Fast Burn

by Lori Foster

Since Maxi had inherited the property from her grandmother, it had a lot of sentimental value. Miles had worked it out—with Sahara’s help—so he could be a bodyguard, and live with Maxi there.

  “We’re all going out there next Sunday to build a gazebo by the pond,” Leese said. “Want to join us?”

  Brand asked, “Will Sahara be there?”

  Miles shrugged. “Not sure it’s her thing, you know?”

  Two days ago, Brand would have thought the same. But not now. “Text me your plans and I’ll ask her. If she’s not interested, she’ll say so, right?”

  They both stared at him.

  Miles was the first to crack, grinning widely. “A-ha. So you two are involved. I knew it.”

  He didn’t mind saying “Maybe. I’m still figuring it out.”

  Leese asked, “So are you going to join the agency?”

  “I’m not sure about that either. I can’t see me being involved with my boss, you know?”

  Leese chuckled. “That’d be different, wouldn’t it? Especially with a steamroller like Sahara.”

  Exactly. Brand rubbed the back of his neck, then admitted, “I have other things to consider, too.”

  “MMA?” Leese guessed.

  “Yeah. There are some...family issues I have to figure out.”

  “If I can help, let me know, okay?”

  That was nearly identical to what Miles had told him. Damn, he had good friends. “Think you could show me the suite before I head up there with Sahara? I’d like to get an idea of the layout.”

  They knew now that he’d be staying the night with Sahara. Only Justice had complained, mostly because he’d rather be the one to guard her. They all respected her a lot, and more than that, they were fond of her.

  Steamroller or not, Sahara was a very endearing woman.

  To Brand, she was also sexy as hell.

  * * *

  ROSS MORAN WALKED through the posh club to a private meeting room in the back. Loud music vibrated against his skull and rattled in his chest. Strobe lights pricked at the periphery of his vision.

  He fucking hated clubs. The monotonous techno beat, the writhing press of too-warm bodies, the overt sexuality. He liked seduction. He liked the hunt.

  Give him a quiet dinner, an idle walk in the park, a secluded boat ride on the river any day over the chaos of a club’s let’s-hook-up atmosphere.

  Sahara didn’t like clubs either. In all his research on her, he hadn’t found any instance of her indulging in the singles scene. No, she was more about business meetings, business dinners and swanky business parties.

  The woman was all business—but he planned to change that.

  One way or another.

  Without knocking, Ross turned the doorknob and entered the room, his gaze sweeping over the occupants and the exits, gauging the situation in a single glance.

  About what he expected: decadent perversion.

  In the mere seconds it took him to make that assessment, a thick, no-neck goon moved to block him. Big mistake.

  Ross landed a heavy punch to his gut and, before the man staggered back, easily took the gun from his hand.

  “Call him off,” Ross ordered, “before I do real damage.”

  Alarm flashed in the eyes of US District Attorney Douglas Grant. He clasped the narrow hips of the young lady grinding over his lap and shrugged off the other who stood at his side, her tongue in his ear.

  “It’s fine,” he said quickly to No-neck, who’d already recovered only because Ross hadn’t wanted to maim the lesser man for attempting to do his job, and Grant knew it. To the others in the room, he said, “Leave us.”

  One suited guest stood with prudent speed and made a beeline for the door, veering off only to move cautiously around Ross. Another refined fellow, more curious than wise, was a little slower but still gave him a wide berth.

  The women, stripped down to their lingerie to show off enormous fake boobs and skinny butts, appeared too young for such world-weary expressions.

  Ross opened his wallet and pulled out a few hundreds, passing them over to the girl still straddling Grant’s lap.

  “Sorry,” Ross explained, “but I need at least a half hour.”

  Grant sputtered, “But...”

  One dark look silenced him. “Thirty private minutes.”

  “I already paid!”

  “You can afford it.” He winked at the woman. “You’ll share that, right?”

