Southern Nights: Enigma 1 - Come For Me

Exclusive Excerpt

“Tap out, stupid bastard.”

“Tap out’s for sissies,” Saint wheezed. Considering Dain had the man’s shoulder pressed into his carotid, cutting off blood flow, getting out a single recognizable word would be amazing—three was a fucking miracle.

“Ten seconds, Saint,” Elliot said nearby, warning the man how much time he had before he was likely to black out. “Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five—”

King swore from the other side of the mat. “Saint!”

Without warning Dain’s captive flipped his long legs into the air, his spine bending in ways that would seem impossible with his neck immobile. But he had the length in his torso to manage. In a blink his knees were on either side of Dain’s head and his calves were locked at Dain’s nape. Before Dain could duck his head to slip out of the hold, Saint flung him over his long body, loosening his legs at the end to keep from breaking Dain’s neck.

“One!” Elliot yelled as Dain’s back slammed into the mat. With a quick kippup, Saint’s massive weight landed on top of him, crushing the air from his lungs without warning.

“Goddamn.” It was Dain’s turn to wheeze.

“Dain!”

The yell from the workout room door brought all their heads up except Dain’s, stuck beneath one of Saint’s bony knees.

“Code Red,” Jack Quinn called. There was no hesitation in their response; all four team members were on their feet and running for the door in seconds.

“Where’s the party?” Dain yelled as they raced after his boss down the hall toward one of the conference rooms. Jack shook his head but didn’t answer, causing Dain’s heartbeat to pick up speed. Jack Quinn was the head of JCL Security, and the man was anything but reactionary; if he said it was bad, it was bad. Code Red was never anything less. They weren’t on assignment right now, though. Had someone else’s op gone sideways?

The four of them packed through the door to the conference room behind their boss. The massive table that dominated the space was empty, but at the end of the room the wide-screen TV hanging on the far wall blared one of the local channels. The sound assaulted Dain’s ears as his eyes adjusted to what was on the screen: a close-up of a female reporter he recognized from the usual early morning newscast holding a microphone to her red lips, the wind blowing her blonde hair into her eyes as she spoke.

“Officer Mays, what can you tell us about the situation? Any updates?”

The camera panned to a petite, dark-haired policewoman Dain recognized as one of the Public Information Officers at the Atlanta PD. “No updates as of yet. We are still establishing communications with the suspects and determining how many hostages are currently in the building.”

“Is the entire building at risk?”

The glint of impatience in Mays’s eyes wasn’t reflected in her words. “Not at this time. All floors except the top have been evacuated. Only the fourth floor suite is involved.”

“Where—”

Dain had barely gotten the word out of his mouth when the camera panned back behind the anchorwoman to the building in question. A familiar building. The one that held Georgia Financial Management Services.

Livie.

No. Fuck no. “Jack!”

His boss stood on the opposite side of the table, the office phone to his ear, but he jerked it down to tell Dain, “I’m trying to find out. Hang on.”

The blonde was speaking again. “For those who are just joining us, would you please recap what is known at this point?”

Officer Mays nodded. “We received a 911 call this morning alerting us to a situation at Georgia Financial. Responding officers determined that gunmen were present, as were employees we believe are being held hostage. Negotiations are forthcoming, and in the meantime, we have asked the public to avoid this area until the situation has been resolved.”

“Do we know how many hostages are inside? How many gunmen?”

Mays’s face revealed nothing. “Not at this time. We want to assure the public that the APD will do everything possible to resolve this situation. The safety of the hostages and of our citizens is of paramount concern.” With a nod at the camera, Mays walked away.

As the anchor promised more information soon and tossed the segment back to her cohort in the studio, Dain fought for breath. “King, I want to know what they know,” he barked.

“I’m on it,” King said roughly behind him before rushing from the room. Their PR liaison knew everyone who was anyone at the Atlanta Police Department. Dain gave his team member’s assurance an absent nod, his gaze still fixed on the television, the screen now showing the local studio and the male news anchor who normally had the blonde sitting next to him. Dain couldn’t remember his name and didn’t care. He picked up the remote and muted the chatter.

“Elliot,” he snapped.

The only female member of his team stepped to his side. Her petite stature forced her to look up at him, one eyebrow quirked in question. Worry clouded her eyes.

“Go to my desk and get my personal cell.”

Elliot nodded and ran for the door. Dain tried to force air in and out while he waited. Based on the strain in his heart and lungs, he was pretty sure he didn’t succeed worth a damn. The TV screen was showing a segment on grills. Who the hell cared about grills when his wife could be in danger? But he didn’t dare look away in case they showed more news on the standoff.

Jack slammed the phone down on its cradle with a hissed “Fuck.” No answers, then. Hopefully King—

Elliot swung through the door. “Here,” she said and tossed Dain’s cell phone across the room before her short legs could carry her to him. He snagged it out of the air and thumbed it on blindly.

“Come on, come on.” Livie had gone in to work early. She would’ve called—shit! He wasn’t thinking straight. Dain, who never lost his cool on a job, couldn’t think past the fact that his wife was in that damn building.

