by Lora Leigh
She was so incredibly stubborn it amazed him. It was that stubbornness that had assured her survival over the years, though. Her determination to do what had to be done to not just live but help protect the family that raised her, no matter the personal cost to her tender heart. Or the risk to her life.
“Keep thinking that,” he told her knowingly. “And let me know how it works out for you.”
Angel hated that look of smug male superiority that settled on Duke’s face. Arrogant, superior. It never failed to irritate the hell out of her.
“It works out fine for me,” she assured him with a curl of her lip. “And it will work out fine for her as well. Trust me, that woman has no desire to acknowledge who I am. Your information and her husband’s Mackay sense of responsibility are the only reasons I’m here. Not because of any motherly love.”
“Really?” His arms went over his chest again. “And the bedroom? How does that tie into your opinion of her feelings for you, Angel? If she didn’t love her child, why keep that bedroom so pristine?”
“Guilt.” What else could it be? Her heart ached at the thought, though, because as she’d stood in that room she felt a crack in the shields she’d built over the years and found hope she was certain she’d eradicated once she’d realized who she was and remembered those final days before her life exploded around her.
What mother that loved her child refused to come for her? Angel couldn’t imagine ever leaving her baby in such a way.
“If you knew Chaya, you’d know that wasn’t true,” Duke disagreed, frowning back at her reprovingly.
“Well, I don’t know her,” she agreed, giving into the mockery that refused to lie silent. “I won’t take the blame for that, though. It lies squarely on her shoulders. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
She was striding for the door as she spoke, intent on escaping the room and the argument brewing between them. The potential for that argument had been there since he’d shown up the night before.
And it wasn’t antagonism toward Chaya that fueled it. It was the physical attraction, the memory of that kiss, and her knowledge that giving into it had the potential to hurt far more than ignoring it.
She never allowed herself to be distracted on a job. Distractions were dangerous, and she knew it.
She didn’t make it past him. In one swift move Duke caught her, pulled her to him, and lifted her so her back was against the wall, his hard thighs parting hers as he pushed her head back and his lips covered hers.
It happened so fast there wasn’t a chance to protest. There was no way to know what he intended; there was only the wild, burning heat of his kiss and the pleasure exploding through her senses. It caught her off guard. It ripped through any control she’d fooled herself into believing she had, and any shield she might have thought could protect her emotions or her senses.
The onslaught of sensations was destructive, mesmerizing. His lips were knowing, experienced, moving over her mouth as his tongue licked sensually against hers.
One hand cupped the side of her neck, his thumb beneath her jaw, as though to hold her in position; the other cupped her rear, his fingers caressing, stroking through the thin material of the pants she wore.
She didn’t know what to do, how to fight it. Her body stole that control, it reveled in the caresses, in the dominance of the kiss, and some inner sex kitten she didn’t know she possessed rolled her hips against his, stroking the too-sensitive flesh between her thighs against the hard wedge of his erection as it pressed against her.
The layers of clothing between them weren’t enough to protect her from the shift of his hips, the slow thrusts against her sex that had her clit swelling, sensitizing. Her world narrowed to the man that held her, the kiss and his touch and the arcing forks of pleasure tearing through her body then striking at her womb.
She ached. She needed.
Oh God, she needed . . .
Touch. Duke’s touch. The forceful dominance, the male lust that consumed her and called her own forward to meet it, challenge it.
She was insane and she was helpless against it, had no idea how to combat it. And when his hand moved from her rear to her hip, where he slid beneath the material of her T-shirt to find bare skin, she completely lost the rest of her breath.
It wasn’t that he’d never touched her before; it was that he’d never really touched her before. The calloused roughened rasp of his fingers and hand slid up her side, then to the band of her plain cotton bra, where his fingers slid beneath, lifted the material, and found her pebble-hard, painfully sensitive nipple.
She cried out into his kiss. A sound that shocked her with the hungry need that filled it just as the involuntary arch of her body pushed her breast into his hand.
The sensations were chaotic; the feel of his fingers gripping the hard tip, tugging at it, tightening around it sent sharp explosions of sensations straight to her vagina. Her clit throbbed, ached, and she couldn’t help but wonder how his fingers would feel there as well, stroking, exciting the little bud.
A gasp left her parted lips as Duke suddenly pulled back, breaking the kiss. Not that he gave her a moment to think or to find her common sense. Instead, his head lowered as he jerked her T-shirt above her breasts and his lips covered the tight, distended peak of her nipple.
“Oh my God, Duke. . . .” She latched her hands onto his hair, buried deep, and gripped the thick strands, certain she meant to pull his mouth from her.
Wet heat surrounded the tip, sensitizing it further, opening a pathway straight to her clit as the pull and tug of his mouth sent sharp bursts of heat to torment the flesh between her thighs.
“Oh sweet baby Jesus. Really!” The sharp, male disgust that suddenly punctuated the air had Duke jerking back even as he quickly pulled her shirt back over her exposed breast.
Natches stood at the entrance to the sitting and sleeping area, his back to them, hands on his hips, his head lowered to stare at the floor.
Angel felt her face flame with mortification.
