by Lora Leigh
Noah Jr. was far too much like his father. He was already searching among his young friends for help in keeping his sisters out of trouble as they grew up. At seven, he was intense, far too responsible for his age, and more like the man Noah Blake had been before his “death” than a child should be.
“Yeah well, his dad isn’t much better,” Riordan snorted.
Noah was already beside himself over his daughter’s girlish ways. At five, Erin was a little fashionista with a style that hinted at the little hellion she was going to become, and she was cute as a button to boot. Two years younger, Aislinn was determined to run beside Noah Jr. every step he took and fight every battle her brother took as his. She was a tomboy in lace and pretty dresses with a smile so charming it was damn hard to tell her no.
Their father was already trying to figure out how he was going to keep the boys away from his sweet little girls, though it would be a decade at least before he was going to have to actually deal with it.
“You’ll be the same.” His father slapped his shoulder as he started back at him somberly. “One day, boy, you’ll be a da yourself. You’ll be as bad or near worse than our Noah.”
He couldn’t allow himself to think that far, not until he’d ensured Amara’s future. He hadn’t protected her properly and someone had nearly taken her from him—he couldn’t allow it to happen again. He wouldn’t allow it to happen again.
“I have to go, Grandpops, I have to meet with River and Tobias, make certain they have the electronic security upgraded and hooked into Noah’s operations center.” He had to get a minute to himself, to think, to get used to the fact that he wasn’t going to pick up where he and Amara had left off. He was going to be starting again.
And he knew Amara.
It wasn’t going to be easy.
“Riordan.” His grandfather stopped him as he moved to turn away. “She’s scared of whatever it is that haunts her in those memories she hides from. Remember that when you’re pushin’ her. Sometimes, as my Erin told me often, a woman needs more than words to convince her of the why of needin’ to do something.”
Riordan could only nod sharply, a concession to his grandpops’ wisdom and the fact that the old man sometimes knew things he shouldn’t. But the knowledge that she’d forgotten him was eating at his control, eating at his patience. She belonged to him, and she didn’t even remember it.
chapter five
Amara had known her Poppa wasn’t finished with their argument from the day before. Meetings that day, as well as the next morning, kept him away from the house, but her poppa could be amazingly patient sometimes.
It was just his way. He refused to give up or give in and he was going to make this as difficult as possible even as he gave in.
He was waiting for her as she entered her room after dinner that next evening, standing before the gas fireplace, arms crossed over his chest, a scowl on his face. Yep, he looked ready for a fight, and she just wasn’t in the mood.
Not that it ever mattered. Her father had a way of antagonizing even the most patient of people. It was that arrogance and confidence he had that he always knew best.
“Everything okay, Poppa?” she asked as they faced each other now.
She’d at least try to be civil about this.
“Where did you go last week when you ran from the estate?” Suspicion laced his tone. “Where did you find me?” she asked in return, glaring at him. “You chased me down like a little child, Poppa. Did it occur to you that I’m no longer a teenager?”
It hadn’t, of course. Her father refused to believe his little girl had grown up. She’d known that for years, but the knowledge that someone seriously wanted her dead bad enough to come after her a second time, had the need to consider her father’s feelings on this dimming by the day.
“Why do you insist on making that statement?” Frustration filled his tone now. “I don’t treat you like a child, Amara. But only a child would run away as you did.”
“Of course you do, Poppa,” she disagreed, fighting back the pain at the thought. “You refuse to tell me a single detail about the investigation into my abduction. Your own agents are not allowed to discuss it with me. I’m not permitted to make a decision outside this estate without Elizaveta and Grisha contacting you first. And you believe you can choose my lovers for me?” Her voice rose as she ticked off each offense. “What is that, if not treating me as a child?” Fury pulsed through her. “You knew he was my lover and you lied to me when I asked you if I had one. You lied to me, Poppa.”
That was the gravest insult of all.
“I did not,” he snapped, frowning back at her. “I didn’t know you were sleeping with that little bastard. I only knew you paid him far too much attention.” Disgust marked his gaze then. “And he refused every assignment possible in those last months that would take him away from you. I feared a relationship would develop.”
She rolled her eyes again and gave a disgusted shake of her head. “Perhaps you enjoy lying to yourself then,” she told him.
Her father was more calculating, more perceptive than that. It wouldn’t have been possible for her to hide a lover from him.
“Amara.” He was obviously making an effort to rein in his legendary temper. “You don’t know the type of man he is.”
Oh, she had a feeling she knew exactly what kind of man Riordan was, whether she wanted to acknowledge it or not.
“Obviously, at least subconsciously I do,” she bit out, the placating tone grating on her patience. “You perhaps don’t know me as well as you thought you did. I won’t be forced to be a child all my life. Please. Stay out of this thing with me and Riordan, or I truly will go back to Russia with Mother.”
Her mother was just as arrogant and hard as her father, but at least she never expected Amara to remain a virgin until her death. And her stepfather, a gentle, quiet-natured man, never tried to tell her what to do. Her mother wouldn’t have allowed it if he did.
