by Deadly Game
He burst from the forest and half ran, half slid down the trail into the yard, his chest heaving with exertion, his eyes a little wild. He ran across the uneven terrain. Dusk was falling. The house was dark, forbidding, silent. There were no lights on in the interior.
He flung open the kitchen door, his heart pounding, a raw gaping wound growing in his gut. She was gone. He knew it with such certainty he didn’t need to tear through the house, running insanely from room to room, screaming her name hoarsely, but he did it anyway.
“Mari! Damn you, Mari, come back to me.”
He heard his own scream of anguish, thought it should splinter the windows, but there was only silence.
Back in the kitchen he caught up the keys to the truck with a vague idea of going after her, but tears were blinding his vision. He stared, unseeing, at the tabletop, defeated, his broad shoulders slumped, his torn, dirt-streaked clothing clinging to his sweat-stained body.
It had to be her choice or he was just as bad as Sean and Whitney and his father. He refused to let his father’s legacy consume him. He wasn’t that man, selfish and unable to see that a woman wasn’t a possession. Mari had to choose him, want to be with him. She had to accept the flaws in him just as he would have had to accept the fact that she wasn’t Briony, with her much more submissive personality.
Love was a choice, and if Mari felt the need to be with her sisters, if the pull there was stronger than her feelings for him, he couldn’t—and wouldn’t—force her. He pressed the heel of his hand between his eyes and made no effort to stop the flow of tears because he loved her enough to let her go.
He could hear the ticking of the clock. The passage of time. He couldn’t stop the sobs tearing his chest apart, the tears that had never come for his lost face and his destroyed manhood. He could hardly bear the pain this time. He had borne so much stoically, but losing Mari was losing life and hope all over again, and his throat burned raw with choking sorrow.
“Ken?” A soft inquiry, a beautiful voice.
He stiffened, not believing, not daring to believe. He passed a hand over his face, choked down the tight lump in his throat, and turned very slowly.
Mari was standing in the doorway anxious and very disheveled. Sweat beaded on her skin; leaves and twigs were caught in her hair. There were scratches on her arms and a rip in her shirt. She was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.
“I thought you were gone.” His voice was strangled.
“I ran halfway down the road and then I couldn’t run anymore. I just stopped and stood there crying. I didn’t want to go any further. I don’t care if I should be with my sisters. I love you. I know I do. I can’t leave. I have no idea how to be anything you want me to be, but I’ll try.”
He took a step toward her, gray eyes moving over her hungrily. “You’ve never said you love me before.”
She tilted her head to look up at him. “You look awful, Ken. Did you get hurt?”
He waved the subject aside, gathering her into his arms. “I don’t want you to be anything but what you are, Mari.”
“Well, that’s a good thing because I was giving you a load of crap so you’d want me to stay.” She pressed little kisses along his throat, over his rough jaw.
The adrenaline surge was gone, leaving him feeling shaky and sick. His body roared at him, calling him all kinds of names for the abuse. He didn’t care. Nothing mattered but that she was in his arms and he could stroke her body, pull her closer, fit her hips to his. And that he wanted to smile again. She made him smile again. “I knew that. You’re always going to be a handful.”
“So true.” Mari linked her hands around his neck, her body moving enticingly against his. “I’m glad you realize that.”
His mouth slanted over hers, forcing her lips apart to feed hungrily.
“What about Sean?” she murmured when he lifted his head.
“He’s dead.” He said it tersely. “Let that be the end of it.”
She nodded. “Sit down. Let me look at you.” Already her hands were sliding over his body, searching for damage. She touched his face with gentle fingers. “I was afraid for you, Ken, and I needed to be with you, not stuck down in a tunnel somewhere.”
