by Cindy Dees
“Because it wouldn’t be sporting to take advantage of you in that way.”
“Sporting? Are you English or something? That’s not the first time you’ve said something that sounded like the British Broadcasting Corporation.”
“Or something,” he answered evasively.
“If you don’t start telling me about yourself, I’m calling Jeff tomorrow and getting all the dirt on you.”
He groaned. “I quake in my boots at the stories he could tell you. We were fraternity brothers in college.”
She grinned knowingly. “Several of the Code X guys are old frat brothers of his. You all must have been really close.”
“We were. Who else is in Code X from the old gang?”
“Aiden McKay and Trenton Hollings.”
“Which are they? Jeep tossers or eagle eyes?”
“Neither. The researchers are working on different gene sets for each one of us. Aiden swims like a fish and can hold his breath forever, and Trent is fast. His quick twitch reflexes are off the charts. I hear Jeff’s recruiting someone else as we speak. I think Doc Jones has some mental modifications in mind for the next test subject.”
“Who’s Doc Jones, exactly?”
“Gemma Jones. She’s one of the leading geneticists in the world. Brilliant woman, if a bit of a geek.”
“Mental modifications like how?”
“Are you volunteering for the treatment?” she asked.
He reared back, shocked. He would never change himself into a—
A sniff interrupted his train of thought. “Don’t want to be a freak like me, huh? Why am I not surprised?” She surged up out of her blanket and stormed into her bedroom. The door closed with an ominously soft click.
What in the hell had he done? He never called her a freak! He might have thought it, but a guy couldn’t be convicted of just thinking a word. Except she must have seen it in his eyes...he sighed...and he ought to be man enough to admit it.
He went to her door and knocked gently. “Sammie Jo? Can we talk?”
Nothing.
“Sam? Please. I’m sorry.”
Still nothing.
“I’m an ass.”
Still nothing. Damn.
“You’re not a freak.”
The door cracked open. Her teary gaze looked like molten gold. A quicksilver tear trembled on her cheek. She looked supernatural—stunning and beautiful.
“I truly am sorry. Your special abilities take a little getting used to. Please bear with me while I adjust.”
“Now I know what the guys were talking about.” He must have looked confused, because she clarified, “Jeff and Aiden were comparing notes about how it sucked when their girlfriends thought they were completely bizzaro.”
“You’re not bizzaro,” he declared. “Just your clothes are,” he teased gently.
“Hey! I dressed conservative to come to Hickville.”
He made a face. “I’d hate to see your idea of far-out attire.”
“That can be arranged,” she threatened. A smile broke through and lit her face.
Without the wild makeup her skin was like satin, and its creamy contrast to her hair was striking. “Is that your natural hair color?” he asked.
“Actually, yes.”
“Impressive.”
“It’s just genetics,” she commented dryly.
He leaned against the door frame as she opened the door fully. Her pajama pants were baby-blue flannel with cute cartoon sheep sprinkled over them like fluffy marshmallows. The thin white tank T-shirt she wore stood in starkly sexy contrast, announcing in no uncertain terms that she was all woman and nicely endowed. She obviously hadn’t needed much help under that leather jacket to create that impressive cleavage. Must concentrate. Build rapport. And avoid sexual thoughts since she also appeared to be some kind of mind reader.
“Have your eyes always been that color?” he asked curiously.
“No. They used to be light brown. The changes to my DNA changed both the inside and outside of my eyeballs.”
“Did it hurt?”
“No. The treatment was just a series of shots, and the changes were gradual. I’ve been in the program long enough now that Gemma thinks my modifications are permanent. We’ve stopped the shots to see if the changes remain.”
“And if they don’t?”
“I’ll go back to taking the shots.”
Wow. She didn’t hesitate for a moment when she said that. “So you wouldn’t consider letting your eyesight return to normal?”
She shook her head. “Once you’ve experienced life this way, you don’t want to go back.”
“How’s that?”
