Bound By Temptation

by Trish McCallan

  “What’s her full name?”

  “Samantha Jackson. She lives on Oak street, but I don’t know the house number.”

  Rio lifted his phone to his ears, waited a few seconds and started rattling off orders. After a moment he lowered his arm. “The next available unit will check her house out, make sure there hadn’t been a break-in.”

  Fifteen minutes later Rio’s phone rang. He listened for a minute. “Appreciate it.” Lowering his cell, he turned to Emma. “No sign of forced entry. Doesn’t look like anyone tracked the loveseat back to your friend.”

  After administering Cuddles’s insulin shot—which got easier and less stomach clenching with each injection—Emma returned to the recliner on the porch.

  She called Samantha several more times over the following two hours, but each attempt went to voicemail. Ring by ring, Emma’s worry solidified, a profuse, murky quicksand weighing her down. Had those horrible men found Sam? According to Rio, Sam’s house hadn’t been broken into, but what if they’d grabbed her off the street like they’d tried to do to Emma? They’d shown Mr. Carmichael no mercy. Would they be more humane to a woman? It was doubtful, given their attack on her the morning before.

  An image haunted her. Samantha, lying in a pool of blood, blue eyes fixed and glazed. She shuddered and shook it aside.

  After sticking around long enough to knock back a hamburger or two along with his beer brand of choice, Rio broke away from the cluster of men he’d joined and approached Emma.

  His eyes narrowing, he scanned her face. “Still no luck?”

  She shook her head, clenching her cell phone in her bandaged right hand. Maybe she was worrying needlessly, after all Samantha had said she wouldn’t get home until late. But why wasn’t she answering her phone? Sam always had her cell on her. And since her fiancé, Roger would be driving, she wouldn’t need to turn it off for safety’s sake.

  Rio scrubbed a hand over his thick, black hair and swore softly, glaring down at the cement. After a moment he dropped his hand and reluctantly looked up. “I’ll swing by her place on my way home. If she hasn’t returned yet, I’ll give her house another look.”

  “Thank you,” Emma said. Maybe Officer Arctic wasn’t as insensitive as she’d assumed.

  Half an hour later, the last of Lucas’s teammates headed for their cars. Lucas and Tag dragged the barbeque back under the eaves, worked the vinyl cover over it, and stacked the plastic chairs neatly against the condo wall. They shoved a steel tub of empty beer bottles next to the stack of chairs.

  While they were setting the patio to rights, Emma fought her way to her feet. Cuddles timidly abandoned her side to investigate the cement slab, gobbling down pieces of meat, or scraps of hamburger bun.

  “Let’s pack you a bag and get you over to Chris and Lynden’s,” Lucas said, joining her next to the recliner.

  She’d met the two men several times over the five years she’d lived in the complex, so they weren’t complete strangers, more like casual acquaintances. Still—it was horribly uncomfortable to impose on them for the night.

  “So you’re really going through with this?” she asked, her shoulders tensing.

  He studied her face, his eyes calm. Determined. “The bastard who followed us picked up another guy and returned. They snuck into the courtyard at the height of the party. We watched them watch us. They know where you’re staying.”

  “Then they’ll know I moved to a different unit,” she said, a cold trickle sliding down her spine.

  “They left when Chris wandered over to ask who they were looking for. Said they had the wrong address and took off. I’ve got scouts in place. Nothing fishy has been reported since. But they know where I live. They got a good look at you. They’ll be back.”

  She swallowed hard. They knew Lucas was armed, he’d shot up their van and killed one of their men. If they attacked, as Lucas so clearly expected, they’d do so with weapons—guns, maybe knives. The cold trickle down her spine turned into an icy flood.

  “Look,” she said, a hard knot forming in her belly, “we know what they’re after now. We’ll know who sold the loveseat to Carmichaels once Rio tracks the check down. This trap isn’t necessary.”

  His hand rose toward her cheek, but it fell before making contact. “We can’t assume the previous owner is behind the attack on you. Why sell it, then kill to get it back?”

  A valid question. She scowled. While she generally appreciated a good logical argument—this was not one of those times.

