Second Chances: A Romance Writers of America Collection

by J. Kenner

  Brandon pushed to his feet, the gun trained on the second man, whose own gun was aimed directly at Brandon.

  "Drop your weapon," Brandon said, knowing he was going to have to kill him. He couldn't leave him alive and risk having both his identity and Natasha's exposed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her rise from behind the desk, a gun clutched in her hands. He kept his eyes on the man in front of him, not giving her away.

  "Drop yours," sneered the man in a thick Russian accent.

  Suddenly, Natasha was behind the man, the barrel of her gun pressed against the base of his skull. "You're outnumbered. Drop it."

  "Fuck you," he spat, and spun, knocking Natasha away. Her gun flew from her hands, and the thug now had his gun trained on her. Without hesitating, Brandon fired two shots into the man's back, and Natasha scrambled out of the way before he fell.

  "Did you get the vials?" he asked. Without a word, she dipped behind the desk and emerged with a small metal briefcase. He stuffed the gun into his waistband and closed the distance between them, his hands landing on her shoulders. "You're okay?"

  She nodded. "Thanks to you."

  He pulled her into his arms, unable to stop himself. She laid her head against his chest, and something deep within him settled, blood flowing like liquid gold through his veins. She pulled away and their eyes locked in the dim room, heat pulsing between them. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, letting his thumb trace along her cheekbone. She was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her. Beautiful and smart and brave.

  "You gonna go all James Bond on me and sweep me off my feet?"

  Mentally, he added smart-ass to her list of attributes. Funnily enough, it also went in the pro column.

  God, he'd never told her that, had he? No, he'd only given her grief for what he now realized were some of her best qualities.

  He'd been a royal prick at times, but he'd been too young and stupid to realize the extent to which he'd pushed her away. Small wonder that she'd left when he could've done so much better by her.

  "Let's get the hell out of here." He shoved the window open and scanned for guards, but the alleyway at the rear of the house was empty. He eased his feet out onto the narrow ledge and grabbed the drainpipe, climbing down quickly. Once he was safely on the ground, Natasha tossed the briefcase to him and then followed, her athletic body making quick, graceful work of the short descent. Without a word, he took her hand and they started to run, their feet slapping against the pavement as they wove their way toward St. Peter's in Eaton Square, where a car had been left for them.

  The towering wrought-iron street lamps cast a warm glow against the darkness, reflecting against the puddles dotting the sidewalk and street. Within minutes, they'd reached the black Fiat parked in a far corner of the church's car park.

  Both Brandon and Natasha stepped up to the driver's side, and just as she yanked the door open, he pushed it closed again.

  "What do you think you're doing?"

  "I'm driving. I'm the better driver. I'd like to get to the Embassy before, oh, I don't know, tomorrow."

  He laughed. "I don't think so, Top Gear. You'll drive on the wrong side and kill us. My country, my agency's car. I'm driving."

  "I think--"

  "Shut up and get in the fucking car, Natasha." He leaned his hands on the roof of the car, caging her in as he beat back the urge to kiss her until neither of them could think straight. Jesus Christ, the woman was infuriating. Sexy and smart and irritating as hell.

  He fucking loved it.

  She inhaled sharply and pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. "Fine. You're right. You drive."

  Before he could fully process the miracle that was Natasha telling him he was right, headlights flashed as a car turned around the corner, and she scurried around to the passenger side. In what he felt was a generous compromise, he pulled the stolen gun from his waistband and handed it to her as he dropped into the driver's seat. She tucked the small briefcase containing the vials under the passenger seat.

  He started the car, threw it in gear, and gunned it, heading toward Belgrave Place. The same headlights flashed again and then disappeared as the driver extinguished them. Brandon's stomach knotted, and he flexed his fingers around the leather steering wheel.

  He floored it and took a sharp corner toward Belgrave Square Garden, and the sedan followed, tires squealing. "Shit," he hissed. "They're on us."

  "Don't worry. I've got it." Twisting around in her seat, Natasha opened her window just enough so she could wedge her head and upper body out.

