other. “We weren’t going to—”
Devin slammed the closed window with the saber guard; the glass shattered, crumbling away; the rest of the world crumbled away in the periphery, and the blade sang of righteous hunger, pushing against the notch of the man’s throat and jaw. “I didn’t come to talk.”
Blood trickled down that beefy neck, mingling with sweat; the man’s breath puffed hot panic.
Another’s words reached him, so faint. He shrugged them off. He shrugged off the faint struggle remaining in the back of his own mind—a voice from a different time and a different man. He pressed—
Natalie’s blue peacoat, Natalie’s gleaming ash-blond hair, Natalie’s blue eyes wide and frightened—all slamming up against him, shoving him away from the car; all suddenly in startling focus.
Not that it stopped him. Not that it would have stopped him—if he of the beefy neck hadn’t scrambled out from behind the wheel and across the seat, spilling out the other side of the car to his escape—a staggering, jolting run that soon steadied out into pumping arms and legs and distance between them.
Not that it stopped him yet—not with the rage of metal burning up his arm, pushing, pushing him—
But for Natalie.
She shoved him another few staggering steps back to pivot against the stalled SUV, and her hands shook where they fisted up in his sweatshirt. It was instinctive to lash back at her, hand around the sword hilt and the guard heading right for her face—cheekbones and nose, her wide, beautiful mouth flattened in fear.
But she didn’t flinch; she pushed against him, finding his gaze—holding on to that, too, while he just barely pulled the blow, hovering at the edge of it....
Hovering...yes...no...yes...
“No,” she said, a low and ragged voice. “I see you. I saw you last night. This isn’t you. This is what happened after.”
His arm trembled; he searched her eyes while the flames licked in around his mind, grasping at him, little sparking hooks of pain driving rage.
Her breath fluttered against his mouth. The breeze stirred her hair. And suddenly there were birds rustling in the massive old creeper vines draping the fence lines and a jet flying in low overhead and dogs barking both near and far.
His arm sagged; his body still sang with tension. He wanted to close his eyes—to escape what he saw in hers. He had to swallow down his breath, short and harsh, to say, “This is exactly what I am.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “This is what you are when you lose yourself.”
The shock of that startled the blade into submission—into the knife, a lock blade snicking closed in his hand. With his other he grabbed her—as quick as that, the sweet feel of her neck curving into the back of her head, just as he’d done back at the house only this time—
This time, she believed it.
This time, so close, the brush of her hair against his skin, the thread of her life in his hand. “Either you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he said, sparing her none of the raw pain, “or you know too damned much.”
He pushed her away. Not gentle. Not kind. And pretending so damned hard that his legs weren’t wobbling weak beneath him as he returned to the car.
He wasn’t expecting her footsteps behind him—light and calm and purposeful, right up behind him at the open passenger side, wondering if he dared get in at all.
He damned sure wasn’t expecting her hand to settle quietly on his back, tightening his skin at the touch. She said, “Maybe a little of both.” And then she took a deep, audible breath, and she said, “I don’t want another bodyguard, I want you. And I think you need me, too.”
Chapter 7
Sawyer Compton closed the file drawer with more force than necessary, drawing a startled look from Natalie as she bent over her desk, flipping through the pages of her resource book.
She was damned attractive this morning, her current expression notwithstanding—pinched around the corners of her lovely mouth, an anxious set to the faint worry between her brows, her slow exhalation obvious.
She thought she’d hidden her past from him, and that she hid her reactions now, but he always knew when she struggled. The flex of her fingers, so deliberate. The distinct pause before she reacted at all. The way her manner was ever so slightly formal when she did.
Regrettable, that she’d had to experience the attack several evenings earlier, so similar to that which had driven her away from Ajay Dudek and eventually into Compton’s world.
Regrettable, but so very worth it.
Or Compton had thought so. From the way Devin had responded to her in the entry of this very house—possessive, in a way he himself probably hadn’t realized—he’d been so certain that a second threat to Natalie would prove a final touch.
About the possessiveness, Compton was still certain—he still felt the sting of it.
It doesn’t matter. Let James think he had a chance with her. It served Compton’s purpose, and that’s what mattered. And then James would be dead, just like his brother, and Natalie—if she survived—would still be Compton’s.
And Compton would have the blade.
Except that Devin James hadn’t called.
Compton paced to the window, looking out on the estate, tucked away as it was for a winter of hard hoarfrosts and scant snow in the crisp, dry air. A familiar sight, soothing in its exacting nature—making way for the clarity of what he felt beneath it all—a tingle of avarice, a deep thrum of want, a bass undertone of entitlement.
Unlike James, he knew what he was; he didn’t fight it. And that allowed him to integrate all the better...to conceal himself among those who were lesser.
