The Bequest

by Hope Anika

  Bastard had held her, held Rafe, rocked them like children. And it had felt so right…he’d known precisely what to do, while she’d stared, horrified and helpless and paralyzed by the meltdown of a ten-year-old boy.

  “Should have known,” she whispered.

  “Don’t.” Closer, as if he stood right next to her. Pine and heat. He moved soundlessly, as lithe and fleet as a cat, in spite of his size. “Today was hard, was always going to be hard. Nothing to be done for that except survive it.”

  Stinking bastard with his perfect words. Except he wasn’t a bastard. Watching him hug Rafe—the exact right thing—feeling his arm pull her into the embrace, the kiss he’d pressed to her head as he rocked them—there was decency in him. A morality she wanted to overlook. His methods infuriated her, but his motives…they appeared to be pure.

  Except for the blood that steeped them.

  But Cheyenne didn’t hold that against him. He deserved his revenge.

  That revenge, however, was dangerous. To Rafe. To her. They would bear witness; they would be the fallout. Left to clean up the mess…

  No.

  Regardless of decency or morality. Will Blackheart had too many secrets—no doubt his fox had uncovered every document ever written about Rafe, about her, a realization which sickened and infuriated her—and the carnage he dreamed of would destroy them all.

  No. He would have to travel that road alone. Even if he was a man to whom she was deeply, disturbingly attracted. One she kind of understood. One she was beginning to like.

  An unprecedented occurrence, in and of itself, foreign territory where she didn’t trust herself. Or him. Twenty-four hours. Hardly enough time to test someone’s mettle, to know their heart, to accept them.

  “Crazy bullshit,” she said and tears slid from the corners of her eyes.

  “Everything, all the time,” Will murmured. Fingers tangled in her ponytail and tugged gently. So careful.

  So many little things coalescing into a whole she dare not believe.

  “You’re doing good,” he told her softly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. He stood on her left side; her scar prickled when his warm breath touched it. She should have felt self-conscious and turned away. That she didn’t…bending too far. When she never bent for anyone. “Look at me, Cheyenne.”

  She didn’t want to. She wanted to hide and lick her wounds. Weep for the woman she’d believed herself to be; rage against the one she’d discovered she was.

  Figure out how the hell to live with them both.

  But this was not her time, no matter the personal epiphany that had just crapped all over her. This was about Rafe, a boy who had no one but her to count on, to protect him.

  To love him. Something she’d been afraid she might be incapable of. And yet—

  “Twelve hours,” she murmured and looked up at Will. Tears blurred his image, and she blinked. They slipped down her cheeks. “How is that possible?”

  “Life happens fast, baby.” A small smile, a flash of dimple. The tender sweep of his palm over her hair. “That’s why you have to hold on tight, and enjoy the ride.”

  It wasn’t fair, that he should know just what to tell her. Ammunition she didn’t have and didn’t even know where to get.

  “Is that what you’re doing?” she asked. “Enjoying the ride?”

  His smile faded. His hand dropped.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  His tone made her spine stiffen. She swiped at her tears and pushed off of the SUV, stepping back to put some distance between them. Distance. An imperative, something she had to remember. He wasn’t the enemy. But he wasn’t a friend, either.

  “Go ahead,” she said with a sigh. “Make my day.”

  “Rafe’s father is the American Ambassador to Afghanistan.”

  Cheyenne did a double-take. She stared at Will, opened her mouth, closed it, and stared at him some more.

  “His name is Andrew Malik.”

  She shook herself. “And you know this because…?”

  “Because I’ve met the Ambassador. Rafe looks just like him.” Will pulled a photograph from the front pocket of his tee and held it out to her. “He’s the one right behind her.”

  The picture was creased, one corner torn and bearing the faint imprint of shoe tread. It was one of the ones Rafe had trashed. Georgia stood within a circle of men on a white balcony; palm trees and a crystal blue sea were visible in the background. The men wore moneyed casual wear; she was in a sari. The man to whom Will referred was tall and well-built, with dark, steel-gray hair and bright hazel eyes. As soon as Cheyenne focused on him, she saw the resemblance.