  She slipped away from Grant and, eyes pretending interest, smiled at Ross. “Of course, baby. We work together and share everything.”

  Instead of that enticing him, as she’d no doubt planned, Ross felt pity. No woman that young should ever be that desperate. It wasn’t like Grant, at almost fifty, carrying thirty extra pounds and blessed with a loose jaw, had anything to draw a lady other than his political power and bank account.

  But then, for some women, that was more than enough.

  He briefly wondered what Grant had planned for the evening. A threesome with guests watching? Sick prick. Maybe that’s how he kept his stature, by lording it over the underlings.

  He had plenty of vile friends who encouraged and enjoyed his activities. Some more than others—which is how he’d first gotten involved with Grant.

  Ross took the woman’s arm—as much to keep her from getting too close as to get her out of the room. Glittered lotion covered her skin, and now his palm. The sickening scents of cheap perfume and cheaper alcohol assaulted his nostrils. Her friend, looking more than a little baked, followed along in a stumble.

  Fake bodies and paid-for compliance had never been his thing.

  His appetites led more toward real women, with soft natural curves stacked around strength of character and a confident attitude. Yeah, that’s how he thought of Sahara Silver. Loads of attitude, haughty independence, an angel’s face and a sinner’s body.

  Perfection, that’s what she was. Bending her to his will would be the sweetest satisfaction. He’d accomplish it gently, but firmly. And she’d end up loving it.

  After minimal insistence, he got the ladies out the door, then turned with a smirk. “Damn, Grant, you’re the embodiment of irony.” As the DA, he was supposed to clean up shit like this, not contribute to it.

  “It was a private moment,” Grant growled.

  “With two suck-ups and lackluster protection as your audience? Twisted.” How such a high-profile social climber managed to skirt the inevitable scandal amazed Ross. “Wasn’t it you who hired me to get rid of your niece’s boy toy? Is she still mourning his early demise?”

  “Shut up,” Grant hissed, his gaze frantically searching every corner of the dim—and empty—room. “There are cameras everywhere.”

  Ross laughed aloud. “So having a couple of teenagers grind on you is okay, but no mention of your business?”

  Grant half came out of his seat before thinking better of it and sinking back to the chair. “What do you want, Ross?”

  He approached the table, pulled out a chair and sat to skewer Grant with his gaze. “You owe me, Douglas. I’m here to collect.”

  Color washed out of the older man’s face. Voice lowered to a strained whisper, he asked, “What do you mean? I paid you.”

  “To do various jobs, yes. But not to lie for you.” As a special job for Grant, he’d run off a whiny little shithead who, according to Grant, was “using his niece to try to blackmail his way into a fortune.” Ross suspected the young man had to go for a very different reason.

  When it came to Grant’s niece, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. They were both sexual deviants.

  Grant assumed he’d killed the punk. Ross preferred to make him disappear a different way—by scaring him out of town and making it clear he might not survive if he ever came back. Contact with the niece was strictly forbidden.

  T
he nitwit had understood and vanished without a trace.

  Shortly after Ross had accomplished his mission, they’d discovered that an undercover cop had been investigating the shithead for some serious drug peddling.

  Overall, it seemed that Ross had done the punk a favor.

  Fresh alarm filled Grant’s bugging eyes. “The truth would have destroyed us both!”

  Again, Ross shrugged. “I could have protected myself without covering for you.” Especially given he hadn’t murdered anyone. “Hell, I probably would’ve gotten a grand plea bargain.”

  “That,” Grant warned, “would be more difficult than you think.”

  No, Ross knew it’d be near impossible to sink Douglas Grant, given all his old-family connections, which was why he’d gone along with the dual alibi that saved Grant’s ass and in the process, gave him useful leverage. “I went the extra mile for you, Douglas, and now I need you to do the same.”

  Grant looked like a cornered rat.

  “Stop sweating. All I need is for you to throw a ritzy party, invite a certain special lady and include me on your guest list.”

  “You can’t kill a woman at my house.”

