Authors: Sandra Brown
“Crime?” skinny dude repeated. “It was your plan.”
So my inside job theory had been partially right. Good to know paying attention in FBI school rather than doodling in my notebook had paid off. I faced Whitetail. “Ripping off your customers was your idea?”
“You believe him?” Whitetail sneered. “It’s obvious he’ll say anything to get out of jail time.”
Skinny dude fired off, “Last year he told me how easy it’d be to rip off senior groups and foreign tourists. When a tour bus pulls in, I’m the first one he calls. Check my phone records.
He
called
me
tonight. I’m telling the truth! He’s lying.” He pointed at the security guard. “She knows. She’s paid to look the other way.”
Greedy damn people. Preying on the elderly. My gaze caught Dawson’s. “Have you heard grumbling from locals about missing money or wallets after they visited here?”
Dawson shrugged. “First I’ve heard of it.”
“Me, too,” came from behind me. A craggy-faced Indian wearing the tribal police uniform stepped forward. I recognized him from a case we’d worked last week. Officer Spotted Bear’s gaze whipped between the security guard, the manager and his thief for hire. “Guess we’ll have to take all three of you in to figure out what’s what, eh?”
Whitetail threw his hands in the air. “I have a casino to run! I can’t just leave.”
“That ain’t a request,” the other cop, Officer Begly, responded.
“I’m pretty sure you don’t wanna be around when the tribal president gets here anyway.”
The young man who took my coat stepped forward and held up his phone. “I taped everything and sent it to my uncle, who just happens to be the tribal president.” He grinned at the cops. “He’s speeding here so I hope he don’t get arrested, hey.”
I wasn’t surprised by the tribal president’s immediate attention to this situation. The casino employed lots of people on the reservation. In recent months scandal had broken out at two other Indian casinos in South Dakota, resulting in loss of jobs and revenue because of managerial mismanagement, so keeping this place open was key.
Whitetail shouted obscenities and lunged at the kid. Talk about satisfying—shoving Whitetail’s smug face in the dirt while Officer Spotted Bear cuffed him.
An ambulance arrived along with a whole crush of people. Dawson and I got separated. By the time he tracked me down my adrenaline rush had faded. I shivered in the chilly air as I answered Officer Begly’s questions and the EMTs patched up the pickpocket.
“Thanks for your help on this, Gunderson.”
“No problem. Make sure those bus tour people get their wallets back.”
“Will do.” He gave me a critical once-over. “No offense, but you look like hell. Go home.”
“Oh, and—”
“And…we’re leaving.” Dawson’s big palm was warm against my lower back as he herded me away. “Do I need to have the EMTs look at you?”
I scowled. “Not unless you think they’ll sew up the rip in my dress.”
“Speaking of dresses…with the way you had your knee on the punk’s wrist and the other knee by his shoulder, he had the perfect opportunity to look up your skirt.”
“Which is why I never wear dresses,” I shot back.
“More’s the pity, Sergeant Major.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic. “You saw him knock me on my ass?”
“Uh-huh. But you showed off them super FBI agent recovery skills, so I didn’t get a chance to tackle him and grind him into dust. Pity about that, too.”
That explained his lousy mood. Dawson wasn’t happy about seeing me in danger and being too late to help me out. I tried to make light of it. “The real pity is I lost my appetite.”
“So we’re just gonna go home?”
I hated he sounded so disappointed. Again. “Yeah.” After I climbed in the passenger side of my truck and ditched my gun, I remembered my coat. I hopped out and dug in my purse for the claim ticket.
“Whoa. Where you going?”
“I left my coat. I’ll be right back.”
Dawson snatched the ticket, snarling, “Would it be too much goddamn trouble to let me do one thing for you tonight after you’ve been beat to shit?”
I shivered violently, from the cold, the adrenaline crash and his harsh tone.
“Get in the truck and stay there.”
I didn’t argue.
When Dawson returned, he draped my coat over me. We didn’t talk on the drive home, which wasn’t necessarily odd, but the mood was definitely altered and not the slightest bit romantic.
And whose fault is that?
Mine. Again.
As soon as Dawson parked at the ranch, my boots hit the dirt and I hustled up the porch steps wanting to put this disastrous night behind me.
