Possessing Morgan

by Bonnie Edwards

  Spending quality time—realistic, adult, seductive time—under the sheets with a man could kick her fantasies of Kingston McRae to the curb.

  If she found release with a man, she wouldn’t need the rush of danger.

  She wasn’t hard on the eyes. Her trim butt and flat tummy looked pretty good in jeans. Her hair was thick and full. The color wasn’t bad either. Men liked to touch her hair and tell her how soft it was.

  She lifted her ball cap to smooth the top of her head. If Kingston ever had the chance, he’d run his long fingers through her hair. She pulled off the elastic band and threaded her hand through the warm strands. They separated and slipped through her sensitive fingers.

  He’d sigh at the feel while his thumb brushed against her neck, then her ear lobe, before he leaned in close to nuzzle the delicate skin of her throat.

  Her eyes drifted closed as she indulged herself with images of Kingston. These quiet musings often came on the heels of the rush she chased, connecting the adrenaline and sexual desire in a way she never wanted to give up. She reveled in the imagined croon of his voice, deep and hypnotic as he took her down into a world filled with sighs, need and dark arousal.

  Her nipples beaded and she sensed the moisture between her thighs as desire seeped through her. She knew nothing about the physicality of the man—his scent, the feel of his hair, the warmth and texture of his skin. But no other man had roused these feelings in her.

  The adrenaline rush subsided as sexual arousal pulsed warmly through her. She soaked it up until she couldn’t delay any longer.

  It was normal to walk around on a low sexual boil these days, so when she opened Bessie’s door and jumped to the ground, she felt revved. She’d pick up batteries after work and tonight at home she’d finish what her fantasy had started. Alone.

  It seemed the only guarantee of ending the night with a bang, as it were. She sighed.

  The chances of a woman like her meeting Kingston McRae were nil, so it was time to grow up. She’d managed for over three months without news of the man, and just because he’d surfaced again was no reason to go back to the same silly behavior.

  The fantasy must die!

  She smoothed a hand over her belly and strode through the door into the office. Straight into a hotbed of emotion.

  The atmosphere was so charged, Morgan slammed to a halt. She took in BB’s face, then Joe’s, their expressions taut with tension. She couldn’t tell if it was sexual energy or anger, but it swirled hot and thick around them.

  BB sat in the back of the office, away from the front counter. It was safer in case one of the disgruntled victims of a repo came in for a pound of flesh. Morgan suspected BB could handle herself in a scuffle, but thankfully, she’d never seen her friend tested.

  Her arrival broke the tension and BB twirled her chair to face her desk again. But a telltale tremor in her hands told Morgan plenty.

  While she’d been fantasizing about the delectable Kingston McRae, Joe had been in here, tantalizing BB in his quiet, easygoing way.

  Too bad Morgan had missed it.

  Joe stood beside the coffee station, nonchalantly sipping out of his gigantic travel mug.

  She let go of the idea of a girls’ night out. If BB didn’t see where this was headed with Joe, she was blind. And BB being blind to men was like—well, that just wouldn’t happen!

  “Next time I tell you to take back up,” BB snapped at her, “don’t argue.” Obviously Joe had mentioned the tire iron.

  Probably to get into BB’s good books. Or her pants.

  Morgan hadn’t argued with the office manager about taking Joe along today, but it was safer not to remind her of that fact. BB made a great tracer because she often got gut feelings about which jobs could go screwy. The tire iron counted as screwy.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she replied. She hid a smirk as she flipped up the counter and walked over to Joe, who stood studying his boots. She needed coffee and to poke him in the ribs for tattling.

  “Ma’am! I’m only two years older than you.” BB swung around in her creaky oak chair, stiletto bobbling at the end of her crossed leg. She smoothed her T-shirt over her natural double D’s and glared harder. “It’s my job to make sure you’re safe and not up to any daredevil stunts out there.”

  BB’s warmth and concern shone through every word and made Morgan feel guilty at all the fun she’d had earlier.

