Primal Instinct (23 page)

“Not another fucking step,” Colt ground out, his voice almost a growl. “De Luca, get her inside.”

Zack's hand closed around Taylor's arm, and he tugged her quickly back into the hallway. He pulled her up the stairs and into the loft over the garage, with its front facing windows. His own weapon drawn, he peered out the window.

“You can't just leave him,” Taylor whispered, hot, itchy panic shooting through her.

“No.” Zack handed his gun to Taylor. “You stay here, out of sight, and don't hesitate to pull the trigger if one of them gets past us and tries to grab you. Call nine-one-one.” Leaving his weapon in her hands, he disappeared from the room, his footsteps thundering down the stairs. She sunk to the floor, the gun clutched in one hand as she fished her phone out of her back pocket and dialed. A trickle of cold sweat slid between her breasts, and she thought her heart might explode as she listened to the phone ring. She crawled toward the door, cracking it open the tiniest fraction of an inch. She could barely hear the 911 operator over the blood thundering through her ears.

“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

“Men are trying to kill us. They have guns,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

“Miss, where are you?”

She gave Colt's address. “Please hurry. Please. They're going to kill us.”

“I'm sending someone now. Please stay on the line with me, okay?”

Taylor knew she should hide, stay out of sight, but she needed to see what was going on. She crept to the top of the stairs just as the big man charged into the house. Colt fired, narrowly missing. The sound exploded through the house as the man took Colt down in the living room, knocking his gun from his hand, and Taylor's heart vaulted into her throat.

Colt rolled with him and pulled a knife from his boot, shooting quickly back to his feet. Zack tackled Ponytail, taking him down to the ground as another gunshot rang through the house. Taylor cowered behind the banister at the top of the stairs.

Knife in hand, Colt ducked and then grabbed his opponent's arm, twisting it behind him and causing him to drop his gun. The big man reared back and smashed his head into Colt's face, and Colt let him go. Blood flowed from Colt's nose as they circled each other, finally trading a flurry of punches before the big man grabbed Colt and threw him into the coffee table. Taylor cringed as glass shattered, but Colt rose quickly to his feet, seemingly unfazed by the blood trickling down his face from cuts near his hairline and across his cheekbone.

From behind, Zack put the big man into a chokehold, wrestling him to the ground and holding him there as the man's face turned red. Ponytail came at Colt and grabbed for his knife, but Colt took the man's arm, spun him, and slammed his elbow into Ponytail's temple. He fell into a limp heap on the floor, and Colt turned, wiping blood out of his eye as he turned to face the fat, bald one, whose attention was focused on Zack.

The big man on the floor with Zack stopped struggling, and Zack quickly slipped a hand into his pocket, fished out some zip ties, and bound the man's hands and feet. The bald man drew his gun and aimed it at Zack, his finger on the trigger. Before Taylor could call out, Colt closed the distance between them and took out the bald man's knee with a vicious kick. He cried out and spun, and Colt's fist connected with his face, sending him back a few inches. Colt landed a hard kick in the man's flabby stomach, which caused him to drop his gun, but he absorbed the impact with a grunt and came back at Colt, fists swinging.

Colt ducked and grabbed the man's shoulders, bringing his knee up into the man's face with a sickening crunch. The man straightened and Colt punched him again. The man staggered back a few steps and glanced at his two incapacitated companions, clearly weighing his options.

Zack took advantage of the tiny pause and picked up a potted plant off the floor. He threw it hard and fast, and it shattered against the man's shiny, bald head.

“Fuck!” the man screamed, his legs wobbling. Colt grabbed him and slammed him into the wall, his heavy fist making contact over and over again. Ponytail began to stir, and Zack used more zip ties to bind his hands and feet.

Colt wrestled the bald man to the floor and pressed the tip of his knife against the man's throat, pinning him down with his knees on the man's chest. “Who are you?” He ground the words out, his voice rough and dangerous, his chiseled features grim and dark. He added pressure to the knife, and the man squirmed, sweat streaking across his bald head in narrow rivulets. “Answer me!”