  That assumption annoyed him. “I’m not going to kill her, damn it. I just want some time with her.” Time to win her over without her feeling threatened.

  Skeptical, Grant asked, “Who is she?”

  “Sahara Silver.”

  “From Body Armor?” Grant shook his head. “She wouldn’t attend. Doesn’t like me, you know.”

  “I heard she actively dislikes you.” Didn’t surprise Ross. He knew Grant operated more as an inside man for the wealthy than a defender of justice. His Sahara wasn’t like that. No, she’d go to war to protect an innocent. He admired that about her. Hell, he admired everything about her. “You’ll have to pitch it as a way to patch up the conflicts.”

  “A party,” Grant mused. Then he said with enthusiasm, “You know I don’t mind entertaining. You should have said right off that’s all you wanted.”

  “Not all.” Pulling a small notebook from his pocket, Ross slid it across the table. “To Ms. Silver and anyone else who asks, I’m an upstanding fellow, someone you know well. I’ve jotted down the details of our association. Learn it. Don’t fuck it up. We’ll go over the more recent dates now to ensure we’re on the same page.” Ross couldn’t make up a story until he knew where Grant had been.

  Grant toyed with the notebook. “Mind telling me why you’re doing this?”

  Ross gave him his coldest stare. “You know better than to ask.”

  Fresh terror pushed Grant back in his seat, but when Ross made no move toward him, he relaxed again. “This doesn’t sound bad at all. Throw a party, and fuck over that bitch, Sahara Silver.” He chuckled. “I call that a win-win.”

  The ignorant bastard was too busy laughing to dodge Ross’s fist. And damn it all, he knocked him out. Actually, he knocked him out of his chair, too.

  Ross stared down at the crumpled body on the floor, a purpling bruise already spreading over his jaw. He really needed to get a handle on his territorial instincts where Sahara was concerned.

  Seeing her at the party would help, having the opportunity to speak with her, just be near her... He couldn’t wait to witness her expression when Douglas spun the carefully created fairy tale about their association. She’d realize that she couldn’t fight him, and then she’d realize the truth.

  Eventually, she would be his.

  * * *

  EVEN THOUGH HE’D already learned every inch of the suite during his tour with Leese, Brand paced around, going from one room to the other.

  He had to keep moving, otherwise he’d dwell on Sahara taking her bath. A “relaxing bubble bath” she’d said. As it was, his overactive libido kept picturing her stepping out of those sexy high heels, unzipping that slim-fitting skirt and slowly pushing it down over her shapely hips, then unbuttoning that silky blouse, one button at a time, until that, too, landed on the glossy tile floor.

  Had she left her hair pinned up to keep it dry, or let it down so that it floated around her breasts in the water?

  He drew a strained breath and went to stand before the windows overlooking the Ohio River. Lights on barges sent ribbons of colors to dance over the surface of the water.

  How long was she going to be in there?

  He withdrew his phone and again checked the time on the screen. Hell, wasn’t ninety minutes long enough?

  He remembered that his mom, after her injury, would stay in the tub for an hour. But that was to treat her aches and pains, not just to soak.

  Thinking that gave him an awful idea: did Sahara have any aches and pains?

  She’d finished work a little after seven—late, in his opinion, especially considering how early she started. Instead of retiring to the suite then, she’d insisted on getting restaurant food, which had left him divided. He wanted to get it for her, but that would leave her alone, and taking her out of the agency left her susceptible to an attack.

  Luckily, Leese answered when he called. He told Brand to go ahead and take her with him—as if either of them could have stopped her if that’s what she wanted to do. Then Leese spoke with Sahara, who very reasonably agreed that it wouldn’t hurt to have one of the guards from the agency follow behind at a discreet distance.

  It didn’t surprise Brand that everyone in her employ appeared to adore her. They wanted to protect her, not because she was the boss but because they cared.

  Sahara was that kind of person, the kind who got involved, who listened, who understood. She valued everyone who worked for her, from the maintenance crew to the bodyguards to her personal assistant—and they all knew it.

