In Safe Hands (The Safe House Series Book 1)

by Leslie North

  She gazed upon him as if the choice had been his all along. As if he had always possessed enough strength to trade one misguided loyalty for another, richer transformation. But Damian knew the truth. Without Alexa, he never stood a chance of seeing through Paulson’s deception to a life beyond.

  A life he couldn’t imagine without her.

  He captured her lips with his. The kiss was generous and reverent, a tender promise of hope in place that had only ever held darkness.

  They held each other until their adrenaline quieted. When he felt Alexa wilt against him in exhaustion, Damian drew her away from the scene. Neither of them looked back.

  An SUV waited for them outside when they exited the building. Rockwell leapt out of the passenger seat and jogged across the gravel driveway toward them.

  "Stone! I thought I heard shots!" Rockwell shouted.

  "Paulson’s gone." Damian raised his hand to clap arms with his employer without releasing Alexa. She surfaced eventually to join their reunion, detaching from Damian to give the other man a grateful hug.

  "Mr. Rockwell," she said. "I wasn't sure I'd see you again."

  "I knew you were in good hands," Rockwell said gravely. "Feds are on their way now. I had to lay low for a bit until I could prove Paulson was the one who set us up. He compromised your bank account and indicated me with an anonymous phone call." Rockwell removed his jacket and draped it over Alexa's shoulders. "Didn't mean to go dark on you, but it was for the best. I couldn't answer the phone with agents all over my ass every hour of every day. You wouldn't believe some of the stunts I had to pull to tail you out here. Thank God my boys always have my back."

  "The feeling's mutual," Damian said. "Thanks for looking out for me—for us.”

  Rockwell crossed his burly arms and scrutinized the picture taking shape before him. Before he could say anything more, his phone went off.

  "It’s Samson," said Rockwell, pressing the answer call button. "Driving me crazy for word on the two of you.” As soon as the phone was to his ear, he stalked toward the warehouse.

  Alexa raised her head to Damian again, looking tired and a little amused. "Is he always like that? I mean, with you guys?"

  "Always," Damian assured her. He led her around the backside of the SUV and opened the hatch. They sat together in silence, watching the sun sink down the long stretch of road. Alexa settled into the folds of Rockwell's coat. It was only then that Damian realized how close he had come to losing her. He drew her against him, careful to keep her shoulder stabilized.

  "How is your head?" she asked.

  “Better than my pride.” Damian raised his hand to rub his forehead and grimaced. "Can't believe I didn't see it coming," he admitted. "With the way you were talking…"

  "I'm sorry." Alexa sank against his chest, embarrassed. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I guess I should have known you would only be out for a moment. How are you?"

  Damian sighed and pulled her closer against him. He stared out at the road as if the answer for how he was feeling lingered there. He felt exhausted, but he also felt… relieved. Like he might actually be able to look forward to a night of restful sleep for a change.

  If he was lucky, maybe he wouldn't have to look forward to it alone.

  “I could use some time away,” he said. “If you came with me.”

  Alexa wiggled her adorable backside closer, fully awakening his sense of wanderlust. Not of distant lands but in the landscapes of her body he had yet to discover.

  She nestled her head against him, in the space between his shoulder and chin that fit her to perfection. “After the trial, I’m all yours. Anywhere you want to go.”

  “I’m a little partial to Missouri.”

  “Are you?” Her words were jaunty, playful, not-at-all surprised. “I know the perfect thing to wear.”

  He chuckled against the electrifying spot behind her ear that drove her insane with pleasure. She snickered, twisted in his embrace and kissed him, her hands pinned over his heart, the safest place of all.

  EPILOGUE

  The No Tell Motel hadn’t changed much in the four months it took Alexa’s testimony to convict and sentence Nico Volkov to a life in prison, safe from harm but where he belonged. Room 235’s last digit had been secured firmly to the door by a mismatched screw. The cartoon etching of the bowlegged cowboy had been replaced by a blooming desert cactus watercolor. The cheap, craft-store lasso nailed beside the door now held infinite, creative possibilities. And the man emerging from the bathroom, freshly showered and wrapped in white terry cotton and nothing else was still her husband.

  This time, a shiny gold band rode the left hand that held his towel closed.

  He drew close, unable to keep a smile from rearranging his handsome features, and took her pen. With a decisive snap, he retracted its tip and laid it in the crease of her substantial law book. From behind, he leaned forward and slid his arms around her waist. He smelled clean, lightly fragrant from his body gel, and full-on Damian.

  “No studying on our honeymoon,” he whispered against her ear.