The man mumbled something Taylor couldn't hear. Colt and Zack exchanged a look across the living room just as the sound of sirens split the night open.

C
olt tightened his grip on the Charger's steering wheel and checked the rearview mirror for what had to be the two hundredth time since they'd left Los Angeles, just after dark. They'd hidden out in a hotel after the attack last night and waited until nightfall tonight to head out, because they'd be a lot harder to follow under cover of darkness. He'd done a sweep of the Charger with his radio frequency signal detector, but the car was clean.

He glanced over at Taylor in the passenger seat, her chin in her hand as she gazed out the window at the starless night. She must be tired. She hadn't slept last night after the events at his house. He knew, because he hadn't, either.

Colt hadn't believed it when he'd heard it from the guy's mouth. His words, barely a whisper: “It's the Brotherhood, man. And we'll keep coming.”

The cops had rushed in, and once the three attackers had been arrested, Zack, Colt, and Taylor had all gone down to the station for questioning. Taylor had told them everything about her dad, his harassment and his threats, and everything had clicked together.

The Grim Weavers were rumored to be dealing drugs for the Golden Brotherhood, a powerful, underground, organized-crime ring so legendary in its activities it was almost mythical. Hell, before last night Colt had thought the Brotherhood was made up, or that if they were real, their reach, influence, and power were severely exaggerated.

He'd been wrong.

Now, with the mounting evidence and the arrest of three key Brotherhood enforcers, the LAPD were planning raids on both the Brotherhood and the Grim Weavers. And until everything settled down, Colt's focus was getting Taylor somewhere safe and keeping her that way. Everything else was in the hands of the police now, but her safety was still his responsibility, and he wouldn't want it any other way.

He clenched his jaw tightly as he thought of how close she'd come to getting injured or worse last night. So first thing this morning, he'd called his sister and asked if he could use the cabin she and Paul owned just outside of Big Bear Lake. While they laid low, Sean had assured Colt he'd stay in touch with the LAPD about the status of the investigation and keep an eye out for any suspicious activity.

As Colt drove, he didn't give a shit about the pain from his face, his knuckles, and the various bruises and scrapes on his body. They were nothing, because
she
was here, beside him, safe and whole. Staring out at the night, he made a silent vow that he'd do everything in his power to protect Taylor, no matter the cost.

Ronnie hefted the cleaver in his hand and brought it down hard on the flesh in front of him, a slight shiver teasing through him as he worked the knife through skin, fat, muscle, and sinew, all of it parting under the steel in his hand. He glanced up at the clock on the wall in the walk-in refrigerator where he worked, and his stomach roiled, not because of the meat—no, the meat was beautiful, the only thing keeping him together right now—but because his visitor would be here any minute.

He'd made up his mind several days ago and had reached out to his black market contact again, but he didn't want more spy equipment this time. No, he needed something darker, something harder to come by. At the thought of the spy equipment, anger gripped him. The way the brute had taunted him, had practically flaunted the vulgar way he was treating Taylor—it made Ronnie want to scream. The brute had no claim to her. She belonged to Ronnie. And he was getting fucking sick of her pretending that she didn't. That she wasn't supposed to be at his side, bearing his children, giving him everything she had. Her body. Her mind. Her spirit. Everything.

If she wasn't his, why had she written all those songs about him? About
them
? If she wasn't his, why did he hear her voice in his head, whispering promises? She was the Juliet to his Romeo, and the harder the world struggled to keep them apart, the more his love, his passion, and his need for her grew.

And he'd show them all. He'd make them sorry they laughed. Sorry they doubted. Especially Frank. Ronnie had joined the Grim Weavers over a year ago now in an attempt to get closer to Taylor through her father, but he'd been dismayed to learn that they didn't have a relationship. He'd tried on several occasions to broach the subject of Taylor with Frank, but Frank had always waved the topic aside, more concerned with bikes, women, and drugs than his daughter, and the man who loved her.

A knock at the back door sent a quiver through his muscles, and he set the cleaver down, wiping his hands on his apron and walking across the space, nudging the door open with his shoulder.

