by Eden Bradley
Wyatt radiated power, so his aura should reflect the same. Instead, it stretched thin around his body like an ill-fitting secondhand coat, ridden with weak spots and holes, like he’d suffered repeated supernatural attacks. She could repair the damage, but her efforts would amount to little more than a patch job on his psychic garment. Replenishing his aura, renewing it…that only he could do, through healthy living and mental wholeness.
For now, she concentrated on the cut on his chest, worked her power into a psi needle and thread that knit the wound together. The muscles in his abs rippled, carved so deeply that they cast shadows on one another. She knew how they felt beneath her touch, how they flexed when they rubbed against her belly, and she had to clench her hands to keep from reaching for him.
The wound closed in a whisper of sound, and Wyatt sucked in a harsh breath. “Jesus. You’re a fucking agent.”
His eyes glowed amber again, and the chains binding him rattled.
“Please don’t,” she said, letting her psychic fingers slide south on his body. “Let me. Follow my lead.”
He moaned and then grit his teeth against the sensations she sent streaming into his groin.
“I’m going to need you to scream, Wyatt. Scream like I’m killing you.”
His shaft began to swell with each of her virtual caresses deep inside his body, and his eyes flashed green fire. “You are, Faith.” His voice rumbled, dark, dangerous. “I’ve been through the gates of hell and survived, but somehow, I think you’re going to be the devil who takes me down.”
Chapter Two
TWO DAYS EARLIER
Wyatt Kennedy was a dead man, and other than a few problems, like being unable to use his credit cards, it hadn’t been so bad.
Of course, he’d already been declared dead once before, a long time ago, so he knew the drill. Lay low, use cash, watch your back.
When he’d dropped off the face of the earth years earlier, he’d had ACRO—the Agency for Covert Rare Operatives, of which he was one—on his side. ACRO had recruited him, changed his name and killed him off so he wouldn’t face a murder rap for the death of his half brother.
Which, for the record, he still wasn’t sure whether or not he was responsible for, thanks to a memory lapse that had lasted for the last five years, despite ACRO’s best efforts otherwise.
This time around at playing dead, he got to keep the same first name, at least. The most important part of being dead this go-around was letting everyone at ACRO think he’d been killed—for reasons he didn’t quite understand, but when orders were given, orders were followed. The rest of the world, and Itor Corp—ACRO’s major rival—had never known Wyatt had existed anyway, and he knew the mission he was dealing with—finding the weather machine that Itor Corp had built and hidden on an offshore oil platform, was some serious, we plan on destroying the world shit.
Read on for a sneak peek of
HARD TO HOLD
the first novel in
Stephanie Tyler’s sexy new series
Coming from Bantam in 2009
HARD TO HOLD
on sale in 2009
“We want to be in a situation under maximum pressure, maximum intensity, and maximum danger. When it’s shared with others, it provides a bond which is stronger than any tie that can exist.” —SEAL TEAM SIX OFFICER
Prologue
Lieutenant Junior Grade Jake Hansen had already muttered the word motherfucker as many times as he possibly could in under a minute’s time. He’d used it as a noun and then a verb, planned on continuing to think of new and inventive ways to utilize it in his vocabulary until his Navy SEAL teammate and best friend finally told him to shut up so he could motherfucking bandage Jake’s bleeding biceps.
It was a flesh wound, but it still hurt—and bled—like hell. Not that he’d ever admit that first part. And there was no way he was stopping, although Nick hadn’t bothered to suggest that. Probably because Nick had been running with a stress fracture along his shin for the better part of the afternoon, at the tail end of a mission that had gone totally to shit after the first five minutes.
Those first five minutes happened three days ago. Now, they were intent on getting the hell out of Djibouti, Africa, and the water—and the point of convergence with their team sharpshooter, Senior Chief and CO—was only five miles away.
“Just Rebel fire—not aimed at us.” Nick spoke quietly into the mic attached to his headset as the gunfire continued to pop, lighting the backdrop of the night sky to their west.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Jake muttered, his anger aimed more at himself for letting the bullet catch him than at the random firefight. This country was full of small skirmishes and all-out wars, but none of that had been SEAL Team Twelve’s concern this trip. They’d been forced to scatter to complete their mission to secure the missing equipment and the intel it contained. Now they were headed home.
Nick was still listening to the voice on the other end of his headset, intently enough to make Jake switch on his own earpiece.
“…hostage reported…one klick North…seen and left for dead by the Rebels,” the Team’s Senior Chief was saying, although the line was breaking up fast.
“Who reported the hostage?” Jake asked.
“Source was verified reliable. Red Cross relief workers heard it from the refugees moving north. They were scared to stop and take her—didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that she’d survived. She’s American. Can you get there?”
“Confirmed. We can get there,” Nick said.