“I see everything so much more clearly than I used to. It would be like getting used to 3D, HD television and then going back to a 1960s vintage black-and-white TV.”
That actually made sense. “What about health side effects?”
“I’ll deal with them if and when they manifest. So far, the only real downside is the whole business of sunlight. It has forced me to live more like a vampire than most folks. It took a little getting used to. That and learning to remember other people can’t see what I can.”
That gave him pause. What did she see when she looked at him? “I’d be afraid of going blind or something terrible later on,” he commented.
She shrugged. “There are no guarantees in life, are there? I could be hit by a car tomorrow, and then it wouldn’t matter what happens to my vision down the road. Weren’t you the one who was just telling me to live in the moment and not fear the future?”
He scowled at having his words turned back on him like that. “Fine. You may be right. But still. I’d worry about the consequences of doing something so drastic to myself.”
“It’s not like I got a tattoo,” she declared indignantly. “Now that’s something permanent and regrettable down the road.”
He laughed. “You’re telling me the original wild child doesn’t have a tat or two tucked away somewhere on her person?”
She rolled her eyes. “I may dress goth, but I like the skin I came in just the way it is. I never went for tramp stamps.”
Frankly, that surprised him. He was careful to keep his expression neutral, however, and not reveal his thoughts. She certainly was an odd mixture of contrasts. Tough and demure, biker chick and church lady, occasionally sensible and often completely impulsive. She didn’t hesitate to change her eyesight radically, but she wouldn’t dream of marking her skin.
Reflectively, he murmured, “Which version of you is the real one?”
She tilted her head to stare at him. “Who says they’re not all me? I don’t have to be just one kind of person, do I? Surely you’re not always the same guy. In your work as a spy, I’ll bet you put on all kinds of personas—different jobs, lifestyles, income and educational levels. You just can’t pull off checkered-flannel shirts. But I could see you as a surfing bum or Wall Street banker about equally well.”
“I do like to surf.”
“See? Behind that ramrod-stiff demeanor, you’re a multidimensional guy, after all.”
He wasn’t ramrod-stiff, thank you very much; he was organized. Logical. Rational. All qualities that had saved his life before and would no doubt do so again.
He must have frowned because she reached up and smoothed her fingertips across his brow. “Live dangerously,” she murmured. “Embrace a little variety.”
“I’m not that big a stick in the mud.”
Sammie grinned. “You just keep telling yourself that.”
He stepped forward until they stood chest to chest. There was one way to win this argument fast. It would certainly be living dangerously to kiss her into oblivion. Or rather, let her kiss him there. He started the journey gently by bending his head to hers. Exhaling lightly against her temple. Tilting her chin up with a fingertip. Just a light touch of lips to lips. A promise. A hint of more.
He wasn’t sure how fragile she was feeling and he let her call the shots, let her lean in
against him, let her kiss her way across his neck and toy with the short hair at the back of his neck. But at some point he wanted more. He slipped a hand under the warm weight of her hair and lifted her face to fit his mouth more closely against hers to taste her warmth and softness. He could sip at her all night like this. She was better than a fine wine on his tongue, more savory and complex. The bite of her personality lent just enough zing to keep her from becoming predictable. Oh, yes. She was a woman to be tasted time after time.
She drew a sharp breath and rose on tiptoe, grabbing the back of his head without warning and imploding in his arms. “I’m not supposed to want another man yet,” she mumbled against his lips.
“Why not?”
“Two weeks mandatory man-hating, otherwise I risk a rebound relationship. I’m only one week post-breakup.”
“Live dangerously, Sam. Embrace variety.”
“Smart aleck. Shut up and kiss me.”
That he could do. And shockingly, he wanted to do it. He didn’t stop to think or to question it. He merely stepped into her room, turning her until she pressed back against the wall. Her right leg crept up and wrapped around his hips. It was entirely natural to catch her waist, and as he supported her weight more fully, her left leg joined the right. She didn’t weigh much, not that he cared. He didn’t need to be able to lift a Jeep to hold her tight as she sucked his tonsils out of his throat.
