by Lora Leigh
She could be whoever she wished to be.
She let his hand curl around hers and draw her forward. When he released her, she didn’t object when his arm went behind her, that same hand pressing possessively against her lower back.
She felt damned strange. She was damp between her thighs as she had never been before. Her clit was swollen; she could feel the sensitivity of the little bud between the folds of her sex. Her nipples rasped against the material of her dress; they felt swollen, heavy. They didn’t feel too small now; they felt too large. She didn’t feel plain; she didn’t feel beautiful. She felt wanted. Had she ever felt wanted?
Micah could feel the violence threatening to explode through his system as he felt the tension gathering in her back. God, she was ready to explode. He could feel the heat of her flesh, see the blaze of need in her piercing blue eyes.
Did she know what that did to a man? he wondered. Even a man as controlled, as experienced, as he was. It was like a shaft of fire cutting through his balls. The need to sink inside her was a hunger unlike anything he had known previously, with any other woman.
Micah was a man who understood his own sexuality, his own hungers. He was a man who understood a woman’s body. Each nuance of it. Each spark of hunger, each measure of arousal. And he wanted to kill Fuentes. He wanted to kill Risa’s father. That son of a bitch had ordered his daughter injected with the evil of that drug and had watched. The fucker had watched as another man had raped his child.
A baby. She had been a fucking baby, and Jansen Clay had allowed another to touch her, to abuse her in the most monstrous fashion.
Micah led her back to the table, lifted his hand imperiously, and gained the attention of a waitress. Leaning close, he whispered to Risa, “I need to speak to Reno and Clint for a moment. I’ll be back soon.”
Her hair brushed against his cheek as she nodded, and she saw the trembling of her fingers in her lap. He didn’t touch her further. Her body was already sensitized, her mind was thrown into confusion, and for the first time in his life Micah was on the verge of unadulterated fury.
His gaze lifted and connected with Kell Krieger’s. The message in Micah’s gaze was clear, and he knew the other man received it perfectly as his green eyes narrowed. Protect her. No other man was to approach her.
Micah knew himself; he was a man who knew his own central core as he knew nothing else in this world. And he knew, for the space of time that it was needed, this woman would belong to him. She would be his, completely. There was no other option.
Straightening, he turned and followed the other two men through the club and out the back entrance. The night wrapped around them, but that didn’t mean there were no eyes to see them, that no else was watching them, no ears listening to them.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Clint’s voice was furious as he jerked open the door of the soundproof van he and his wife had brought to the club.
Entering the interior, Micah eased himself into the seat along the back and watched as Clint slammed the door after Reno entered.
Both men glared back at him.
“She’s fucking terrified.” Clint was enraged. “That wasn’t the deal, Micah. Meet and greet. What the hell are you doing, backing her into a wall and all but molesting her?”
Micah’s hand jerked out, his fingers wrapping around the other man’s throat before he could say anything further. The move surprised Micah. It clearly shocked both Clint and Reno.
“Let him go, Maverick,” Reno warned him softly as Micah’s eyes refused to leave Clint’s.
“Accuse me of hurting her again and we’ll have words, McIntyre,” he told Clint harshly. “You don’t know that woman as you believe you do. You don’t know the effects of that demon dust they shot into her veins, and you don’t know the hell she lives through each night. I know.” His fingers almost tightened. “I’ve heard her nightmares, and I’ve heard her screams. Don’t dare to interfere here.”
He released Clint slowly, aware that the other man had shown no fear; he had shown only a silent watchfulness, as had Reno after his initial protest.
Micah leaned back in the seat, forced his body to relax, his mind to center.
“Did you bring me here for any reason other than to berate me over Risa?” he finally asked. “Let’s hope you did.”
Reno snorted at the comment. “Live Wire tracked a tail on you,” he told him. “Or rather one on Risa. She was followed from the apartment to the club. The car circled the club twice, then disappeared into traffic, and they lost it. Do you know how hard it is to lose one of you bastards in traffic?”
Micah’s jaw clenched. “She’s already being watched. Were they able to identify the driver?”
“All we have is dark hair and glasses. He was careful to keep his face hidden. We have some pictures, but it’s going to take a few hours to get a clear idea of who we’re looking for.”
“It’s not Orion.” Micah rubbed his hands over his face, wishing he had the lack of control that would allow him to punch something. Or someone. “He wouldn’t make that mistake. You’ll not know when he’s watching and when he’s not.”
He looked up in time to catch Clint and Reno exchanging glances and carefully stilled all expression on his face; even his eyes would be blank. He knew how to do it. These men were good, but Micah had learned, even at a young age, that any hint of emotion could get a man killed.
He did breathe in heavily. “Have a crew go into her apartment before she returns home, check for bugs. Orion will lay in listening devices sometimes, to track his mark. Several were found in his last victim’s hotel room. That’s how he knows where to strike and when. Make certain her apartment is clean.”
“That could give us away,” Clint pointed out. “He’ll know we’re on to him and he could run.”
