by Elle Kennedy
Fortunately, she was unfazed by his sharp tone. “Do you think someone took him?”
“Yes.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why?”
Because of me.
He swallowed the confession, same way he’d been doing for months. Because what was the point in telling people about his suspicion? There was no concrete evidence to support it. Nothing except the offhand remark of an Irish bartender.
But D knew, deep in his bones, that he was responsible. That Sullivan had been abducted because of him.
Something must have gone down at the end of that Dublin job, but even four months later, D was no closer to finding out what. When Sean Reilly had gotten tangled up with some very dangerous Irish gangsters, the team had flown to Dublin to help him out. The job had gone smoother than most and Reilly had come out on top, but somewhere between the end of the mission and the morning the team was scheduled to leave, Sullivan had fallen off the face of the fucking earth.
Security footage showed Sully in the hotel bar at two in the morning, talking to a dark-haired man whose face had been shielded from the camera. A few minutes later, he left the bar, and that was the last anyone had seen or heard from him.
Foul play was definitely involved. The security footage in the lobby and outside the hotel had been wiped clean, which meant someone had gone to great lengths to cover up whatever had happened in front of those cameras.
The team had run the stranger’s profile—what little of it they had—through every facial-recognition program out there, but there’d been no hits. And nobody, not a damn person on their extensive list of contacts, had been able to identify the man. The bartender’s account had been useless for the most part—he insisted he hadn’t heard a word of Sully’s conversation with the stranger, that it’d looked friendly enough, and that Sully had been sober and calm when he’d walked out of the bar alone.
The only red flag? The bartender hadn’t referred to Sullivan as Sullivan—he’d called him Mr. Pratt.
As in Derek Pratt.
D didn’t know why his teammate would have been using his name, but it stood to reason that if the bartender had believed himself to be in the company of Derek Pratt, then so had the stranger.
The intended target that night hadn’t been Sullivan.
It had been D.
“Derek?”
Sofia’s voice jerked him back to the present.
“I don’t know why he was taken,” D muttered in response. But I intend to find out.
His gaze drifted to the bed. Even injured and sedated, Liam Macgregor looked like a fucking movie star. Sometimes D found himself staring at the guy and wondering how Liam had ever worked for the DEA. A face like his was too damn memorable, which wasn’t a characteristic you wanted in an undercover agent. Deep-cover operatives were supposed to blend. Liam Macgregor didn’t blend—he stood out.
“He and Sullivan were close, huh?” Sofia asked.
Were. Her use of the past tense didn’t surprise him. He was starting to suspect that most of his teammates believed that Sullivan was dead. Not Liam, though. The man refused to stop searching for his best friend.
Christ, D should’ve told Morgan to sideline the guy months ago. He’d seen Liam spiraling, and he’d done nothing to try to stop it.
“Joined at the hip,” he told her.
She glanced at her patient, her expression softening. “Sullivan’s a great guy. I really hope you find him.”
“You don’t sound hopeful.”
“Are you? Because in your line of work, four months is a long time for someone to go off the map. Usually that means they’re no longer on the map.”
He couldn’t disagree. But fuck, he hoped they were wrong. Hoped like hell that Sully was alive and well out there, and not the unfortunate victim of a case of mistaken identity.
Sofia moved away from Liam’s bed and strode back to the door, gesturing for D to follow her. His gaze unwittingly rested on her ass, round and firm beneath her faded jeans. She didn’t dress like any doctor he’d ever met. No scrubs or white coat for her, but jeans, skimpy tops, and the occasional flannel shirt she threw on when it got cold.
The sight of her ass brought another ache to his groin, which only pissed him off again. Men like him weren’t allowed to feel sexual desire for women like Sofia. Men like him didn’t feel sexual desire, period. For D, sex was nothing more than a pent-up need that required an outlet every once in a while and in no way involved bullshit like intimacy or lust. Tension and release—that’s all it was to him. To normal people, to women like Sofia, it was far more than that.