  “Son of a bitch,” she whispered. She looked up at Will. “Why did you lie?”

  “Because Malik is married to a Saudi royal. He has three daughters and everything to lose if his illegitimate child with a treasonous CIA agent pops out of the woodwork.”

  Cheyenne smacked her forehead with her palm. She stared down at the picture. “Goddamn it.”

  “It gets worse.”

  “Of course it does.”

  “I think he was the one who supplied Georgia with the location of my team.”

  “He had it?”

  “He could get it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if he wanted to keep his secret, he had no choice.”

  Lead filled Cheyenne’s belly. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she turned and kicked the driver’s side door panel of the SUV, a violent but practiced blow that left a deep dent.

  “Bitch,” she growled.

  “Rafe was the perfect leverage. But that leverage is now moot. Which either protects him or—”

  “Screws him.” Cheyenne’s gaze narrowed on Will. Apparently he had a pair of crazy shoes, too. “You think she’s going to out big daddy from beyond the grave?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “Hell, yes, she is.” Cheyenne slid the picture into her pocket, turned and began to pace the length of the SUV. “Nothing left for her to lose—fill the lion’s den, and let the slaughter begin. Leaving a bloodbath in her wake is the perfect goddamn eulogy.”

  Will said nothing, his pale eyes glinting in the light, and Cheyenne saw the man who lived within watching her from the shadows. Two identities, so close yet so far; who he was, who he needed to be. Two halves linked by blood and violence and purpose.

  She could relate. But that tie did not bind them.

  “You think he’s in danger from Malik?” she asked.

  “The Ambassador has everything to lose. That’s why she hid him so deep.”

  “Does the kid ever catch a break? Ever?”

  Will stepped into her path, halting her. “You have to decide.”

  “Decide what?”

  “How to handle it.”

  Cheyenne stepped around him, continued to pace. “If we announce to the world he’s Malik’s bastard son, it will bring on a shitstorm that will blow his life apart.”

  “It also removes the danger that the Ambassador might decide to make him disappear before his existence becomes a problem.”

  “Motherfucker!” she snarled.

  “If you wait,” Will said, “and Georgia has something planned, you lose any control you might otherwise have over how it’s done.”

  “Fuckity, fuck, fuck!” Cheyenne stopped and kicked the back quarter panel of the SUV. Another dent. “How do I tell him? How?”

  “I don’t know,” Will said, as quiet as she was loud.

  It tempered her. “It’s not fair,” she said, and when a tear streaked her cheek, she let it fall. She turned and resumed pacing. “I know how trite that sounds—but seriously. What the hell did he do to deserve this? Be born? He’s just a little boy. He’s innocent. Not like she was. Crazy, murderous bitch —”

  Hard hands caught her hips from behind and halted her pacing frenzy. Cheyenne stiffened and tugged against the hold, unwilling to step back into a fire that would only burn and scar and leave nothing but ash in
its wake.

  “No,” she said.

  Hands tightening, Will dragged her back against him. “You need to calm down.”

  “Is that what you’re doing?” A sharp laugh caught in her throat. “Calming me down?”

  Strong arms slid around her waist and locked her to him; instant heat, tensile muscle that flexed and stretched around her, the steady beat of his heart against her back. “Someone has to.”

  “Not you,” she said instantly, stiff in his hold. She hated it that he made her feel…safe. When no one had ever made her feel safe.

  Beyond stupid. An illusion that could, quite possibly, be fatal. Even if his heat seeped into her bones, and awareness rippled across her flesh like the stroke of a rough tongue.

  “Why not me?” he demanded, his voice like gravel.

  “You dream of vengeance,” she told him. “Of painting the world in flesh and blood and bone. Nothing more.” Her breath snagged when he nipped her throat, and heat forked through her like live current. Such a visceral, mindless response…as though she were animal alone. “I can see it. It’s eating you up…and there won’t be anything left. You can’t have us both.”