  “Besides,” he continued, “we’re already in play. They were here, they saw you. It’s too late to call it off.” He scanned her face and his gaze softened. “Trust me. These bastards don’t stand a chance.”

  He looked so freaking confident, she wanted to smack him. He wasn’t invincible. One well-targeted bullet could pulverize his heart. Her chest tightened at the thought. This trap he was laying was perilous. If things went wrong, she could lose him tonight.

  “You can still call Rio. Get the cops involved. These guys will be armed. They’re dangerous—”

  “So are we.”

  He stepped toward her, his heat a beacon in the suddenly freezing and chaotic night.

  “We have the experience, sweetheart. And my team will be with me.” Warm, strong fingers cradled the side of her face. “They don’t stand a chance. Trust me.”

  She leaned into the callused warmth of his hand. There’d been a hint of entreaty in his voice, as though her trust mattered to him.

  This was his life—oh, maybe not this current situation—but the danger. The adrenaline. This was why he’d walked away from her. Maybe rightly so.

  A thick exhale shook her. “Okay. I won’t need to pack much, since it’s only for the night.”

  It better be just for tonight. But what if nothing happened? Would he be able to gather his team two nights in a row? Or three? Or for however long it took the men after her to move on the condo?

  She followed him through the sliding door and down the hall to his bedroom, with Cuddles attached to her heel. Her stiffness, along with the stinging in her hands and knees, lurked just below the surface—distant and vague. Her last dose of pills had been hours ago. Either she was healing at a remarkable rate considering the injuries were only 34 hours old, or her fear for Lucas had shoved everything else aside. After all, worrying over someone took the focus off oneself.

  Inside his bedroom, she avoided looking at the king size mattress for fear he’d see the erotic memories playing through her mind. Or the intense sexual cravings flooding her blood and pooling in the throbbing flesh between her legs.

  Good lord, apparently danger really was an aphrodisiac.

  She stuffed pajamas, underwear, and socks into the duffle bag he handed her, adding the shampoo, conditioner, toothbrush and toothpaste he retrieved from the bathroom. “Should I bring the insulin? Cuddles’s food?”

  Leaning down, he grabbed the duffle bag, his forearm brushing her shoulder in the process. “Don’t bother. I’ll have you back before she needs her morning shot.”

  She quivered, stepping aside as he lifted the bag. A tense, electrified silence crackled between them as they returned to the patio—it sizzled with question, with emotions held at bay.

  He checked with the scouts he’d posted, received an all clear and escorted her through the sliding glass door. Their destination was half way down the courtyard on the left. A one to two-minute walk. Unless your knees were grumpy.

  The pool lights illuminated the community courtyard, shimmering across the cement—rupturing the darkness shed by a black, moonless sky. Cuddles’s toenails kept pace with them, a steady clink clink clink bringing up the rear. They skirted a pair of chaise lounges facing the glistening, murky water of the swimming pool.

  Emma cleared her throat. “How long before your team returns?”

  “Most of them are already in position. Hollister and Russo are coming in through the north entrance.” He slowed, matching his steps to hers. “They should be
in the house by the time I return.”

  A fraction of Emma’s tension deflated. That meant three of his teammates would be in the condo with him. At least he’d have backup if things went wrong.

  Chris and Lynden’s patio looked a lot like Lucas’s—or at least the covered barbeque beneath the eaves did. The glass and bamboo patio table, with its four matching chairs was an improvement. So were the trio of glass wind chimes tinkling above.

  Lucas guided her to the dark, sliding glass door. It glided open immediately.

  “There you are,” Chris stepped out, reaching for the duffle bag. His blond hair looked perfectly styled, even though it had to be close to midnight. “Let’s get you settled. I imagine you want to get off those knees.”

  Cuddles skittered back at his sudden appearance, her wispy topknot flouncing. With a low growl, she fixed a suspicious blue eye on him. Her brown eye sought out Emma and clung.

  Before she had a chance to reassure the animal, Chris knelt and patted the cement. “Ah now, honey. Give me a chance. You’ll like me, I promise.”