But James was not lesser. And so he had to be handled carefully, indeed. Sending Natalie back to him now, even on the best of pretexts, might well be enough to alert him. A fine line...
In his peripheral vision, Natalie looked up from the resource book—a thing of her own making, because while she used a tablet at his behest, she preferred the loose leaf with its collection of business cards, clippings, laminated yellow page entries and neatly transcribed notes. “Sir?” she asked, tucking back a wayward strand from her temple, the rest of her hair barely tamed by the twist in which she’d trapped it. “Is there something I can do?”
Why, yes. As you look particularly fine today, my dear, I would very much like you to bend over that desk.
Maybe one day. But right now, he’d look to the long view. “I’ve pulled back on the Alley of Life restaurant project,” he said, referring to the controversial introduction of community gardens in Albuquerque’s narrow urban allies. “I’m almost certain these threats stem from the latest developments there—and it’s obvious you’ve been associated with that project, given your invaluable assistance.” He hesitated just long enough for her shock, the faint shake of her head in denial.... She hadn’t said anything, but he knew she loved this project.
Just as he knew the threats had nothing to do
with it.
“Unfortunately,” he told her, not quite giving her time to protest, “I don’t have the luxury of postponing my involvement indefinitely. I had hoped to find a suitable bodyguard by now.” In fact, he’d conducted five token interviews.
“I’m afraid I’ve been wondering if it might be necessary for you to take a paid sabbatical,” he added. Because he knew Natalie...take away the work on which she so thrived, and she might go straight to James on her own. He could hardly come up with a more convincing ploy to draw James in than Natalie in sincere distress.
He’d known she’d be shocked—and that she’d quickly hide it. “I’m sure that’s not necessary—”
“Are you?” he asked, cutting her off—reminding her who was in control here, if so subtly. “Because I can only interrupt my business for just so long, Natalie.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She shook her head. “Maybe if I stop by his place again—”
Compton gave her a gentle smile. “Natalie, Devin James knows his own mind.”
“He was hurt,” she said. “I should have checked back in on him. But I was so sure...” Wistfulness touched that mouth; she looked away, as if she could hide it from him.
Possessiveness flared; he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “It may be that we simply asked too much of him.”
“You don’t say.”
Compton jerked at the unfamiliar voice—deep and a little rusty and belonging to the man who now lounged in the doorway, his hands jammed into black vest pockets, gray hoodie beneath. Worn jeans, sloppy black high-top sneakers, sunglasses hanging from a slanted breast pocket in the vest...and a self-assured expression.
Not much like the man he’d been several days ago, standing in the entry and so obviously struggling.
Damn.
If Compton had realized the blade’s strength, the man’s strength, he wouldn’t have played things so cool. He would have sacrificed Natalie to get the blade, then and there.
Too late now. This man, healed, had all the strength and self-assurance that his brother had never grown into. And he had damned well made it past a dozen layers of security to be here at all.
“Devin!” Natalie said, and if she stared at him in utter confusion, nearly as aware of the security around this estate as Compton was, it came only after a flash of delight.
Compton suppressed hot anger, knowing far too well it would only stir things best left alone for now. “Mr. James,” he said. “I can’t imagine what you hope to gain by this unorthodox entrance.”
James shrugged. “Call it a test,” he said, lazy with the words. He offered up a half grin, and if it earned a little smile from Natalie, it only stoked Compton’s ire.
Compton pushed his resentment even deeper. “And we’re supposed to ask what kind of test? Although there is, of course, that tempting option of having you escorted out.”
“You know what kind of test,” James said. “And there’s no one available to escort me out.”
“You didn’t—” Natalie breathed.
He looked genuinely startled, and then genuinely offended. “No,” he said. “I didn’t.” He withdrew a half-finger glove-clad hand from his pocket, bringing with it a tangle of cable tie restraints, and gave her the driest of looks.
Compton felt compelled to take a step forward and break the moment. Even then, when James glanced at him, it was dismissively enough to rankle. “Don’t tell me you didn’t have me checked out,” he said. “Average misspent youth, average promise, living off the grid... That’s the official story, isn’t it?” When Compton didn’t respond, he snorted again. “Tell me you had me checked out. Because I sure looked into you.”
“Ah,” Compton said. “Charming mature gentleman of substantial means with diverse interests throughout the Southwest.”
Devin rolled a shoulder, hands jammed back in his pockets...at amazing ease, given the circumstances. “I didn’t use a dating service,” he said dryly. “But I know you’ve been busy. My guess is that she doesn’t know the half of it.”
“Hey,” Natalie said, standing straighter.
“You seem to have left some things out of your own résumé,” Compton said. “The year of misspent youth turned to darker things, for instance. Your boxing mentor... You credit him with coming through that time, do you not?”
Give him credit, James didn’t let it discomfit him—not the reference to his brother, not the allusion to the effect of the blade.