Usually, he avoided those women like the plague. But the awareness that hummed in his blood whenever he saw Sofia Amaro was impossible to control. She was so fucking spirited. And bossy. He’d always wondered what it would be like to fuck her.
But he wouldn’t allow himself to find out.
Times like these—and it pained him to even think it—he missed Noelle. Morgan would rip D’s throat out with his bare hands if he knew D was thinking about his wife in a carnal way, but he couldn’t help it. His arrangement with Noelle had been exactly what he’d needed: hardcore fucking and nothing more.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Sofia remarked. Then she laughed. “Quieter than usual, that is. I swear, you’re the most tight-lipped person I’ve ever met.”
Shrugging, he glanced over at her. Well, glanced over and then down, because at six-one, he towered over her five-foot-two frame. And because of his height, he could also see right down her tank top, getting an eyeful of the creamy swells of her tits. She had great tits. He’d admired them on more than one occasion. It pissed him off how often he found himself staring at this woman.
This was the first time she’d ever caught him, though, and she rolled her eyes when she noticed where his gaze had traveled. “And instead of answering, he stares at my boobs. Classy, Derek.”
He smirked at her. “On what planet could I ever be considered classy?”
“True.” She tilted her head. “But I’ve never seen you check anyone out before.”
Because normally he didn’t. Or at least, he was usually more discreet. Sofia didn’t seem put off by his behavior, though. If anything, she looked . . . intrigued. Fucking hell. She really needed to wipe that interested look off her face. After this morning’s adrenaline rush, he was too damn primed for sex, and if she offered him an opening, he wasn’t sure he could stop himself from taking it.
As they walked toward the back of the small building, he gave her a wary look. “Where are we going?”
“Outside.” She frowned at him. “The last time you were here, you ignored my clear-cut instructions and took off while you had a concussion. I don’t trust you not to whisk Liam away if I turn my back, and I don’t trust you in the clinic.”
He didn’t bother trying to defend himself. Hell, part of him was still entertaining the idea of calling in their chopper and getting Liam out of here when Sofia wasn’t looking.
They stepped outside through the rear doors. She seemed unruffled by the cool breeze on her bare arms, continuing forward at a brisk pace.
He walked alongside her, cursing himself the whole time. He needed to get away from her, damn it, not stay glued to her side. Usually he kept to himself when he was at the clinic. Found a room to crash in, or smoked out front. But he suspected that even if he’d wanted to do either of those things, Sofia wouldn’t let him.
They followed the dirt path behind the clinic until the terrain grew hilly. It was the dry season, but the mountain elevation allowed most of the plants to remain green. A carpet of purple bougainvillea stretched out on both sides of the path, blooming wildly across the landscape.
A few more yards, and a single-story house with a white exterior and sloped roof appeared in the distance. Sofia’s house.
D experienced a prick of discomfort. Sofia had never invited him or any of his male teammates to her home before. Abby Sinclair, the sole female mercenary on the team, was the only
one Sofia had welcomed into her private space, and that was during a dangerous storm. Which was damn ironic, because Abby was a terrifying motherfucker and not someone most people wanted to be alone with. D used to worry she might slit Kane’s throat in his sleep, but since she’d given birth to their son, he considered the prospect less likely.
As they neared the house, a light flicked on over the rickety wooden porch. Motion sensor. He approved.
But then Sofia opened the front door without unlocking it, and his approval faded. Yes, she was isolated up here and hadn’t encountered any trouble from the cartels since she’d opened the clinic, but safety was nothing more than an illusion.
“Your door should be locked,” he said curtly.
“Wouldn’t make a difference. That door is so old I could break it down just by tapping on it, even if it’s locked.”
He made a mental note to send in a contracting crew to rectify that. Sofia was a valuable asset to the team. Morgan wouldn’t like having to replace her if she died during a home-robbery attempt.
“Want a beer?” She glanced over her shoulder as she strode into the house.
