Deadly Intent

by Pamela Clare

  For a time, he rested on his forearms, his cheek pressed to hers, his heart still pounding in his chest, her fingers tracing patterns over the skin of his back. Then he took hold of the condom and withdrew from her, tossing the condom in the bedside trash before taking her into his arms.

  She ran her fingers through his chest hair. “I knew you’d be good in bed.”

  Joaquin was well on his way into a sex coma, but her words brought his eyes open. “What made you think that?”

  “The way you dance. The way you kiss.” She snuggled against him. “You’re … incredible. I’m afraid I’m going to end up addicted.”

  “Good.” Joaquin drew her closer, taking her words with him into sleep.

  16

  Mia woke up to find herself in Joaquin’s arms, her face pressed against his chest, one of his biceps pillowing her head, their legs tangled together. She inhaled the spice of his skin and smiled to herself, images from last night filling her mind.

  I want you to be happy. I want you to feel cherished. I want to make you scream.

  Joaquin had done all of that. Okay, maybe she hadn’t screamed …

  “Good morning, hermosa.” His voice was deep and husky. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Oh, yes.” She rolled onto her back and stretched, feeling as languid as a cat, her body purring.

  He propped himself up on an elbow, ran his knuckles casually over her left breast, his dark hair adorably tousled. “Are you hungry?”

  “I’m starving, but what I really want is a shower. I get to take these bandages off this morning.”

  He nuzzled her hair. “Want some help with that?”

  “The bandages or my shower?”

  “Either. Both.”

  Her pulse skipped. “I would like that.”

  They gave each other a minute alone in the bathroom. Mia had peed in front of guys in Iraq, but she really didn’t want to go there with Joaquin. A little privacy preserved a lot of dignity as far as she was concerned.

  After that was out of the way, they stood together near the counter to remove her bandages, Joaquin peeling off the dressing on her ribcage first. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” It didn’t hurt … much.

  “That doesn’t look too bad. You’ve got a nasty bruise, though.”

  At the sight of the graze with its tiny butterfly bandages, reality hit Mia in the face. This wasn’t a luxury vacation. It wasn’t a lover’s retreat. She was here because she was hiding from a man who wanted to kill her and possibly also Joaquin, a man who had already killed two, possibly three, other people.

  She fought back a pang of fear. “At least it’s not infected.”

  The bandage on the wound on her hip was more painful to remove, the wound with its many stitches looking much angrier.

  “Sorry.” Joaquin’s expression turned troubled. He tossed the bandages into the trash, drew her against him. “When I think how close he came…”

  His words trailed off, as if he couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought.

  Mia rested her head against his chest. “It’s like my world is breaking apart, and I can’t seem to stop it.”

  “You stopped it. Your quick reaction saved your life. You made yourself a smaller target, and you fired back. You stopped him.” Joaquin stroked her hair. “I won’t let him hurt you again. We won’t let him hurt you—you and I, the cops, the FBI. The bastard has the feds after him now. They’ll find him. You’re not in this alone, Mia.”

  This was new to Mia—knowing that someone was standing with her, that she didn’t have to face this by herself. “I’m not used to this—being close to someone like this, trusting them.”

  “I know.” He kissed her forehead.

  For a moment, a long stretch of seconds, he held her, his skin warm, his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek. Then he let her go, walked to the shower, and started the water. “Is the temp good?”

  She reached in, felt the spray. “Perfect.”

  They stepped into the shower together, taking turns washing each other, Joaquin’s touch more tender than erotic.

  Afterward, they dried off, and Joaquin helped her put on fresh bandages using the gauze and medical tape the nurse had given them. Then they dressed together, Mia pulling on another pair of yoga pants with a pastel blue top and a gray fleece vest, while Joaquin slipped into jeans and a black turtleneck.

  Joaquin left the bedroom and built a fire in the woodstove, while Mia made the bed and tried to straighten out her own emotions. “I think I saw some potatoes in the pantry,” he called to her. “How does scrambled eggs, home fries, and coffee sound?”