  "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" If he hadn't been so intent on steering and keeping them in one piece, he would've reached over and hauled her back inside.

  She ducked back in, frustration pulling at her features. "You saved us. Now I'm saving us. You really do want all the glory, don't you?"

  "For fuck's sake. Not everything is a competition."

  "Sorry, can't hear you. Too busy being awesome." She eased back out the window, the stolen gun clutched in her competent hands as she took aim at the black sedan pursuing them. Trying to avoid the main roads, Brandon swung around Hyde Park Corner, keeping the yawning darkness of Hyde Park to his left and avoiding the bright beacon of Buckingham Palace. Cutting his gaze to Natasha, he watched as she squeezed off several shots, pumping her fist in victory when the sound of squealing tires and then crunching metal pierced the night.

  He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, the leather creaking beneath his hands. "Did you just--"

  "Shoot the tires out in almost complete darkness?" She sent him an adorably cocky smile. "Sure did."

  Something tugged painfully in his chest, and he fought the urge to curse. God, he was so angry with himself. He should hate this woman for what she'd done to him, but he couldn't. She might drive him mental, but, idiot that he was, he liked it. Needed it. In the six years they'd been apart, he'd dated plenty of women, and not a single one of them had challenged him, frustrated him, impressed him, and turned him on the way Natasha did without even trying.

  The simple truth was, there was no one else for him except Natasha Rowe. Never had been, and never would be.

  "Hey, you okay? You look upset." She laid a hand on his thigh and his knuckles went white on the steering wheel.

  Now wasn't the time to process the confusing jumble of emotions churning through him, so he simply nodded and focused on getting them safely to the American embassy in Grosvenor Square.

  "IT'S FINE, C. D. I can get to my room on my own." Natasha shot Brandon a tired smile. After barely getting away from Silayev's men, they'd turned the briefcase in at the embassy and then headed over to MI5 headquarters for a lengthy debriefing. Brandon must've sensed her fatigue because he'd insisted on driving her to her hotel.

  "I wasn't trying to be chivalrous. I need the loo."

  "Oh. Okay."

  The elevator doors slid open on the fourth floor, and she led him along the hallway, her limbs heavy. Her eyes stung and her throat thickened when she realized that the heaviness wasn't exhaustion, but sadness. Tomorrow, she was headed back to Langley. Home and out of Brandon's life.

  He shut the door to the bathroom and, although she wanted nothing more than to flop on the bed, she paced to the window. She looked out onto the lights of Grosvenor Square, leaning her head against the cool glass as rain pattered softly against it.

  Tired though she was, her brain spun at a hundred miles an hour as she wrestled with whether or not to say anything to Brandon. Whether or not to tell him how she felt about him, to tell him how sorry she was for leaving all those years ago. Would he even want to hear it, or was she simply looking to ease her own guilty conscience?

  She turned as he stormed out of the bathroom, his chiseled features taut with a thrilling combination of anger and lust. "Why do you still have this?" His voice was a low growl.

  With long strides, he ate up the distance between them, a slim gold ring clutched in his strong fingers.

  "
Did you go through my stuff?" Her voice rose, sharp with incredulity.

  "Of course I did."

  She laced her fingers together and twisted them, anxiety shooting through her and mingling with hope.

  "Natasha." His voice was low, the three syllables of her name a warning that his restraint was fraying like worn rope. Excuses tumbled against each other in her brain, but she knew she owed him honesty. Owed them honesty.

  "Because I couldn't bear to get rid of it."

  "Why?" Something wild and desperate shone in his blue eyes, and she broke, unable to stop herself from being selfish and telling him the last thing he wanted to hear.

  "Because I never stopped loving you. Because I regret leaving you with every fiber of my being."

  "I see."

  "I hurt you, Brandon."

  He closed his eyes briefly. "Yes."

  She licked her lips, and then spoke the words she owed him. "I'm so sorry. It was so ..." She blew out a long breath. "It was so wrong for me to leave like that. I know that now. God, I'm so sorry for hurting you, C. D." Her heart pounded in her chest as she spoke.