  He stilled, silent. His heart pounded against her like a jackhammer.

  “Let me go,” she said.

  But his arms tightened, until the hold became something to break.

  “I can’t choose,” he grated, his breath hot in her ear.

  “No,” she agreed. Goosebumps washed across her flesh. “Let me go, Will.”

  A violent tremor moved through him; his hands flexed in their hold. “I don’t want to.”

  “Do it anyway.”

  But he didn’t. Instead, he rubbed his bristled chin against her scar, and she shuddered, her hands gripping the thick muscle of his scarred forearm.

  “I dream of being inside you,” he whispered. “So deep I’m all you know, and you’re crying my name, begging me to make you come…”

  A flash of brilliant white heat arrowed to the hollow place between her thighs, and a low sound whispered from her. His hands moved restlessly, stroking her: curving along her abdomen, up her belly, tracing the rigid curve of her ribs, a hairsbreadth from her breasts. She knew she should step away, stop him. But she didn’t. No. Instead, she waited, breathless, blood a distant roar in her ears as his touch slid further north, his blunt, rough fingertips a whisper against the tender underside of her breasts, tracing her shape, and she pressed back against him, unable to help herself. The line of his cock was startling, brutally hard, and she was tempted to—

  “Cheyenne?”

  Rafe’s muffled voice penetrated her consciousness—from the other side of the door—and Cheyenne reared in Will’s arms and pushed against him in utter panic, her legs flailing, her nails digging into his arm.

  “Easy,” he growled, his arms tight, and for a moment she feared he really wouldn’t let her go, that she would have to fight—

  And then she was free, and he was turning away. Her knees were so weak she had to reach out and brace herself against the SUV for support.

  The garage door opened. Rafe appeared, every line of his body filled with uncertainty. He’d apologized a hundred times for his meltdown; Cheyenne was sure he was going to apologize a hundred more.

  She fought for breath. Her cheeks were on fire.

  Holy shite.

  “Sorry,” he said awkwardly, his gaze flitting between them.

  “No worries,” she croaked. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I just…you were gone a long time.”

  She nodded. Tried to catch her breath. Willed strength into her knees.

  “I have to go,” Will said.

  “Go?” Rafe repeated, his voice raising.

  “I’ll be back.”

  Cheyenne turned to look at him. “Go where?”

  She didn’t appreciate the panic she’d heard in Rafe’s voice—not when she felt its echo ripple through her. She didn’t rely on anyone; she never had. She would not start with a man she didn’t know from a hole in the ground.

  No matter how he made her feel; his interests were not her own.

  “I’ll be back,” he repeated, his tone cold. When Cheyenne met his gaze, he only stared back at her, his blue eyes as pale and opaque as the glaciers they resembled. He looked nothing like the man who’d confessed his dreams and nearly seduced her into them.

  I can’t choose.

  “Don’t bother,” she told him.

  Then she went to Rafe, put her shaking hands on his thin shoulders and turned him back toward the house. “C’mon, sweet pea. I think I saw some unopened ice cream in the freezer. God willing, it’s mint chocolate chip.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rain pounded the roof like steel pennies.

  Night had fallen, and wind buffeted the black sedan Will sat within, awaiting his prey. The man who’d been tailing them all day had been gone for two minutes and forty-five seconds. A piss break, taken behind one of the cone-shaped juniper shrubs that lined the opposite side of the street. Stupid.

  A proficient tail never left its mark.

  Getting into the sedan had been child’s play; it was left unlocked. Will wondered who this clown was—CIA, presumably—and how a well-trained spook could be so ridiculously inept. He was either too green to know better, too lazy to care, or too arrogant to worry about it. Will put his money on arrogant. Spooks were notoriously hubristic.

  Adrenaline shimmered in his veins. Part of it was the hunt; the wait for his prey, the knowledge that he would finally be able to work out some fucking angst. But mostly it was just thwarted lust.

