by Lora Leigh
He drew in a quick, fortifying breath as he made his way through the ballroom, the foyer, then quickly entered the silent, empty study that the admiral made available to his men during these jackass parties his sister insisted on throwing in his name. Holloran should get married or something, to a nice shy little wife who didn’t like parties instead of letting his sister run his social life.
He stalked across the room to the bar, pulled a glass from the shelf, and splashed in a healthy dose of whisky as he heard the door snick open behind him. And he knew. Hell, he knew who was back there.
He tossed back the whisky. “Go back outside and play, little girl.” He grimaced as he caught sight of her in the mirror over the bar. “You’re biting off more than you can chew this time.”
He’d known her for years. Known her and avoided her and lived in dread and in anticipation of the chance to touch her.
“I had a message for you.” Her voice wasn’t teasing this time, it was a chilly snap. A proper, aristocratic, holier-than-thou, kiss-my-ass whiplash of sound.
It made his dick hard. Made his balls draw tight in hunger and his fingers curl with the need to touch.
“So what’s the message?” He rubbed his hand over his face before glancing at the mirror again.
She was leaning against the door, her eyes were glittering with anger, and those lush lips were tight with irritation.
She opened the little evening bag she carried and drew a slip of paper free, extending it to him as she crossed the room, then slapping it into his open palm.
Then, he made the biggest mistake of his life. He didn’t just take the paper and tuck it in the pocket of his slacks. And he sure wasn’t dumb enough to read it. Oh hell, no. With his free hand, he gripped her wrist and jerked her to him, shoving the note in his pocket with the other and then curling his hand around her waist and jerking her tighter against his body.
Hell. Fuck. Son of a bitch.
Those firm mounds pressed against his lower chest, her head tipped back, shock and lust brightening her eyes as his head lowered.
He was crazy. He was destroying his career, right here, with a single kiss.
His lips took hers. Like a man starving for passion, a man suddenly, forcefully aware of the hunger tearing into his gut.
And he was hungry.
Her lips parted on a gasp and he was there, his tongue stroking past them, daring her to do her worst with those sharp little teeth. Wishing she would, because then, maybe, he could find the strength to release her.
But did she bite him? Did she rack her knee into his tortured balls as she should have? Hell no, she had lost her mind too. Slender arms were suddenly wrapped around his neck, fingers plowing into his hair and her lips parting, taking him, her tongue tangling with his as a rough cry whispered against his lips.
She tasted like honey and spice and she went straight to his head. Kissing her was like immersing himself in addictive sweetness. He licked at her, his tongue tangled with hers, and before he realized the idiocy of his actions his hands were tearing at the little straps of her dress, dragging them down her arms. His lips tore from hers to travel down her neck, down the arch of her throat, heading for nipples that, as the pads of his thumbs stroked over them, tightened further.
Ah hell, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. He had to taste.
He lifted her against him, and set her on the padded barstool, his hands cupping those luscious breasts, lifting them to him as his mouth captured one tight, hot bud between his lips.
He’d have thought he could hold on at that point. He’d have thought that the sheer pleasure of finally tasting Emerson’s tits would be enough to give him the control needed to hang on and enjoy it. And in doing that, he could find at least a single thought to remind him that he wasn’t just playing with fire, he was playing with his own career.
But did he think? Thought washed away when she cried his name in that breathless, shocked voice. It ripped out of his head and left him in a reality where the only thing that mattered was her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to her breast as he sucked at that tight nipple like a man drowning in lust and pleasure.
Sharp nails pricked at his scalp, pulled at his hair, dragged him close as she arched and shoved her nipple tighter between his lips.
Thought didn’t control him now. His dick controlled him. Thick and hard and straining beneath his slacks. One hand dropped to her thigh and he began jerking that softer than soft evening gown up legs that he knew had to be softer.