Micah shook his head. “He’s been tracked before and escaped. He’s a master at his craft and the execution of it. He’ll know I’m her protection, there’s no hiding that. Orion will see it as a challenge, but he won’t back off. Nothing will stop him from attempting to kill her.”
He and his father had found the devices in Micah’s parents’ home when his mother had turned up missing. How long they had been there, Micah wasn’t certain. Definitely long enough for Orion to have tracked her schedule and to know where and when to take her.
“I’ll get Live Wire on that.” Reno nodded. “What are your plans tonight with Risa?” There was a vein of protectiveness in the other man’s voice.
Micah stared back at him coldly. “What I do tonight is none of your concern. From this moment on, she’s under my protection; that’s all you need to concern yourself with. Watch my back; watch for Orion; follow Live Wire’s commands. Do not involve yourself in whatever I do with Miss Clay.”
They stared back at him, their gazes hard, defiant. Micah almost grinned at their expressions. He would hate to have to fight them, because damn if they wouldn’t be hard to beat together. He might have a chance one-on-one, but these two men weren’t that insane. They’d strike together.
“Don’t fuck up, Maverick,” Reno warned him then, his voice hard. “She’s not just a mark; she’s a friend. Hurt her and you won’t have just me and Clint gunning for you; you’ll have the entire team on your ass. You don’t want that.”
No, he didn’t want that because he would need these men in the future during other missions. They watched his ass, protected it when the need arose. He’d have to move carefully.
He nodded at the warning. He could expect nothing less.
CHAPTER 3
THINGS WERE HAPPENING too fast.
Risa sat, poised on her chair, after Micah, Reno, Ian, and Clint moved away from the table.
She tried to join in the conversation and the teasing of the one remaining male at the table, but her efforts were stilted at best.
The club was too warm. There were too many people and she was too used to cowering in her apartment, alone.
She wasn’t accustomed to the sen
sitivity in her own body or the confusion tearing through her. Or to being racked by shudders of…something that didn’t make sense. Sensations she could not put her finger on.
She’d been around other men in the six years since she had been rescued from the asylum her father had had her placed in. After she had been rescued from Diego Fuentes’s cell, her father had rushed her straight to a private hospital. It wouldn’t do, of course, for her to start screaming in hysteria when she became conscious. Which was exactly what she had done.
She had been sedated and kept quiet for nineteen months. She remembered a few times that a doctor had come to her room, one she hadn’t been familiar with. Her father had laughed and joked, petted her arm, and she had been injected with that hated drug again.
Why? She still questioned that. They hadn’t raped her. After that first time, no one had touched her. Jansen Clay had told her she was so ugly he couldn’t pay anyone to fuck her, even in the interests of the test they needed to run on the drug.
They had let her suffer. Suffer while they petted her arm or stroked her hair.
She flinched at the distant memory. It was like that, except in her nightmares. The memories and the knowledge of her pain at that time were so distant, almost as though it had happened to someone else. Unless she dared to allow a man to touch her. Then the fear and the bleak sickness rolled inside her like a tidal wave ready to consume her.
Until tonight. Tonight, she would have given all she possessed for all the promises behind that one kiss. What made Micah different? What made her body react in this new way? Was it the man or the instinctive knowledge of the man’s control?
They were questions she couldn’t answer. Instead, she turned her attention to the dance floor and watched the gyrating bodies in fascination.
She had loved to dance when she was younger. As a teenager she had gone to every ball, every party, every dance that her father allowed her to attend. She would beg for weeks to go until he finally relented.
She had danced with friends then. Other girls who weren’t paired with a date, who were left out of the male/female dynamic. But it had been fun. She had laughed then, she had felt free during those hours.
Oh, let her go, Jansen. It’s not as though you have to worry about her virtue.
Her stepmother Elaine’s frustrated anger at Risa’s begging struck through her mind. Risa shook her head, fighting against the self-consciousness, the familiar pain that assailed her.
She promised herself she wouldn’t do this tonight.
Tonight, she was going to have a lover. It was a promise she had made to herself.
She could do this. Micah thought she was merely sheltered, that she had been overprotected throughout her life. He had been given that warning, Morganna had told her. Risa had been embarrassed by it, but now she felt a mild thrill at the thought of it. Micah would think of that, and he’d understand her hesitation, maybe.
“What do you think, Risa?” Morganna leaned forward, a bright smile on her lips as she asked the question.
“About what?” Risa shook her head; she’d obviously not been following the conversation.
“About you, me, and Raven showing those men the hazards of deserting us?” the other woman laughed. “Would you go out on the floor and dance with us?”
Dance with other girls like she had as a child? God, she didn’t need anything else to dim her confidence at the moment than standing out there knowing she was there because a man didn’t want to dance with her.
Suddenly panic assailed her. It lodged in her check, tightened in her throat.
Her head jerked back until she was staring at the dance floor, and anger pushed through her, tearing at her mind as she fought against the knowledge that not once had a man asked her to dance.
Not that she could have forced herself out on the floor with a man she didn’t know. But she hadn’t even been asked. Not once.
The other women had been approached; she had been distantly aware of that. The advances had been laughed off, but there had been advances.
