Storming His Heart

by Marie Harte

  Not that she much cared. The minute her head hit the pillow, she fell asleep.

  She woke later to the smell of bacon and coffee. A glance at a bedside clock showed her she’d slept the day away. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one. It was early afternoon and the house remained quiet.

  Taking advantage of the solitude, she used the upstairs bathroom to shower and dress, then strode barefoot downstairs to the kitchen in jeans and a T-shirt. She came to a stop at the kitchen island, where several clean mugs, plates and utensils cluttered the space.

  To her surprise, Rafe was cooking breakfast. His hair still damp from a shower, he wore only a pair of jeans as he worked with a pan over the stove. He’d missed drying a few spots, and she watched as a few rivulets of water made their way down his broad back. Then he turned and her mouth went dry.

  Storm tried not to stare at his chest, corded arms and flat stomach but failed miserably. Her eyes seemed to have a will of their own. Trying to appear unfazed, she forced her gaze to the coffee pot and said in as normal a voice as she could muster, “I thought you couldn’t cook.”

  “I lied. Scrambled eggs and bacon if you’re hungry. Coffee’s fresh too. I just ground the beans.”

  “You don’t even feel bad for lying, do you?” she asked and grabbed a cup off the island counter. She pushed it toward him.

  “Nope. That was a helluva meal.” He grinned, poured her some coffee and added the right amount of creamer and sugar for her. Talk about attention to detail.

  He handed it to her and their fingers brushed. Though the island separated them, she could smell his soap when he shifted. A hint of citrus and man made her salivate. Damn the coffee. She wanted Rafe.

  He turned back to the stove and grabbed a spatula.

  “Can you hand me that plate?” He motioned to the plate right next to him. His position at the stove was near the corner of the kitchen, and his hands seemed to be full with a heavy pan and spatula.

  She set down her coffee and skirted the island. Just as she reached for the plate he let go of everything and caged her against the counter.

  His lips quirked into a satisfied grin. “You’re a real help in the kitchen, aren’t you?”

  She wanted to berate him but couldn’t manage more than a sigh. Her gaze slipped from his eyes to his mouth and lower, to his mouth-watering chest. Unable to help herself, she caressed the tense muscle under her palms.

  Rafe groaned. “Oh, yeah.” Taking advantage of her hesitation, he lowered his mouth to hers. He tasted sweet, like sugar, and then his lips pressed harder over hers. Under her fingers, his nipples hardened. He moved closer and shifted his steel-hard cock against her belly, grinding against her.

  “Damn, I want inside you so bad. Just a couple thrusts and I’m a goner.”

  She wanted the same thing. Except her brothers were upstairs and could come down at any moment.

  Rafe broke the kiss and ran his lips down her neck, sucking lightly at her throat. “So soft. So tasty.” He nipped her neck and whispered, “So mine.”

  Rafe could be gentle yet firm. The man consumed her every waking thought. When he touched her and talked to her like that, he made her feel as if she was the center of his universe. How could she not start to fall for him, Westlake or no?

  A secret fear prodded her to nudge him with her mind. What if underneath all the sex, he buckled under her will? Maybe he wanted her so much because she wanted him to. Storm concentrated really hard.

  Release me, Rafe. My brothers are coming. Let me go and I’ll give you anything you want. An image of her on her knees, sucking his cock, came out of nowhere.

  Rafe cupped her breast and squeezed her nipple. “Fuck, you’re potent,” he rasped. “On your knees, huh? Uh-uh. Bad girl, trying to control me like that. Soon as the others are gone, I think you’re in for some punishment.”

  She shivered, lost in the fantasy of Rafe disciplining her.

  “Well, well.” His genuine smile shook her. “I know how we can make up for lost time. Our first night is going to be one hell of a party, Storm.”

  “You wish,” she said on moan as he toyed with her other breast. She might not have been wearing a bra for all the sensation she felt.

  “Baby, you have no idea what I wish.” He grabbed her hand and closed it over the erection straining his jeans. “Feel what you do to me. If you only knew how many ways I’ve dreamed of fucking you,” he ended in a low growl.