  After a swift glance, to make sure Cuddles wasn’t going to panic and take off—she’d unclipped the leash ages ago—Emma turned to Lucas. “Call me as soon as it’s over. Okay?”

  His hands lifted, reaching for her, only to fall. He frowned, stepped back. “Will do.”

  “No matter how late. Promise?”

  “I’ll come for you. How’s that?” His brown eyes were brimming with shadows, but steady on her face.

  That was even better. “Okay. Thanks.”

  He scanned her face one last time before turning away.

  Panic struck, a white-hot torrent of fear. It clawed at her chest, locked her throat. No matter how much he brushed it off, he was headed into battle. Things could go horribly wrong. He could die. What if this was the last time she saw him alive?

  She lurched forward. “Lucas wait!”

  He spun to face her, searing, hungry eyes locked on her face. “Yeah?”

  The words teeming on her tongue vanished. Her mind went blank. “Uh, uh, be safe.”

  Be safe? Really? Heat flooded her cheeks.

  For a fraction of a second something flashed through his eyes. Maybe frustration, maybe disappointment. Maybe both. He looked down and his shoulders seemed to round. But then he shook himself, rolled his shoulders, and stepped back.

  “Sure,” he said.

  She caught a glimpse of a self-derisive smile twisting his face as he turned away. The panic roared through her again. If the worst happened, if he didn’t survive the night—this was not what she wanted him to recall in those last moments of life. She wanted him to remember heat, and honesty, and love.

  She’d fallen in love with him three months ago. And that love had never died. She’d tried to bury it, tried to ignore it, tried to convince herself the emotion boiling inside her was fury, rather than heartbreak—but her love had hung on tight. And she needed to show him that, even if he didn’t return those feelings.

  “Lucas wait!” She took a couple of quick steps and when he turned, she threw herself at him.

  His arms rose, locking around her body as he staggered back, absorbing her impact. Pressing herself against his tall, rock-hard frame, her arms twined around the thick column of his neck. She went up on tip-toes, ignoring the sudden stabbing pain in her knees.

  “Ah, baby,” he whispered roughly, the words soft as a plea. His neck bent and urgent lips crashed down on her mouth.

  She opened to him, welcoming him inside, meeting his thrusting tongue with flirty swipes. The sharp pain in her knees vanished beneath a tidal wave of heat—of hunger.

  He tasted like beer, and barbeque sauce, and pure, masculine adrenaline. Adrenaline had a taste, a smoky, spicy urgency.

  Raising his hands, he caught her cheeks in his rough palms and tipped her head back, taking her mouth more deeply. His taste and scent flooded her, spinning her head and priming her flesh. Her breasts tightened, her nipples pebbled, her thighs melted. Prickles swept up her spine and across her scalp.

  God, he felt so good. She’d forgotten how wonderful he felt and tasted…

  She pressed harder against him, shuddering as his heavy thighs rubbed between her legs, as his muscled chest crushed her breasts. A guttural groan rolled up his throat and into her mouth. …and then he pulled away.

  With a deep, raw breath, he pressed his forehead against hers. “I have to go. They’re waiting for me.”

  “I know.” But her arms tightened around his neck. She didn’t want to let go. She wanted to keep him here. In her arms. Safe, forever.

  Except she couldn’t. He was a warrior. This was his life, and one she suspected he loved.

  With immense reluctance she loosened her hold and let him go. As he stepped back and straightened, the heat raging through her cooled, turned to ash, and laid waste to her soul.

  “When I return,” he said quietly, “we’ll talk.”

  If he returned.

  She nodded, her throat too tight for speech. He tilted his head, frowning. His gaze sharpened as it scanned her face.

  No. No. No.

  He was worrying about her, which was not how she intended to send him into battle. He needed to concentrate on his trap, not her insecurities.

  Forcing her fear away, she worked up a smile—as bright a smile as she could manage.

  “Be safe,” she said, infusing confidence and strength into her voice. “But don’t damage them so badly they can’t answer our questions.”

  The wrinkle vanished from his brow. He offered a low laugh and another hard, world blurring kiss. And then he spun and took off. She watched him lope back to his condo, keeping to patios, merging with the twisting shadows, until he simply vanished from sight.