  He swept her hair aside and trailed feather-light kisses down her neck. Mock legal briefs dissolved in her brain to briefs of a very different kind.

  “We already had our honeymoon. Remember? You warmed the floor over there…” She stretched her arms above her, half-pointing to make her point, half entwining her arms around his neck to arch against his already-protruding towel, purposely stretching her back and lifting her chest in invitation. An invitation Damian had been too duty-bound to seize four months ago.

  This time he did not hesitate. His hands dove beneath her shirt and grazed up her abdomen to her breasts. He squeezed her bra-less nipples and rolled them between his thumb and forefinger until she uncrossed her legs to make room for the swell of pleasure disrupting her capacity to maintain her side of the conversation.

  “And I fought off the urge to crawl up beside you and warm every inch of you.”

  Alexa bit her lip and rose from her chair to face him. “While I tried to convince myself I would be horrified if you invaded my shower.”

  His pupils were swollen, focused, always so focused, but the seductive stretch of his lips betrayed him. Perfect, caramel-colored shoulders rippled as he rested his grip on the knot of his towel. “Were you successful?”

  “I wanted you to darken that curtain more than anything.” Alexa swallowed through the admission, her pulse already accelerating far ahead of the game. Damian once confessed he found her sharp, to-the-point flare made her a gifted law student and an even better lover. After that, she aimed to please.

  “And?”

  “And pull it back to watch…” She drew close to his ear as if she meant to lay out her fantasy in stark detail. Instead she pecked him on the cheek, turned and sauntered toward the bathroom, tossing a flirty gaze over her shoulder.

  “And?” His voice closed in behind her, thick with desire, charged with sport.

  She hesitated at the threshold. In her mind, her clothes were already pooled at her feet, steam a substantial third party to the encounter.

  “And do everything in my power to convince you that you weren’t done with your job—to keep me safe, for better or worse—until I tell you, not Rockwell.”

  He drew close enough for a kiss, lip to lip, their breaths mingling as one. “When will that be?”

  A delightful tingle scaled her body as an answer more perfect than the I-love-yous that gathered daily on her tongue and were always reciprocated. “Another lifetime.”

  Damian tossed his head back and laughed, boisterous and free.

  His towel dropped to the floor.

  Completion of In Safe Hands

  Book One of The Safe House Series.

  Book two, Play It Safe, released on 8th April 2016. To be notified of pre-order, sign up to her mailing list!

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  When your job is protecting people, the first rule is…never mix business with pleasure.

  Keira Mantz has been given the job of a lifetime, and she refuses to fail. Trained as part of an elite security team, her first mission is to protect the Sheikh of Jawhara and his wife. What she thought would be a solo operation, though, is suddenly a two-person job. Her partner is none other than Brock Wells, the Viking-like team member who trained her. The last thing Keira wants is Brock stealing her thunder, but she’ll do whatever it takes to succeed—even if it means pretending to be in love.

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  Brock Wells exited the bar, heading for his ’66 Mustang. The twang of a sad love song followed him out, and his head buzzed with the four beers he’d had. The team had just finished a training operation in South America and Slade had given everyone some much needed time off—meaning Brock had come home hoping to find some female company.

  He’d hit a bar that was a ways off from his usual haunts, looking for a stranger with doe eyes and a body that could make him forget just about everything. Tonight, however, his batting average was about as good as the one of whoever wrote that love song.

  Well, it was probably better this way. Slade had no rules against team members getting hooked up outside of the teams, but he also didn’t like sending anyone into the thick of things if they had attachments. That was where Brock liked to be—in the middle of the worst trouble. This meant that Brock liked his girls for one night only, and every girl in that bar had had the hungry look of a woman hunting a man.

  It looked like it was going to be an early night with the UFC channel and a few more beers for him.

  Glimpsing movement from the corner of his eye—three figures under the glare of the parking lot lights—Brock stopped, and everything else went into automatic assessment. Some habits never went away, and the ones from his days as a SEAL were deeply ingrained.

  Two guys, one woman—and yeah, he wasn’t being paid by Slade for this one, but he also wasn’t wired to look away. He headed over, took up a spot that gave him the advantage, since it put him right behind the guy holding the knife, and boxed the trio against a battered pickup. He offered a friendly grin. “Looks like a party.”

  The two guys—good ol' boys by the looks of the wife-beater shirts and sagging jeans, and none too smart to go by the eyes glazed by drink and drugs—glanced at each other. The guy without a knife nodded at the half-empty parking lot. “Get lost.”