But Dawson spun me around and crowded me against the wall. He cradled my face in his hands, forcing me to look at him. “What’s wrong now?”
I inhaled and let out a long, slow breath. “I can’t even have a simple date with you without somehow royally screwing it up. Now you’re pissed off, hungry—”
“Mercy—”
“Look at me. I’ve got mud on my dress, dirt on my knees and grass in my hair. I’m a mess. I wanted…I tried to be… Just forget it.”
“If you haven’t noticed, I am looking at you. Christ, woman, I can’t look away from you.” Dawson covered my mouth with his. Not in a sweet kiss, but a frustrated one. “Yes, you looked sexy tonight in this hot little black number, but I gotta admit, the sexiest part of you isn’t ever what you wear, Mercy, it’s sexy seeing you in action.”
“You were mad at me because I jumped into the action.”
“No, I don’t expect less than that from you.” He rested his forehead on mine. “You are ten kinds of kick ass and you don’t need me. Sometimes I wish I could sweep in and rescue you. Even if it’s just saving you from getting a rip in your dress.”
“I do need you, Dawson. Just not to come in, guns blazing, to save me.” I pressed my lips to his. “I need you in ways that scare me.” I kissed him again. “And I want you so much it makes me crazy to think about it.”
“So don’t think. In fact, forget about everything but this.”
Any protest died as Dawson kissed me. Languidly. Assuredly. Touched me in that leisurely manner that warned me he’d keep this slow and easy until slow and easy wasn’t enough for either of us.
My baser instincts were screaming for more when his big hands slid my dress up past my hips. Then his hands moved down so his rough-skinned thumbs stroked the skin between my navel and the top of my thong.
He kissed a path down my throat and roughly yanked the top of my dress aside. His wet mouth closed over my right nipple and he bit down softly as the blunt tips of his fingers teased the underside of my breasts.
A noise burst from my mouth, half sigh, half hiss. I untangled my hands from his hair, running them down his broad chest to his belly until I reached his belt buckle. I tugged.
Cheap-ass thing popped loose on the first try.
He inhaled a swift breath when I lowered the zipper and freed him, tracing the hard length from tip to root.
Our eyes met. Words were unnecessary. Unwanted.
Dawson eased back only far enough to drop his Wranglers. Then he hoisted me against the side of the house and held me there. Bending his knees, he thrust inside me, hard and high.
This was what I needed. This man knew exactly how to make my world tilt and at the same time set it right again.
Staring into my eyes, he slowly pumped his hips. “More?”
“God yes.”
Dawson angled his head and put his lips on mine, eating at my mouth, destroying me with his voracious kisses. Slamming into my body with finesse that always shocked me. Stroking inside me with precision that robbed me of air and reason.
The tight coiling sensation built. Sweat trickled down my back. In the haze of passion I heard the rhythmic clank of his belt buckle hitting the siding. The harsh mix of our breathing. Holding myself rigid, I pulled away, craving that elusive pulsing rush. When he buried his lips in the curve where my neck met my shoulder, it was over. I unraveled.
When I returned to earth, Dawson watched my face with a hunger that made my belly swoop. He pressed my knees wide and took what he needed. Hard. Fast. Urgently. Then he exploded with a shout, and damn if that didn’t send me soaring right over the edge with him again.
Luckily I had something solid holding me up, because I became completely boneless. Mindless. Sated in a way that went beyond hot sex. Then Dawson sweetened the finish, sending new chills across my skin with his every whispered word, with each labored breath against my damp skin, with each soft kiss.
When I felt him smile against my neck, I murmured, “What?”
“I’m thinking for the piss-poor way it started, this was the best date ever.”
Relieved, I laughed. “And I haven’t even broken out the handcuffs yet.”
* * * * *
VACATION INTERRUPTED
A Lucy Kincaid/Sean Rogan Story
Allison Brennan
Kincaid and Rogan are plunged—literally—into another adventure. Two pairs of lovers, plus one psycho, equals a less-than-ideal getaway. ~SB
“No dead bodies, no psychopaths, no one trying to kill us.” Sean Rogan leaned back on the blanket spread out on the semisecluded beach. “Just you and me, princess.” He took her hand and closed his eyes.
