The Nauti Boys Collection

by Lora Leigh

  Instead, she found more demons. She found herself in the untenable position of relying on Dawg for something as imperative as her freedom. And there wasn’t a doubt in her mind exactly how he intended to manipulate this one.

  He had been after her ever since she had returned to Somerset a year ago. He hadn’t stalked her. He was just always around. Always smiling that rakish grin of his, giving her that mocking once-over, that invitation to play. If he wasn’t doing that, he was glaring at her. And he filled her dreams. Heated dreams, memories of one unforgettable night and the consequences of it.

  She watched the miles pass by, feeling his hand on her knee when he wasn’t shifting gears in the powerful pickup, and feeling the warmth of his touch burning through her skirt.

  At least he wasn’t groping her. Her body was so hyped on nerves right now that she wondered if she could bear that. If her heart could bear it.

  She thought she had learned her lesson before leaving Somerset. After all, she knew what Dawg was, she knew what he intended, and she knew she could never live with it.

  The Nauti Boys were legendary in Somerset and the surrounding counties. Their prowess, dedication to a woman’s pleasure, and insistence on sharing those women had been well-known. Her brother, Alex, had warned her about Dawg repeatedly.

  Her head had warned her about Dawg, but her heart hadn’t wanted to listen. She could tame the bad boy, she had assured herself. Love would make him possessive. All she had to do was touch him, love him, and he would realize he loved her.

  She snorted silently as she peeked a look at his hard profile.

  What a fool she had been. Naive, impossibly innocent, incredibly foolish. And she still hadn’t learned her lesson, not all the way to the soul. Because a part of her had never forgotten that one night. That sultry summer night when he had taken her with singular determination and fiery lust. When he had taught her the true depths of carnal pleasure and the ultimate despair.

  “This isn’t going to work.” The words tore from her lips as he pulled into the small marina his uncle Ray Mackay owned.

  She could feel the panic building in her chest now, the certainty that the Nauti Dawg was going to hold more memories and more heartache than she could bear.

  “I can’t do this.” She was shaking as Dawg pulled the truck into the private parking slot in front of the marina.

  He turned off the motor. Pulling the key from the ignition, he turned and stared at her silently.

  Him or jail. She could see it in his expression.

  Crista shook her head slowly before swallowing tightly.

  “I’m not one of the Nauti Boys’ whores,” she whispered harshly. “I can’t play one to stay out of jail, Dawg. I’d rather rot in prison than buy my freedom at the expense of my soul.”

  He stared back at her, his light green eyes icy, unemotional, as he watched her. His expression was as dark as the shadows around them and as still as death.

  This wasn’t the man she had known eight years ago. Charming, though brooding, James “Dawg” Mackay had had a will of iron, but he hadn’t been cold. He’d been hard but not unemotional. Not as he was now.

  He had joined the Marines just after she left town; she knew that. He’d spent one tour, when he had been shipped home because of a wound that shattered his kneecap. Not that she had seen any sign of an injury in the way he moved.

  But right now, he was rubbing his knee almost absently as he watched her.

  “We’ll talk about this on the boat,” he finally said warningly. “Not here.”

  “No, Dawg.” She reached out, gripping his arm as he moved to open the door. “Not at the boat. I won’t go out to that boat, and I won’t spread myself for the Nauti Boys. I wouldn’t do it when I was too stupid to know any better, and I sure as hell won’t do it now. You’re fooling yourself if you think you can convince me to do otherwise.”

  “And if going to that boat didn’t mean spreading yourself for anyone but me, Crista?” he asked her. “Would you go then?”

  THREE

  Eight years ago, she had slipped from Dawg’s upper-deck bedroom and stolen from the Nauti Dawg like a thief in the early morning mists. But she had left something behind that morning, a part of herself she had never regained.

  Now Crista stepped back through the reinforced French door that led into the living room and stilled herself against the memories that threatened to overwhelm her.

  He still left a low light shining on the small table that sat beside the couch. It was a maroon plush couch now, where before it had been black leather. A matching recliner sat by the side of the same table.

  The television was now mounted on the wall on the side they entered, and across the room on the opposite side sat a small dining table and four chairs.

  A teak bar separated the dining area from the kitchen, two captain’s barstools placed under it.

  The rug was a rich, thick forest green. Eight years ago it had been a dark tan. The living room and kitchen were more refined now, stating a mature taste in furnishings but still a broad male influence. Dark woods and few frills.

  A picture of his Marine Corps unit sat on the table by the couch alongside a picture of the Nauti cousins in camouflage greens and a picture of Rowdy and his fiancée, Kelly Salyers.

  There were no pictures or prints on the wall. There was nothing to decorate the rooms. Beyond the kitchen was another large bedroom and small washroom as well as an extra bathroom. From where Crista stood, she could also see the curving staircase that led to the upper deck and master bed and bath, as well as the steering controls.

  She flinched as the door closed and locked behind her.

  “I need a beer,” Dawg announced. “Want one?”

  Crista shook her head as she gripped her purse and watched him move across the living room, then into the kitchen. He pulled a beer from the refrigerator before unscrewing the cap with a quick twist and tossing the cap beneath the bar, where the garbage can must have been hidden.