D hesitated in the doorway. He didn’t do this kind of shit. Nope, hanging out with women was definitely not a regular experience for him. Well, except with the ones he’d been ordered to kill. During his agency days, he’d had no choice but to lay some groundwork with his female targets, and unfortunately, that had involved drinks and dinners and conversation he’d hated making.
“You can come in. I won’t bite.”
The mocking note in her voice made him sigh. Other than Noelle’s operatives, Sofia was the only woman he’d ever met who wasn’t afraid of him. Everyone else, men and women alike, shit their pants when he walked into a room. And that was the way he liked it.
He reluctantly stepped inside, watching as she wandered across the open-concept main room toward the kitchen. She grabbed two longneck bottles from an old refrigerator that was humming so loudly, D suspected it sucked up way too much power.
“Here.” She walked over and handed him a bottle of cheap Mexican beer, then leaned against the work island separating the kitchen from the living area.
He knew from experience that this particular brand of beer tasted like piss and was weaker than water, but fuck, he had a few hours to kill, so he twisted off the cap and took a sip. Since it was hot inside the house, he set the bottle on the table next to the couch and stripped off his hoodie. That left him in a wifebeater, and he didn’t miss the way Sofia immediately zeroed in on his bare arms.
She eyed his tats, her gaze traveling up his forearms to his biceps, then to the snake coiled around his neck. She’d never asked him about his tattoos in all the time he’d known her. Luckily, she didn’t ask now.
As she sipped her beer, he stared at her long, graceful throat. Then their eyes locked, and his cock twitched again.
“I can’t figure you out,” she said thoughtfully.
He shrugged. “There’s nothing to figure out.”
“Your men say you’re a coldhearted bastard. And honestly, I think they’re secretly terrified of you.” She slanted her head. “But I also think that’s exactly what you want. For them to be afraid.”
“If you brought me back here to psychoanalyze me, you’re wasting your time.” He took a menacing step forward, just because he was in the mood to see her flinch.
But she didn’t. Instead she smiled. “See? You’re doing it right now. Trying to scare me.”
He took another step, and this time received a response. A hitch in her breath, almost inaudible, and he heard it only because he’d been watching her throat and seen the slight dip to it.
She wanted him.
He might not be good with all that romance bullshit, but he knew sexual arousal when he saw it. The reddish tint to her cheeks. The interest flickering in her eyes. The fluttering of her pulse at the center of her throat.
Screw it. He felt his body take over, his mind forgetting all about professional courtesy and ordering him to take her already. She wanted him. All he had to do was lay down some ground rules first, make sure she knew what this was—and what it wasn’t.
“Don’t worry. I get it,” she said, her tone mocking him again. “If people fear you, then they won’t try to get close to you. Right, Derek?”
She was one of the few people who called him that. To everyone else, he was D. D, vague and unmemorable—just the way he liked it.
As she offered a look of challenge, he stepped closer and bared his teeth in a hard smile. “As much as I’m enjoying this verbal foreplay,” he said abruptly, “what do you say we just skip to the part where you ride my dick?”
Chapter 2
Heat.
Sofia hadn’t expected it, but holy hell, there it was. Flooding her body and pulsing between her legs as flames of arousal licked at her skin.
And Derek Pratt, of all people, was responsible for it.
Morgan’s mercenaries flew in and out of her life every few months. They showed up bloody and hurt and in need of treatment, and she gave it immediately, because as much as she hated to admit it, D was right. Morgan was her boss. Yes, he understood that the patients she treated in the neighboring villages came first, but she understood that it was her duty to fix up his men.
She wasn’t sure she could fix D, though. At least not in the psychological sense, because Derek Pratt might actually be unfixable. She’d seen him stand by and watch while she pried bullets out of his teammate’s bodies, without even flinching, without showing an iota of concern. On the surface, he looked like he didn’t give a shit if his men lived or died, but every so often Sofia caught glimpses of emotion behind his cold mask. He did care, but only sometimes and only about certain people.