“Your mother makes you crazy,” he reminded her. “You can barely tolerate her for more than a week and that husband of hers is like an overload of sweets. He gives me a toothache.”
Sometimes, that was no more than the truth.
“I’d rather tolerate her insanity and his over-niceness than your controlling machinations,” she assured him, inserting a confidence she simply didn’t feel. “You can’t convince me you didn’t at least suspect Riordan was my lover. Or that you wouldn’t have known that if I was…” She inhaled, fighting back her own emotions. “If we were lovers, Poppa, then you know, I loved him.”
The dreams, the feeling of something lost within her life, the hunger for something she couldn’t name. The moment she saw Riordan, all that had stilled within her.
“When did you become so damn stubborn?” he muttered, his expression anything but pleased. “I know you weren’t like this before that little—”
“Don’t.” Her hand lifted, her finger pointing to him demandingly. “Call him a little bastard again and you won’t like the consequences.”
She surprised even herself with that demand.
“For God’s sake,” he snapped as though mortally offended. “I meant nothing by it. A general insult.” He shrugged as though it didn’t matter.
“You weren’t married to my mother,” she reminded him. “Would you allow anyone to call me a bastard? Even ‘generally’? Just back off, Poppa. Let me have this. Let me decide for myself what I want, and who I want. It should never have been your decision to begin with.”
She prayed she wasn’t making a mistake. Riordan was every bit as protective and arrogant as her father. But at least he was willing to work with her, to tell her the truth of whatever danger faced her. He’d proven that both before his return to the estate, as well as now.
She could only pray that trend continued.
“When you finally grow tired of the little prick, let me know,” he growled, glaring back at her. “I’ll take great delight in getting rid of his ass.”
/> With that, he all but stomped to the door, jerked it open, and left the room.
At least he didn’t slam the door closed. Not that it would have bothered her if he had.
“Interesting.”
Swinging around, she faced Riordan as he opened the connecting door between their rooms.
If there had been mockery, or any snide amusement in his expression, she could have thrown him out, could have fought this insane reaction to him.
Instead, her heart raced at the sight of him, freshly showered, his black hair gleaming with dampness, his chest and feet bare, unbelted jeans settled low on his hips.
And he was aroused.
The proof of it showed beneath the denim. Impressively aroused.
God help her. How was she supposed to deny herself this man?
“And what did you find so interesting?” she demanded, fighting with everything she had to keep from touching him.
Hell, to keep from begging him to touch her. She wanted his touch so bad it was all she could do not to beg.
“You finally learned how to stand up to your father,” he stated, closing the connecting door behind him and moving further into the room. “You didn’t seem to have a handle on that last year.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“It’s all according to what he’s trying to deny me. A man who had been your lover before the loss of your memories is a pretty big thing.”
“But not the lover while he’s in your bed?” He nodded as though he understood when she knew differently. “That’s rather interesting as well.”
“Most likely, I didn’t want to deal with his interference,” she muttered. “He can be nosy.”
Riordan snorted at that before moving to the sofa and the electronic notebook, which she only then noticed had been placed on the couch. Picking up the device, he opened it, snapped the keyboard in place, then settled into the cushions facing the fire as he turned it on.
“What are you doing?” What the hell was wrong with his bedroom?
“Spending the evening with my lover,” he stated a little absently, his attention on the device’s screen. “I ordered your tea for you by the way. Along with coffee for myself and some of those pastries Cook had this afternoon. David should have it here soon.”
The night houseman, David, was a distant cousin. He spoiled them horribly. If she dared enter the kitchen for a snack or hot drink at night, he’d chide her terribly for it and fix it himself before bringing it up to her.
She normally spent the evening in her room working on the charities she’d promised her father she’d keep track of, and the details for the spring ball. But she knew there wasn’t a chance in hell that she could work with him sitting there. Bare-chested. Aroused.
She just wanted to jump his bones.
This was a mess. She should have known better. She did know better, but the minute she saw him, she lost precious brain cells evidently.
A light knock at the door had her swinging around. Before she could move, Riordan was on his feet and opening the door enough to assure himself it was David.
“It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Malone.” The houseman’s smile of greeting had Amara frowning at him.
David never smiled at her like that.
“You too, David. You fix that coffee?” he asked.
“Yes sir.” David’s dark head nodded. “It’s so fresh it may even deserve a date.”
The two men chuckled, though Amara saw little humor in it. She was simply too aggravated by men in general at this point.
David placed the tray, loaded with coffee, tea, and pastries, on the low coffee table.
“Good night, Mr. Malone. Amara.” He nodded before stepping back and leaving the room.
As the door closed, Riordan was there to lock it securely before returning to his seat and his precious pastries.
“Come on, baby, might as well join me.” He grinned over at her. “Or we could go on to bed?”
Amusement gleamed in his eyes.
She was a second from agreeing to the second suggestion before common sense snapped back into place and she moved slowly to the chair next to the couch.