  “Cut it out. My brothers are upstairs.” Which made it in really bad taste that she was considering jumping him in the kitchen.

  He closed his eyes when she gripped him tight. She couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d given her that orgasm without getting his. The naughty part of her wanted to please him, and to get even.

  When she unbuttoned his jeans his eyes flew open and he clutched her wrist to stop her.

  “What are you doing?” he choked.

  “Just my way of saying good morning.” Storm leaned close to kiss him and wiggled her fingers free. She glanced down to see his cockhead visible between his parted jeans. She unbuttoned his fly to give her better access.

  “You are so sexy,” she whispered and kissed him again, the thrill of touching him almost worth getting caught.

  The kiss turned from hot to embarrassingly carnal as she pumped him. So thick and long, he felt like an iron bar in her grip. The moisture at his tip acted like a natural lube that only made her hand slide faster over him. Storm held him tight, possession clear in her mind as she brought him to climax. He was hers right here, right now.

  “I’m gonna blow. Fuck, Storm. Baby,” he groaned as tilted his head back, his face a study of tortured ecstasy.

  She was so worked up her panties felt damp. He gripped her waist tight and she watched him come all over her hand and his belly.

  They stayed like that for a moment before she grabbed a nearby paper towel and cleaned him up. He buttoned up his pants but said nothing, watching in silence as she threw out the towel and washed her hands in the sink.

  His eyes were overly bright with humor. “Just your way of saying good morning, hmm?” He sniffed at the smell of something burning, swore and turned back to the stove.

  “Don’t burn the eggs,” she teased.

  He chuckled. “I’d love to give you a good morning, but if I do you’ll end up naked and embarrassed when I’m going down on you with an audience.”

  They both heard the tromp of footsteps on the stairs.

  “I’ll just drink my coffee over here.” She rounded the island, putting some much-needed distance between her and temptation. Watching him get off had been one of the most arousing things she’d ever seen. And she wanted to do it again, as soon as possible.

  A heavy shuffle sounded behind her.

  J.D. joined her at the counter and stretched. “You two are up early. Or should I say, late?”

  She decided to have a little fun. “Good morning, J.D.”

  “Shit.” Rafe stuck a finger in his mouth. He glared at her over his shoulder.

  “Problem?” she asked.

  “Just burned my hand a little. No worries.” The gleam in his eye told her he’d get her back.

  She couldn’t wait.

  Chapter Seven

  Three days later

  Rafe moaned in his sleep, not wanting to see this particular nightmare again. But lately it continued to come with more frequency…

  Richard Glass grabbed for his gun, shot twice—one shot grazing Rafe’s ribcage—and ran. Swearing at the burn and the blood dripping down his side, Rafe chased after the rogue agent. Glass turned a corner and sprinted down a narrow alley. Rafe followed. He halted when he found Glass staring at a dead end.

  Suddenly, Glass spun around to face him. “You can’t prove anything, you bastard.” He sneered and raised his weapon for the last time.

  “I can and already have.” Rafe aimed his Beretta dead center on Glass’s chest. “I have copies of your phone records, Richard. You were the one who gave u
p Hunter’s cover, and you nearly got one of Buchanan’s people killed too. I have witnesses who can clearly ID you, as well as a dozen or more other instances of corporate espionage. It’s over now. Give it up.” Rafe didn’t want to shoot the man he’d worked with for over three years.

  Once again, Rafe had put his trust in the wrong man. He should have learned by now.

  Glass laughed, a hearty chuckle at odds with the maniacal gleam in his eyes. “You’re a fucking idiot. Did you really think I’d come unprepared? Men, come on out.” But the man’s energy had weakened a while ago, giving Rafe and his agents a much-needed break. Glass couldn’t shield himself twenty-four/seven. And thank God for that.

  “Richard, did you really think I’d follow you blindly all this way without a little reassurance?” Rafe whistled, and his agents tossed two men, bound and gagged, out of the shadows.

