Mystical Warrior

by Janet Chapman

  It started right up and quickly fell into a purring idle.

  But instead of climbing in and heading to the docks to see if Rick was offloading today’s catch, Trace stood staring at the house, trying to figure out what was bugging him. And then he suddenly stiffened.

  Goddamn it, Mac was the one looking for a wife!

  Trace reached in and shut off the truck. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, you conniving bastard,” he muttered, trudging down the path Fiona had shoveled to the barn. “The only fox in this henhouse is me.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Did he have Fiona’s number or what? As he’d suspected, when he’d walked into his safe room not an hour ago, it had been to find it just as spotless as his kitchen. She had put all of the supplies back in the cabinet, shoveled out the debris, washed the blood off everything, remade the cots, and swept every damn last particle of dirt off the floor.

  But had the woman stopped there? Oh no, she had gone on to completely reorganize everything. She apparently thought the cots should be at a ninety-degree angle to each other in the back corner, the cabinet obviously had no business blocking his secret exit, and the heavy folding canvas stools belonged on top of the cabinet. As near as he could tell, the only thing she hadn’t moved was the monitor, and then probably only because she hadn’t dared to mess with the wires.

  Fiona Gregor didn’t merely have something against dust bunnies; she had an obsessive-compulsive disorder. And like most OCD neat freaks, she had a sense of order with a theme only she could see, hers seeming to be that she liked to put stuff on top of other stuff. Stools belonged on the floor so they could be sat in, not stacked on top of the cabinet; which was why he had kept them lined up against one of the walls. And he kept his rifles hanging on the wall rack organized by caliber, but Fiona obviously felt they should be stacked according to length, with the longer ones on top, making an upside-down pyramid. She had rearranged all of the boxes of ammunition, too, and it had taken Trace a good twenty minutes to unstack them in the cabinet so he could grab the correct box in a hurry without having to read every damned label.

  And she must have filched his revolver, because he couldn’t find it anywhere—or the bag he kept it in, or the box of bullets he kept in the bag.

  But that discovery had actually made him smile; that is, until he’d remembered that the revolver had been shoved inside her pants the whole time she’d crawled through the tunnel and dug him free. He was going to have to take her to the gravel pit the first chance he got and teach the little thief how to handle a gun before she shot a hole in her floor—which was his ceiling—and killed him right there in his brand-new leather recliner.

  Trace stopped trying to push the heavy beam back into place at the far end of the tunnel and stretched the kinks out of his back. Maybe he’d get her a nice little compact automatic instead, and that way she could keep the clip loaded without having a bullet in the chamber. He pushed several small rocks out of the way with the toe of his new work boot, and then threw his shoulder into the beam as he kicked the bottom up against the dirt wall. The only problem was, Fiona needed a permit to carry a handgun, and he didn’t know how to go about getting her one if she didn’t have any documentation proving she actually existed.

  He stepped away and eyed the beam, then gave it a couple of whacks with his fist to seat the top into place. Maybe good old Mac the Magician could rearrange time and space and matter for him again and simply conjure up a birth certificate.

  Hell, why stop there? Why not give Fiona a bachelor’s degree in …

  Trace snorted as he hunted around for a scrap of wood to trig the beam in place. The only thing Fiona knew anything about was cooking and cleaning.

  Well, that and the fine art of driving a man crazy.

  Especially if that man had sworn off women.

  No, wait. He was pretty sure he’d only sworn off vulnerable women.

  Yeah. He hadn’t even considered that he might find himself attracted to a demon-shooting, Scotch-drinking, potty-mouthed neat freak—who also happened to have the body of an athlete, hair he just itched to unbraid and get lost in, and eyes so golden they made the sun look like a mere dot in the sky.

  Well, great. Wonderful. How friggin’ fantastic smart of him to be lusting after a woman who unapologetically admitted that she didn’t like men.

  Trace stilled at the sound of footsteps on the stairs that entered the tunnels from the shed. He reached up and unscrewed the lightbulb over his head and pressed back against the wall beside the beam, then silently watched Fiona step into the corridor and go into the safe room.

  He took a steadying breath, willing himself to imagine her checking for dust bunnies under the cots instead of how inviting she’d look lying naked on one of them. But it didn’t work, as now all he could picture was walking into that room and seeing her lush little bottom in the air. He ran a hand over his face, hoping to wipe away the image, only to realize he was sweating. He had been moving heavy rocks and beams, but that didn’t explain why his heart had just kicked into overdrive.

  Trace eyed the stairs leading up to the mudroom and then looked at the open door to the safe room again. His head was telling him to go upstairs, but his lower brain was screaming at him to walk down the tunnel, close the door, and lock it—and make damn sure he was inside the room when he did.

  Christ, he wished she’d never told him she wasn’t afraid of men.

  Or maybe if she’d slapped his face when he’d kissed her the day the demons had been trying to kill them … maybe that’s all it would take to make him walk away.

  But she hadn’t slapped him, or appeared even a little bit afraid of him, or been outraged or disgusted or even confused. No, all he could remember was how she’d relaxed into him and how soft and sweet and promising her lips had tasted.