  He inhaled sharply and then extended the ring to her. "Put it on." It wasn't a request, but a command, and a hot thrill chased up her spine. With a trembling hand, she took the slim gold wedding band and slipped it onto her left ring finger. He took one final step toward her, backing her into the window. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and he looked at her, that wolfish smile she loved curving his lips.

  With excruciating slowness, he raised his hand and traced his thumb over her cheekbone, her jaw, and then down to the hollow of her throat and over her collarbone. He dipped his head and buried his face in her neck, dragging his lips over the sensitive skin behind her ear. "Tell me why you left." He nipped at her earlobe, and she could feel herself melting. Only Brandon had ever had this effect on her.

  "Because I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought we were making each other miserable, and I--" She sighed out a moan when he bit gently at the juncture where neck met shoulder.

  "You what?" His hands skimmed over her waist, tracing up her back. He found the pull of her zipper and began easing it down.

  "I didn't know how to fix it, and I thought you'd be better off without me. If you weren't peeling my dress off right now, I'd think you must hate me."

  He let out a chuckle, the sound rumbling deliciously over her skin. "You drive me mental, but I could never hate you, Tash. I know things were hard between us. God, we were young. We didn't know what we were doing. You messed up, leaving like that, but I didn't know what I was doing either. I could've been better to you. We could've been better to each other." He pushed the straps of her dress off her shoulders and she wiggled out of it, letting the material pool at her feet.

  She reached behind her and unhooked her bra, freeing her breasts.

  "Sweet Christ."

  She gasped when his strong hands cupped her ass and lifted her just as his mouth crashed into hers. There was nothing gentle, tender, or sweet in Brandon's kiss. It was the kiss of a man staking his claim: hard and hot and ravenous. His tongue stroked into her mouth, and she sighed against him, wanting to dissolve into him. She twined her legs around his hips and he tumbled them onto the bed, his weight solid and reassuring above her. He deepened his kiss as they worked as a team to undress him, his fingers pulling at his tie, undoing the buttons of his shirt, while she wrestled with the buckle of his belt.

  "Bloody fucking bollocks," he swore, his mouth still against hers. He pulled back just as she freed his thick, hard cock from his pants.

  "What?" She stroked him and he hissed out a breath, closing his eyes.

  "I haven't a condom."

  "So? I'm on the pill. Brandon, Jesus. I don't want to use a condom with you."

  The wolfish smile reappeared and he pushed off the bed, shucked the rest of his clothing and then pulled her panties off, tossing them on the floor before crawling back on top of her. He notched the head of his cock at her entrance and rocked his hips, giving her only a taste of what she needed. He sucked a nipple into his mouth before raising his head to look at her.

  "If we do this, if we try again, we have a lot of shit to work out. I need to know you're on board with that."

  She nodded, swallowing around the lump in her throat. "I want to make it work with you. I promise to try harder, to be better. For better or for worse." Her voice shook and cracked on the last word.

  "For better or for worse, Tash." His voice was hoarse, his eyes bright as he looked at her.

  Happiness, relief, and hope filled her at the same time as Brandon eased himself all the way in, not stopping until he'd buried himself deep inside her. He slid his hands up and pushed her arms above her head, intertwining his fingers with hers. Over and over again, he filled her with slow, sensuous strokes that gradually gave way to harder, faster, deeper thrusts that all too soon had both of them crying out in bliss, sweating and shaking and panting.

  As the sun rose over London and they lay sweaty and sated in each other's arms, she felt whole in a way she hadn't in years.

  "I love you," she whispered, pressing a kiss over his heart, his chest hair crisp against her lips.

  "I love you more," he whispered back, nuzzling into her hair.

  "Are we going to turn this into a competition, too?" She propped up on one elbow, and he looked at her, one hand behind his head, the other sliding up her waist and to her breast. He looked so devastatingly sexy it took her breath away.