“Come on, Risa. We’ll have a blast,” Morganna laughed.
Her lips parted, Risa lifted a shaking hand to her throat and fought the feeling of suffocation. She could not, was not getting on that dance floor.
“I’m sorry, but Risa promised me her first dance.”
Her head jerked around and Micah was there. He stared down at her with a hint of a smile on his lips, his dark gaze warming, wrapping around her like a sultry summer night as he held his hand out to her.
“Reno and Clint chatter like old gossips,” he told her teasingly as she placed her hand in his, rising to her feet as though in a dream, and allowing him to lead her through the press of bodies to the dance floor.
As they reached the edge of the gyrating mass of bodies, the music changed, slowed, eased.
“Ah, they must have read my mind,” he commented as he turned her to him. “Still interested?”
She had never slow-danced.
The world around her seemed to fade as he placed one hand at her hip, held her hand with the other, and eased her against his body.
A harsh gasp tore from her at the contact of her nipples through her dress, against his hard male chest. Even through the layers of clothing the stroke of sensation was violent, electric.
“I don’t dance often,” she tried to cover her reaction to him even as she fought to make sense of it.
“Neither do I.”
The hand at her lower back urged her closer without demanding it. Risa flowed into him, her fingers curling against his shoulder at the feel of his erection pressing against her belly, the feel of the warmth of his body surrounding her.
Her eyes closed and her head settled against his chest. Slowly, she forced herself to relax, let herself feel what it was like to be a woman, rather than a frightened child.
The fear was still there, waiting to attack. But oh God, this was…pleasant. More than pleasant, actually. It was comforting even as it made her feel more sensitive, more alive, than ever before.
One broad male hand stroked her back; the other held her hand against his chest, so close to the side of her breast. If she moved just right, she could feel his fingers stroking against the needy mound.
She didn’t want the song to end. She didn’t want the night to end. She wanted to become trapped in this moment, to relish the feel of his body against hers.
“You move like a fantasy,” he whispered at her ear. “As graceful and fluid as a doe.”
She wanted to believe him, and she couldn’t, but the words stroked the pain and fear inside her.
Neither of them spoke then. Risa let herself be caught in the moment, let herself relax and flow against him, let her body move with his, closer, warmer, until her arms were around his neck, his wrapped around her back, holding her closer. His head was bent, his cheek against the top of her head. She could feel him wrapped around her, holding her, and there was no fear.
She could do this.
She lifted her head and stared up at him. “We don’t have to stay here,” she whispered. He might not be able to hear her, but she watched his eyes, saw the flare of heat in the darkened color, and knew he understood.
“Are you sure?” His lips moved; his expression shifted for just a second, a hint of male hunger showing through the normally still set of his face.
“I’m sure.” She was already shaking inside.
His hand ran up her back, a whisper of sensation against the silk material covering her, then across her bare arm until he had her hand in his and drew back.
“We’ll need to let our friends know we’re leaving,” he warned her gently.
Risa nodded. Yes, she would have to face her friends and their concern.
“Very well.” With his free hand he tucked her hair behind her ear again and allowed his thumb to caress her jaw. “We’ll leave now.”
ORION WATCHED the couple as they moved from the dance floor, carefully controlling the frown that would have cre
ased his forehead. It wouldn’t do to show interest in them. At the moment he was allowing a particularly slutty little brunette to run her fingers up his thigh and pretending interest. But he kept his peripheral vision on the man and woman.
He knew that man; he knew he did. He never ever forgot a face or the name that went to it, but in this case he couldn’t put the face and the name together. How odd?
Plastic surgery? he wondered. That had to be it. Otherwise, he’d have instantly recognized the man who led Risa Clay from the dance floor.
He wanted to grimace at the thought that her companion had that look of a man who intended to fuck the woman he was with.
Even with makeup and the very appealing little slip dress, the girl wasn’t particularly pretty. She wasn’t as ugly as she had been as a teenager, but she wasn’t exactly attractive, either. There was just a quality to her that offended his refined senses.
What was it about that girl that just bothered him? he wondered. Her cheekbones were high, her eyes slightly tilted. The odd pale blue color of her eyes showed up more with the artificial highlights in her hair.
She cleaned up okay, but he still couldn’t find it in him to forget how very ugly she had once been.
He had hoped he wouldn’t receive the job to kill her. He remembered, eight years before when she had first been kidnapped, her face had been in the papers. He’d grimaced then. Two years later when Jansen Clay’s death had been announced, he’d had that vague premonition of what was coming.
It was a shame. His employer should have been more picky in his friends and the women he fucked. If he hadn’t been with Jansen that night to take his pick of the girls, then he wouldn’t have been stuck with only one choice, the Clay girl.
He’d done her, though. He’d pushed her face to the floor of the cargo plane and in front of her father, he’d pushed her skirts to her hips and rammed into her.
He’d been furious, he’d told Orion. The girl had been so pumped on Whore’s Dust, his employer had been certain she wouldn’t remember the event. But it appeared she had remembered parts of it, and he had learned she could be remembering more. It wouldn’t do for her to remember who had raped her.