Take Me Deeper

by Jackie Ashenden

  Yeah, you really fucked up, didn’t you?

  Iris swallowed.

  She’d spent years reassuring herself that okay, so she wasn’t the world’s greatest caregiver, but at least there was food on the table most of the time and her sister had a roof over her head. At least she had someone who loved her.

  At least she had someone who was there for her, who hadn’t up and left as soon as someone better had come along like their mom had done.

  She put a hand onto the cold glass of the window, staring sightlessly across the lake glittering in the hot midday sun.

  “You’ll be fine,” her mother had said the day she’d left. “You’re a big girl and I know you’ll take care of Jamie real good.” She’d touched Iris’s hair once, the last time she ever touched her. “I’m sorry, Iris. I’d love you to visit, but you know how George hates kids.”

  Oh yeah, she’d known. Just like she’d known that her mother hadn’t really wanted a visit. Her mother had never wanted kids, period. What she’d wanted was a way out of being dirt-poor and stuck in a trailer park, and she’d found it in the form of a man. Who cared that it meant leaving a one-year-old in the care of her eighteen-year-old sister? Mary Lou Callahan hadn’t.

  That day Iris had decided that she and her sister didn’t need their stupid, lousy mom. She’d take care of Jamie better than Mary Lou ever had.

  Except she hadn’t, had she? Jamie had ended up in foster care while she was on the run from the law, trying to fix a mistake she should never have made.

  Great job, Callahan. Mom would be so proud of you.

  Her eyes prickled with unshed tears, but she wouldn’t let them fall. Crying was for people who deserved to feel sorry for themselves and she didn’t, not given the complete screwup she’d made of her life.

  Instead, she swallowed them back and turned from the view, scanning the suite for something to do, anything to take her mind off the situation she was now in. Zane had told her to stay put until he came back, and she would. No point in messing up the situation any more than it was already.

  Wandering over to the television, she switched it on, then sat on the beautifully squashy couch in front of it, her gaze drifting to the ice bucket on the coffee table and the champagne sitting in it. Okay, she wasn’t going to let herself cry, but maybe she could drink a little. She’d never had champagne before and judging by the French label on the bottle, this one was the real deal. Reaching for it, she tore the foil off the top, unscrewed the wire holding the cork in place, then popped it. The sound was disappointingly subdued as it came out, and there was no white foam bubbling up from the open top of the bottle, which was also disappointing. Wasn’t champagne supposed to do that?

  Iris poured some of the wine into a flute that was sitting beside the ice bucket, then raised the glass in a toast. “Here’s to not fucking up again,” she muttered before taking a cautious sip. The champagne was not at all sweet and tasted a bit like yeast. It was delicious.

  Of course it would be better with chips.

  Five minutes later, Iris was settling back on the couch, glass of champagne in one hand, a packet of Pringles from the minibar in the other, and a dumb movie on the TV.

  Her day was definitely starting to look up.

  The movie—some action flick that felt a little too close to home for comfort—was long and about halfway through, Iris began to feel sleepy, which was strange considering how much sleep she’d been having recently. It might have had something to do with the champagne, though surely three large glasses wouldn’t make a person feel that sleepy that fast.

  Deciding to rest her eyes for five minutes, she opened them again to find the curtains drawn, the lights on, and six feet three inches of lean, muscular male leaning over her, eyes the color of dark sapphires blazing down into hers.

  She let out an involuntary squeak of fright before her muzzy brain got itself in gear.

  “It’s okay,” Zane said, his cool voice as soothing as cold water over a fresh burn. “It’s just me. Decided to have a party on your own, did you?”

  Iris swallowed. Her mouth felt dry, she had the beginnings of a headache behind her eyes, and she was slumped on the couch amid a detritus of crumbs, chip packets, and one empty champagne flute.

  Dear God. She’d better not have been drooling.