  Leaving the window, Brand strode down the hall, pausing by the bedroom door. She’d left it open, but had closed the door to the connecting bath. On the nightstand next to the bed was the weapon she’d made. She’d replaced the bra around the handle with some other material.

  The real surprise was that she hadn’t taken it into the bathroom with her.

  Shaking his head, he surveyed the room.

  He’d expected her to choose the master bedroom, but instead she’d put her things in the guest bedroom. He assumed the idea of using her brother’s room left her uncomfortable.

  Or maybe she figured Scott would return any day now, and she didn’t want to intrude on his space.

  It was damned heartbreaking, the way she clung to hope.

  He checked the time on his phone again, then went through the bedroom to the bathroom door. “Sahara.”

  No answer.

  After going out for food and eating it in the suite, combined with her extended bath, it was now past ten o’clock. They were supposed to talk about their relationship...and didn’t he sound just like a chick? Disgusted, he rapped his knuckles against the door. “Sahara?”

  Nothing.

  She had to be exhausted. It was too late now for an in-depth discussion when most of all she needed sleep.

  But her silence bothered him.

  He couldn’t think of any injuries she’d had, but what if she hadn’t told the whole story about her kidnapping? What if that bastard had hurt her?

  She could be in there quietly crying.

  The possibility twisted his guts.

  And thinking of possibilities...had someone gotten to her? Was he stupidly waiting for her and she was already—

  He tried the doorknob, felt it turn and half opened the door, keeping his gaze averted from the tub.

  The large mirror on the opposite wall made the effort useless.

  Ah, hell.

  Arrested by the sight, Brand went still, barely even breathing.

  Lying boneless in the tub, hair pinned up in a soft, messy way, eyes closed and not enough bubbles left in the water to conceal her, Sahara dozed. The waterproof earbuds explai
ned why she hadn’t heard his knock.

  One hand rested limply over her belly, the other draped the edge of the tub. She had her right leg stretched out, her left slightly bent. The water, edged with small bubbles, lapped around her shoulders, her pale breasts and the tops of her thighs.

  In his mind, he’d pictured her naked many times, but his imagination hadn’t done her justice.

  His blood pumping hot and fast, he turned away from the mirror to face the tub.

  An erection strained the front of his jeans.

  What to do? He couldn’t let her continue to doze in the bath. She needed to be in a bed. She needed real, restful sleep.

  What she didn’t need was him coming on to her tonight.

  Would she be embarrassed if he woke her? Who knew with Sahara?

  Either way, he still had to do it.

  Glancing around the glamorous bathroom, he saw her wet toothbrush on the side of the sink, the towel she’d set out...but no clothes. She’d already put away her things, so he left her long enough to go to his own bag, took out a clean T-shirt, then stopped in the bedroom and turned down the bed.

  As prepared as he could be, he returned to the bathroom.

  She hadn’t moved.

  The situation sent heat throbbing through him. He’d wanted plenty of women, and had had plenty of them, too. He’d experienced convenient attractions and mind-numbing lust.

  He’d never known anyone like Sahara. He’d never before dealt with the things she made him feel.

  Mind made up, he set aside the shirt, then crouched beside the tub.

  God, she was beautiful. And so fucking sexy.

  He smiled, because she was also autocratic.

  Seeing her like this, though, with her makeup gone and her face utterly relaxed, was a revelation. Her lashes—paler without the mascara—rested on her damp cheeks. The heat of the tub had flushed her skin. Tendrils of golden-brown hair clung to her neck and shoulders.

  No woman could be more appealing than her.

  “Sahara?” He brushed his knuckles over her dewy cheek. “Come on, baby. Wake up.”

  Shifting, she drew in a deeper breath through her nose, then settled again with a sigh.

  Brand fought the urge to look anywhere other than her face. “Sahara.” He cupped her cheek. “Honey, you need to wake up.”