“She would’ve called my office phone if there was a situation, wouldn’t she?” Assuming she could call at all, but he refused to think about that. “Can you check my office voice mail?”

“Already done,” Elliot said. “No messages.”

He blessed her under his breath as his phone came online. A red circle with the number one inside sat in the upper right-hand corner of the phone icon.

One message.

He couldn’t breathe.

Forcing himself not to tighten his grip until the phone crumbled to bits in his hand, he tapped the icon, navigating his way to voice mail. Livie’s name waited at the top of the message list.

He tapped the Play button, then Speaker. Livie’s voice broke through the chaos in the room—or maybe that was just his pounding heart.

“Dain?”

He swore, the words blistering his throat with the effort to keep them quiet. He upped the volume, not about to miss a single word, a sound, anything.

The sound of her throat clearing came through, then a stronger, “Dain, there’s something wrong here. Stan’s— Stan’s dead. There’s blood.”

Livie. His wife…she was with a dead coworker. Dain choked on the emotion welling in his chest; he couldn’t stop the reaction no matter how unprofessional it was. He’d been in life-and-death situations before, but never… “Wife,” he whispered, straining to hear her next words. Would they be her last?

“I can’t find everyone else. I’m going to the kitchen. I’m in the kitchen, okay?”

“That’s good.”

It took him a moment to register Jack’s voice. He stared blindly at his boss. “What?”

“The kitchen. There will be weapons there, right?”

Right. And he’d trained Livie to recognize them.

“I’ve got to go. I’ll call your office after I call the cops, okay? I’m all right. I am…”

Livie hesitated on the recording as Dain met Elliot’s horrified gaze. “What’s the time?” Elliot asked him. When he shook his head, she nodded toward the phone. “The time on the message—what is it?”

He barely had the presence of mind to hit Pause before checking. “Nine thirty?” But that made no sense. Livie had left by seven. Why would she just be arriving at the office at nine thirty?

What time was it now? The clock on the conference room wall read 10:04. So Livie had called the police. She’d said she was going to, so surely—

Jack’s voice broke through Dain’s daze. “Play the rest.”

He stared down at the screen. Thirty seconds were left on the recording. If he played them, would Livie disappear at the end? Or would waiting mean she waited for him in real life too?

“Stupid idea. Trying hard to blanket the chaos in his head with a numbness that was usually second nature on an op, Dain clicked Play.

“Dain? Listen, I need to tell you, just in case. I know I’ll be fine, but just in case…” A pause. Tell him what? He bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, forcing back a scream. Tell him what? “Dain, I’m pregnant. Do you understand? I’m pregnant, husband. I’m having our baby, so you come get me, damn it. Come get us.” He heard a sigh that shook so much it told him exactly how scared she was. “I love you, Dain.”

When the message stopped, so did his heart. Pregnant?

“Fuck!” No way could he be numb after that. Tears stung his eyes, made the phone screen waver in front of him.

He raised the cell to hurl it across the room. Saint’s broad hand stopped him midswing. “I think we might need that, Boss.”

Dain cradled the phone to his chest and forced himself to get a grip. Blinked away the tears. Took a deep breath. Livie needed him; he had to focus. “I’m so going to spank her ass when this is over,” he choked out.

Elliot muffled a laugh behind closed lips.

King rushed into the room, and Dain forced back the emotions clouding his head once again. “What do we know?” he asked, sliding the phone into his back pocket. His team seemed to recognize the shift into work mode; they gathered around the table and started laying out the facts.

“Jerry gave me the basics,” King said as he joined them. “Livie works for Georgia Financial, doesn’t she?”

Dain didn’t need anything else; he saw the truth in King’s expression. “How many combatants?”

“More than one; that’s all Jerry knows. They received a phone call from a female that was cut short. Officers responding to the call found the doors locked. When they tried to force entry, the suspects showed themselves—and their weapons. Threats against the employees. The cops backed off.”

Following procedure. Dain understood it even as his heart protested.

“SWAT is on site now, setting up. The Crisis Negotiation Team is en route. Unfortunately that puts us in a holding pattern.”

“The call from the female, who was it?”

King shook his head. “Jerry didn’t have a name. Why?”

Because he needed to know if it had been Livie. Because he needed to know if his wife was alive before he completely lost every bit of the control he was known for.

He needed his wife, damn it. He couldn’t breathe without her. Couldn’t imagine waking up a single morning without her beside him, safe and sound. He wouldn’t—no, couldn’t accept anything else.

If that meant he had to be the one to make her safe, he would. Or die trying.

Southern Nights: Enigma 2 - Deceive Me

Chapter One

“I’m not a fucking nanny, Dain.”

“Not with a mouth like that.”

Elliot shot a deadly look Saint’s way, but her team member shrugged it off. She seriously considered strangling the man with the crucifix he wore around his neck, but it wouldn’t matter. Their boss would simply replace him with someone even more annoying just to get back at Elliot for the inconvenience. Instead she turned her back to the room and sought calm outside the floor-to-ceiling windows providing a perfect view of downtown Atlanta.