“I’m sorry, baby.” He brought her hands to his mouth. “I know what you’re like, and I should have tried harder to see your point of view. I swear I want to see your point of view, but the thought of your life at risk …”
“Is how I feel when you risk yours,” she said. “You have to accept what I really am, Ken. I see you with your need to keep me close, and to protect me. I love that in you. I can even accept the fact that you’re going to be an idiot every time a man looks at me, but you have to accept me for who I am. I was raised practically since birth as a soldier. That’s who I am and you’re not going to change that. I’m not going to change that. You’re going to have to take me on as a partner. Eventually, if you do, your brother will. All three of us can protect Briony and any children our two families have.”
“What if I can’t get there, Mari? What if I don’t have that kind of courage?”
“You do,” she assured him, “or I would have kept running down that mountain. Come on.” She tugged at his hand. “You need a shower. Why don’t you let Jack take care of all the details, and let me take care of you?”
“Say it again.”
“What?” Firmly she closed their door, and began to peel the ragged shirt from his powerful shoulders.
He caught her in a hard, bruising grip, gave her a little shake. “Stop teasing me. I’ve waited a long time.”
“We could always compromise,” she offered sweetly. “You give me what I want, and I’ll give you what you want.”
He lifted her into his arms. “You’re going to say it a hundred times before we’re done here,” he warned.
And she did.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at Christine Feehan’s upcoming paranormal romance,
SAFE HARBOR
Available in July 2007 from Jove!
“ You want to tell me how the hell we got into this mess?” Jackson Deveau demanded as he whipped his arm around Jonas Harrington’s waist and half-dragged him toward the flimsy cover of an industrial garbage container. “We have a nice comfy job on the Mendocino coast and you decide you’re bored out of your mind, which is pure bullshit by the way. You’d think getting shot once was enough for you.”
If he could have answered, Jonas would have sworn at Jackson, but he only managed a glare as he forced his feet to keep moving. The pain was relentless, stabbing white-hot like a branding iron. He could feel the breath rattling in his lungs, bile rising and reality fading in and out. He had to stay on his feet. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let Jackson pack him out on his back—he’d never hear the end of it. Jackson was right. They’d made new lives, lived good, found a home. What the hell had he been thinking?
Why wasn’t it ever enough for him? Why did he have to keep going back, over and over, dragging Jackson and other men down into the muck and garbage of the world? He was no noble crusader, yet time and again he found himself with a gun in his hand, going after the bad guys. He was weary to death of his need to save the world. He didn’t save anyone; he only got good men killed.
The alley was dark, the shadow of the surrounding buildings rising above the small lane turning the edges black. They kept the garbage container between them and the street where it seemed everyone with a gun and a knife was hunting them. Jackson propped him up against a wall that smelled of times Jonas didn’t want to remember, where blood, death, and urine all mixed together into one potent brew.
Jackson checked their ammo situation. “Can you focus enough to shoot, Jonas?”
That was Jackson, all business. He wanted to get the hell out of there and was going to make it happen. The men hunting them had no way of knowing they had a tiger by the tail. When Jackson used that particular tone of voice, men died, plain and simple.
They had to get past the entrance of th
e alley and it was blocked by the Russian mobsters. It had been a recon mission. Nothing more. They weren’t supposed to be seen—damn it, they hadn’t been seen—but someone had tipped the Russians off and it had all gone to hell fast, turning into a bloodbath, their driver down, and Jonas taking two bullets. Neither hit was serious, but he was losing enough blood to make the wounds fatal. Jackson had two knife streaks across his belly and chest, evidence they’d gotten just a little too close to the hornet’s nest. Whatever they’d managed to get on film, the mobsters wanted it back.
No way.
Jackson slapped a full clip into Jonas’s gun and shoved it into his hand. “You’re good to go.” He slammed home a full magazine and shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet. “I’m going up top for a few, Jonas. You put another pressure bandage on the wound in your side and no matter what, stay on your feet. All hell’s going to break loose in a few minutes and you’ve got to be ready to run.”
Jonas nodded. Sweat dripped off his face and beaded on his body. Yeah. He was ready to run—and fall flat on his face—but he’d keep his feet and the gun and back Jackson in whatever crazy scheme he had. Because, in the end, he could always count on Jackson.