  He moved to the sink first, pulled a dish towel from a small stack on the counter, dampened it, then tossed it to her.

  “Clean your face.”

  She felt her stomach heave at the thought of the blood that had sprayed over her. It was on her face, her clothes. She scrubbed at her flesh quickly, harshly, hoping she managed to clean it away as he stared at her.

  He tilted the bottle of beer to his lips and drank deeply, his gaze never leaving hers.

  He had stripped the bulletproof vest, but he still wore the shoulder holster and weapon. His black T-shirt stretched over his wide chest and thick biceps. Black jeans rode low on his hips and outlined long, muscular legs and a more than impressive bulge.

  “You’re clean,” he announced, holding his hand out. “Give me the towel.”

  Her gaze jerked from that area. It was more than obvious he was aroused, ready for her. And she hated admitting that her body had been ready for his since the moment he asked her if she was willing to spread herself for him alone.

  She tossed the towel back to him, ignoring his mocking grin as he caught it and dumped it in the sink.

  She was insane. She should have run from him while she had the chance.

  “One night,” she whispered. “That’s all.”

  The bottle was smacked on the bar top so hard beer sloshed from the top, and Crista jumped at the sound.

  “You aren’t making the deal here,” he informed her, his expression hardening. “You didn’t catch me possibly breaking the law and consorting with criminals, Crista. I caught you, remember?”

  Her fingernails dug into the leather of her purse.

  “And I know what you want in exchange for my freedom,” she snapped back. “Fine, you want to fuck. You want something you haven’t been able to con me out of this year: my body. You can have it. For one night.”

  “And if I want more than one night?” The black velvet tone of his voice had a tremor quaking through her womb, clenching at the muscles of her stomach as she st
ared back at him in shock.

  “Why would you want more than one night?” She shook her head in confusion. “How many women have you kept more than one night, Dawg?”

  She still had friends she had kept in Somerset, and they liked to gossip. Dawg was as newsworthy now as he had been eight years ago.

  “You aren’t every other woman, Crista,” he drawled. “I’ve never had to chase one for eight years before. It’s built up a hunger. One that I doubt one night is going to sate.”

  She blinked back at him in shock. She had expected what he wanted, but she hadn’t expected this. One night she could handle. More than one night?

  “How many nights?” She kept her voice from trembling, barely.

  Dawg’s expression hardened further. “I haven’t decided.”

  “You haven’t decided? So I’m supposed to just be ready and available for you whenever you get a hard-on?”

  Mocking consideration filled his face then. He nodded slowly. “That would work for me.”

  Crista clenched her teeth and calculated how long she still had to wait before Alex returned. He had been gone three months. Her last conversation with him, he had indicated that he could return within the next few weeks.

  Could she handle being Dawg’s lover that long? Could she walk away with her soul if she did?

  “Don’t think about it too damned hard,” he bit out irritably. “I might change my mind.”

  Crista wrapped her arms over her breasts and stilled the anger beginning to rise inside her. She couldn’t afford to be angry at this point; she had to think. Dawg always managed to mess up her mind. She couldn’t afford to let him do it this time.

  “You’re being a bastard,” she told him forcefully. “You know I wasn’t involved in whatever you were doing there. I don’t deal with drugs, I never have.”

  He shrugged easily as he propped himself against the bar. “I haven’t seen you in eight years, Crista. People change in that time.”

  “Oh yeah, and people dealing in drugs work as waitresses at crappy little diners where they don’t even make minimum wage, too,” she snapped. “Don’t play with me; I don’t like it. At least admit that you’re using this to force something out of me that I wasn’t willing to give you.”

  A frown snapped between his brows, causing her stomach to clench nervously. “I wouldn’t force you.”

  “Then what do you call it? I can fuck you or I can go to jail? Hell of a choice there, Dawg,” she sneered.

  Crista watched the muscle at his jaw tighten, a heavy tic rippling through it as he watched her.

  “I thought I was being rather charitable,” he growled. “Deny you’re interested in being in my bed.”

  “I have. Every time I’ve ignored your petty little efforts at flirtation. Or didn’t you notice?”

  “I noticed that kiss earlier, too.” Black velvet seduction. His voice raked over her nerve endings and reminded her just how good it had been. “That wasn’t force, Crista. Stop fooling yourself. You loved it.”

  Okay, he had her there. Her stomach tightened at the memory and at the knowledge that she had no defenses against him.

  “I agree to one night—”

  “And I said one night isn’t enough. I want the summer. All summer.”

  Crista froze. Three months? Summer had just begun, and he wanted the rest of it.

  “Why?” She forced the word past her numb lips as she stared back at him.

  “It takes time to determine guilt or innocence, Crista Ann. I want you close while I figure which one to attach to you. If you’re really innocent, then at the end of the summer, you’re free to go. I find out you’re guilty, and your ass heads to jail. Consider it your trial period. Except instead of sitting in a jail cell, you’re enjoying all the comforts I can provide you.”

  His smile was dangerous, sensual. It curved like a predatory smirk that had her heart racing in her chest.

