His Devil's Desire

by Linzi Basset

  “I’m looking for my sister.” Her voice sounded uneven—insecure. A small shudder went through her body.

  Bracus sat upright with his elbows on his knees. He scrutinized her expression.

  “I didn’t realize you had a sister.”

  “Neither did I. Or at least, I believed her to be dead; until a couple of days ago.”

  She briefly told him about the home invasion sixteen years ago and how her entire family had been gunned down.

  “She fell on top of me when she was shot. I went down and hit my head, which is what saved me. They assumed I’d been shot as well. I saw death in her eyes before I lost consciousness but . . . it is her. I have no doubt about that.”

  “I assume someone has given you information to corroborate this?”

  “Yes. I received a photo by email.”

  “May I see it?”

  Samantha fished the printed copy of the picture out of her handbag and handed it to him.

  “I can see the connection. You look alike, except for the hair color. What the fuck . . .!”

  Samantha looked at Bracus. He stared at the picture intently, tracing the face of the little girl with his finger.

  “Who is the child?” His voice had turned as rough as sandpaper. He was visibly upset, which shook Samantha. He was one of the most formidable Doms she’d ever met and in all the years she’d never seen him show any extreme emotion. Now, his body had turned to stone. His eyes lifted and glittered with anger.

  “I asked you a question, Samantha.”

  He’s angry. He called me Samantha. She frowned. What the devil just happened?

  “I don’t know. She doesn’t look like Lauren but she might be hers, for all I know. Lauren was fifteen when I last saw her.”

  He stared at her until she shifted uncomfortably in the seat.

  “Come with me,” he growled and got up.

  “But—”

  “Now, sub.”

  As a submissive she instinctively reacted to his command and rose. She had to run to keep up with his long strides up the stairs to the mezzanine level, where he disappeared into an office. He stood holding the door ajar and waited until she walked inside with trepidation in every step. He closed and locked the door.

  “What are you doing?” Samantha asked, her blood turning cold. Something had upset him.

  “Relax, Sammy. I’m not about to pounce on you. I am a happily married man, as you know, but I do have questions I’d prefer no one overheard.” His voice deepened. “As I’m sure you don’t either. Sit down, please.”

  She sank into one of the chairs next to his desk while he sat down behind it.

  “Now, I want to know everything that happened on the day of the robbery.”

  “It has no relevance. All I need is someone with enough—”

  “Samantha, either you tell me what I want to know, or you can find someone else to help you.”

  She sat fiddling with her fingers. She stared at him, assessing every emotion that she saw flashing in his eyes. He was more than upset. He was worried, and she noticed pain in the depth of his eyes which he did his best to hide from her.

  “I woke up in the hospital. I was told they’d all been killed. Apparently, those bastards had been ravaging the area for weeks and our farm was the third one they hit. They never left any survivors. They had no care for human life. The funeral was a week later. The entire town was there . . . the violence had shaken our community.”

  “Where?”

  “Winslow, Alabama.” Samantha swallowed back the tears. Memories of how desolate and alone she’d felt standing next to the five graves hallowed her heart. She looked up slowly. “There were five graves. They buried five coffins. But . . .”

  She jumped up and began pacing the room. She felt trapped, like an emotional hurricane was raging through her.

  “Someone went to a lot of trouble to make you believe your entire family had died. And then, what?”

  “I had nowhere to go. There was no one. We didn’t have any family I could go to. Both my parents were only children and my grandparents had passed away long ago. I was . . . alone.”

  Bracus didn’t talk. He allowed her to work through the emotions that were threatening to pull her under.

  “One of the neighbors offered me home and board until the estate had been settled. I inherited the farm and some cash. Not a lot, but that didn’t matter. I never had any interest in farming. I loved woodwork but I didn’t have the skill or the money to manage the farm. The lawyers managed the sale on my behalf. I was left with a substantial amount in my pocket. But it was like acid to me. I wanted my family; not money which I had no use of. Not at sixteen, anyway.”