She kissed with as much gusto as she did everything, her exuberance for life flowing over him like a dancing and healing stream. How long had it been since he’d felt anything like that? It soothed him and washed his soul clean, and for the first time in years, he could really breathe. He tore his mouth away from hers to drag in a big, full breath. And another. Who’d have guessed the simple act of breathing could feel so good? Or furthermore, that kissing this woman would make it so?
He stared down at her, amazed.
“What?” she demanded. “Have I grown feathers or something?”
“Good Lord, no. They didn’t actually use eagle DNA on you, did they?”
She laughed. “No. It was all my own DNA and stem cells they manipulated.”
Relieved, he let out his breath. And even that felt good.
“I think I’m going to be able to sleep now,” she murmured. “I guess I’m going to have to get on a more normal schedule if we’re going to be social with the neighbors.”
“Hey, it was your idea to set up house,” he replied.
“When will I quit opening my big mouth and getting into trouble?” she groused.
“I don’t know about that. I rather liked it when you opened your mouth.”
Her eyes twinkled merrily. “You have no idea, big guy. No idea at all.”
And maybe the images her comment conjured were why he stumbled as he let her push him backward out of her room. He stood in front of her closed door and stared at it for a long time. What had just happened to him? For a moment there, he’d almost felt...normal.
Except he of all people was anything but normal. He was Humpty Dumpty. Irrecoverably, irretrievably broken, and nothing and nobody was going to put him back together again.
Chapter 5
It felt weird to wake up before noon, but Sammie Jo dutifully dragged herself out of bed and dressed in simple jeans and a sweatshirt. Of course the sweatshirt had a skull and crossbones on it, but it was the best she could do at approaching normal. In a fit of rebellion against suburbia, she chose her steampunk sunglasses, round lenses with leather flaps at the sides that nicely sealed out secondary sunlight.
Gray was nowhere to be found in the house. She stepped out onto the front porch and was shocked to see him on his knees, efficiently planting her rosebushes. Oh, God. He looked so hot. Who knew he’d wear gardening so well? He was carefully forming mounds of dirt in the holes, spreading the roots out symmetrically, and packing enriched planting soil around them.
“Where’d you learn how to plant roses properly?” she asked.
He looked up, a smudge of dirt endearingly tipping his nose. “My granny was a big rose gardener.”
“Can I help?”
“Sure. Grab a shovel and dig the next hole.”
She started digging, the rich smell of warm earth rising around her. It was strangely soothing.
“Nice shades,” he commented.
“Thanks. Personal faves of mine.”
“Your eyes doing okay?”
She smiled at his concern. “Fine. These are super dark and the leather flaps—” She broke off as a trio of police cars rounded the corner fast, lights flashing, but sirens silenced. The vehicles raced past, drove up the hill at the back of the neighborhood and stopped in front of the last house, parking in a defensive formation.
“What’s that about?” she asked under her breath.
“Don’t know.”
They planted another rosebush as a half dozen sheriff’s deputies surged out of their cars and clustered at the front door of a red brick ranch that looked like every other house in this neighborhood.
On cue, Maddie Mercer stepped out on her front porch in a housedress and slippers to watch the show.
“Back in a sec,” Sammie Jo murmured. She strolled over to join the woman, wiping dirt off her hands onto her jeans as she went. “Hey, Miss Maddie. Any idea what’s going on?”
The older woman gave her an arch look. “Word has it a young man was found dead.”
“Right there in that house?” Sammie Jo asked in mock horror.
“Oh, no. He was found back up in the hollers a ways. Probably a fight over a moonshine still. This is a dry county, you know.”
Sammie Jo acted appropriately scandalized. “Then why are the police at that house?”
“Dead guy must’ve been mixed up with that Proctor gang,” Miss Maddie replied knowingly.