  Trace stilled again at the sound of weeping, his heart pounding even harder at the realization that he was standing just outside the room—only he couldn’t recall moving.

  He heard another wrenching sob, followed by what sounded like an angry curse. So help him God, if Mac had made a pass at her, he was going to—“What’s the matter?” he asked, rushing inside. “What happened?”

  She stopped unbraiding her hair with a startled scream and spun toward him.

  “Hey!” he yelped, rearing back from her clenched fist and then jackknifing away from the knee heading toward his groin. He grabbed hold of her swinging arm and spun her against him, wrapping her up in a tight embrace. “Calm down, it’s just me,” he growled into the mess of her curls fanning across his face.

  She went limp in his arms. “You startled me.”

  “Why are you crying?” He brushed her hair out of the way as he continued holding her against him. “What did Mac do to you?”

  She turned her head in surprise. “Mac? What makes you …” Her eyes widened. “You think Mac made an advance toward me? A sexual advance?” She laughed, turning to face forward again—but not pulling away, he happened to notice. In fact, she relaxed back against him. “He knows better than to even try,” she said huskily.

  Trace turned her in his arms and brushed his thumb over her damp cheek. “If not Mac, then what’s upset you?”

  She dropped her forehead to his chest with a heavy sigh. “I can’t believe they let that bastard take that poor little child away from her mother. It was heart-wrenching.”

  Trace smoothed down her hair, only to get his fingers tangled up in her curls. He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. He leaned away and tilted her chin up. “Who’s the bastard, and what poor little child are you talking about?”

  “That evil man, Rory. He didn’t even know little Sophia existed until Charlotte’s vengeful sister told him a month ago. And Charlotte is a good mother.” Fiona gathered Trace’s shirt in her fists. “What sort of laws do you have in this time that allow a man to rip a two-year-old child away from her mother? Rory made up all sorts of lies about Charlotte, and he got several of his f
riends to lie for him, as well, and that stupid judge believed everything the lying bastard said.”

  Trace stared into her tear-filled, angry eyes, wracking his brain trying to figure out who all those people were. “Is Charlotte a woman you befriended when you lived with Matt and Winter?”

  Her brows knitted into a frown. “What? No! She’s on the television show.”

  He pulled her to his chest with a strangled laugh. “Sweetheart, you’re upset over something that happened on a soap opera. Charlotte’s not real, and neither is Rory, or Sophie, or any of his lying friends.”

  She wrapped her arms around his waist and relaxed into him with another heavy sigh. “I know the show is only pretend, but the feelings I get watching it are real. And the little girl’s name is Sophia, not Sophie.” She craned her head back and smiled up at him. “Mac and Gabriella got angry, too. And when the judge gave Rory custody of Sophia, Mac jumped up, pointed at the screen, and said something I didn’t understand, and … well, you now own a really large, very flat television.”

  When she moved to rest her head back on his chest, Trace captured a lock of hair trailing down her back and lowered his mouth to hers, stopping just short of actually kissing her. “Slap my face or kiss me, Fiona,” he whispered. “Either way, just put me out of my misery.”

  She stretched upward inside his embrace, hesitated less than a heartbeat, and then he felt her soft, delicious lips touch his. Trace ran his fingers up through her silky hair and cupped her head, being careful not to overwhelm her despite every one of his muscles protesting against his restraint. Only he nearly lost it when she pressed her strong, delicate hands to the sides of his face to angle his head and parted her lips.

  She had no business not being afraid of him, and she sure as hell shouldn’t feel like warm, pliable butter melting into him. Nor should she be making those sweet little sounds as her tongue darted out to let him taste her or be pressing her hips forward into his groin.

  The fact that she felt so right in his arms should have set warning bells off in his head, but every brain cell he processed had already headed south, and the best Trace could do was aim them toward the closest horizontal surface without breaking their kiss. Turning slightly and opening one eye to gauge the distance to one of the cots, he pivoted and gently dropped onto his back, bringing Fiona with him.

  Expecting that maybe now she’d slap his face—since asking for a kiss was one thing and finding herself lying on a bed with him was another—Trace nearly came unglued when she started unbuttoning his shirt.

  Still not hearing any warning bells, he threaded his fingers through the waterfall of curls cascading down over her arms and onto his chest, only he got lost somewhere inside the intimate curtain of silky sunshine and greedily pulled her mouth down to his.

  Apparently quite good at multitasking, she kept undoing his buttons even as her tongue sparred with his, and Trace felt his shirttail being pulled from his jeans just as he remembered that he’d forgotten to lock the door.

  He broke the kiss with a groan, certain that he’d blown his chance. “The door’s not locked.”

  Her hands stilled on their way to his belt buckle, her moist, swollen lips parting in surprise. She was suddenly gone, and Trace sighed when he saw her running away, and closed his eyes on a muttered curse.

  The door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the walls.

  He snapped open his eyes when he heard one of the bolts slide into place and sat up when he saw her unbuttoning her blouse as she walked to the table and turned out the light, plunging them into absolute darkness.