Jackson melted into the night soundlessly, the way he always did. He had come home with Jonas when they’d both been sick to death of the life of living in the shadows—when Jonas just flat-out missed the hell out of his adopted family. They’d joined the sheriff ’s department and lived a cushy life until Jonas had gotten himself shot on the job and became restless and edgy while recouping. His old boss, Duncan Gray—from a special ops team buried deep in the defense department—had come asking. Jackson would have given him a hard look and they would have stayed safe. But no, Duncan had known to come to Jonas, because he fell for the “we need you” line every damn time.
It was a hell of a thing he’d done, pulling Jackson into this mess. And it wasn’t the way he’d planned to die, a soft recon on Nikitin’s rival mob to see who was coming and going and why. Nothing special, but here they were, shot to hell, and blood leaking out all over the place. Jonas opened the packet of the pressure bandage with his teeth and spit out the wrapper, slapping the bandage in place before he could think too much about the wound.
Fire ripped through him, stabbing so deep his body shuddered in reaction. He had to hold himself up by gripping the garbage container hard—and wasn’t that sanitary. Damn, he was in real trouble this time. He stood swaying; the only thing steady was his gun hand.
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a photograph, the single one he carried, the one that mattered. He should have destroyed it. He could see his own face, the terrible raw truth caught on film. He was staring down at a woman and the love on his face, the stark hunger, was so evident it was a betrayal, there for everyone—even him—to see. His finger glided over the glossy paper, leaving a smear of blood. Hannah Drake. Supermodel. A woman with extraordinary, magical gifts. A woman so far out of reach he might as well try to pull the moon from the sky.
He heard footsteps and the whisper of clothing sliding against the wall. He rammed the photograph back in the pocket of his shirt, close to his heart, and shook his head to clear it. More sweat dripped into his eyes and he wiped it away. The hard-asses were coming in first, staying to the shadows but definitely advancing. The sweat stung his eyes and blood ran steadily from his side down his leg, mingling with the rain that had begun to fall in a relentless downpour. He steadied the gun and waited.
At the end of the alley, a man dropped and the first shot rang out almost simultaneously. Jackson was hell on wheels at that distance. Lying up on top of the roof, he could just pick them off if they were stupid enough to keep coming—and they were. Jonas took his time, waiting for a muzzle flash as one of them gave his position away by firing up at Jackson. Jonas squeezed and the count was two for them, but the entrance to the alley still looked a long way away when the stabbing fire was spreading through his body and his blood was leaking all over the ground.
Don’t be such a pansy-ass. You’re not going to die in this dirty alley cut down by a few low-life rats. Geez. He spoke sternly to himself, hoping the pep talk would keep him from doing a face plant in the muck. The trouble was, these weren’t just low-life rats—they were the real deal, trained in tactics just as Jackson and he had been, and they were going for the rooftop too. He heard sounds in the building behind him—the building that should have been a warehouse empty of people.
Whatever was on that video tape they’d captured tonight was worth a lot of lives. Jackson fired again and another body dropped. No one returned fire, knowing Jonas was there waiting for the flash. He groaned softly as realization hit him. They knew his position exactly. He should have moved the moment he’d fired. He was even farther gone than he’d thought. He swallowed hard and stayed low, trying to be a part of the container, knowing he had to get out of there, but afraid his legs wouldn’t hold. A wave of dizziness hit him hard, nearly putting him on the ground. He hung on grimly, breathing deeply, desperate to stay on his feet. Once he went down, he’d never be able to get back up.
Jackson came out of the shadows, blood dripping from his chest and arm, his face grim, eyes savage. He touched his knife and drew a line across his throat, indicating another kill—and that kill had come between Jackson and Jonas, which meant they were surrounded. He held up four fingers and directed Jonas’s attention to two positions close and two behind them. He pointed up.