  She sat down again and leaned back her head. “I forced myself to go back to school and then he came along two months later.”

  “He?”

  “Called himself Bulldog’s henchman, Granite. I remember laughing in his face and he slapped me. Hard. Told me never to make fun of someone’s name—even a nickname. Anyway, they . . . recruited me.”

  Bracus stapled his fingers together in front of his chest.

  “Into what?”

  The NCS.”

  Bracus’ expression didn’t change. “The National Clandestine Service of the CIA?”

  “Yes.” Her answer was curt.

  “Into which division?”

  “Covert ops.”

  “Obviously. Which one?”

  “It doesn’t—”

  “Answer me,” he growled. His expression had turned ominous.

  “Silver Sting.”

  “You became a sniper.” It was a statement, not a question. With his connections in the CIA and FBI, Bracus was well aware of what that code name stood for.

  “Yes. I . . . he caught me at a vulnerable time and promised me the opportunity to avenge my family. Said he knew who had killed them. I was an excellent shot. My dad taught me to shoot when I was four years old. How he knew that, I’ve never been able to find out. He turned me into a sniper. The first couple of years I felt good about what we were doing. We fought terrorism, prevented cyber-attacks—we kept the country safe. But the last two years . . .” Her gaze turned hazy. “I walked away six years ago. I’d had enough.”

  Bracus’ expression turned unreadable. He looked at the picture in front of him.

  “Let me guess. Bulldog is the one who sent you this photo. He wants you for a job.”

  “Yes; which is why I need to know if that woman is my sister and if she is; where is she? I need to find her, to break the hold he has over me.”

  “He doesn’t sound like the kind of man who’s going to allow you a lot of time, Samantha. I don’t think I need to tell you that.”

  “I know. Will you help me? I can’t . . . I don’t want to be forced into that life again.”

  “And you really have no idea who the little girl is?”

  “No.” She hesitated but then gathered enough courage to say, “Somehow, I think you do.”

  His lips flattened into a straight line, but he didn’t respond.

  “I need as much detail about your sister as you can remember; her full name, her habits, hobbies, what kind of sports she liked; anything that comes to your mind.”

  A knock on the door interrupted them. He got up and unlocked it.

  “I saw Ice at the bar. I hope you’re not entertaining some sub up here she doesn’t know about?” A guttural voice grated through the doorway.

  “Don’t be an ass, Keon. You know better than anyone that I’ll never cheat on my wife.”

  “Yeah, she’ll have your balls if you tried. I’ve seen her kick your butt a few times.”

  Bracus stepped back, shaking his head but he was smiling. Samantha stood up as she watched him gesture at his brother to follow him inside.

  Her breath wheezed and then got stuck in her throat. His face came into focus. She clawed at her throat but couldn’t force air into her lungs; her stomach roiled. It felt like her innards were being replaced by som
e kind of black hole. She went deathly pale. She took a step back and crumpled like a puppet suddenly released of its strings. Nausea crept from her abdomen to her head and the world went black.

  Samantha fainted.

  “What the hell?” Rhone exclaimed as he entered behind Keon, in time to see the small blonde collapse to the floor. Bracus caught her just before her head connected with the wooden surface.

  “I’ve always said that your Conan The Barbarian look scares woman to death. I just wish it was someone other than the carpenter working on our bar counter,” Rhone grated irritably as he picked up the limp woman and sat down on the sofa. He brushed her hair back and gazed at her pale face.

  “Fuck me if I know what just happened. She spooked the moment she saw me, but I sure as hell don’t know who she is.”

  “This is Samantha Frazer, Keon. From Woodcraft Carpentry.” Rhone glanced at Bracus, who stood watching the blonde woman with a closed expression. “And what is she to you?”

  Rhone couldn’t explain the feeling of possessiveness that surged through him. The thought of Bracus having any claim on her tore at him. His arms instinctively tightened around her small frame.

  “She’s a friend of Ziva’s and a new client of mine.”