This was what happened when a man denied himself. When he worked with no breaks to play. When he pushed back lust and refused to drown the hunger for one woman in another woman’s body. This was what happened. Because then weakness became hunger, and hunger became a ravenous instinct that refused to be controlled.
Until the door to the study slammed open violently, causing his head to jerk to the mirror, his gaze to clash with the enraged gaze of the admiral. The admiral who cherished his goddaughter as most men did their own children.
Admiral Samuel Tiberian Holloran. Known as the Commodore to most of the men who served under him. A tight-assed bastard where his goddaughter was concerned.
Macey shielded Emerson with his own body, her bare breasts pressed into his chest as she struggled to straighten the bodice. He felt ice form in the pit of his soul as his gaze stayed locked with the admiral’s.
“My office,” the admiral snarled. “Now!”
Holloran jerked the door open, stalked out, and slammed it with enough force that Macey was surprised the frame didn’t crack.
Drawing back, he stared down at Emerson. Her face was still flushed with pleasure, but her eyes were concerned.
“Thanks,” he snapped as he stepped back from her, watching as she dragged the straps over her shoulders, a hint of confusion, of hurt in her face.
“For what?”
“For staying away from me like I asked you to. You’re trouble, Miss Delaney. More trouble than I think I need right now.”
With that, he stalked from the study and headed for the office and the bust in rank he knew was coming. Hell, he’d just been reinstated back to lieutenant, and for what? So he could go right back down because he was hungry, hungry and hurting for a woman so far out of his league that she might as well be in another universe. The one woman Macey knew Admiral Holloran would kill him over. The one woman he very much feared held his heart.
Hell, he should have stayed home.
As he entered the hall, he drew the note Emerson had just given him from his slacks.
The admiral requests a meeting, ASAP, his office. Landry.
Hell. No wonder the admiral was pissed. God only knew when his aide had given Emerson that note. One thing was for sure, the admiral was out for blood now. His blood. And Macey knew he would be damned lucky if he survived.
ONE
Three weeks later
EMERSON HAD BEEN KIDNAPPED.
That knowledge echoed through Macey’s mind from the moment he received the admiral’s phone call to the second he had received the information informing him of her location.
She had been taken from him. As the admiral had snapped in his taciturn voice, she had been stolen. And the admiral’s blue eyes, chips of icy rage, had glared at Macey.
“You’ll find her. Find her and hide her, Macey. You’re the best, and that’s what she needs now.”
The best. Yeah, he was the best at this. Tracking, killing. The admiral had made certain his men were the best; he considered Macey one of his, despite their problems.
Now, Macey crouched in the corner of the shadowed warehouse and told himself it was all in a day’s work. He would get through it because he didn’t have a choice, and he would do it right because that was the only way he knew how to do things. Even when he fucked up, he always made it right in the end. Answering the admiral’s call at midnight was his chance.
He’d fucked up last month. He hadn’t just lost rank for messing with the wrong woman
, but he had walked away from the woman as well. Dumb move. Hell, the admiral had had every right to be pissed when he demanded to know Macey’s intentions toward his goddaughter. He had, after all, just caught Macey in a rather explicitly compromising position with her.
Unfortunately, Macey hadn’t had the right answers, so to say he was surprised when the admiral called to assign him to the mission to rescue her was an understatement. But as the admiral had known, there was no keeping the information from him. There was no keeping him away from her. And that was besides the fact that the admiral knew Macey would give his own life to protect her.
It was partially his and the admiral’s fault she had been kidnapped, after all. The remnants of a terrorist and white slavery organization he had helped to destroy were now striking back at the admiral because of his part in the assassination of the head of that organization. And the admiral’s goddaughter was his only weak spot.
“Remind me to put your names on my birthday card list.” Emerson Delaney’s voice was soft and sweet, sugar-coated and so gently Southern it sounded ridiculously out of place here in the darkened warehouse. “What was your name again? Mo, Larry or Curly?”