  “I…” Was feeling pathetic and decided to self-medicate with champagne. “Uh…hadn’t had champagne before.” She hauled herself into an upright position, feeling like death. “Perhaps I had a bit too much.”

  Zane picked the bottle up from the table and looked at it. There was barely a third left.

  “Oh no.” She stared at it, feeling sick. “I didn’t realize I’d had that much.”

  “You liked it, huh?” He put the bottle down again and gave her a dispassionate glance that somehow made her feel even worse, like a child who’d done something embarrassing in front of an adult she admired.

  She found herself blushing. He was standing there looking ridiculously hot in his blue suit and crisp white shirt, while she was lying in the remains of her chip-and-champagne debauchery, in an old T-shirt and jeans with holes in the knees.

  Classy, Callahan. Very classy.

  Yeah, well, she didn’t need to be classy, did she? She was trailer-park trash after all. Anyway, she shouldn’t be giving a shit about her appearance or what he thought of her. His opinion wasn’t supposed to matter.

  Yet when he crouched down in front of her and reached out to brush a lock of her hair away from her forehead, she suddenly found that his opinion mattered very much indeed.

  “I had too much,” she said thickly. “I was worried about Jamie. I might have put her in danger when I left Dallas, and I can’t call her caseworker in case they can track my cellphone signal or something.” The unsettled feeling in her gut turned over, making her feel even more miserable, and somehow she found everything spilling out whether she wanted it to or not. “I don’t know if she’s even still alive because if anything happened to her, no one knows where I am to tell me. And it’s my fault. It’s all my own stupid fault.”

  Zane said nothing, the look on his lean face far too sharp for comfort. Then he rose to his feet in a smooth, fluid movement that had her mouth drying for reasons other than too much champagne and went over to the unit that held the minibar. He poured a bottle of water into a tumbler, then came back to the couch, holding it out to her. “Drink this,” he ordered. “Then give me the number of Jamie’s caseworker.”

  “But she won’t give you any information—”

  “Just do it.” There was no heat in his voice, only a calm certainty that he expected her to do exactly what he asked.

  Much to her own shock, she found herself doing just that. Drinking down the glass of water like she was dying of thirst and handing over her phone with the caseworker’s number in it. Then she watched him as he walked over to the windows and dialed the number, speaking in his cool, authoritative way.

  It was strange to have someone else take charge like this. Strange, too, to let him without even a protest.

  You didn’t protest about Dylan, either.

  Her throat closed. No, she’d learned that lesson, and by rights, she should be stopping Zane, telling him that Jamie wasn’t his business and she didn’t need his stupid water either. But she needed to know about her sister and she couldn’t do that herself, not without giving herself away. Zane could find out whether Jamie was okay at least. And as for the water…

  Her skin tingled where his fingertips had brushed her forehead and there was a curious heaviness inside her. As if now that he was here, she didn’t have to worry and could relax knowing that someone else was taking care of things. A crazy thing to think while waiting for a bunch of bloodthirsty drug traffickers to come and kill her.

  Hell, maybe she was crazy. That would certainly explain why she was letting him bring her water, brush her hair out of her eyes, and ease her fear. Take care of her, despite knowing how risky it was. It was only…well, s
he hadn’t had anyone take care of her for a long time. If anyone ever had. So it was nice to have Zane do a few small things for her. To feel like maybe tonight she didn’t have to be so alone.

  He was talking, half turned away to the window, the curtains pushed open so he could look outside. The light from the city fell over the lean planes and angles of his face, highlighting his strong jaw and straight nose, the intriguing curve of his mouth. God, he was really hot, no doubt about it, and the uncompromising set of his features only made him more so.

  She sipped her water, trying to forget the fear by studying him instead. Why was he wearing a suit? Did a lot of soldiers wear suits? And why was he working as a bounty hunter? What was going on with his brothers? Why was he so intent on saving her?

  So many questions she shouldn’t want answers to, and yet they turned over and over in her head all the same.

  He’s dangerous. You’d better watch yourself.

