Lucky 7 Brazen Bachelors Contemporary Romance Boxed Set

by Caridad Piñeiro

  Hopefully in one piece.

  Stupid bastard. They’d been warning His Excellency of the rumored coup for weeks. Naturally, he’d chosen to ignore the sage advice of his hand-picked elite guard. He’d also chosen not to pay his small cadre of hired soldiers for the past couple of months. No doubt sending the money to his numbered accounts in Switzerland instead. Which didn’t make for a lot of loyalty when the bullets started flying.

  Well, good fucking riddance. Trey was tired of this gig anyway.

  Though he had to admit, the grub was pretty good.

  The machine-gun fire drew closer, and he darted a last, longing look at his unfinished piece of mango pie. Damn it all to hell. Would it have killed them to wait another five minutes to launch this fucking coup?

  Pulling a small tube of blacking from his fatigues pocket, he squeezed out a daub, smeared it under his eyes, and rubbed the rest over his forehead and cheekbones. Then he yanked his bandanna from his neck and tied it around his head to keep his too-long hair out of his face. He lifted his Uzi.

  Ready to rock and roll.

  Spraying the courtyard with covering fire, he sprinted out the door and ran headlong toward the main palace. He’d better check out the scene and see if any of the other guys needed help. What the hell, may as well see if His Excellency was still alive. Might get a juicy reward if he managed to save the old buzzard’s useless hide.

  Bodies fell as he cut a swath through a quartet of enemy tangos stationed on the palace grounds.

  “Trey!”

  He spotted one of his buddies crouched against the garden wall behind a thick magenta bougainvillea, clutching his bloody arm.

  Trey ducked over to him. “Jupe! What’s the word?”

  “Bad. This one is way more organized than any of the others have been. Chuck and Dennis are history. Saw Rico and Gunnar heading for the cane fields. Don’t know where the others are.”

  Trey nodded, scanning the palace windows for the enemy. Inside, he spotted a group of men in army uniforms running from room to room, gathering hostages. Bloody damn hell. A military coup? No fucking wonder it was more organized. A handful of unpaid bodyguards didn’t stand an ice cube’s chance in a pizza oven of fighting this one off.

  Suddenly, a blond head stuck out from a door that led down to the palace basement where a small museum was located, and looked around in panic.

  A pretty, blond, female head.

  Trey’s jaw dropped. “What the— Who the hell’s that?”

  Jupe glanced up. “Fuck, what’s she doing here?” He started to rise, but Trey pushed him back down.

  “I’ll take care of the woman. You get the hell out of here. I’ll meet y’all at the rendezvous tomorrow, after things settle down.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Trey blazed across the length of the momentarily deserted rose garden and flung himself at the woman, who was cautiously emerging from the door.

  Her big blue eyes widened in terror.

  “Get back!” he hissed, grabbing her, whipping them both inside, and slamming the door shut behind them. She screamed, and he slapped a hand over her mouth. “Unless you want to get real dead real fast, you better shut up.”

  Kiss of a Lifetime: Chapter Three

  At the huge man’s warning, Lacy Warrick was too scared to think. She just instinctively nodded. Something about the way the man held her—not painfully, just firmly—inspired trust. And he was an American soldier. They didn’t generally go around shooting people with no reason.

  “By the way, I’m one of the good guys,” he added, confirming her somewhat irrational conclusion. Before releasing her, he said, “You’re not going to scream again, are you?”

  She blinked and opened her mouth beneath his fingers, but they still held her fast, so she just shook her head again.

  “What’s happening?” she whispered when he took his hand away.

  “Coup,” he said, and scowled down at her. “You American?” When she nodded again, he muttered, “Awesome. Now, now we’re really fucked.”

  She swallowed. “Why?”

  He just peered down at her like she was too naïve for words. “We’ve got to get out of here.” He tugged her back toward the door.

  “Wait! My papers. I can’t leave without them!” She tried to pull her hand from his to get to the museum tables. No way she was leaving her research behind.