“Moron!” She slapped at Duke’s shoulders with both hands, struggling to extricate herself from his hold and regain her footing.
This was horrible.
Dear God.
“Doesn’t anyone know how to knock on a damned door?” Duke muttered, releasing her as she struggled to straighten her clothes and cool the heat burning in her face.
She couldn’t believe this. And no doubt bigshot Mackay would go tell his wife, wouldn’t he?
“I knocked!” Natches turned back to them, his green eyes brilliant with outrage as he stared from her to Duke then finally settled on glaring at Duke. “I even called when I entered.”
“The fact no one answered should have been your first clue,” Duke snapped.
“Yeah, to get my damned rifle,” Natches retorted, his tone grating. “She”—his finger stabbed in her direction—“is a Mackay daughter. For God’s sake, Duke!”
“I’m a what?” She was the one outraged now. “The hell I am. Get a grip, Natches.”
“The same as,” he snarled. “The same as my daughter.”
Angel stepped back, nearly reeling as her eyes widened.
“For God’s sake!” She blinked back at the older man, then blinked again.
He was serious.
“If he tries to slap my ass in a convent, I’m going to shoot him myself,” she muttered to Duke. “I need to find reality for a minute. Get rid of his ass while I’m gone.”
Turning, she looked around desperately and settled on the bathroom. Ignoring the twinge in her leg she stomped to the door, stepped inside, and slammed it furiously.
A Mackay daughter? Give her a fucking break.
She ignored the ache in her chest, the envy, and the times she’d wondered what it would be like to have a father . . . a real father like her sister had.
Sh
• • •
The second the bathroom door slammed, Duke turned back to Natches and his head exploded.
When he was able to shake the stars from his gaze and make sense of what happened he found himself flat on his ass staring up at Natches in shock.
“You just hit me,” he accused his cousin, rather amazed that it had happened. As well as at the force behind it. “Son of a bitch.”
Jumping to his feet, he made certain to put plenty of room between him and the other man as Natches rubbed his knuckles with his other hand, satisfaction filling his face.
“I should have shot you,” Natches grunted, his voice irate. “What the hell were you thinking?”
His brow lifted and he watched Natches’s lips compress furiously and stepped back another step. He wasn’t letting that crazy bastard anywhere near him right now.
“Natches, you hit me again, and I’m hitting back,” he promised. “You know how Chaya gets when that pretty face of yours gets all bruised up.”
He made a mental note to make damned certain he locked the door from now on.
The look Natches shot him was one rife with outraged anger. Hell, it wasn’t like he was Angel’s father or anything.
“Listen to me, you little prick,” Natches growled with no small amount of anger. “That girl is my daughter now—the same as—and I won’t have you disrespecting her in her mother’s home. You got me?” He stabbed a finger at him.
“You’re insane, man.” Duke stared at him, damned confused now. “Why the hell did you put us in here together then?” He couldn’t help the amazed laugh that slipped past his lips. “I’m no monk and you should be smart enough to know it.”
Natches’s shoulders shifted beneath the light denim short-sleeved shirt he wore, his expression creasing with disapproval.
“That was Chaya’s decision, not mine,” he snapped. “I bet she’ll change her mind now.”
Duke couldn’t help but laugh despite the promise of violence that flashed in Natches’s gaze.
“I bet she won’t,” he disagreed. “Unlike you, your wife realizes Angel’s a woman, not a child. What are you going to do when Bliss grows up?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Natches snarled as he took a step closer. “I sure won’t let her around some deviant like you. No matter how old she is.”
Duke laughed. He couldn’t help it. It was simply that damned funny.
“Natches, do you forget the wild-assed shit you, Rowdy, and Dawg used to get up to?” He couldn’t believe it. Mr. Ménage was calling him a deviant. “And you think you can actually—”
“Say it and I’ll kill you.” The promise was entirely too serious.
Hell. And if he wasn’t mistaken, Natches was a little pale.
He laughed again, though this time, he did try to smother it.
“Fine, I’ll let Chaya tell you all about it in a few hours.” Amusement filled the promise. “Now what the hell do you want?”
Natches pushed his fingers through his hair and breathed out heavily.
“Chaya called Janey. She’s sending dinner over,” he growled. “It’ll be here in about an hour.” He shook his head again. “Son of a bitch, there’s just some things a man should never have to walk in on. . . .”
Swinging around he walked slowly from the sitting area, shaking his head and mumbling about convents.
Poor Natches.
He and Chaya should have had a boy. . . .
SEVEN
Breakfast wasn’t exactly what Angel expected when she and Duke stepped into the kitchen the next morning, but at least everything she remembered about Chaya hadn’t changed after all. The woman still couldn’t cook worth a damn.
The smell of burned bacon attested to that fact.
“Mom, Dad said he’d do it when he came back in,” Bliss reminded her mother patiently as Angel came to a stop and watched curiously.
She remembered a time when she had watched warily as Chaya attempted to cook. She was a hazard around the stove.
“Bliss, I’m begging you . . .” The frazzled, raw edge to Chaya’s tone wasn’t at all like her normal cool, calm tone. She actually sounded as though she were on the verge of tears.