Still, those infrequent slivers of compassion weren’t enough to convince her that he was a good man. He might not scare her when it came to her physical safety, but he sure as hell frightened her in other ways. His hard exterior and complete lack of humanity were deeply unnerving.
So why were her breasts suddenly tingling in his presence? Why was her core throbbing with need? In the six years they’d known each other, her body had never shown any sexual desire for the man.
So where was this unexpected attraction coming from?
She stared at his chiseled features, his gleaming dark eyes. God, a man as dangerous as this one, as cold as this one, wasn’t allowed to be so handsome. His appearance had always unnerved her too. That incredibly attractive face, those defined cheekbones, sensual mouth.
Her gaze lowered, and she became preoccupied with his body. Tall and muscular, his chest massive beneath his wifebeater, his long, powerful legs encased in snug cargo pants.
And the tattoos . . . they’d always fascinated her. The deadly samurai and diamondback snake engaged in a fighting pose on his left forearm. The gorgeous dragon on his right biceps, about to take flight off his shoulder. And the snake around the base of his neck . . . that one didn’t fascinate her so much as terrify her.
“What’s the matter?” he said mockingly. “You’ve got nothing to say to that? You’re always so quick with the snappy comebacks, Sofia.”
He was right. She usually was. But he’d caught her off guard with his crude suggestion, and now she couldn’t stop picturing what it would be like to . . . to ride his dick. She couldn’t get the phrase out of her mind because, God, she wanted it.
“You know what? Maybe I’ll ride you. I’ll ride you hard,” he drawled when she didn’t respond. “I think I’d rather do that anyway.”
She finally found her voice. “Who says I’m open to either option?”
He laughed. Except it wasn’t really a laugh. His laughter, rare as it was, never seemed to be triggered by humor, only derision. “Are we playing games now? Because we both know you brought me here to fuck me.”
Had she? No, she couldn’t have. But . . . well, if that was the reason she’d invited him into her home, then it certainly hadn’t been a conscious decision.
He raised one dark eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”
Sofia swallowed, thinking it over.
Oh God. He wasn’t wrong.
When he’d stepped off that chopper earlier, with one muscular arm supporting Liam, her first thought had been— Okay, her first thought had been to take care of his barely conscious teammate. But her second thought? She’d wondered, just for a second, what it would be like to . . . well, fuck him.
She’d admired his looks before, but this afternoon had been the first time her appreciation had translated into actual awareness.
Into lust.
It’s not him. It’s because you haven’t had sex in more than a year.
Yeah, she couldn’t deny she was hard up. The mere thought of having a man inside her made her thighs clench. She liked sex. She liked it a hell of a lot, and ever since her affair with a doctor from the relief foundation had fizzled out, she’d been aching for it.
Now a sexy man was standing in front of her, and her libido had roared to life. And although she hadn’t consciously planned to hit on him when she’d invited him inside, there was no point in denying the truth.
“No,” she said.
“No what?”
“You’re not wrong.” Sofia sighed. “I guess I wouldn’t mind getting laid.”
His eyes narrowed as he advanced on her. Like a predator. Because he was a predator. A ruthless soldier, lethal and impassive, and yet right now, she didn’t mind being the prey. If she were being honest, she preferred it. Day in and day out, she was the one in control, the one holding people’s lives in her hands. But in bed . . . she submitted.
She used to hate that word—submission—because submission was associated with weakness, but over the years she’d learned to differentiate between the two.
“Do you want to get laid, or do you want to get fucked?” he rasped as he bridged the distance between them.
She raised her eyebrows. “Aren’t those one and the same?”
“No.”
Mere inches separated them. His muscular body dwarfed hers, dominated her personal space, and she gulped when one large hand curled around her throat, roughly skimming the delicate tendons there before the pads of his fingers rested on her pulse point. She knew he could feel the wild hammering of her heart, sense the way her body reacted to his nearness.