  Mia’s stomach growled. “Delicious.”

  Joaquin tried to keep the conversation light during breakfast. He’d known that all of this would catch up with Mia eventually. She was strong, but even the strongest person wouldn’t be emotionally immune to someone trying to kill them.

  As they were cleaning up, Mia’s parents called. Joaquin finished the dishes, listening to her side of the conversation. What he heard made him want to take the phone and tell her parents to go fuck themselves.

  “No, it’s not like that. He and I are not living together. I met Joaquin through his work. He’s a photojournalist. Yes, Dad, that’s a real job. He’s a Pulitzer Prize winner. The Pulitzer Prize?” Mia looked over at Joaquin, annoyance and disbelief on her face. “It’s pretty much the biggest honor a news photographer in the United States can receive. It means he’s among the best.”

  From what Joaquin could tell, neither of them had asked Mia how she was doing or expressed concern for her safety.

  “No, no, we’re not going through that again. There’s a man out there who wants to kill me, and all you have to say is that I should’ve gotten married? Joaquin? Yes, he is—Mexican American. I don’t know—Catholic, I suppose. I haven’t asked. Good God, Mom! No, he’s not here illegally. His family has lived in Colorado since before it was a state. You know what? I have to go now. I have to go. Bye.”

  She ended the call. “They drive me crazy. My dad said that I had no business going to college or joining ROTC and that I ought to have stayed home and gotten married instead. My mom wanted to know whether you’re a US citizen, where you go to church, and whether you and I are sleeping together.”

  Pendejos.

  “You should’ve said yes.” Joaquin didn’t mean it, of course. He was just pissed. He raised his voice and held an imaginary phone to his ear, pretending to be Mia. “‘Yes, Mom, we’re sleeping together—and last night I came twice.’”

  Mia gaped at him—and burst into laughter. “Oh, that’s perfect. That’s what I’ll do next time.”

  Joaquin walked over to Mia, rested his hands on her hips. “How about I give Jack a call and ask about the two of us going to see the horses. Would you like that?”

  Her face lit up. “Would we be getting in the way?”

  “Getting in the way?” Joaquin handed her the receiver for the landline and punched the button that said Ranch House. “Why don’t you ask Jack?”

  Joaquin was putting her on the spot, he knew, but she still didn’t get how things worked at the Cimarron.

  “Hi, Janet. It’s Mia. Good, thank you. Is Jack there?” Mia gave Joaquin an exasperated look, obviously uncomfortable about asking Jack for anything. “Jack, hi. It’s Mia. Joaquin and I thought it might be nice to see the horses, but I don’t want to bother you or get in your way.”

  An amused smile came over her face. “Okay. Thank you, sir. See you soon.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘It’s about damned time you asked.’ He’ll be here to get us in twenty minutes.”

  They put on warmer layers and were ready to go by the time Jack got there in his big extended cab pickup. On the drive down the mountain to the barns, he shared the history of the ranch’s success breeding quarter horses.

  “How do you know what a foal will look like?” Mia had no idea.

&
nbsp; “You look at the dam—the mare. To some degree, it’s genetic roulette, but that’s what makes it interesting. Still, a champion mare and a stud with a long line of breeding successes like our Chinook are more than likely going to produce worthy offspring.”

  Jack parked behind the house and walked with them to the barn, joined by Nate and Megan’s seven-year-old daughter Emily, who wore jeans, little cowboy boots, and a pink cowgirl hat, a sparkly butterfly painted on one little cheek.

  Emily smiled shyly when Jack introduced her to Mia. “My daddy says you were a captain. Were you a pirate?”

  Mia laughed. “Nope. I was in the Army like your grandpa. We don’t have ships.”

  Emily looked disappointed.

  “Miss Emily,” Jack said, “would you like to show Mia the horses?”

  Emily led the way inside the barn to the stalls where Jack and Nate housed the pregnant mares. “These are the mares that have foals inside them.”