  He held on tighter. “Are you fucking nuts?”

  “They represent three months of work, and—”

  “Sweetheart, I don’t think you understand what’s going on here. People are dying. People like you and me. And you’re talking about some ridiculous papers?”

  “They’re not ridiculous,” she protested vehemently. “If I lose them, I won’t graduate. My life will be over!”

  She had worked too hard for too long, made too many sacrifices to get where she was, to give it all up so easily.

  “If we don’t get out of here, your life will be over. Literally. As in, dead.” He grimaced. “Or worse.”

  His grim determination finally penetrated. She stopped struggling and stared up at him warily. “What could be worse than dead?”

  He gave a rude snort. “Honey, this place is crawling with men with guns who’re drugged up on blood, power, adrenalin, and God knows what-all. You look in a mirror lately? Think about it.”

  She gasped as his meaning hit home. “Oh, God.” She cast a bleak glance at the cardboard box on the other side of the museum that held the key to her entire future. But he was right—you couldn’t have a future if you were dead. And she wouldn’t want one if what he was insinuating actually happened.

  “Okay. I get the picture,” she said hoarsely, and stopped fighting him. Terror filled her whole body.

  He cracked the door and looked out through the narrow opening. And swore under his breath. “Soldiers coming.” He eased the door shut again. “Seven of them. I probably could have taken five,” he muttered. “Not seven.”

  Really? Five?

  She took him in fully for the first time as he glanced around the room. He was really tall, broad-shouldered, and as muscular as a fighter. He wore a black T-shirt with camouflage fatigues in the color scheme of the palace’s special elite guard, combat boots, and a bandana tied around his forehead. He was also armed to the teeth, holding a machine gun in his hand and a pistol holstered at his waist.

  My God. This man wasn’t an American soldier. He was a mercenary. Hired to guard the island’s corrupt dictator.

  “Shit,” he cursed. “There’s no way out of this damned museum.”

  Her attention jerked back to their surroundings, and her panic soared. He was right. It consisted of two large rooms in the basement, stuffed with glass cases holding the artifacts of the island’s culture and not much else. Both rooms had high, iron-barred windows, and there was no other exit. Other than—

  “The stairs!” she said, rushing over to a staircase that led up to the first floor royal reception rooms. She sprinted to the top, and twisted the knob in a blind panic. “It’s locked. Can you shoot it open?”

  “You really are crazy.” Cursing, he took the stairs two at a time and hauled her back down just as fast.

  The booted feet of the soldiers outside were almost at the entry door to the museum. “Then what do we do?” she asked desperately.

  He scanned the room, his expression grim. His gaze halted on the door below the staircase.

  “Quick. In the closet,” he ordered, hustling her into the walk-in storage closet tucked under the stairs. This time, she didn’t protest.

  There was a jumble of large wooden artifact crates jammed into the narrow wedge of space where the stairs descended to meet the floor. He grabbed the crate at the end of the row and pulled. It barely budged.

  Men shouted outside the museum door. More gunshots rang out. Her pulse went into hyperspace.

  Muttering another curse, he found the closet light, switched it on, and swiftly shut the door. “Help me,” he whispered urgen
tly.

  She saw his idea, and together they managed to haul the row of boxes a couple of feet toward the center of the closet, creating a claustrophobically small space behind them to hide in. She climbed in.

  “Lie down,” he ordered. “And no matter what happens, don’t make a sound. Stay here until it gets dark, then run for it.”

  Her heart stuttered. “Wait. What about you?”

  His impassive eyes met hers. “I’ll be making a stand. If we’re lucky, they’ll think I’m alone and leave when I’m dead. You’ll be safe.”

  Now, he was the crazy one. She didn’t see a damn thing lucky about that scenario. And she wasn’t about to let him sacrifice his life for her.

  “Are you kidding me?” she whispered vehemently. “Hell, no! I’m not hiding without you.”

  His gaze drilled into hers, angry at her defiance. “Woman, you are either really brave or really fucking stupid.”