“Kickboxing is more my thing,” he said. “But then, you know that.”
Natalie threw her hands up, a muted gesture. “You two going to be at this awhile?”
Damned James, if he didn’t seem to enjoy that, a familiarity that only annoyed Compton. “Not so much,” he said. “Remember that test? The estate failed. Up that dead-end at the mailbox, over the fence... It wasn’t hard to take out the cameras, and it was even easier to take out your two guys. You don’t have a thing here that can protect her. You need me.”
“The offer,” Compton said tightly, because he had to, “is still open.” And even through the bitter bite of that, he felt the tang of waiting triumph.
James only nodded. “I’ll let your guys loose.” He pulled a knife from his pocket, tossing it once to snatch it from midair—a substantial folding Buck knife with a heavily swept blade. He thumbed the blade catch and it snicked open, locking into place. “Back in a moment.”
Yes, James had certainly recovered.
Now Compton would have to start again. Break him down. Make him vulnerable...destroy what he thought he knew about himself, just as he’d once done with Leo James.
And then, finally, he’d move in for the kill.
* * *
Natalie Chambers wasn’t much happy with Devin. Her stiff, straight shoulders told him as much; so did her overall silence as she showed him around—the various outbuildings, the exterior of her casita, and finally a walk around the perimeter of the grounds.
He didn’t tell her he’d already seen these places—that he’d checked the estate in his own way, with the two erstwhile watchdogs tucked safely aside. He listened with half an ear, watching the brisk movement of her legs, the slender nature of her body beneath her coat, the deliberate, economical gestures with which she pointed out the estate’s features: their sluice gates from the canal, the venerable old foundation in the corner from the original family settlement, the working chicken house and the kennel where the Schutzhund watchdog had been kept.
“Had?” Devin asked, watching her profile as the sun glinted off hair and lash and brow, bringing blue eyes into brightness.
She frowned. “He was a good dog. A German shepherd, the old blood lines. But he started reacting to Mr. Compton. His handler thought it might be a new scent—soap, aftershave, something—but we never had a chance to figure out it. The dog got so sick...he died very quickly.” She glanced at him. “Mr. Compton paid the handler for the loss, but I guess the man couldn’t deal with it. He never came back.”
“So, no canine protection.” Devin stopped himself from reaching out to touch her hair, and then quite suddenly grinned. “And no dogs to watch out for, either.”
She glanced at him. “You’re more or less incorrigible, aren’t you?”
“More or less,” he agreed, standing in edges of the lacy leafless shade—elms along the property edge, thick and tangled; cottonwoods closer to the canal, and all manner of low brush in between, encouraged to grow. Anyone in this area using the canal ditchrunner paths for horses or ATVs would barely be able to perceive the estate at all.
His response didn’t impress her. Not nearly. He found himself grinning—that damned silly grin, just at the heart of her.
That didn’t impress her, either. She jammed her hands against her hips, snug doeskin on her hands and a soft scarf at her throat, and she glared at him. “What did you think you were doing, anyway?”
The grin made way for a shrug. “Like I said. A test. Nothing to lose. If they caught me, then maybe he didn’
t need someone extra on you after all. And if he didn’t, then that was something he needed to know. About me, about his guys.”
She made a small impatient noise. “I understood that the first time.”
“Then—?” He walked a few steps onward, crunching small branches under his feet—so it was with elms, always shedding branches.
Her impatient noise came louder this time. “What did you think you were doing,” she repeated, “to leave me hanging that way? I was worried about you!”
Devin returned to her—maybe more closely than she expected. She took a step back. “No need for that.”
“I can see that now,” she said, and her mouth—so easy to watch, that mouth—had flattened.
After all, the last time she’d seen him, he’d been stitched and reeling and slipping onto the wild road without any notice at all. But if he’d paid the price for his unwilling partnership with the blade, he also reaped the benefits.
He’d snipped his stitches out that morning, twisting awkwardly in front of the bathroom mirror. He’d done rope work and weights and beat the hell out of a heavy bag. And if he still felt the wild road beside him, it at least ran parallel to his own path, and no longer tried to converge upon him.
For now.
But she knew none of that. She knew he’d been hurt; she knew he’d been sick. She knew he’d very nearly killed a man in cold blood—a man cowering stunned behind the wheel of his car, no longer a threat. She’d driven him home, stayed the night, and only reluctantly left him there—and if he hadn’t called her...
Well. Maybe he’d needed to prove himself first. To him, to her.
A test.
“You don’t even get it, do you?” she asked him, and he was startled to see her mouth softening to hurt. “Dammit, I was straight with you. There, on the street. Or did you think it was easy to say what I did?”
Devin stepped closer, snared by sunlight glinting off lash and barely tamed wavy hair and maybe by that genuine feeling coming up raw in her voice.
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