  No, she didn’t need to watch herself. She knew what to be careful about. She wasn’t going to let herself get sucked in to another Dylan situation, not if she could help it. Zane was great eye candy and it was true she liked the way he was helping her out, but that was a one-night-only kind of thing. If he tried to take charge tomorrow, she’d kick his ass. Or at least put him straight about who was in charge.

  Oh, come on. You like him being in charge.

  But she had no time to think about the implications of that because Zane was turning from the window and tucking his phone away, and her insides froze solid at the grim look on his face.

  She surged up off the couch in a single movement. “Jamie? Is she okay?”

  “Jamie’s fine.” His black brows descended. “The woman was irritatingly evasive, but it seems there’s no reason to believe Jamie’s in any danger.”

  A shudder of relief went through her, so intense she had to look down at the ground so he wouldn’t see. She felt as thin and fragile as a pane of glass, which would have been fine if she were by herself. But she wasn’t. He was here and she didn’t want him seeing her so vulnerable.

  Putting her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, she cleared her throat, set her jaw, and looked up. “What did you say? I mean, how did you get her to tell you anything?” And yay for her, her voice sounded at least a little bit normal.

  The light was behind him, throwing his face into shadow, the intensity of his eyes lost in the darkness. But she could see the glitter in them, the edge of a fierce determination. “I told her I was with the police and I had reason to believe her life may be in danger after her sister skipped bail.”

  “So you lied.”

  “Yes.” There was no hesitation, none. Yet she got the idea that Zane Redmond wasn’t a man who lied as a matter of course.

  He’d lied for her, risked his life to protect her, given promises he clearly didn’t want to give for her. She’d already asked him why he would do all this for a woman he barely knew and he’d replied with a question of his own. “Don’t you think you’re worth it?”

  Her throat tightened at the memory and she didn’t want to think about why. Didn’t want to acknowledge the heaviness in her chest. It was a question she was never going to give him the answer to, but she had to give him something in return for all he’d done for her. The last thing she wanted was to be beholden.

  “Thank you,” she said, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I appreciate it.”

  He said nothing, staring at her with that laser-focus she was starting to associate with him.

  “So…” This was going to be awkward, but she didn’t know what else to do. It wasn’t like she had anything else of value to offer him. “Are you staying here tonight?”

  “Of course. I’m not leaving you unprotected.”

  “In that case…you don’t have to take the couch.”

  His frown deepened. “The couch unfolds into a perfectly good bed. It’s probably not that uncomfortable.”

  She took a breath. “That’s not what I mean. I mean you can sleep with me instead.”

  —

  She stood across the room from him, her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, her hair in glossy black tangles all over her shoulders, with chip crumbs clinging to her faded black T-shirt and smudges of exhaustion under her eyes. He could see the tension in her jaw—in her entire posture—and he knew that she’d been scared out of her mind about her sister, no matter how hard she’d tried to cover it.

  She looked vulnerable, fragile, and sexy as hell.

  And as soon as she said the words, it was like someone had taken a defibrillator to his chest, jolting his heart back into life with a few thousand volts of electricity.

  You can sleep with me instead.

  It was clear what she meant. What wasn’t clear was whether she actually wanted to sleep with him or whether she was only offering it as some kind of weird thank-you. Because that was exactly what the blow job offer had been.

  Beneath the shock of desire that rocketed through him wound a thin thread of anger. Jesus Christ, did she really think he was the kind of man who accepted sex as a show of gratitude?

  “You’re offering me sex?” he asked, just to clarify.

  Color crept over her cheekbones, but she only lifted her chin. “Yeah, sure. I mean, you’re doing all this stuff for me, and I don’t have anything to give—”

  “I’m not doing it because I want something from you, Iris,” he interrupted, suddenly furious. “I’m doing it because you need someone to help you.”