  Rafe saw a brief vision of the impending future and acted on instinct. He fired at Glass a split second before Glass’s killing spree would have commenced. A minute later, Richard Glass, one of Westlake’s finest, sprawled on the cracked cement, his blood flowing down the alley into the nearby sewage drain, a crimson river joining a sea of filth.

  Rafe crouched over Glass and yanked the pistol out of his hand.

  “It’s not over. It’ll never be over…” Glass mumbled as blood trickled down his chin. Then the life slowly leeched from his body and he died.

  Movement to the left alerted Rafe, but he was too late. Gunshots, another dead body, and—

  Rafe shot up in his bed, gasping and sweating. He’d had the dream just last week, and a few days before that. It had taken him months to let go of the nightmares plaguing him since the shooting. For half a year he’d been okay. And now they’d returned.

  He tossed back the covers and swung his feet to the floor. Running shaky hands over his face, he cursed. He needed a good shot of whiskey. Better yet, he needed to get laid.

  A glare at the door reminded him that he’d made a promise to himself to ignore that train of thought. His dreams of the Storm Buchanan rivaled the nightmare he’d just had—scary as hell. For the past two nights, he’d dreamt about a wedding and kids. And her family welcoming him into the Buchanan fold. That’s all he needed, to walk away from the very future he’d built his life around in Westlake Enterprises.

  Yeah, he needed a stiff drink. A scotch straight up sounded like just the thing. He stumbled out of his room in search of alcohol.

  He found it in the kitchen. Through the window over the sink, he stared out at the cloudless sky looking for Orion, the eternal hunter. The constellation never failed to comfort him, forever poised to take on prey.

  Through the death of his parents, the loss of his fiancée, and the betrayals of his friends, Rafe had counted on Orion’s steady presence. After four years, he’d thought he could rely on Jurek as well. Too bad his boss had gone off the deep end.

  Jurek insisted Rafe and Storm stick together like glue. While Rafe didn’t mind keeping her safe, having her constantly near put him in a bind. He couldn’t go after his assailants without endangering her, and Jurek knew it.

  The combustible chemistry between them didn’t help matters. It had been bad before, but after her hand job the other day, he walked around with a perpetual hard-on. If it had been merely lust he felt, Rafe would have screwed her and been done with it. But as he and Storm spent more time together, he found he really liked her. Dreams of a possible future together felt real, not like a fantasy. Their compatibility extended past the physical into likes and dislikes.

  They both preferred action to sitting around with their thumbs up their asses.

  “Damn Jurek,” he seethed. In addition to Rafe’s own home security, which was top of the line thanks to J.D., Jurek had stationed men outside in pairs on a twenty-four/seven rotating shift.

  The ringing of his cell phone jarred him from the hell his life had become. Despite the late hour, Rafe welcomed the intrusion. “Yeah?”

  J.D. answered. “Sorry Rafe, but I thought you’d want a heads up on the latest. You weren’t sleeping, were you?” The sly innuendo didn’t go unnoticed. J.D. had taken every opportunity to rag him about Storm since she’d been here.

  “Dickhead. Storm is in her own room, probably stewing about her annoying family.”

  “Want me to come over and cheer her up?”

  “Why did you call?”

  J.D. chuckled. “Right. We finally tracked down Lewis Greene, your shooter from the park. Problem is, before we could bag him, he disappeared. He must have just barely gotten wind of our arrival before ditching because his clothes and his guns were still there. We rushed ballistics on the .38 at the scene. It matched the one he used to shoot at you. He’s definitely our man.” J.D. gave a frustrated sigh. “We’ve spread his picture around to several of our contacts on the streets, in addition to the police. If he shows his face anywhere, we’ll find him.”

  Rafe had been hoping for better news than this. “Still no word on how they found out about my date with Storm?”

  “No, but I did manage to learn how the Buchanans knew about the Locklen case. It was ingenious, really.”

  Rafe heard J.D.’s grim admiration and had to wonder about Buchanan Investigations. J.D. was the best of the best in the computer world. Not only was he a top-rate hacker, but his unique ability with electronics made him a definite force to be reckoned with.