  Chapter Nine

  Lucas’s cell phone vibrated against the couch, ripping him from memories of soft, sweet lips and a wicked tongue. That hot as hell, you-come-back kiss had occupied his mind far too much during the long, lagging hours since he’d forced his feet to leave Emma’s side. He hit the phone icon and raised the cell to his mouth.

  “Go.” His whisper was barely a breath.

  “Incoming.” Milly’s response wasn’t much louder. “ETA, two minutes.”

  “Copy,” Lucas said. Stretching, he reached for the Smith and Wesson MP9 beside him on the couch. His glance skimmed Tag, Russo, and Hollister, who were loitering around the living room in various chairs or recliners with their weapons by their side. “Lock and load.”

  “About fucking time,” Russo muttered beneath his breath.

  His L.C. had that right. They’d been waiting for hours. Going on three now. The clock on the DVR flashed 2:54 in bright blue numbers.

  “They’re hitting at primetime,” Hollister said, with a long, joint popping stretch. “They may not be as amateurish as that jackass in the Tahoe led us to believe.”

  Lucas nodded grimly. There was a reason special operators were nicknamed vampires in some quarters. The middle of the night, while the target lay sleeping, were their prime hunting hours. These bastards got props for their timing.

  After one last weapons check, they headed to their stations and took up positions.

  “Two headed toward the front. Two toward the patio,” Milly reported, his voice a sibilant whisper piercing the darkness. “You sure you don’t want us to stop ‘em before they trash your doors?”

  “Negative,” Lucas said softly. “We’re in position.”

  “Copy.” The line went silent. If all went as planned, it would remain mute until their visitors were contained.

  Since they didn’t have their helmets and team radios, they’d rely on his cell phone to relay crucial info to their sentries on the outside. He placed it on the corner of the entertainment center without ending the call and settled against the wall next to the television. The sixty-five inch Vizio and the four foot stand it perched on would provide some cover. Tag was tucked into the rear corner of the dining room, behind the sliding glass door,
partially obscured by the vertical blinds. If luck smiled on them, the bastards would break through the slider and enter the living room without realizing they had an audience.

  They’d considered taking them down on the patio if they approached from the courtyard, or the front steps, if they attacked from the parking lot—but eventually decided against it. If captured outside the condo, the assholes could claim their presence was a big misunderstanding. Once they broke through doors and infiltrated the condo, such a claim would be impossible to make.

  A few hundred bucks in doors versus taking Emma’s stalkers down—yeah, the decision had been instantaneous.

  He tightened his grip on the MP9 and prayed the tangos Russo and Hollister lay in wait for didn’t come through the front entrance too early and spoil the surprise.

  A sliver of space between the back of the television and the wall provided a sweet little peep hole. The sliding door was clearly visible, as was its silver handle. A dense shadow spilled through the six-inch gap between where the window blind ended and the edge of the sliding glass door began. Their visitors had arrived.

  The locked door shook slightly as someone tugged on the handle. Several seconds later, a muted clink sounded, followed by a long, low creaking sound—like an old door slowly swinging open.

  What the hell? Lucas angled his head to get a better look.

  Another clink, sharper this time, and then a gloved hand reached through the glass and unlocked the handle. Son of a bitch, the bastard had cut a hole in the glass slider. Well that was one way to break into a house without smashing through the door and waking everyone up.

  The slider glided back. A thick shadow crossed the threshold and stepped into the dining room. Black clothes and a dark, grease painted face blended into the shadows. But the stainless steel barrel of the bastard’s Sig Sauer shimmered like a mother fucker in the darkness. A second tango, much smaller and sapling-scrawny followed the point man through the open slider.

  When Lucas got a look at the second man’s gun his eyes widened and his lips twitched.

  The skinny bastard’s weapon of choice was almost as big as he was—probably weighed about the same too. From the size and length of the barrel, the damn thing had to be a Colt Peacemaker. The weapon of choice for novices, big gun enthusiasts, or assholes who were over compensating for a raisin sized dick. Or, quite possibly, all three rolled into one fucking moron.