  “You’re sure?” he asked quietly, even as he twisted to reach into his back pocket and pull out his wallet. He opened it and felt around for the condom. “Because if you’re not one hundred percent okay with this, then you’re on the wrong side of that door.”

  “Does … does it bother you that I’ve been with other men?”

  Trace stopped trying to tear open the packet. “Not if it doesn’t bother you that I’m not exactly a virgin, either,” he said thickly, realizing that this really was going to happen when he heard a sigh, then clothes rustling, and then what sounded like her hopping around on one foot.

  Trace wanted to kick himself for asking but asked anyway. “I need to know why you’re doing this, Fiona.”

  He heard one of her boots fall and roll up against something. “Because I can.”

  Deciding that was as good an answer as he could hope for, he ripped open the packet and slid it under the pillow behind him. He really wished she’d left the light on, though, because he really needed to see her eyes in order to figure out how okay she really was with this.

  But he wasn’t exactly twisting her arm, now, was he?

  And he hadn’t locked the door.

  If he’d found himself in this position a week ago, he would have slapped himself in the face for even considering making love to her. But fighting an army of demons with a person was a hell of a way to get to know them, and not only had the real Fiona Gregor emerged four days ago, she hadn’t gone quietly back into the safe little bubble her brothers had tried to put around her.

  He heard what sounded like her bumping into the table, which was followed by a truly impressive curse. “Would you like me to take down one of the stools from the top of the cabinet and put it on the floor so you can sit on it to take off your boots?”

  Something heavy hit the wall beside him.

  Trace started to lie down with a chuckle to unbuckle his belt and slide off his pants but was suddenly pushed backward by a pair of strong, delicate hands, followed by a pair of wonderfully naked legs straddling his hips. “No, thank you. I’m managing,” she said thickly, her hands pinning down his arms. He heard her sigh. “You really need to work on your lack of urgency, Trace. You’re still dressed. What have you been doing for the last two minutes?”

  “I’ve been imagining what you look like naked. A man likes to see what he’s touching, you know.”

  “I am aware of what a man likes,” she whispered, her mouth mere inches from his and her wonderfully naked breasts brushing his sensitive chest hairs.

  Trace tried to reach up to cup her breasts, but she continued to hold him down. He lifted his hips to let her know that he wasn’t lacking urgency in some matters.

  She made a little noise that sounded sort of surprised, and then she didn’t move for the longest time.

  He suspected that she was trying to figure out how to get him out of his clothes without letting go of his arms, and although he had a few suggestions, he decided to wait and see what she came up with—seeing as how she was an expert on what a man liked and everything. And while he waited, he tried to recall the last time he’d had a naked woman sitting on top of him and if he’d taken this long to get straight down to business.

  Maybe he was a little too laid-back.

  “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he drawled. “Did you just remember you prefer the heavy stuff on top? Here, let me help you,” he said, gently bucking her off and twisting to spin her beneath him, chuckling at her startled gasp. “There, see? The next time you need something heavy moved, just ask, and I’ll move it.”

  “I … but you’re … that’s not—”

  He covered her sputtering mouth with his own, deciding that he urgently wanted to see her hot and wet and frenzied while he was still young enough to enjoy it. She settled down fairly quickly, but instead of kissing him back, she went kind of passive on him all of a sudden. Trace lifted his head to see what was wrong, only to realize that he couldn’t see a damn thing in the absolute darkness.

  So he asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “I—I’m not sure what you want me to do,” she whispered. “You’re not … I don’t … I can’t pleasure you if you’re holding me down.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you prefer that I lie perfectly still and not touch you?” she asked, a frantic edge creeping into her voice. “Or we can get up, and I’ll hold on to the de
sk, and you can take me from behind if you want,” she rushed on anxiously. “Just tell me how you like it, and that’s what I’ll do.”

  Trace was off her and standing in the middle of the room in half a pounding heartbeat. “I think you better get dressed,” he said quietly.

  He heard her scramble off the bed. “But why? What’s wrong?”

  He silently stepped away from her groping hands trying to find him in the dark.

  “T-Trace, please,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I did wrong, but I’m sorry.” He heard her bump into the table. “Do you prefer having the light on? I don’t mind if you do. Really. I just thought you might be—”

  “Leave it off,” he growled. Sensing her going perfectly still, he stepped toward the back wall. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Fiona, I did,” he said as calmly as he was able to, considering that there was an axe buried in his chest.

  “But I don’t know what I did wrong!” she cried, the panic back in her voice. “I told you I’d do whatever you wish. I can give you pleasure if you would just let me.”

  The axe jerked sharply, making it impossible to breathe. Christ, what a mess. He reached back and silently tripped the hidden latch on his secret exit.

  “Trace. Please!”

  He slipped into the side tunnel, every cell in his body shaking with rage, some of it aimed at himself and some at her, but a good deal of it aimed at the bastards who had stolen the very thing that made her a woman.

  Fiona stood pressed up against the metal door, as still as a statue but for her trembling long after she realized Trace had left. She couldn’t stop replaying like a television show what had just happened, watching it over and over in hopes of understanding what she’d done wrong. She couldn’t even move to dress when her trembling turned to shivers, but merely pull her hair around her like a curtain of shame.