  “You’re right. I’ll be more careful in future,” she promised. “I should’ve lit out when I saw him come up from behind his desk with the tire iron, but—”

  “No buts.” BB’s leg pumped faster. “Sheesh! You scare five years off my life every time something like this happens.”

  Morgan leaned in next to Joe and whispered, “Which is why we don’t tell her this stuff.”

  He nodded, but was more interested in watching BB’s shoe dangle from the end of her foot. His eyes flared so hot Morgan felt the heat. BB’s foot slowed to a stop while her gaze cut to his.

  Morgan poured a cup of coffee. “Want some, BB?” She kept her voice husky, teasing her friend with the double entendre. Joe’s neck reddened.

  BB nodded, then uncrossed her legs and tucked them under the desk. Morgan slid BB’s coffee under her nose. Her friend’s face flamed under layers of foundation, bronzer and glittery blush. The mask had slipped. BB’s makeup was no match for man-woman heat.

  But Morgan didn’t have the heart to tease her friend further—the undercurrents were too strong. BB was flummoxed by Joe Calder while Morgan was fascinated at their byplay.

  She leaned over BB’s shoulder to read the top sheet on the pile of work orders. BB, wise to the tactic, slammed her hand down so Morgan couldn’t see it. Today’s nail tips were purple with a line of gold at the edges.

  “What have you got there?” Morgan asked, hoping for her next rush.

  “I’ll decide who goes where,” BB said. “Back off.” Her voice went low and tight. “I’m not kidding, Morgan. These are for the morning. You should go home. Both of you. You’re done for today.”

  Not until she got a good look at that paperwork. After the fright on the last job, she was sure BB would hand her something too boring for spit.

  “If you’d give us our work orders, we could head home,” Joe said.

  BB clicked her tongue, pulled the top sheet off the pile and held it out to Joe. “I’ll give you this one.” She flicked Morgan a defiant glance.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, just hand mine over,” Morgan snapped, frustrated that all this hot need was not in her own life. Instead she fantasized about a man far removed from her day-to-day existence.

  This was why she had to let Kingston McRae go the way of all teenage crushes. By keeping him uppermost in her mind, she put out get lost vibes around other men.

  She read the sheet BB had handed her. “Not this guy again! How does he keep getting credit?” In spite of the economic slowdown, some people knew how to work the system.

  BB shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. But at least he won’t give you a hard time.” They were up to three recoveries now and each time this man proved to be a happy-go-lucky sort. And b-o-r-i-n-g.

  BB shifted in her seat as Joe headed through the opened counter, reading his work order. He snorted in derision. He obviously had a much more interesting job.

  Morgan trailed him. “Where are you going?” She tried to peer around his chest to read his paperwork.

  “Mercer Island.”

  “We don’t get many recoveries there.” The island held a lot of estates and mansions. “Is it a sports star or a news anchor?”

  Joe scanned the sheet. “Kingston McRae.”

  Everything stilled, including Morgan’s heart. His family home was here in Seattle, but he spent more time in LA. Once her heart kicked back into gear, she stuttered, “Wh-who did you say?”

  “I guess even tycoons can fall behind,” Joe commented as he stepped outside. Before the door closed, she heard his last remark. “I doubt McRae will chase
me with a tire iron, though.”

  Delicious adrenaline coursed through her and Morgan closed her eyes against the wash. He was at home.

  And he was hers.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” BB said. “I know that expression, Morgan, and you cannot do what you’re thinking.”

  “Watch me.”

  “I gave that work order to Joe because something weird will happen on that estate. Whatever it is, Joe can handle it.” BB bit her lip.

  This was her chance to get a real-life peek at Kingston McRae and Morgan would be damned if she let it slip out of her fingers. Her blood raced, her heart pounded and her impulsive love of the chase kicked into high gear.

  She caught up to Joe just before he opened his truck door. She grabbed his arm and shoved the boring work order into his face. “We’re trading.”

  “BB won’t like it.” His fingers held tight to his own order, but she tugged for all she was worth until he let go.