In five days, Lucy was to report at Quantico to start her twenty-week FBI training. She’d suggested a few weeks ago that she and Sean find a couple days to go away—alone. They’d tried twice since they first started seeing each other six months ago, but each time their vacation plans were ruined by criminal activity. Because they were both so busy—Lucy working at the regional FBI office and Sean at his security company, RCK East—Lucy didn’t think they’d have the opportunity.
On Tuesday morning, Sean announced he’d finished his assignment early and asked if she wanted to go to the beach. When Lucy said yes, she hadn’t expected to leave an hour later in Sean’s plane, landing before noon at a small executive airport on Cape Cod in Massachusetts.
Though early August was the height of the tourist season, Sean finagled a wonderful room at a bed-and-breakfast with a view of the bay. Lucy didn’t want to ask how—her boyfriend relied heavily on his charm to get him in and out of tricky situations. If that failed, he used his brains or brawn.
Lucy rarely relaxed, and didn’t particularly enjoy sunbathing—ironic considering she had earned many blue ribbons and trophies swimming in high school and for Georgetown University—but she found herself half-asleep under the large umbrella Sean had pitched, the soothing lap of waves rolling up the shore leeching the tension from her muscles.
A scream shattered her peaceful afternoon. Lucy sat up quickly; Sean was already on his feet scanning the horizon. It had come from a young woman standing on the shoreline. “Someone help him!”
The blonde was looking out into the ocean, pointing to a man flailing in the waves about a hundred and fifty yards out. Sean was already running and Lucy followed, searching for a lifeguard tower. The only one she spotted was so far away she couldn’t see the person manning the booth.
Lucy had spent her high school summers working as a lifeguard in San Diego, and while she didn’t have a tube or float, she spotted a boogie board near the shoreline. She didn’t know or care who it belonged to, but strapped the board’s leash around her ankle and ran into the ocean. The salt water was cold and itchy against her warm, dry skin. “Sean—get the lifeguard!” she ordered.
She pictured where she last saw the man, then swam toward that spot with long, confident strides. The shore was shallow, but fifty yards out it dropped steeply and the water turned choppy.
Every few seconds Lucy stopped briefly to ensure she was still headed toward the troubled swimmer. Her hundred-yard record in competition was 48:10, but she was fighting the current and waves, and it took three times that long.
When she thought she was close to the man, she stopped and treaded water. She didn’t see anyone. Had she passed him? The waves were high enough to thwart her view, so she rode them up and down, looking 360 degrees.
Something brushed by her ankle. She dived, fearing the victim was underwater and unconscious, but didn’t find anything. She surfaced, dived again, deeper, and swimming a wider perimeter.
Lucy breached the surface, fearing she was too late. As she began to lose hope, she spotted the man only a few feet away, his face twisted with pain and fear as he slipped under again.
She dived at an angle, kicking with all her strength, making a straight line to where she predicted he’d be if sinking. Her hands made contact with flesh, and she grabbed what she could—his biceps, it turned out—and kicked toward the surface, pulling the added weight with her.
She gasped for air when she broke through the surface. She immediately turned the man to his back because it was easier to help him float if he was lying as flat as possible. He wasn’t unconscious, but definitely in distress and noticeably exhausted. He coughed and pushed at her, his eyes unfocused.
“I’m here to help,” she said.
“Get away!”
He pushed her down, but Lucy saw it coming. She dunked below the surface so he couldn’t hold her down, and then popped up a couple feet away.
Disoriented, he must be on drugs. He tried to swim, but a wave hit him in the face, almost pushing him under. She grabbed him. “I’m a lifeguard. Calm down!”
Lucy put the boogie board under his body to help him stay afloat. “Remain calm,” she repeated. She glanced toward the shore and saw the lifeguard swimming swiftly toward her. “Help’s coming.”
“Someone,” he gasped. “Someone here.” He coughed up water.
“Calm down or you’ll hyperventilate. Slow, deep breaths.”
“Kill,” he breathed heavily. “Me.”
Someone tried to kill him? She scanned the area, but being this far out diminished visibility. The only other swimmers were much closer to the shore, where it was only a few feet deep.
The lifeguard approached on a rescue board. He rolled off, barely glanced at Lucy, his attention focused on the near-drowning victim. “What’s your name?” he asked the victim.