  “What I am is dead serious.” She did not want to die, but she didn’t want his death on her conscience. Her psyche had acquired enough shit growing up. She didn’t need that weighing her down, too.

  The enemy soldiers crashed through the museum entry door, their boots echoing loudly across the marble floor as they spread out to search.

  “Dead will be the operative word here in about thirty seconds,” he growled.

  She tipped up her chin. “Both of us, or neither of us.”

  With a curse, he capitulated. “You are something else, you know that?”

  He practically threw her behind the crates, and she landed on her back, squeezed into the small space. Then he used the butt of his Uzi to gingerly crack the light bulb in the ceiling. In the sudden darkness, she heard him dive over the end box, then he lowered himself down over her legs and turned to pull up the last box to fill the gap.

  He shifted above her, and she heard him unsnap the holster on his hip. A moment later, she felt a pistol press into her palm. His fingers curled hers around the grip. “Don’t shoot me by accident,” he said in a whisper so soft a cockroach couldn’t have heard it on the other side of the crate barrier.

  Then he eased his body down on top of hers.

  Her heart slammed furiously against his chest.

  There was hardly room enough for the both of them to breathe, let alone stretch out. It was pitch black. Dark as midnight in a back alley rat’s nest.

  She didn’t like the memories the darkness and the closet invoked. Her panted breaths rasped out as she pushed back the feelings of panic. She shifted under him, and snaked her free hand around his torso, grasping at the back of his T-shirt to pull him tighter against her.

  And told herself that this time, at least, she wasn’t alone.

  His chest expanded into hers as he took a deep breath. His body stilled for two long heartbeats.

  “Damn, girl,” he murmured as he finally exhaled. “You smell good.”

  And that’s when the door to the closet burst open with a crash.

  Kiss of a Lifetime: Chapter Four

  Trey felt the woman’s silent gasp, and for a second he couldn’t decide if it was from the enemy soldiers breaching their hideout, or from his inappropriate comment.

  He wanted to kick himself. Where the hell had that come from?

  Her body was trembling under his, her fingers clutching painfully at his back. Yeah. Definitely the tangos.

  He just prayed she wouldn’t scream. He coiled his muscles, ready to spring into action. Just in case.

  Angry voices rose in argument, close enough to touch, when the soldiers realized the light didn’t work. They toppled a couple of the artifact boxes, which shattered, contents smashing onto the floor in pieces. After a few moments of prodding with their rifles, the door slammed and their voices receded.

  Above his head, the stairs shook with heavy bootfalls. Under him, the woman’s body jumped badly when somebody shot out the locked door at the top landing, and chunks of wood thudded down onto the staircase overhead.

  “Shhh,” he crooned low and easy in her ear. “It’s okay.” Sweat dripped down his temples onto his bandanna. “It’s okay,” he repeated, and brushed his cheek back and forth over hers—not sexually, but in an unconscious, visceral gesture of comfort.

  He heard the soft clatter of his pistol dropping from her hand as that arm went around him, too, and held on as if her life depended on it.

  Easing his fingers from his dagger and Uzi, he laid the weapons carefully to either side of her so he could locate them quickly, then slipped his arms around her, too.

  “It’s all right,” he murmured, smoothing his hands up and down her sides. “I won’t let them hurt you.” He kissed her softly on the cheek.

  As he soothed her shivering body, he tuned his senses into what was happening around them. Outside their fragile cocoon of safety, men barked orders as bootfalls rang back and forth on the cobbled courtyard. Brief spurts of muffled gunfire continued to blast away at irregular intervals.

  Every time Trey thought he had the woman calmed down, the machine-gun volleys would be followed by a scream, and she’d tense up again. Then the shivering would start all over.

  He held her close, brushing her cheek with mindless comfort-kisses, murmuring low nonsense words that flowed unbidden from his early childhood before everything went all to hell, calming her as best he could. He didn’t know what else to do. He had no experience with this sort of thing. No experience coping with a woman’s fears.