  She held the paper to her chest. “BB’s upset about the tire iron.” She stepped out of his reach and smiled. “Nothing will go wrong on a Mercer Island estate.” She glanced down at the sheet and shivered at the rush.

  She’d be on Kingston McRae’s home turf first thing in the morning. “I’ll be in and out. Easy as pie. The man’s on camera twenty-four seven. What could possibly go wrong?”

  Joe narrowed his gaze. “Plenty. Dudes like McRae have security. Dogs, too. You could get messed up.”

  “Not a chance.” She’d stay cool, calm. Keep her head on straight.

  Even if she saw him.

  She shivered again and headed for Bessie, her heart racing.

  2

  KINGSTON MCRAE STOOD at the window of his second-story home office and looked down on the front lawn and drive. The morning sun glinted off polished chrome, and he squinted for a better view of the car parked beneath the window. His fingers itched to hold that steering wheel. If it wasn’t for this recent security problem, he’d take the shiny new Morgan for a test drive. He ran McRae Investments from home these days because he could. He did a lot of things because he could.

  It was good to be him.

  He wasn’t used to denial, and he sure as hell didn’t like it, but the test run had to wait.

  He’d come home for Lindsay’s wedding. Lindsay was his sister, not of blood, but very much of the heart. The Morgan was her surprise wedding gift, and if she didn’t see him take it out for a run soon, she’d suspect something was up.

  But right now he had to set Jack Carling on someone’s trail. He tossed a set of photos onto his desk, faceup. “Mona of Twenty-four Carrot Catering found a package taped to her front door last night,” he explained. “She brought these over at midnight, worried that I’d think she had something to do with them.”

  Jack used the tip of his pen to spread the photos out on the desk surface. He frowned as he read the words scrawled across them, one per photo: You should have talked to me when I called.

  Nine photos in all, each scored by a pen. It had torn through the last one in a couple of spots.

  “Whoever did this got angrier with every word,” Jack observed.

  “So it appears. The message could refer to those late-night calls before I left for Africa. I changed cell phone numbers and the calls stopped, but no one spoke.” He snorted. “How could anyone expect me to speak when the line’s silent?”

  Jack examined the plain manila envelope the eight-by-tens had arrived in. “No markings except where the tape was used to stick it to Mona’s front door. Her home or her office?”

  “Home. She got in after a catering job at a radio station. Since there was no name on the envelope, she assumed it was for her. When she saw the photos of me arriving at the airport, she called and insisted on bringing them over right away.”

  Jack frowned more deeply. “I’ll have these dusted for prints, see what else we can learn. Why deliver them to Mona?”

  “I’ve worked with Mona on the QT for a year now. Using her is a clever way to get the message across.”

  Jack nodded. “That your private life isn’t as private as you thought.”

  “You got it.” That fact burned like acid, especially since he’d done everything possible to keep his philanthropy secret. He set Jack one more task. “Mona’s upset that these photos arrived at her home. She has young children and is worried they might be at risk. I can’t say I blame her. Set the family up somewhere else until we know more.”

  “Of course.” Jack used a tissue to slide each photo back into the envelope. “I should have checked myself when you got those calls. I’ll get Mona’s fingerprints, so we can disregard hers on the envelope.”

  “As I recall, you put a new guy on it.” Mac shrugged. “He came up empty.” Jack had always been hard on himself. “They were run-of-the-mill calls, Jack. Nothing noteworthy.”

  “The calls were made from disposable phones. That should have been a red flag, especially for me.” His face reddened.

  “Don’t sweat it. People get wrong numbers on cells all the time.” Jack was his head of security but also one of his oldest friends so he felt personally responsible for Mac’s safety. He put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “This isn’t on you, Jack.”

  His friend shrugged him off. “How many calls did you get?”

  “Three, maybe four, on consecutive nights. Three-fifteen as I recall, but it’s been a couple months. I could be wrong. I was angry at the regularity. I lose enough sleep without being woken for nothing.”