“Mom, the bacon doesn’t matter.” Standing next to her mother, her eyes on the plate of well-blackened bacon, Bliss was confused and uncertain in the face of her mother’s emotional response. “Angel won’t care.”
“Well, I care.” Husky, torn, Chaya’s tone had a fist squeezing around Angel’s heart.
And it still pissed her off that she couldn’t boil water without burning it, it seemed.
“Can I help?” It was as though even the air itself stilled in the room for long, silent moments.
Bliss’s and Chaya’s gazes jerked from the plate of bacon to Angel. Chaya’s in regret while excitement and pleasure bloomed in Bliss’s.
“Angel. Oh my God. You’re here!” A little squeal and Bliss ran across the room, her arms going around Angel in a quick, tight hug.
“Hey, imp.” Angel didn’t bother to hide her affection for her sister, but she saw the way Chaya turned away and hurriedly dumped the bacon she’d burned in the trash.
“I’ll have Natches run out for breakfast. . . .” she began as Bliss stepped back and Angel turned her attention to the other woman.
“Not necessary,” Angel assured as she joined her at the kitchen island.
Chaya gripped the handle of the skillet and turned, placing it in the sink, keeping her back to the room as she began washing it.
“He won’t mind in the least,” Chaya continued. “He’s used to it.”
It sounded as though those were tears in her voice. Chaya crying because she couldn’t cook? She should have already been over that little fact of life.
Moving silently, Angel selected another skillet from the rack hanging over the stove, turned on a burner, and placed the pan on the flame, then took the plate of unfried bacon Bliss pushed across the counter to her.
“Bliss, get Angel a cup of coffee,” Chaya ordered, obviously fighting to control her breathing and whatever emotions had her near tears.
“Yes, Mom.” Giving Angel a concerned look, Bliss moved to the coffeepot and the cups set out, ready to be filled.
Layering bacon into the skillet Angel remained silent, her head down, aware that Chaya turned back to her, watching her.
“I can’t believe Natches let you have a gas stove,” she muttered, still not glancing in her mother’s direction. “Or that he actually allows you to use it. He’s obviously brave as hell. Not to mention optimistic.”
Silence met her statement, but Angel hadn’t expected anything else.
“Coffee with plenty of sugar and cream.” Bliss placed the coffee next to the stove top.
Turning to her sister she quietly asked for the ingredients she needed to finish the meal and ignored her mother.
“I can do my own cooking.” The words sounded forced past Chaya’s lips.
Angel shot her mother a mockingly doubtful look before muttering, “Since when?”
Chaya drew in a slow, careful breath, her nostrils flaring as her brown eyes lit with a combatant glare.
“Where are your baking flats?” Angel asked her, ignoring the assurance of culinary ability and her anger.
Evidently, Chaya was still trying to fool herself in that particular area.
“Cookie sheets?” Chaya snapped. “They are not baking flats.”
“Same difference.” Angel shrugged. “Just point me in the right direction.”
“To your left.” Natches spoke from the doorway leading to the living area. “Pots and extra pans to the left. Cooking utensils in the drawers to your right, dish towels and oven mitts in the drawers to your left.”
“Leave the bacon alone,” she warned her mother as Bliss began placing the ingredients she asked for on the counter next to her. “Natches, get her coffee and get her out of my way.”
Chaya’s breathing was choppy and a brief, covert glance at the other woman caught the trembling of her lips.
Dammit, if Chaya began crying . . .
“Come on, babe,” Natches urged his wife as he stepped to her. “Let’s see if she really knows what she’s doing or if she’s just trying to impress us.”
Thankfully, Chaya allowed him to draw her away from the stove.
Angel had mastered the ability to follow recipes before she was ten and seemed to have a knack for it. She loved cooking. Or more to the point, she loved eating something edible, and with J.T. and Mara, you ate MREs, or you learned how to cook yourself.
Angel had learned to cook.
It didn’t take Natches long to lead his wife, along with her coffee, to the table, where Duke was taking a seat. Within minutes the two men were discussing the property and its security as Chaya continued to watch Angel.
Angel ignored the steady regard. She’d learned how to do that as well over the years. The team often worked with others, mostly men, and they didn’t care a damned bit to sit and stare. She’d learned to deal with it, but she had to admit, ignoring Chaya wasn’t as easy.
Bliss stood at the counter, still excited to see Angel and delighted that her “friend” knew how to cook. She was a willing gopher to gather ingredients and a distraction Angel desperately needed.
In less than an hour, Angel had breakfast on the table and everyone was busy eating. Bliss wasn’t in the least afraid to call out her mother’s inability to cook, but she said Dad could fix a mean steak and hamburger.
Once breakfast was over, Angel waved Chaya back to her chair when she rose to clean up, but firmly asked Bliss for her help. She knew Chaya rarely had her youngest daughter accept household responsibilities, something Tracker’s mother had never done. Mara couldn’t cook either, but once she’d seen that Angel could, she’d made certain there was someone to teach her. And not just on a nice stove but a campfire and a fireplace as well.
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