  “Client? Yours? What is she hiring you for?”

  Bracus shrugged. “You should know better than to ask that, Rhone. I’m not about to break her confidence.”

  Rhone looked at Samantha. Her eyes fluttered open. It took a moment for her to register where she was. Her gasp, when she recognized him, rasped through the room. She struggled upright.

  “Lemme go,” she snapped at him. He responded by drawing her back against his chest.

  “Keep still, sub,” he ordered shortly.

  The submissive in her obeyed instantaneously while at the same time the rebel inside her screamed at her to get off his lap.

  “Please, let me go, Sir,” she asked in a cold, polite tone.

  “No.” His response was short, drawing a sigh from her and then her body turned to stone as the memory of what had caused her to faint careened her back to hell.

  She looked up, straight into the glimmering richness of moss-green eyes.

  “I have to admit, sub, I’ve never had a woman faint on me.”

  “I―”

  “I need to finish my discussion with Samantha. Please, guys,” Bracus intoned with a nod toward the door. His voice was foreboding and caused Samantha to swallow hard.

  He must’ve put two and two together.

  Rhone lifted her off his lap, albeit reluctantly. The desire to protect and care for her was at the forefront of his mind. She still looked pale and drawn and he was uneasy leaving her alone with Bracus, who had a deadly look in his eyes.

  “Don’t let him browbeat you, little one,” he said. He stumped her when he leaned in to kiss her hard on the lips.

  “Well, now, mate. What did I miss? When did you and our carpenter became so well acquainted?” Samantha heard Keon rib Rhone as they walked away.

  The door clicked closed behind them. Bracus turned the key with deliberate slowness. Her body turned into a trembling mass as she looked into his eyes.

  “Start talking, Samantha and don’t fucking lie to me. How do you know my brother?”

  “I don’t . . . uggh! No, please!” Samantha gasped for breath when he grasped her around the throat and squeezed. She went onto her toes to alleviate the pressure but battled to draw a breath.

  “I’ve been searching for the assassin who took out Keon’s wife and child and shot him in the chest—six years ago. Around the same time, you claim you walked away from the CIA.” His fingers tightened around her neck and she cried out pleadingly. He continued unperturbed, “One with the codename, Ace. I always assumed it was a man. Tell me I wasn’t mistaken . . . Samantha,” he grated through clenched teeth. His voice carried a warning of intent.

  Fear raged through her with the force of a gale wind. She’d always believed that the root of all fears, the rotten root of mankind, is the “fear of need” and humanity’s task is to meet this fear with the same resistance a rock shows to the wind; that a resolved person allows fear to blow around them and remains resolute in a will to be kind. She relaxed in his grasp. Maybe it was time for her to let go of all her fears—to trust someone besides herself. She looked at him, blood thumping in her head from the increasing pressure.

  “I didn’t . . . it wasn’t me,” she stuttered. “I tried to save them. I swear. Please,” she begged when his hold tightened again.

  He stared at her unblinking. Then he shoved her into the chair behind her with a violent curse. His hands landed low on his hips followed by a growl. “Start talking.”

  She did. Haltingly at first and then faster until the entire tale, of the day she’d been on the roof of Hilton, came out.

  “There were three other snipers. I killed all of them. Surely their bodies were found afterward?”

  “There were none.”

  “He . . . the fucking bastard! He pinned it all on me. He must’ve known I was folding—that I wanted out. That’s why he had the other snipers in place. He was setting me up to be the patsy. Only, I managed to fuck up his plans. He wanted your brother and the other man dead as well.”

  “Rhone. He was the other man.”

  Her mouth went slack. She’d never paid attention to the second man at the time. How cruel could fate be? The man she desired, after all this time, could very well come to hate her once he heard the role she’d played in his friend’s loss. She grabbed the photo and stared at it.

  “This teenager. Is she? No! I thought she’d been shot as well but I couldn’t see. The woman was lying on top of . . . oh god. It’s her, isn’t it? This is Keon’s little girl?”