  Brock shrugged to loosen his shoulders. “Let the girl go and I won’t have to mess up this crappy spot with your even crappier blood. I’m only asking once.”

  The girl had guts enough. She kept hold of one guy’s wrist—the guy with the knife—but she glanced at Mr. Mouthy and said, her voice low and firm, “Please, I changed my mind, Toad.”

  “Toad?” Brock laughed. “Seriously, dude? That’s your handle? Okay, we’re done here.” He brought his hand down on the shoulder of the guy with the knife—hard enough for the guy to let out a grunt.

  Brock spun him around, punched him once in his soft gut. Not smart, dude, to let yourself go like that. The guy doubled over, spilling out whiskey-soaked breath. Brock snapped the knife from the guy’s limp hand. It clattered to the asphalt. A jerk back and the guy lay flat on the ground, on his back. Brock kicked the knife away and glanced at Toad—Mr. Mouthy. “You want a go? Your choice.”

  Before Toad could even bunch a fist, the girl hauled off, caught him in the throat with the flat of her hand, and drove a knee into his groin. The guy doubled over, and Brock gave a sympathetic wince. She kicked up at his jaw with a boot, and Toad crumpled like a wad of toilet paper.

  Leaving the two guys on the ground, Brock grabbed the girl’s wrist. “Come on. Let’s go before these two even think about trying a round two, or call for their buddies to come kick our asses.”

  He pulled her with him, sizing her up as he went. She had long, straight hair, hitting below her shoulders; looked brown, maybe dark brown in this light. He couldn’t judge the color of her eyes, but they were big, dominating a narrow face. Pretty, he’d guess. A little too skinny. A baggy shirt hung down over her hips, hiding anything she might have for breasts, too, but she had great legs—long and lean and encased in tight jeans. Plus boots made for kicking.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She nodded and let go of his hand to go around and get into his convertible. He lifted an eyebrow at that—maybe this kind of gutsiness had gotten her in trouble to start with. She didn’t seem to mind jumping into a stranger’s car, but then he wouldn’t want to hang around either to see how Toad liked being kicked in the nuts.

  He started up his car and headed for the highway. “Where do you live?” He asked, leaning over so she could hear him over the wind, which was a soft roar in his ears and a pressure on his cheeks.

  She shook her head, captured her flying hair with a hand, and slanted him a look. “No one’s ever done that before. No one’s ever helped me out.”

  Brock grinned. “It’s kind of what I do.” He pulled out a card and slipped it to her. It had his name on it and the words, Slade Security. She ran her fingers over the card, and Brock’s throat tightened. She had great hands—l
ong fingers, tapering, slim, and strong wrists. He liked the way she moved them, too, slow and certain. They reminded him, somehow, of white butterflies.

  She looked at him again. “What kind of security?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever anyone needs. Systems. Bodyguards. Surveillance. You name it. Slade, he’s my boss, runs a full service operation.”

  She nodded, shifted so she faced him. “You military?”

  “Used to be. Navy. I’m out now.” She nodded again and grabbed her flying hair, yanking it back into a pony tail. He put his eyes on the road. He was not going to think about taking her back to his hotel room. Well, okay, he was going to think about it; but he was also going to remember her kicking a guy in the balls. “What about you?” he asked. “Figure out an address where you want me to take you?”

  She shook her head. “My cousins set me up to work for Toad. They didn’t tell me he wanted to have me selling drugs—and myself.”

  “Ah,” Brock said, and gave a nod. “That accounts for the parking lot disagreement. No folks?”

  “Not that I want to see.” She faced the road, too. He could tell that from the way the car seat squeaked. “Don’t have anything else going for me, either.”

  He glanced at her again. The light from the dash played over her face. She had brown eyes to match her hair; big eyes in a narrow, heart-shaped face. She’d also held up well in that parking lot, better than most would, and she’d known how to fight. That was a point in her favor. She also wasn’t shaking or crying now. He liked that. “Where’d you learn to punch like that?” he asked.

  She grinned. “Streets. Where else?”

  “The streets. Meaning you fight dirty. That’s cool. You want a job?” The words popped out, and Brock wanted to kick himself. That’s what happened after four beers—impulse took over and his mouth went on auto-pilot.

  He hadn’t meant to get into this with her. He’d been taught to protect those around them. The weak. The misfortunate. The ones you loved. Those were the rare ones. He’d always had to watch out for the folks who needed someone. He’d always hated the idea of meeting his maker on foreign soil and having that tear someone up back home—and it had ended up costing him.