The sound of flesh hitting flesh sent his blood temperature rising. Fine, she was a smartass, but that was no reason to hit her, and some bastard inside that warehouse had hit her. He would kill the bastard who had dared to touch her.
“You, Miss Delaney, are in no position to sneer.” The accented voice was cold, purposeful. “You will pay for your godfather’s crimes.”
“Melodramatics,” she seemed to wheeze. “Pure melodramatics. Is that a French flaw or just your charming personality?”
The bastard hit her again. Macey knew he was going to have to move before the bastard put a bullet in her head.
Blood was going to spill tonight, and it wouldn’t be Emerson’s. He’d already made up his mind that the woman was his; he had only to stake his claim and convince her of it. But first they had to get her out of here. At least he had the element of surprise. The men who had kidnapped her from her bed had no clue that their route to the warehouse had been followed.
He turned to the SEAL with him, meeting the wild blue eyes of the demon stalking behind.
Nineteen months of torture and drug experimentation on Nathan had nearly broken him. It had definitely changed the SEAL for all time, but a year later, he was holding his own. Honed, savage, a creature of rage, but holding his own.
He held up three fingers. There were three guards posted at the entrance to the warehouse. He held up two more and pointed inside the warehouse. He was getting ready to give the command for Nathan to work his way around to the other side of the warehouse when the son of a bitch held up the flat of his hand and shook his head.
Before Macey could argue, Nathan was striding around the warehouse, calm, cool as hell, and crazier than a fucking loon. Son of a bitch. Macey gritted his teeth again, grinding his molars and cursing crazy Irish men to hell and back.
“Hey, dude, I need a light.” Nathan’s voice was ruined, slurred as he stumbled against the warehouse.
“Get the fuck out of here,” one of the guards cursed.
Macey peeked around, trained his weapon on the three guards.
Macey saw Nathan’s knife gleam in the darkness a second before he buried it in a smooth, hard upward strike into the heart of the first guard. The guard gasped, gave a shudder, then appeared to stagger with Nathan’s weight, taking him closer to the other two.
Three seconds later blood coated the asphalt and three French nationals, one of whom had embassy clearance, Macey had been informed, were propped up against the wall as Nathan moved into place beside the door, his demon eyes glaring across the distance.
Who needed a whole team of SEALs? He and Nathan were enough SEALs for this job. Nathan might be a tad mentally unstable in Macey’s opinion, but he was a hell of a killer. And that sucked. It used to be that Nathan shed blood only when there was no other alternative. Now, he killed without mercy, with expediency. He gave nothing or no one a chance to strike first.
“Your godfather Admiral Holloran will regret his part in the strike against our leader,” the terrorist was raging, as though Emerson was going to give a damn. “He and that bitch daughter that betrayed her father. Once we have her, you will be executed, your deaths viewed by millions and cheered on by the loyal followers of Sorrell.”
Sorrell, the son of a bitch terrorist and white slaver they had taken down months before was rearing his ugly head again, even after death.
“Wish you luck with that.” Emerson’s voice was weak. “I really wouldn’t expect more than a few dozen loyal hits; the rest will be for entertainment value alone. Kind of like a train wreck.” Her voice was flippant, but Macey could hear the fear in it.
Nathan smiled that demon smile of his. A hard curl of his lips, the flash of strong white teeth and cold hard death. He was a killing machine now, determined to take down the last cells of the terrorist organization that had backed Sorrell. Until it was finished, he couldn’t return to his own life, couldn’t reclaim his wife.
Nathan gestured, signifying that they go in low, catch the two inside off guard, and snatch the girl. Hell, it would be risky. Too fucking risky. He shook his head and began to gesture a less risky move when Nathan crouched, slammed the door open and went in shooting.
“You stupid bastard!” Macey snarled, fury and an edge of fear growing in his gut as the sounds of gunfire exploded through the night.