  “She looks just like Amelia did at this age. We all grew up together. Amelia and Keon had been high school sweethearts and had married as soon as they graduated.”

  Bracus paced the room. He turned to the door. “Stay here, Samantha. I’ll be right back.” He walked out but looked at her over his shoulder. “Don’t let me return and find you gone. You won’t be able to survive my anger.”

  She was too shocked, by the unexpected twist the evening had taken, to consider running away. She was numb. It was inconceivable that both her sister and the little girl were alive. Saved in the same miraculous way she had been, all those years ago.

  “But how did the two of them end up together? And what fucking role did Bulldog play in all this? Jesus! It’s such a fucking mess,” she muttered to herself.

  She startled when Rhone Greer walked back into the room with Bracus.

  “What is he doing here? I don’t want him involved!”

  “I’m afraid it’s not up to you. Until I’m assured of my brother’s safety and whether your claim of walking away from the NCS is true, I need someone to keep an eye on you.”

  “The NCS? What’s going on, Bracus?” Rhone snapped. His demeanor changed the moment Keon’s safety was mentioned.

  “She was a sharp-shooter with Silver Sting, Rhone. At the time Amelia and Keon were shot. Meet . . .,” he glowered at her, “Ace.” The name spat from his lips.

  Rhone turned to her. The hatred in his eyes shattered her. She cursed and glared at Bracus. “Tell him the full story. Damn you! I did not shoot them or Keon for that matter. I am telling you the truth! I tried to—”

  “Enough,” Rhone barked. “Talk to me, Bracus,” he said shortly and listened without interrupting him while he relayed Samantha’s tale. His eyes didn’t leave her during the entire telling. Not once. He watched her reaction and flashes of emotion.

  “And, Beckie isn’t dead.”

  That turned Rhone to a statue. His head swung sideways. “What? I saw them go down. There was blood all over her, Bracus.”

  Samantha looked between them. “I don’t understand. Wouldn’t Keon have wanted to see their bodies? Or you for that matter?” She asked Bracus.

  “Rhone got a shot in his leg and went down
too. They were both rushed to the hospital. By the time they were released, the funeral was over. They were cremated. It had been in Amelia’s will. Her parents made the arrangements in Keon’s absence.”

  Bracus held out the printed copy of the photo. Rhone went pale. “It is her. Jesus! I can’t believe how much she looks like Amelia. It’s like looking back into time. Who is the woman?”

  “My sister, Lauren.”

  “And that’s why she’s your new client? She wants you to find her sister, who is supposed to be dead too?”

  Bracus nodded toward the photo in Rhone’s hand. “Yeah, only it seems she was deceived in the same way Keon was.”

  “Or claims to have been deceived,” Rhone sneered. “They say it’s always the innocent looking ones who carry the deadliest sting.”

  Samantha sighed. It was fruitless to try and convince either of them of her innocence. Both were too close to the situation and were concerned for Keon’s safety.

  “We know it wasn’t Keon he was after, Rhone. Don’t forget about that.”

  Rhone didn’t respond immediately. He’d been receiving threats from the drug cartels because he’d been slowly chiseling away at their drug operation. He’d managed to survive two attempted assassinations at that point. Because he refused to back down from his quest to dissolve their power in the US, they took it one step further. In usual mob fashion, they went after the people he cared about. And because Rhone didn’t have someone in his life other than his best friend and his family, they went after them. No one knew about Ruark at the time because Rhone had been deep under cover.

  Killing Amelia and Beckie had been a deliberate ploy to weaken Rhone and Keon, who had been the force behind depleting their distribution channels over the years. With Keon’s family gone, their intent had clearly been to put a wedge between the two of them―and it had, during the first two years after their death.

  Rhone had never been able to absolve himself of the guilt for their deaths; since he had been the one to send Amelia and Rebecca to the safe house in the first place. He should’ve known they had an insider on the job. Their deaths lay squarely on his shoulders. And Keon knew it.