“You Baker?” asked the man, who Ronnie was both relieved and disappointed to find looked completely normal. He was of average height with a large build, probably in his early forties, and had thinning sandy hair and a neatly groomed goatee. He wore a red long-sleeved shirt and khakis with sneakers. He could've been anyone. A dentist. A teacher. The guy next door.

He certainly didn't look like a man who killed for money. But he'd come highly recommended and had fit Ronnie's budget.

“You have what I asked for?” the man asked as he stepped through the door.

Ronnie nodded at him and pulled the envelope from his pocket that contained $10,000 cash—his entire savings, plus money he'd borrowed from the bank—and a photo of the brute. He held the envelope toward the man but pulled it back at the last second. “And my terms? That I come with you to get the woman while you take care of the target?”

The man nodded, took the money, and pocketed it. “You know where they are?”

“His sister has a cabin near Big Bear,” he said, immensely proud of himself for having the foresight to hire a private investigator to dig up as much information on the brute, his family, and his friends as possible. “I know they left town, and I think they went there. The address is in the envelope.”

The man nodded and opened the door. “We'll go up soon. I'll call you when it's time.”

He stepped through the door into the bright sunshine and disappeared as quickly as he'd arrived.

Soon, she would belong to Ronnie forever.

The cabin was glorious. Surrounded by towering pines and snow-capped mountains, it felt as though it were on the other side of the world from Los Angeles, despite the fact that the drive had only been about three hours. The night Taylor and Colt had arrived, they'd settled into the small cabin quickly, storing the groceries they'd stopped for along the way. Colt had gone through the cabin, checking the locks on all the doors and windows, making sure he had cell reception, and changing one of the outside lightbulbs that was burnt out. He'd also set up a basic alarm system. It wasn't fancy, but it was the best he could do on short notice.

The cabin itself was small but cozy. The exterior was a mix of logs and stones, and while it was older, some of the fixtures, like the windows and the kitchen appliances, were newer. The front door entered into the living room, furnished with beat-up leather couches covered in plaid blankets and throw pillows and facing a fireplace with a flat-screen TV mounted above it. The living room opened onto the small kitchen, and a door off of the kitchen led to the outdoor space at the back, which featured a deck with several Adirondack chairs, a fire pit, and a spectacular view of Big Bear Lake, the water a glimmering cobalt. A hallway ran along the back of the cabin, and it led to two bedrooms and a tiny but newly renovated bathroom, with a walk-in shower, toilet, and sink.

It was their own tiny oasis, a stunningly beautiful and peaceful cocoon from the outside world. She felt safe—and yes, the cabin and its location had something to do with it, but mostly it was because of Colt. From the night they'd arrived, he'd kept her close, protecting her with his body, holding her as she slept, with his strong arms wrapped around her and her face pressed against his chest. That first night, she'd fallen into a deep sleep after they'd made love, not having slept much the night before. She'd found almost immeasurable comfort in the scent of Colt's skin and the warm, steady thump of his heart against her cheek. But before that sleep, they'd been desperate for each other, and with their limbs intertwined, sweat glistening on his skin, he'd shattered her, over and over again. The second time, deep in the middle of the night, when she'd woken and reached for him, had been slower, sweeter, his fingers laced with hers as he made love to her, his body over hers as he'd kissed her until neither of them could breathe.

Until she forgot where she ended and he started.

Now she sat with her acoustic guitar in her lap, picking out Beethoven's “Moonlight Sonata” while she watched the sun set over the lake. Colt grilled hamburgers and corn on the cob on the barbecue, and she thought back to the first morning she'd woken up here, a couple of days ago. Days that felt like years. Days bathed in warm, golden sunlight and capped with magical, silvery moonlight. Days where the fact that multiple psychopaths were after her didn't matter. Colt, and making music, and the beauty surrounding them. That was all that mattered.

That first morning, she'd flung an arm over her eyes and then turned her face back into the pillow, the sun barely peeking in around the curtains, and she'd forgotten for a second where she was. Before she'd opened her eyes, Colt had pulled her close and kissed her temple, his stubble rasping against her skin. She'd turned into him, throwing her leg over his.