He threw himself into the room, rolling to the chair Emerson was tied in and tipping it over. He jerked the knife from his boot and sliced the ropes holding her wrists and ankles. The two men with her lay in their own blood as Nathan moved quickly to cover Macey.
“There’s more coming,” Nathan hissed as Macey checked the girl quickly for injuries.
She was glaring at him. Her hazel eyes were pinpoints of fury, the green in them nearly overshadowing the brown, glittering in a rush of anger as she snarled back at him. That was Emerson—fear made her angry. Made her snap and snarl and that was a hell of a lot preferable to tears. Could he handle tears from Emerson?
“We have to run for it,” he warned her.
“You have to drag your heavy ass off me first,” she panted. “Dammit, Macey, you weigh a ton.”
“Move!” Nathan snapped behind him. “Here they come!”
He jerked her to her feet, ignoring her gasp, grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her through the shadowed, cavernous building at a low run.
“I lost a shoe,” she gasped.
“So lose the other one,” he growled, checking behind them and praying Nathan kept up rather than dropping behind to shed more blood.
That boy was going to end up getting himself killed, if he didn’t end up getting them all killed.
“I’ll put those on your tab,” she informed him, her voice bland despite the breathless quality of it and the fear in her eyes. “You can pay for them later.”
“Sure,” he snarled, jerking her around another crate as the front of the warehouse erupted in curses. “I’ll go right out and buy you a new pair.”
“They’re very hard to find,” she informed him with testy patience as he jerked her low to the floor, within feet of the back entrance, and motioned Nathan to secure the exit.
“Should he be going out there by himself?” she leaned close to his ear and voiced the question. “The bad guys would cover the back, wouldn’t they?”
Nathan gave the all-clear.
“Not this time. Shut up and run.” He pulled her behind him, moving past Nathan as he collected the automatic rifle they had hidden in the back. He followed at Emerson’s back, placing himself between her and any bullets that would have flown through the night.
Lights illuminated the warehouse and the lot in a flood of color, only a millisecond behind their rapid push through the chain-link fence that they had cut earlier. The truck was on the other side of the neighboring lot, less than a quarter of a m
ile and with plenty of cover. With any luck they were home free.
“I can’t run like this,” Emerson gasped behind him.
God, did he think “luck”? Didn’t he remember that luck didn’t exactly look favorably toward him, even at the best of times?
He looked back and nearly groaned. As she ran, those impressive, make-a-man’s-mouth-water breasts were jiggling, reminding him of more than one night’s worth of erotic dreams that he’d had concerning them.
“We’re almost there.” He pulled her to him, wrapped his arm around her waist, and half carried her as they snaked through the hulking, shadowed crates, equipment and vehicles that filled the industrial warehouse lot they were running through.
Nathan moved quickly ahead of them now, securing the area to the truck as Macey gritted his teeth again. Her left breast was moving against his side, a firm, erotic weight that he should be shot for noticing.
Save the girl first, he reminded himself.
But it wasn’t the breasts that drew him and Macey knew it. It was the woman, and that was what terrified him clear down to his combat boots. The woman could take him down, and he had a feeling he was getting ready to go down hard.
EMERSON DELANEY KNEW SHE was in trouble the minute hard hands jerked her from her bed and pulled her from her home. She had been driven through Atlanta surrounded by hard, cold-eyed terrorists intent on death. There hadn’t been a doubt in her mind that they intended to kill her. Just as there hadn’t been a doubt in her mind that Macey would be sent to rescue her.
Tall, over six feet four inches, perhaps six five, dark brown eyes, long dark hair, and a bad-boy sexy face. He was the rebel, the troublemaker. The man she couldn’t stop thinking about or dreaming about. And the one she knew would come for her.
Her thoughts were interrupted when Macey March tossed her into the backseat of the dual cab pickup, followed in after her, and gave the other man the order to drive. They eased out of the parking lot slowly, lights out, rather than tearing out of it in a scream of tires, which would have surely alerted any terrorists nearby.