  Joaquin had brought his camera and started shooting, his lens on Mia. Her amazement when she got her first glimpse of the palomino mares. The sweet smile on her face when one of the horses ate carrots from her hand. Her elation when Emily led her to a litter of week-old kittens in the straw.

  “Can I have all of them?” Mia held two of them up to her cheek. “Aren’t they adorable, Joaquin?”

  “Yes,” Joaquin said.

  But all he could see was Mia.

  Mia poured herself and Joaquin glasses of wine, while Joaquin built a fire. “Did you hear what Jack said about Chinook breeding three mares a day? Can you imagine having sex with three different women every day for months on end?”

  She realized what she’d just asked him. “Don’t answer that.”

  He chuckled. “I can imagine having sex with you three times a day. How’s that, hermosa?”

  Mia’s heart seemed to skip a beat. “What does that mean—hermosa?”

  He closed the iron door on the wood stove and walked over to her, taking his glass of wine from her and pressing a kiss to her lips. “It means beautiful.”

  Without thinking about it, she shook her head. “I thought it meant something like sweetheart or honey.”

  “What was that about? You just shook your head and rolled your eyes at me.”

  Heat crept into Mia’s cheeks. “I’m a realist. I was always the tomboy, the girl who climbed trees and played softball. I’m much more at home in combat boots than dresses. I’m not very curvy—you know that now. My mom said—”

  “She said you have your father’s square jaw, and Powell called you the Iron Maiden.” Joaquin shook his head. “Yeah, I’ve heard that. Now, hear me.”

  He leaned closer, looked into her eyes, the intensity of his gaze making her breath catch. “I know that your breasts fit perfectly in my hand. I know that your nipples are excruciatingly sensitive and pucker in my mouth. I know that your waist is narrow and your hips are round and your ass is nice and firm. I know the sweet look on your face when you come. I know the cry you make. I know how your nails feel when they dig into my skin. I know how you taste. You’re beautiful, Mia.”

  Mia’s throat went tight.

  She swallowed, whatever emotion she’d been feeling instantly transformed into irritation. She had a master’s degree and a good job. She’d been a captain in the United States Army, for God’s sake, and served two deployments. She had no debts. She was strong and healthy. Why did any of this matter?

  Except that it did.

  “What are you thinking?” He reached over, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “I’m thinking how pathetic I am to want so desperately for what you just said to be true.”

  “Oh, Mia. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.” He frowned, as if remembering something. “Maybe you can.”

  Mia watched as he set his wine glass aside and went to retrieve his camera.

  He scrolled through the images, shaking his head. “The light in the barn wasn’t good. These are too dark.”

  He glanced around. “Wait just a minute.”

  He retrieved something from his camera bag—a light meter—and moved around the room with it. Late afternoon sunshine streamed through the sliding glass doors, making the wood floors gleam. But that apparently wasn’t good enough.

  Joaquin went from one room in the cabin to the next, grabbing every lamp that wasn’t fixed to the wall, from big floor lamps to the tiny lamp from the nightstand.

  “What exactly are you doing—or do I want to know?”

  But he didn’t seem to hear her. “I don’t have a light kit with me. All I’ve got is one lousy bounce.”

  “A bounce?” She had no idea what that was.

  He didn’t seem to hear her, but moved lamps here and there, taking lampshades off, adjusting them, and using duct tape to hold them where he wanted them. “I think this will make a decent softbox.”

  Whatever that was.

  She sipped her wine, feeling as if she were watching some strange reality TV show about home decorating with too many lamps.

  He set a chair in the middle of his lamp forest.

  “I’ll put the bounce here.” He took something out of his camera bag—a folding silver reflector—and set it across from the chair. Then he turned on all of the lamps and closed the blinds, shutting out the daylight. “Come sit here.”

  “You’re taking my photo.” Okay, fine. She would indulge him. “Shouldn’t I put on some makeup or something?”

  “You don’t need it.”