Jake mentally traced the route—one mile back the way they came. Toward the line of fire. He and Nick began to hump it, weapons drawn and still listening to the report.
“…Senator Cresswell’s daughter…a doctor…first name Isabelle, last name Markham…thirty-one…missing and believed kidnapped for seventy-two hours…”
This way. Jake motioned as they cut through some thick underbrush and headed up a path off the main road. It was easy to see how they’d missed the small hut in the first place—it was completely camouflaged by brush and entirely invisible in the dark.
Trap? Nick motioned.
Jake walked the perimeter slowly while Nick followed, weapon drawn. No wires were apparent, and when they walked around the front, he saw the structure had no door.
Seen and left for dead. Jake’s stomach had turned on hearing that atrocity, but the reality hit him like a punch to the gut when they actually found Dr. Isabelle Markham. All his doubts about the veracity of the report fell away as he and Nick moved forward into the darkened room. Nick took the sweep, speaking quietly into the mic, and Jake turned his off and dropped to his knees beside the prone body.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
She lay on her stomach, hands tied behind her back, cheek to the dusty floor, her mouth gagged so she couldn’t yell. Eyes closed. Pale. Naked. Gingerly, he brushed a hand down the back of her neck. She didn’t stir, and he was frozen.
Nick knelt opposite him, his fingers on Isabelle’s wrist. “There’s a strong pulse,” he said, before he turned to work on freeing her hands.
Jake untied the filthy gag and pulled it out of her mouth. She made a quick gasping sound but didn’t wake up.
“Doesn’t look like there’s head trauma. We need to turn her, make sure she’s not bleeding anywhere,” Nick said. He threw the filthy ropes that had once bound her behind him as Jake unbuttoned his jacket, trying to ignore the fact that his fingers felt as if they were made of lead, and placed it over her where she lay. There was no way to put it on her fully without actually turning her and exposing her more.
He’d been in the military for eleven years—since he was fifteen—had seen shit both before and after his enlistment that would turn a man ugly or crazy or unemotional.
He’d gone none of those ways, no matter how hard others might argue, but nothing he’d ever seen or done had prepared him for this. Because, even though she was down, Isabelle Markham was not out. He could tell by the set of h
er shoulders, defiant, even in sleep or unconsciousness, could tell by the way her hands were bruised and her nails broken, because she’d fought back. She was still fighting, and he wasn’t sure why that affected him so badly, but it did.
“Can she make the trip?” he asked Nick, who was assessing her facial area with a penlight, and at the sound of his voice, Isabelle stirred and finally opened her eyes. They were a dark hazel, her pupils dilated from fear and pain, and they locked onto his with a force he felt physically.
“Dr. Markham, you’re safe. We’re with the United States Navy, and we’re going to get you out of here,” he said, placed his hand lightly on her shoulder.
“Can’t move me,” she whispered, her voice breathless, as if it hurt to speak. “Not far.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Ribs…broken. Too close…to my lung,” she managed. “Not safe.”
“We need a vehicle to take her out of here.”
Nick nodded his assent, then asked, “Ma’am, can we turn you?” even though she was staring up at Jake.
“Yes. Onto…right side,” she whispered after a long moment, as though she realized they’d see her completely exposed.
She’d been through so much already, neither man could stand that she’d have to bear more humiliation. But the fire-fight was drawing closer, and Jake forced his emotions to lose to logic.
“Let’s do it then. On my count,” he said. “One, two, three.”
He rolled Isabelle to her back as one unit by pushing simultaneously on her hip and shoulder, avoiding her side completely. Nick had already laid the jacket out underneath her, and Jake noted a dark bruise by her temple from a blow just hard enough to knock her out. Tears streaked her face, fresh ones, and her breathing was labored and still she held it together.
Also from the authors of
HOT NIGHTS, DARK DESIRES…
BOOKS BY EDEN BRADLEY
The Dark Garden
The Darker Side of Pleasure
Exotica
Forbidden Fruit (November 2008)
BOOKS BY SYDNEY CROFT
Riding the Storm
Unleashing the Storm
Seduced by the Storm (August 2008)
BOOKS BY STEPHANIE TYLER
A new trilogy coming in 2009:
Hard to Hold
Too Hot to Hold
Hold On Tight
HOT NIGHTS, DARK DESIRES
A Bantam Book/June 2008
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2008 by Eden Bradley, Sydney Croft, and Stephanie Tyler
Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bradley, Eden.
Hot nights, dark desires / Eden Bradley, Sydney Croft, Stephanie Tyler.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-553-90542-7
1. Erotic stories, American. 2. New Orleans (La.)—Fiction. I. Croft, Sydney. II. Tyler, Stephanie. III. Title.
PS648.E7B73 2008
813.60803538—dc22
2008006140
www.bantamdell.com
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