  “Somebody siphoned information through my secure server,” J.D. continued. “I don’t know how he decrypted my codes, but the whole thing was brilliantly executed. He didn’t access it from within the building, and the loops he wove to cover his tracks are damn good.

  “What’s weird is that I plugged the hole as soon as I discovered it, right after your mishap at the Locklen Estate. Your interrupted meet with Floyd by the shipyard had nothing to do with Buchanan’s hacker. Word from Buchanan’s techo-genius is that his side is totally clean. Someone else had to have passed that information.”

  “Shit,” Rafe cursed. “So Glass wasn’t the only leak in our organization. We might have another rogue agent.”

  Last year, Rafe had worked hard to uncover a traitor in their midst. Unfortunately, Rafe had caught him after he’d sold valuable information to Raymond Guest, a suspected white slaver and drug runner. In the course of his investigation, Rafe had been forced to kill Richard Glass. A loss, and another betrayal. It was like a repeat of what had happened in the Atlanta PD all over again.

  “We checked into Richard Glass, Rafe. He’s a dead end. Literally. He can’t be your rogue unless you’re being haunted. Far as I know, none of our agents see dead people.” J.D. paused. “Not to change the subject, but on a serious note, how are things really going with Storm? You guys okay?”

  Rafe quelled his urge to hang up the phone. J.D. couldn’t possibly know how tightly strung Rafe had been since he’d been sequestered in his own house with temptation made flesh. Storm Buchanan was torture on his control, no two ways about it.

  “Things are fine. Storm’s been busy working out, and I’ve been trying to manage what we know about this case, which unfortunately isn’t much.”

  “Hmm.”

  Knowing he shouldn’t, he couldn’t help but ask, “What?”

  “Nothing. Just that you’re isolated with Storm Buchanan, a virtual sex kitten, and you have nothing better to do than work?”

  Rafe went into ignore mode. “I need one more favor before you hang up. Send me everything we’ve got on Glass. Maybe something will turn up that sparks this investigation.”

  “I told you, Glass is dead,” J.D. repeated the obvious again. “But if you want his info, you got it.”

  “I know it doesn’t make any sense, but the more I think about it, the more my gut tells me he’s connected to this. Maybe he had a lover who worked for us or a friend who we missed. There’s something more I’m not seeing.” Rafe didn’t mention the odd recurring dream he’d been having of the night he’d shot the bastard—when he wasn’t dreamin
g about Storm having his babies. He didn’t want to understand why seeing her with his child just felt right.

  “Fine,” J.D. said. “I’ll e-mail you everything I’ve got on your secure LAN. Just do me one favor before you go.”

  “Sure thing.” Rafe powered up an encryption device sitting next to the computer.

  “Tell me what Storm’s wearing, in detail.”

  Rafe let out a disgusted oath and hung up on J.D.’s laughter. He worked for another hour, downloading and transferring information to paper. The rest he studied on the screen. His shoulders felt tight and his neck ached, so he stood and stretched, feeling hungry since he’d missed dinner in an effort to avoid Storm earlier.

  It wasn’t her fault he couldn’t control himself. The pragmatic part of Rafe knew it was only a matter of time. But he genuinely liked Storm. He didn’t want to hurt her. She’d end up pining for a relationship with Rafe he didn’t have in him to share.

  Rafe was already married—to his job. Jurek had as much as told him he’d inherit the Chief of Operations position if he played his cards right. Rafe loved being what he considered a private cop, even if he no longer carried a badge. He still occasionally worked for the government to right wrongs and prevent innocents from being hurt. Only now he worked through Jurek, minus all the red tape, and he could openly use his clairvoyance.

  Years ago, while on the force, being a psychic had been a pain in the ass. He’d had to hide how he knew things all the time. At least here, he could trust his fellow agents.

  Richard Glass’s face popped into his mind’s eye and he amended, for the most part.

  He reached his living room and turned on the light, surprised to see Storm stretched out on her stomach, sleeping on the couch. She’d turned her face away so it was mostly hidden by the glorious black silk of her hair. He inched closer until he could see a faint smile on her lips. Must be one hell of a dream.