“Morning.” She'd buried her face in his neck, breathing in his warm, comforting scent.

“Morning, gorgeous.” He'd threaded his fingers into her hair, brushing her tangled locks away from her face.

“Don't get up yet,” she'd mumbled. “I know you're an early riser, but stay with me.”

He'd laughed and brushed his lips against hers before he'd flipped her on her back. His mouth trailed over the sensitive skin just below her ear as their legs tangled together.

“I am an early riser.” He'd pulled back and wiggled his eyebrows. “A big one.”

She'd laughed, and she'd felt as though she were floating off the mattress and melting into Colt. “So humble.”

He'd kneed her legs apart and she'd felt his cock, hot and hard, slide against the inside of her thigh. “It's not bragging if it's true.”

She'd laughed again and wrapped her legs around his hips, sighing and arching up into him as he took her nipple into his mouth. “Mmm. Can't argue with that.”

But instead of reaching over to the nightstand for a condom as she'd expected, he'd settled beside her and slid a hand down her body, over her breast, her ribs, into the dip created by her hipbone. “I'll stay with you as long as you want, gorgeous. As long as you want.” His hand had slipped between her parted thighs, and his fingers had brushed gently against her lips. With sure movements, he'd eased her lips apart and slipped a finger into her. She'd clenched around him, and he'd smiled, pulling his finger out and slicking her wetness over her, his fingers rubbing a slow, teasing circle over her clit. She'd let out a soft moan, and he'd repeated the motion, adding a bit more pressure as her hips rose to his touch. He'd moved his fingers in a sure, steady rhythm, doing nothing except stroking her clit, until she fell apart in his arms, her legs shaking, her muscles rigid, his name falling from her lips in breathy gasps.

“You are so beautiful when you come,” he'd said, his deep voice rumbling across her oversensitized skin. He'd looked down at her, a smile pulling up one corner of his mouth. It was then that he'd reached for a condom while her stomach let out a long, loud grumble.

“Let's get you fed first,” he'd said and winked. “I need your energy up for what I have planned for you.”

An unwelcome rush of cool air had tingled across her skin as he'd pushed up off the bed. She'd watched with pure female appreciation as he'd bent and scooped his boxers off the floor, yanking them on and then his jeans, his muscles flexing and bunching beneath his taut, tattooed skin, his big hands pulling his pants on. With possessive satisfaction, she'd noticed the red lines down his back, scratches from the night before.

Her stomach had grumbled again, and with a sigh, she'd levered herself upright, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She'd extended her arms above her head and stretched, the afterglow of her orgasm still tingling through her.

She'd heard a low, gruff moan of appreciation from behind her and glanced over her shoulder. Colt stood with one shoulder against the wall, arms crossed over his bare chest, a thumb resting against his bottom lip.

She'd bit her lip and smiled. “Enjoying the view?”

His eyes had crinkled as he smiled. “Always, gorgeous.”

“Back atcha.”

Her stomach growled loudly again in the quiet room, and he laughed, bending to pull a clean shirt out of his duffel bag. “Come on. Breakfast. Then, I promise, we'll go back to bed.”

He'd kept his promise.

Bringing herself back to the present, she let out a sigh as she strummed her guitar idly, watching the sun sink into the trees, casting dreamy pink and orange light over the lake.

For the first time in weeks, maybe even years, she felt peaceful. Happy, despite everything going on. And she knew it was because of Colt.

“I want to suck your cock.” Taylor's husky voice sizzled against his ear as she slipped her arms around his waist from behind. He paused with his hands immersed in warm, soapy water, a sponge in his hands as he washed their dinner dishes. He pulled his hands out of the water so fast that he flung suds against the window above the sink. He spun and pulled her against him, slamming his mouth into hers.

Tongues and lips melded together instantly, and she let out a breathy moan that sent even more blood flowing to his cock. Her mouth was warm and hungry against his, her breath sweet and addictive. He kissed her with abandon, losing himself in the perfection of her mouth.