  She sat on the chair, feeling incredibly self-conscious.

  He held the light meter close to her face, adjusted a lampshade, then picked up his camera and fiddled with the settings.

  “What should I do?” She looked at Joaquin, then realized she should probably be looking into the lens.

  He started taking photos. “Do whatever feels natural.”

  She stuck out her tongue.

  “Nice.”

  She smiled, then looked away. “Nothing really feels natural sitting here while you take pictures three feet from my face.”

  That was an understatement.

  Mia had never felt more self-conscious in her life.

  Joaquin lowered the camera, scrolled through the images, then knelt beside her. “Now, Ms. Realist, try to tell me the woman in this photograph isn’t beautiful.”

  Joaquin watched the play of emotions on Mia’s face, watched her struggle to take in the photos of herself.

  He broke it down for her. “Look at your big blue eyes, your delicate red eyebrows. You’ve got ridiculous cheekbones and a cute little nose. I love your mouth, that lower lip. Your face is a perfect oval—no square jaw here. Your skin is almost translucent. Your red hair is thick and shiny and feels like silk.”

  She lifted her gaze to his. “You didn’t do anything to the images?”

  “No. Nothing. Look.” He scrolled to the next and the next. “You’re cute even when your tongue is sticking out or you’re nervous.”

  “Can we do that again?”

  “Sure.” He could shoot Mia all day.

  After that, they played. Mia smiling, laughing, being silly. Mia with her hair drawn over her mouth like a mustache. Mia hugging her knees.

  “Wait just a sec.” She jumped up and ran into the bedroom, emerging a few minutes later wearing her bathrobe over a bra and panties. “Is this okay?”

  She wanted him to photograph her barely dressed.

  Joaquin swallowed—hard. “I’ll get rid of the chair. Bring the sheepskin blanket that’s on the top shelf in the bedroom closet.”

  They laid the sheepskin blanket on the floor, and Mia lay down on her uninjured side, looking somehow both sexy and innocent.

  Joaquin moved the lights around, took a light reading, then got down on the floor beside her. “Just be yourself.”

  He clicked away, moving her hair, adjusting her robe.

  Mia on her side, her head propped up on her hand. Mia with one creamy shoulder bared. Mia without t
he robe in her bra and panties. Mia on her back, arms above her head, red hair fanned across the white sheepskin.

  Joaquin showed her the photos. “Do you see how sexy you are?”

  She sat up, turned her back to him, her legs curled beneath her. “Undo the clasp.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded.

  He did as she’d asked, some part of him wondering how he was going to get through this without spontaneously combusting.

  She looked at him over her shoulder, the trust on her face putting a hitch in his chest. Then she turned to face him—and let her bra fall to the floor.

  Madre de Dios.

  She was shy at first, covering her breasts with her arm, then letting her hair fall over her breasts, one pink nipple peeking through her strands.

  Damn.

  “Beautiful.” He showed her those photos, saw the impact they had on her, the change in her expression.

  Mia’s sense of herself was changing before his eyes. His camera was showing her a part of herself she hadn’t seen before, a part of herself she hadn’t known existed.

  She grew bolder, leaving her breasts bared to him, pulling her hair over one shoulder, even lifting the weight of her breasts with her hands.

  Click. Click. Click.

  Joaquin couldn’t help the way his body responded, blood rushing to his groin, his mouth going dry, his pulse picking up. But he wasn’t doing this for his benefit. He was doing this for Mia.

  He shared those with her, too. “This one—where your nipple is peeking out of your hair—is so fucking sexy.”

  Then she slipped off her panties.

  Joaquin had only himself to blame. He had started this, and now he had no choice but to see it through—even if it killed him. “Lie down on your belly if you can.”

  She did as he asked, the soft mounds of her delicious ass making him want to set his camera aside to kiss them.

  “God, Mia, you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

  Or maybe she did.

  She smiled, raised her bottom just a little, giving him a glimpse of the treasures that were hiding between her thighs.