  “They must have had access to the phone itself or they’ve got an in with your service provider. After seeing these photos, I’m convinced there’s a connection—those calls weren’t just wrong numbers. I’d also like to know how they found out you’ve been working with Mona.”

  “Not that hard, I suppose.” Now that Mona’s family would be taken care of, he felt more relaxed. “When I changed the number on the cell, the calls stopped.” He slipped his hands into his pockets. “What’s the threat, Jack? I don’t see one.” A few photos dropped off at the home of a woman he knew from his private mentoring program. Even with the vague references to phone calls, it didn’t add up to much.

  Jack gave a noncommittal grunt and tapped the envelope with his pen. “You have a stalker who has accelerated from calls to photos. You could be in danger.”

  Could be. “You, my friend, are losing it. You see danger where there is none. Idle hands and all that.” Jack had been at loose ends ever since Mac had essentially retired from his high-pressure career. Mac had spent years rebuilding struggling companies. He’d done well and, having increased his net worth tenfold, was now ready to focus on what he loved best—mentoring neighborhood businesses with potential. Same type of work, but infinitely more satisfying.

  Twenty-four Carrot Catering provided jobs where there were none before. Mona would soon be on her own, and Mac would find another start-up that needed help.

  Jack looked ready to snarl, but Mac forestalled him. “There’s no danger, Jack. A paparazzo did his homework and got a behind-the-scenes shot of me. Any moment now the phone will ring and I’ll be asked to buy them.”

  “That makes sense if it weren’t for the inherent threat in these words. And if your friend Mona hadn’t been used to get the photos to you.” Jack worked the snarl out of his voice. “You’re not involved with her, are you?” His eyes narrowed. “She’s married.”

  The question was ignored, as it deserved to be. Jack knew better than anyone that Mac’s behavior was above reproach. He had strong reasons for living honorably and had never wavered. “If it’s not a get-rich-quick paparazzo, it’s just another fan with a crush, like the last two times.” Mac shrugged, happy to have handed off the photos to Jack. He had a car to take out for a run. “Technology has made people too accessible.”

  “You’re right, but if you’d give up this public image you’ve cultivated, you could have—”

  “My parents tried flying under the radar, and it destroyed their marriage.” His fa
ther had been a hypocrite: publicly happily married, but privately an unrepentant philanderer with questionable taste in women. When he was exposed, the marriage was destroyed, and along with it, any semblance of a normal childhood for Mac. He’d put the whole mess into perspective, but it still colored his attitude toward his family’s high profile. Starting with a lumber baron great-grandfather who made his fortune through shady dealings and political connections, the McRae family had been in the public spotlight for generations.

  His father’s indiscretions and peccadilloes had brought out the worst kind of press. His mother’s bitter disappointment at the public sniping destroyed her. She was a miserable wretch these days, who spent most of her time in an alcoholic haze.

  At thirteen, Mac had been left to fend for himself until Rory, the loyal family majordomo, had stepped in as a father figure. Without Rory’s dependable and loving influence, Mac could have gone all kinds of wrong. The deep connection between the men continued to this day.

  “As long as I control what’s reported about me,” Mac said, “I keep my real life private.” He focused on Hollywood exposure to make his home in Seattle a quiet retreat. Now that he worked mostly from home, he was grateful for the cover he’d built.

  “In theory, it sounds fine,” Jack agreed.

  Until something happened to prove him wrong, he saw no reason to abandon a successful PR subterfuge. Not when the public believed all the fluff he fed them.

  “In theory I should be allowed a private life, but I can’t remember the last time I dated a woman just because I liked her.”

  Jack mimed playing a violin. “Yeah, the most beautiful women in Hollywood are at your beck and call and life’s tough.”

  “At least it keeps the press from interfering with my mentoring program.” Two years ago, Mac had taken his business skills to the streets. For special cases like Mona’s catering business, he provided capital. His interests were varied, but small businesses provided jobs at the grassroots level. He loved what he did for free more than anything he’d ever done for money.