Savor the Danger. Lori Foster
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three times now. I want to talk to you. Call me back.”
She knew Trace fully expected her to do as told, but she couldn’t talk to him right now. If she tried to, she’d get emotional, maybe even weepy. God knew Trace had always been protective, but since her kidnapping more than a year ago, he’d been insane with caution. If he knew she was upset, he’d be on the warpath in minutes. She had no intention of telling him about her misguided—and obviously brief—liaison with Jackson, so there’d be no point in getting him caught up in her personal drama.
By necessity, given the responsibilities inherent in his work, Trace was autocratic by nature, occasionally over-bearing and always too confident.
Jackson was the same.
Actually, so was Trace’s friend, Dare, who had worked with Trace from the inception of the business.
They had typical personalities for lethally honed mercenaries—how else could they remain so successful in their efforts to help others?
Of course, Trace, Dare and Jackson were the only mercenaries she knew. And while each of them was different, they were also, in the most basic ways, the same.
They were men who smiled while squaring off with danger, men who didn’t flinch when put to the test, men who, without a single second of hesitation, would protect others with their own lives.
They were good men.
They were scary men.
Most people, even without knowing of her brother’s vocation, still feared him, and with good reason; Trace emanated danger and capability. To meet him was to be wary of him, and so dating had never been easy for her. Guys took one look at her brother and decided it was safer to keep their distance.
But…Jackson wasn’t like most guys. Because he was on a par with Trace, not much ever intimidated him. In fact, he felt at ease jesting with Trace, even taunting him on occasion with his good humor. Knowing Trace and Dare counted on him in the most dangerous situations, Jackson had promised her that his job security wouldn’t be affected by their involvement.
But then, he’d also sworn that it wouldn’t be awkward. Now she was on her own, and it was so excruciatingly awkward that her face continued to burn.
Unfortunately, Trace called yet again as she parked in the driveway. The phone rang four times and then went to voice mail. Alani just knew Trace would show up on her doorstep if she didn’t touch base.
Hating to fib, but feeling she had no choice, she sent back a text message saying only, “I’m at the movies. I’ll call you soon.”
Then she turned off the phone.
After gathering the clothing bags from her trunk, she started around the walkway that led from the driveway on the side of her small but perfect house to the front door.
She drew up short at the sight of Jackson sprawled out on her porch steps, a cowboy hat on his head, mirrored sunglasses hiding his eyes.
He didn’t move, and neither did she.
For half a minute she stood there frozen, unsure what to say, what to do.
He had an utterly relaxed look about him, but then, Jackson had perfected a deceptively indolent pose that hid razor-sharp reflexes and phenomenal speed. Last night, all night, he’d been far from indolent.
Breathing fast, Alani studied him. His continued stillness suggested sleep. Even when she shifted her bags and inched closer, he didn’t move.
The tall oak in her front yard offered plenty of shade, but Jackson hadn’t removed the hat or the sunglasses. He was now clean-shaven. A snowy white T-shirt pulled across his wide chest and shoulders and hung looser around his taut abs.
Age had worn out his faded jeans in select places, such as at the knees, the hems and where they cupped his sex.
Even now, so tranquil, he looked…impressive.
The bombardment of awareness stiffened her knees.
Memories of touching his body, tasting his hot flesh, sent a tide of sensation through her veins. She remembered wrapping her hand around his erection, how he’d groaned all deep and rough, the insanely sexual things he’d whispered to her as suggestions and encouragement, how he’d covered her hand with his own, showing her how hard to squeeze, how fast to stroke….
His total lack of inhibition had left her free to be less inhibited.
She swallowed audibly—and stared some more.
He sat with his long legs loose, one foot braced on a step, the other stretched out, his elbows back, his breathing deep and even.
Alani licked her lips and started to slowly, silently retreat.
“Don’t make me chase you, darlin’.”
Shock snapped her shoulders back. The big faker!
He’d been watching her watch him… Ohhhhh. “I thought you were asleep!”
“And so you figured you could rape me with your pretty eyes? Or will you deny that?”
If she had a rock close by, she’d throw it at him. Teeth set, Alani asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Whatever it takes.” Lazily, he sat upright. Muscles flexed. His shirt pulled tight. With a thumb, he tipped back his hat. Sweat dampened his temples, leaving the ends of his dark blond hair curly. “Where you been anyway? I’ve been baking out here for hours.”
Something in his tone sounded…off. He was just as outrageous as always, but the cocky edge had waned, almost as if he was sick or worried, or both. She didn’t care.
“It’s none of your business, Jackson.”
The barely perceptible curling of his mouth alarmed her. “Full of spice this afternoon, huh?”
Determined to brazen her way through things, Alani put back her shoulders and charged forward. “I’m full of disgust.”
His mouth firmed. “At what we…did?”
Uncertainty didn’t suit him at all. “At myself, actually.” Breath held, she stepped around Jackson, but he didn’t touch her. At the front door she shifted the bags into one arm and, with fumbling hands, fished her keys from her purse. “I should have known better than to—”
His mouth skimmed the back of her neck. Low, sultry, he suggested, “Let’s talk about what we did.”
Fire raced down her spine, and her legs turned to noodles. In an instant, Alani’s mind took her back to his bed where he’d kissed her nape just like that while he slowly took her—doggy-style, he’d called it—from behind, burying himself deep, his arms around her, his hands holding her breasts….
“Stop it!” She shoved the door open and tried to slam it closed again. It bounced off Jackson’s shoulder.
She raced in.
Of course he followed.
Making a beeline for her kitchen, she said with as much venom as she could manage given the fluttering of her stomach, “Get out.”
Not more than two steps behind her, his boot heels sounded on her tile floor.
Her packages held in front of her like a shield, Alani spun around to face him. She sounded far too panicked when she screeched, “I mean it, Jackson!”
He stopped and stared at her. Tension crackled between them.
For a few seconds there, Jackson looked as if he might leap on her, but instead, he chewed his bottom lip, then retreated a step, moving as if not to startle her.
Cajoling, he said, “Take it easy, okay?”
Given the riot of emotions clamoring inside her, taking it easy wasn’t an option. “Don’t placate me!”
Without a word, he set his hat on the counter