“Proctor gang?” Gray asked as he materialized at her side. Sam slipped an arm around his waist and was delighted that he didn’t go board stiff at the contact.
She leaned into his warmth and strength as Miss Maddie drew a deep breath to impart clearly treasured gossip. “Wendall Proctor is the leader of a group of hippies and weirdos hereabouts. They’re all hepped up about going off the grid. Most of them are looking to live all back-to-nature and organic. That Proctor guy has turned his property into practically a cult compound full of ’em. Women and kids are up there, too. But—” she leaned forward and her voice dropped to a juicy whisper “—I hear there’s some wackos among ’em. You know, the kind who think there’s government conspiracies all around, and someone’s trying to kill them.”
Gray nodded toward the police cars. “It looks like no good has already come of it.”
Miss Maddie snorted in agreement. “Four of Proctor’s boys rented that house a few months back. Mighty suspicious if you ask me. Men coming and going from that place and at all hours of the day and night. No surprise they’re mixed up in that young fella’s death.”
As the woman fell silent, Sammie Jo fanned the gossip flames. “Do you suppose the police will arrest someone?”
“Oughtta arrest ’em all. Throw ’em clean out of the Zone. Damn outsiders.”
Gray piped up in his most charming voice, “I hope you won’t consider us outsiders for long, Miss Maddie. You make the best macaroni and cheese I’ve ever tasted, and I’d be mighty sad not to get any more of it.”
The woman simpered under his warm regard, and behind her shades, Sammie Jo rolled her eyes.
“Police have been in there a long time if they’re just picking someone up,” Miss Maddie announced. Her voice dropped in volume. “I’ll bet they’ve got a search warrant.”
“You think?” Sammie Jo murmured back. “Maybe I should go for a jog up that way and see if they’re tossing the place.”
“Oh, my child, I wouldn’t go near there. What if it turns into a shoot-out?”
“I’ll run away. And I’m really fast.”
Gray interrupted. “Miss Maddie has a point, sweetie. I’d hate to see you get
hurt.”
Sweetie? Grayson Pierce had called her sweetie! How was it one stupid little word that he didn’t even mean could knock her completely off balance like that? Of course, it wasn’t the word that did it. It was the man saying it who messed her up so bad. Being around him was like hanging out with Prince Charming. And just like a fairy tale, he was too perfect to be real.
She didn’t know what his flaw was or where the chinks in the armor might be, but he had to have some. He had to. Otherwise, her entire conception of the world was wrong. She’d known for a long time that life was not fair. That happiness was not guaranteed, nor even likely, at the end of the day. A person was born; their life sucked; they died. That’s how it went. If she happened to grab a few moments of transitory pleasure along the way, then she was luckier than most.
But this man challenged all of that. If men like him were real, then she had spent her entire adult life failing to search for a man like him. And what a waste would that have been? Had she been completely, totally wrong about everything?
“Honey? Are you okay?”
Honey? Her heart pitter-pattered until she mentally shook herself. “Yes. Of course. I was just thinking about that poor man. The one who died. Do they know who he was?”
Miss Maddie supplied, “Zimmer’s the name. Not from around here. Hooked up with Proctor as soon as he got here. Must have known someone on the inside. Way I hear it, Wendall’s pretty cautious about outsiders.”
“Now why’s that, I wonder?” Sammie Jo speculated. “Do you suppose he’s got something to hide?”
“Why else would he have all those big fences and guys with guns patrolling his place?” Miss Maddie replied.
Sammie Jo ventured a glance at Gray, who nodded at her infinitesimally. In a hushed voice, she asked Miss Maddie, “Do you suppose it’s something illegal?”
“Most folks around here think it’s moonshine or marijuana. But I think it’s something bigger.”
“Why do you say that?” Sammie Jo prompted.
“People been bootleggin’ and smokin’ weed in these parts forever. And there’s never been a need for guns and electric fences before. I think Proctor’s going to pull one of those fruit punch massacres.”