  Shouldn’t have touched her.

  No matter how many times he told himself never again, no matter his discipline, his judgment, his intent, regardless that it was stupid and dangerous—to them both—he reached for her. Put his hands on her, put his mouth on her. And it wasn’t enough.

  Not nearly enough.

  God help him, he did dream of her.

  Denying temptation—even need—wasn’t the issue; he was a soldier. Doing without was part of the job. It was the denial of his gut that sheared him in two; a dual existence where what he wanted, and what his instincts told him should be, opposed the certainty that what he wanted could never be. And it was his gut that continued to reach for her, overriding his every good intention, ignoring the line he’d drawn, making a mockery of his self-control.

  Worse, the blame was solely his own. She did not try to entice him. There were no sly looks, no unnecessary touches, no come-hither smiles.

  She was just…Cheyenne. Tough and brave and funny; too smart for her own good. For his.

  A survivor.

  Like him.

  Watching her take down Letitia Jones had beguiled him, and her manner with the boy was frank and uncertain, and so earnest he knew it was genuine. She was doing her best, and Will respected that. Another conflict within him; another hurdle, because he didn’t want to feel anything for her: she was a tool. A stone upon which to step. Her only value had been in her connection to Georgia, something he’d condemned her for. Punished her for. But her worth was growing beyond that tenuous link. And that could not be. Not for either of them—a truth he returned to, again and again.

  Because it remained unchanged.

  You can’t have us both.

  No. And he shouldn’t want both. The hunt was all he had; a justification for his continued existence. The only clear path was the trail he followed—the same one he’d been following since he’d woken broken and scarred and changed—and even if that trail led him to the unexpected, he had to follow it to the end. There was no veering off course, no short cuts, no side trips.

  There was only one destination—and that did not include a crazy, mouthy woman who’d awoken him to all that would never be his. It did not include a boy who looked at him with such painful, hopeful trust it felt like a fucking knife in the chest.

  He would protect them from anyone who threatened them. He understood that was part
of the responsibility, part of making his failure less damning, but that was all he would do. Being their friend, helping them navigate each other, giving of himself—those were things he would not do. Could not do.

  Because part of him greatly resented their presence, and the awakening they’d provoked. The distraction they’d created, prying him from the darkness, tempering his bloodlust, offsetting the hate by expanding his world beyond the narrow confines of the path he followed, those were things for which he was not at all grateful. That disruption had born temptation and need, neither of which he wanted to feel. Neither of which he’d believed himself capable of. The knowledge that he was susceptible to such weakness could be utilized in only one manner: shoring himself against it. Refocusing on the endgame, removing all interference, moving forward, single-minded, until his goal was met.

  He was getting closer; Malik was an important piece of the puzzle. He would lead to another. And another. It was inevitable. Eventually the whole would materialize, and Will would know who. Why. How. He would locate the weapons and secure them. Punish those responsible.

  After that…well. It hadn’t occurred to him there might be an after. There was only now.

  And it was better that way—for everyone involved.

  The sedan’s driver’s side door opened abruptly, and the car rocked slightly as a tall, narrow man with thick red hair and black-framed eyeglasses slid in. His face was freckled and pitted by acne scars in the reflection of the street light overhead. He smelled of wet wool and stale coffee.

  As he pulled the door shut, Will slid his forearm around the man’s throat from behind. His Glock kissed the man’s temple.

  The man stilled. He didn’t tense, and his voice was calm. “What do you want?”

  “Let’s start simple,” Will murmured. “Who are you?”

  The man said nothing. The sound of rain pounding the sedan’s roof filled the silence.

  Will gave him ten seconds, then tightened his hold against the man’s carotid artery. “I can’t hear you.”

  A tremor moved through the man, but he didn’t panic. He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed beneath Will’s forearm. “Frank James.”

  Georgia’s CIA partner. He looked different than the black and white photo Will had seen. According to Red’s research, James and Georgia had hated each other’s guts. “What are you doing here, Frank?”