She was in so much trouble here, she admitted. More trouble than she ever imagined. He hadn’t joined her the previous night at all, though she’d expected him to. It seemed tonight he was about to rectify that.
* * *
His grandpops had once told him that women were like the weather, Riordan thought, as he kept Amara in his peripheral.
Mercurial, ever-changing, and more fascinating by the day. Of course, as a boy, Riordan had scoffed at such things. Grandpops had only laughed and gave him a warning: The sky can be picture perfect, a clear blue so bright it hurt a man’s eyes. The breeze light, barely stirring the air. Until the storm cleared the mountains.
Between one blink and the next it was upon you, flashing with fury, drenching the land with its tears and its strength. And before a man knew what hit him, it was steaming and sultry with the promise of her pleasure.
That’s what Amara reminded him of. The sultry heat after a midnight thunderstorm, full of promise and life. His own, perfect little storm, he’d once called her.
Relaxing back in the cushions of the couch as he ran through the encrypted files he was receiving from Ivan’s computer, he had to admit, if she had any idea he was running every damned employee, associate, and cousin she’d came in contact with for the past two years, she’d be like that storm.
As he worked, she did the same on whatever committee plans her father had given her to keep her busy. After several hours she rose and retreated to the bathroom. The sound of the shower had his cock throbbing, his body tense with need.
Keeping his hands to himself was becoming damned hard and as the evening lengthened, the thought of crawling into that bed beside her had him fighting for control.
Six months.
Closing out the program he was working on, Riordan leaned back on the couch and stared broodingly at the flames in the fireplace.
Six months since he had held her in the darkness of the night, felt her deep, relaxed breathing, and knew she slept safe within his arms.
Admitting how he’d missed her, needed her, hadn’t been hard. He’d become accustomed to both in that shadow-sleep they’d kept him in while he was in the hospital.
There, he’d felt her, touched her, and it hadn’t felt as though it were a dream. Her warmth, the silken feel of her skin had been as real as the prick of the needles in his arm.
Reaching up, he rubbed against his chest, thankful she’d dimmed the lights after her father left, before she realized he was watching her. The scars were shadowed by the hair on his chest, not as apparent as they could have been. The bullet that had lodged too damned close to his heart hadn’t been difficult to remove or cause extensive scarring.
The one to his back was a different story entirely, as well as the one to the back of his leg. He was damned lucky he was walking.
Hell, it was a miracle he was alive.
No … don’t leave me … He could still hear her voice as he had the moment he felt his heart stop. He’d heard her, past death, he’d heard that whisper. It had followed him. He was damned if he remembered another thing but the sound of her voice, his desperation to find her in the darkness.
To not leave her.
Hell of a thing for a man who had sworn to never love in such a way.
Malone men didn’t just love, they were cursed, or gifted as his grandpops claimed, to share a bond that bound them forever to the ones they loved. To see through their eyes, their dreams.
And if the object of that love loved them as well, then the bond went both ways.
As it did with his brother and sister-in-law.
He could still remember Bella’s screams as she awoke from her nightmares during those horrible years they’d believed Noah, or Nathan as he had been, was dead. She’d be hysterical, claiming her husband was being tortured, he was alive, he needed her. At times,
she’d swear blood covered her hands.
With Noah’s return, Riordan realized those horrific nightmares Bella had had were based in truth. The hell Noah had lived through to come back to his family had been inhuman.
The sound of the shower turning off had his gaze narrowing on the flames flickering in the hearth and his cock throbbing with imperative need.
She’d come looking for him, he reminded himself. If she’d dreamed of him, then she would have to know, or at least suspect, the type of man he was. The type of lover he had been.
If she didn’t, she was damned sure getting ready to.
* * *
He was waiting for her when she came out of the bathroom. What had made her imagine he wouldn’t be? Other than the fact that he had mostly avoided her the night before, that is.
“I’m going to bed,” she told him as she approached the couch where he lay back against the arm, watching her. Firelight flickered over the hard muscles and tough, sun-bronzed flesh.
“It’s early yet.” The graveled tone had a shiver racing up her back.
“I have meetings…” She swallowed with difficulty as he scratched lazily at his chest, his lashes lowering with drowsy sexuality over his eyes.
“Come here, Amara.” Softly voiced, it was still a demand that rocked her to her core. Because she couldn’t deny him. She didn’t want to deny him.
Now, she was breathless. She felt drawn, ensnared. Her breathing was harder, heavier, her breasts rising and falling with her hard breaths as they swelled beneath the light cotton shirt she wore with her loose pajama bottoms.
Her nipples were spike hard, too sensitive. Her entire body was too sensitive. And the hunger in his expression assured her whatever relationship they’d had before, he intended to have again.
She’d been certain she could resist him. As he rose from the couch, she told herself she would resist him.
“It’s late…” She would have stepped back, if he hadn’t reached her first, one hand settling at her hip, the other threading through the hair at the back of her head.
“Not too late,” he assured her, the look on his face brooding and far too sexy.