Jonas felt his heart skip a beat. No freakin’ way was he going to climb a fire escape ladder three stories up. He doubted if he could have run the gauntlet, straight down the alley, but it looked a hell of a lot easier—and shorter—than three stories up. He took a breath, ignored the protest as a thousand dull knives sawed into his insides, and nodded his assent. It was their only chance to get away clean.
Jonas took a step away from the receptacle, following behind Jackson. One step and his body went ballistic on him, the pain crushing, robbing him of all ability to breathe. Shit. He was going to die in this damn alley and worse, he was going to take Jackson with him—because Jackson would never leave him.
Enemies were closing in from every direction and there was just no way he could climb that ladder. They needed a miracle and they needed it fast. There was only one miracle that he could count on, and he knew she was waiting for his call. She always knew when he was in trouble. Jonas spent a lifetime protecting her, wanting her so badly he woke up night after night, sweating, her name echoing through his bedroom, his body hard and tight and so damned uncomfortable he sometimes wasn’t sure he’d live through the night. But he refused to give in and claim her when he couldn’t stop himself from taking jobs like the one he was on—because he’d be damned if he got her killed.
Still, he had no choice. She was his ace in the hole and he had no other option but to use her if he wanted to survive. He reached out into the night and connected with a feminine mind. He knew her. He’d always known her. He could picture her in his mind, standing on the captain’s walk overlooking the sea, her platinum and gold spiral curls cascading down her long back all the way to her luscious butt, her face serious, gaze on the sea—waiting.
Hannah Drake. If he inhaled he could breathe her in. She would know he was in trouble. She always knew. And, God help him, maybe that was what this was all about. Maybe he had wanted her attention—needed her attention—and this was the only way left to him. Could he be so fucking desperate that he would not only risk his life, but Jackson’s as well? He didn’t know what he was doing anymore.
Hannah. He knew he touched her mind, that she touched his. That she had known the moment the trouble had started and she had been waiting, steady as a rock. In her own way she was as reliable as Jackson; she waited only for a direction before striking. Now that she had one, all hell was really going to break lose. Hannah Drake one of seven daughters born to the seventh daughter in a line of extraordinary women. Hannah Drake. Born to be his. Every harsh breath he d
rew into his lungs, every promise to stay on his feet, to stay alive, he gave for Hannah.
Jackson pointed back toward the building and Jonas swore under his breath. He took a tentative step back toward the shadows, bent over, stomach heaving, tossing up every scrap of anything he’d had to eat or drink in the last few hours. The terrible wrenching sent another wave of dizziness sweeping over him and jackhammers did a macabre tap dance, ripping through his skull. Sweat dripped and blood ran and reality retreated just a little more.
Jackson got an arm under his shoulder. “You need me to pack you out?”
They’d need Jackson’s gun if they were going to make it. Jonas had to find a way to dig deep and stay on his feet, crossing the distance and climbing for freedom with two bullets and a still-fresh wound from an earlier gunshot. He shook his head and took another step, leaning heavily on Jackson.
Hannah, baby. It’s now or never. He sent the silent prayer into the night, because if there was ever a moment that he truly needed her unusual skills, it was now.
The wind answered, rising fast and furious. It blew down the alley with the force of a hurricane, howling and ripping strips of wood off the buildings. Debris swirled, rose into the air, and flew in all directions. Cardboard and other trash hurtled through the air, slamming into anything in its path as the wind made its way to the back of the alley where it curved and began to race in a horrifying circle around and around, faster and faster, building more speed and ferocity. The wind never touched either Jackson or Jonas; rather, it moved around them, creating a cocoon, building a shield where dirt and debris churned to form a barrier between them and the world.
Be safe. Two little words, wrapped up in silks and satin and soft colors.
“We’ve got to move,” Jackson said.
Jonas forced his feet to keep shuffling, every step wrenching at his insides, the pain grinding through his body until he could only clench his teeth and try to breathe it away. His efforts didn’t work. Hannah. Baby. I don’t think I’m going to make it home to you.