  Hell, not a lot of experience with women, at all, other than the most basic male-female interactions. Caring relationships had never been his thing. Not by choice as much as by circumstance.

  Guns were all Trey knew. Guns and violence.

  Comfort and affection? Not so much.

  Somehow, he eased himself into a state of detached vigilance, doing what he could for her as she struggled to wrestle down her fears. The two of them lay there for what could have been hours, or maybe it was just minutes. Perhaps she even slept, she’d gone so quiet. Eventually, her breathing slowed and her death grip on him relaxed, although the beating of her heart still rocketed against his chest.

  At length, he, too, closed his eyes against the darkness, lowering his watchfulness a bit. And drew in a deep breath.

  A sweet suggestion of perfume clung to the fall of her hair, filling his senses when he inhaled.

  Damn, she really did smell good.

  He couldn’t help himself. He slanted his nose behind her ear, his lips lingering on the smooth skin below it. Just a hint of scent. Maybe she’d put it on yesterday. Or maybe it was her own natural fragrance, fresh and alluring as an island flower.

  He tried to recall the brief images he’d gotten of her before they’d been plunged into the inky darkness of the closet. Young. Really young. Tawny blond hair. She was tall, too. Or maybe it was her strappy sandals that had made her legs look so long and curvy under her short, white sundress. And her legs weren’t the only things that were curvy.

  Lord have fucking mercy.

  He came to with a start, suddenly aware that his hands were covering territory he hadn’t planned on exploring.

  Her dress had ridden way up her bare thighs and his hands were following in its tantalizing path. To make matters worse, when he settled on top of her, he’d unconsciously placed himself in the most natural position for a man to seek.

  She started to squirm a little.

  Holy shit.

  She wasn’t the only one…

  Goddamn, he had to do something quick, or there would be no hiding which direction his thoughts were taking. The last thing she needed right now was to worry about some horny merc taking advantage of her vulnerability.

  He lifted up and fussed with his ammo belt, loosening the buckle as an excuse to hold himself away from her. Unfortunately, the more he tried to avoid thinking about the position they were in, the more he could feel her supple body beneath him.

  Desperate for a distraction, he broke the long silence. “What were you doing here in
the palace, anyway?”

  It took her a moment to find her voice, then she murmured, “I’m an anthropology student. Duke University. I’m working on my senior thesis.”

  No wonder she’d looked young. A student. At freakin’ Duke. He was impressed. He’d never even made it through high school. Again, not his choice. One of these days, maybe.

  As she talked more about her anthro-whatever project, her breasts pillowed up softly into his chest. The smooth skin of her cheek brushed against the rough stubble on his chin. Her cool breath whispered across his damp neck.

  “—studying the collections of—”

  She bent a knee and rested her sexy sandal right against his calf. He nearly groaned out loud, instantly tuning out what she was saying.

  Above them, sudden heavy bootfalls clumped over the floor and loud shots popped like firecrackers amidst cheers and jeers.

  Her words ceased abruptly, and her fingers dug into his back, pulling him against her, torso to torso. Her slim leg hooked around his. Her heartbeat pounded even harder, pushing her breasts rhythmically against his chest.

  “We’re going to die, aren’t we?” she said in a thready whisper.

  He just might—but not from bullets.

  “I’ll get us out of here. I promise,” he said, somehow managing not to crack his voice.

  “How?”

  Good fucking question. He forced his focus back to the situation. “Wait them out. We’ll have a better chance to slip away when it’s nighttime.”

  “But that’s hours from now,” she protested.

  He gritted his teeth, all too aware of that fact. “Yeah. Sorry. I realize this isn’t the most comfortable position for you.”

  There was a slight pause. Then she said, “It’s not so bad.”

  It was undoubtedly just his imagination, but he got the feeling that, this time, the slight tremble that shuddered through her body was not solely from fear.

  “Except…your gun is pressing into my—” She swallowed. “Into me.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. Hell’s fucking bells. “That’s, uh—” When had the dank air in the closet grown so hot and close? He cleared his throat. “Sorry. That’s not my gun.”