  And he was messing with her head again. Her mind filled with memories, the touch and the taste of him. How the slightest brush of his fingers could steal her defenses and leave her shaking in his arms.

  His kiss. It was drugging, fiery. And what he could do to her heart, her emotions, should be illegal. He could tie her up in so many knots on the inside that she wondered if they would ever be untangled.

  Crista swallowed tightly against the onslaught of remembered sensations and pleasures.

  “You keep thinking about it.” He shrugged easily. “You can take a shower, rest a bit before you decide. I’ll loan you a clean shirt.” He smiled again. “You won’t need it for long.”

  “You’ve changed, Dawg,” she whispered then. “You didn’t used to be such a cold-blooded bastard.”

  “Sure I did,” he drawled. “You were just one of the few that hadn’t recognized it. Didn’t you hear all about that nasty little court battle after my parents died? Hell, honey, even my parents knew I was a lost cause.”

  She had heard about the court battle. How his aunt had tried to take the entire estate his parents had left him based on a few letters his father had written to his aunt. Letters that were filled with disgust over his son’s lifestyle and his belief that Dawg didn’t deserve to share his name.

  It had lasted for years. Even after he was in the Marines, he had been plagued with legal conflicts and the fight to hold on to his inheritance. It had finally ended after his return home four years ago, but he had lost tens of thousands of dollars in the fight.

  “No.” She shook her head. “You weren’t like this before. You would have never forced this on me then.”

  “But I am now. You can make your choice while you’re cleaning up. But when you step back into this room, you damned well better have made your mind up. You’re mine for the summer, or you can belong to the federal government, it’s all up to you.”

  Dawg didn’t let out a relieved breath until Crista disappeared into the lower bathroom long minutes later, one of his T-shirts clenched tightly in her fingers, her large brown eyes watching him warily as she closed the door behind her.

  Minutes later he heard the shower running and ran his fingers through his hair as he blew out another hard breath.

  For a while there, he honestly thought she was going to choose the alternative. When she had finally headed for the shower, he had to force himself to hold back, to keep from assuring her that nothing in hell could convince him to turn her over to the authorities. To just let her go.

  He rubbed at the back of his neck as he grimaced at the thought. Eight years he had dreamed about her. When he least expected it, when he was weak, tired. Dreams so blistering hot he would wake up pumping his own dick like an adolescent and moaning her name.

  The past year had been worse. He was like a damned love-starved teenager going out of his way just to see her. Hoping to catch her smile, craving the sound of her voice.

  Damn, he had missed her after she left town. Not that he had stuck around for long. He had signed up with the Marines before his parents’ death, and he shipped out just months afterward. Long-distance court battles and the hell of trying to hold on to his parents’ estate had consumed him, but through it, he had thought of Crista.

  She had left so suddenly, before he had the chance to gather up his nerve and do more than flirt with her a little bit.

  When she returned to Somerset the year before, he thought maybe, this time, he could make it work. Until she stared at him like a slug crawling out from under a rock.

  Why the hell did he even care? It wasn’t like she was the only game in town. He could have his pick from dozens of women. One night, one week, one month, one whole fucking year if he wanted to keep one that long.

  Instead, he was blackmailing a woman who clearly had no interest in doing a damned thing about the attraction burning between them like wildfire.

  And it was there. It sparked and exploded every time they were within seeing distance of each other. He could see her response to it. The widening of her eyes, the accelerated breathing, her
hard little nipples pressing beneath her clothing and a wild flush to her creamy cheeks. She wanted him almost as damned bad as he wanted her, but she was denying it, fighting it with everything inside her, and Dawg wanted to know why.

  He knew women. They didn’t fight something that strong without a damned good reason. Now, he just had to figure out the reason.

  Breathing out roughly, he moved upstairs to his own shower and quickly stripped before stepping beneath the spray.

  He showered quickly. He didn’t want to give her time to run. He wanted to give her time to think, though––to consider her options as they stood.

  She wanted him, that much he knew. Wanted him enough that the whole time she was arguing the deal, her nipples were pressing harder beneath her shirt and her gaze was flashing with a subtle spark of lust.

  Dawg had made it a point to know women before he had any business knowing them. Too young and too dumb to even understand why, he had been drawn to their softness, their veneer of sweetness. The dark undercurrents of passion, power plays, and feminine wiles.

  Women who were the exact opposite of his cold-blooded, crazy mother. Women who gave soft touches and whimpered for the pleasure he gave them. Who reached for him, who whispered his name in ecstasy rather than cursing it in hatred.

  He knew how to read them, how to pleasure them.

  And he knew that look of veiled hunger they gave to indicate their willingness to be pleasured.

  Oh yeah, Crista wanted him, but for some reason she wasn’t willing to accept the fact that he was there for the taking.

  Dawg grinned at the thought as he quickly toweled dry and dressed. The cotton briefs and sweats did nothing to hide the hard-on raging beneath the soft material. Pulling on a clean T-shirt, he moved back downstairs, his gaze roving around the dimly lit room as he searched for her.

  And there she was. His T-shirt draped past her thighs as she sat nervously on the couch, her long hair still a little damp. She had obviously made use of the blow-dryer he kept in the guest bathroom.