  He shook his head. "No point. We've both already won."

  She laughed and kissed him. Just this one time, she wasn't going to argue.

  Tara Wyatt is a contemporary romance and romantic suspense author. Known for her humor and steamy love scenes, Tara's writing has won several awards, including the Librarian's Readers' Choice Award, the New England Readers' Choice Award, the Golden Quill, and the National Excellence in Romantic Fiction Award. A librarian by day and an author by night, Tara lives in Hamilton, Ontario, with the world's cutest dog and a husband who makes all of her heroes look like chumps.

  Visit her online at http://www.tara-wyatt.com.

  I COULD TELL THEY weren't married by their voices. As the couple browsed through volumes on the second floor of Between the Pages, my favorite Chicago indie bookstore, a woman I decided to call "Cherry," after her bright-red fingernail polish, purred in response to her man--a tall, hunky guy wearing a black leather jacket.

  I overheard the hunk in leather say, "I'm not going home without the book I need."

  Her reply was kitten-like--playful but sharp. "Well, we'll find it for you. I'm not a woman who leaves without accomplishing her mission."

  Ah, defining herself. She spoke a decibel too loud for the quiet section of the bookstore and used that irritating, overly solicitous, enthused tone reserved for people still trying to make a good impression. I guessed they'd been dating for three weeks. Okay, maybe four. But for anyone within a fifty-foot diameter, hearing more of their conversation was unavoidable.

  "How about this one?" Cherry asked. "It's an hors d'oeuvres handbook."

  "A Martha Stewart cookbook?" Hunk said slowly. "Well, um, that's a thought."

  "Right!" she said, emboldened by his response, somehow missing the fact that he didn't even reach for the book.

  After an awkward pause, he pointed to another title. "Hey, they have Entertaining for Dummies."

  "That's funny," she said too quickly, her laugh sounding forced to my ears and tinged with relief at having managed to keep the conversation with him going. She reached over, fondled his leather jacket's collar and fluffed his hair, letting her fingertips play cat and mouse with his neck before sliding her shockingly red nails down his spine and bringing them to rest on the back pocket of his jeans. She announced her ownership of the man (and, apparently, all of his clothing) with a pointed stare in my direction.

  I smothered a snicker and glanced down at my book.

  Before their arrival that April nig
ht, I'd been lounging in a chair to their left. I was flipping through a huge volume of preschool "fun foods" and party ideas while surreptitiously taking notes for a short article I'd been commissioned to write for a parenting magazine. This was a solid text and, if I ever had a toddler in my life, I'd buy it for sure. With my single/no kids status, however, I tended to restrict my purchases to fiction.

  The atmosphere upstairs in the Cooking & Crafts section was always casual and relaxing, though. I was in no rush to leave.

  A moment later, the woman sauntered off to inspect books on a nearby table while the guy moved closer to my chair. There were other catchy party-planning titles displayed on a rotating shelf not more than three feet from me. Perhaps the book he was in search of was a present for someone unforgivably social, difficult to shop for, and/or really into complicated canapes?

  I studied him carefully and scribbled a slew of mental notes while he was busy perusing the volumes.

  A young professional--newly out in the world.

  Preppy. Like he'd just walked off the set of one of those legal dramas on TV.

  He couldn't have been more than twenty-five--about my age--and, beneath the black leather jacket, he was dressed in a layered cream shirt and pullover, fitted blue jeans, and dark loafers.

  Attractive. No rings on his fingers, I couldn't help but notice.

  I stole a longer look at his girlfriend, too. No rings either. Blond, fine-featured, and slim, she was clad in carelessly tight black pants, a red knit top, black boots, and was in possession of perfectly manicured, chip-free nails.

  Add to that, she wore impeccable makeup and what had to be a pricey name-brand handbag (I'd be damned if I knew which designer) slung over her shoulder. She gave off an arrogant, entitled air, and my dislike was instantly cemented. I returned my gaze to the handsome dude in the black leather jacket, but when he glanced over at me, I buried my nose into my book.