  She was blushing hard now, but he didn’t miss the glitter of defensive anger in her dark eyes. “Well, fine then. Sure, I might need help with the cartel and I’m grateful that you called about Jamie, don’t get me wrong. But for future reference, I don’t need water or coffee or pastries or any of that crap, okay?”

  Right, so because he wasn’t going to accept her magnanimous sex offer, she was going to get all prickly about it?

  His anger twisted and before he could fully reason why any of this was such a drama, he was walking toward her. “Bullshit,” he said roughly. “I’ve never met a woman more in need of that ‘crap’ as you like to call it.”

  She didn’t back away, her chin at a stubborn angle, her gaze belligerent. “You have no idea what I need.”

  He shouldn’t let himself get so angry. He shouldn’t allow her to get under his skin. Yet, here he was, doing both. Dammit, what the hell was wrong with him?

  “You want to know what I think?” He stopped right in front of her, staring down into eyes so dark they were almost black, the soft, warm flower scent of her suddenly all around him.

  “No, I don’t—”

  “I think you’re the one who has no idea what you need.”

  She blinked, a fleeting confusion flickering in her gaze. “That’s not true.”

  But it was, he could see it. He didn’t know her life, didn’t know what she’d gone through, yet he could see the scars that life had left on her all the same. Her defensiveness. Her prickliness. The fear in her eyes when she’d told him about her sister. Over the years, he’d come into contact with a lot of people, mainly civilians, who’d lost things, and Iris Callahan seemed like a woman who’d lost a hell of a lot of things. A woman who was trying to survive, protecting herself any way she could.

  A woman who needed a lot, but obviously didn’t want to acknowledge it.

  He could give that to her. More than that, he wanted to. And whether that was to do with Charlie or not, he didn’t know, and quite frankly, right in this moment, he didn’t much care. Charlie was long gone and he’d live with her death on his conscience forever. But Iris wasn’t. She was here and even though she didn’t want to acknowledge it, she needed something.

  She needed him.

  His anger began to drain away, began to change, becoming something else. Something insistent and hot.

  He lifted his hand, cupping her cheek, her skin smooth and hot beneath his fingers. “Isn’t it?” he asked. “Then tell me what it is you think
you need, sweetheart.”

  She’d gone still, not pulling away, staring up at him while the currents of her emotions ebbed and flowed in her eyes. “I need to be left alone.” There was a soft edge to her voice. “That’s all I want.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, letting his thumb move over the curve of one cheekbone. “That’s what you want. But it’s not what you need.”

  Her gaze drifted to his mouth and he could feel a slight pressure against his palm where it rested against her cheek, as if she were leaning into it. “You don’t know me, so don’t tell me what I do and don’t need.” Her voice had gotten even more husky now, making a deep, primitive part of him feel intensely satisfied.

  She was like a little cat, pushing against him, hungry for contact yet not wanting to ask for it or even acknowledge it.

  “Sure, I do,” he said, moving his thumb again, stroking her. God, her skin was all silky and smooth, like the petals of those roses his mother used to grow, back in the garden of the big bungalow with the wraparound porch they used to live in. Back before she’d died and his father had been a proper father, not the pitiful excuse for a man he’d turned into. “I know exactly. You need someone to take care of you. Someone to protect you. You need someone to make you feel safe, don’t you?”

  She didn’t move and she didn’t look at him. Her eyes had drifted shut, her lashes lying in thick fans on her cheeks, and he could sense the tension in her, as if she wanted to pull away and yet stay exactly where she was at the same time.

  She didn’t want to hear this, that was obvious. Which made it equally obvious that everything he’d said was true.

  You can’t do this. Not again. Not with another vulnerable woman.

  He knew that, and yet he couldn’t seem to bring himself to move away. It was as if something in him desperately wanted to give her what she needed, and he didn’t know whether he could resist the pull.

  Then her lashes lifted and she met his gaze, and he could see the shadows move in her eyes. And without any warning at all, she put a hand on his chest and rose up on her toes, bringing her mouth to his.