Okay, the calm came from avoiding the three amused sets of eyes behind her, but whatever.

The members of her team remained silent, though she could feel their stares burning into her back. Good men. She couldn’t have asked for better. Dain Brannan, or Daddy as they sometimes called him, was the head of their particular team here at JCL Security, the one who took care of the rest of them. Saint, or Iggy—the six-two, massive warrior took personal exception to the use of his full name, Saint Ignatius Solorio—was the joker of the bunch, always saying what everyone was thinking but would never politely admit. He also had an encyclopedic knowledge of weapons that made him invaluable despite the constant temptation to kick his ass. And then there was King—Kingsley Moncrief. No one would guess from looking into the man’s assessing eyes that he’d been raised with a silver spoon in his mouth. Acting as their client and media liaison was a natural role for him, but Elliot had never doubted how lethal King could be in the field.

All three men stayed quiet, waiting for her cool head to take over. Waiting for the pressure of their silence to push her into complying. They knew her as well as she knew them.

“I don’t want to be shoved into a role because I have the requisite vagina,” Elliot bit out.

When Dain chuckled, she whipped around to glare at him. He raised a hand to stop her in her tracks, a smile still on his lips. “Think about it, Otter. A four-year-old girl. Look at us.” He gestured at the two men flanking him, both over six feet and muscular. Tough. Scary, if you weren’t Elliot. “Do you really think a child is going to be particularly comfortable with us? Or that she’ll trust us as fast as she needs to? This isn’t some forty-year-old visiting dignitary’s wife we can simply talk into complying; it’s a kid.”

Elliot refused to let Dain’s use of her call sign influence her. “She would trust you. Everyone trusts you.” And they did. Dain wasn’t called Daddy only because he watched out for his team.

“Maybe. But with you, it’s guaranteed.”

Because she was tiny. The truth of the knowledge burned in her gut. She didn’t like appearing weak, though she wasn’t above using it to her advantage. She’d taken down many a fighter in the ring because they thought she was an easy target. They learned otherwise quickly, much to their detriment.

So yeah, she got it. That didn’t mean she wanted to admit it.

Elliot sighed like a teenager being forced to wash dishes instead of a kick-ass security specialist being assigned a new client. “Do I really have a choice?”

No, of course not.

The side of Dain’s mouth quirked up in a smirk she knew meant he thought he’d gotten his way. Again. Bastard. “Not really.”

Another sigh. “Fine.”

That earned an all-out laugh. “Fine. Can we meet the client now?”

Elliot grumbled under her breath as she followed Dain to the door of his office. King chuckled as he fell in line behind her. Saint, of course, simply had to add an, “And don’t forget to watch your mouth, little Otter.”

Elliot growled back at him before she stepped into the hall.

JCL Security was headed by Conlan James and Jack Quinn. Their reputation in the United States security community was unparalleled. Even Elliot had heard of them before Dain found her and convinced her to join his team two years ago. She respected her bosses, and Dain’s influence on her life had been such that she’d do pretty much anything he asked, but he’d also never asked her to babysit children. She knew nothing about children. Even when she’d been a child, she hadn’t been “normal,” so how the hell—heck—was she supposed to understand how to handle a child? The mere thought had her wishing for a paper bag to hyperventilate into as their group came to the door of Jack Quinn’s office.

Dain glanced over his shoulder, one last assessment of his “troops” before presenting them to his commanding officer. His gaze settled on Elliot, and the warmth she recognized there eased the panic in the pit of her stomach. When he nodded, she found herself squaring her shoulders and putting on her game face.

Dain gave a peremptory knock and opened the door.

Here we go.

Her gaze shot immediately to the head honcho’s desk, but the sight of Jack was blocked by a set of wide shoulders wrapped in a tight black T-shirt. Wide, muscular shoulders. Elliot saw the same sight nearly every day—all of her team members were “built,” so to speak; they all dressed in what she called military casual, fatigues and tight tees. None of them had ever made the breath catch in her throat like this man did.

Brown hair left shaggy at the top, cut close in a semimilitary style as it tapered to a cropped V at the base of his skull. Tanned skin along his neck and heavy arms. The man’s back narrowed to a tight ass and legs that told her he was just as strong as Saint or King or Dain, so what did he need with them?

Oh, right. Kid.

Forcing herself to stop eating up his manly form with her eyes, Elliot fell into line next to Dain to one side of Jack’s desk.

Their boss made the introductions, alpha to alpha. “Dain Brannan, this is Deacon Walsh.”

Deacon? Actual name or military call sign? Their team all had call signs they went by while on mission, but clients typically didn’t. There hadn’t been time to brief them on more than the very basics of the assignment—number of clients, degree of threat. A call sign gave her a small hint as to why the guy looked like he’d be the last person asking for their help, though.

“Please, call me Dain.” The two men shook hands, and that was where Elliot focused. On their clasped hands, not on the sudden uneasy squirm in her belly. She didn’t understand what was wrong with her. She didn’t question clients, and she sure as hell didn’t have a…reaction…to them. But there was no doubt that everything feminine in her, all the parts she’d thought were good and dead, thank God, were doing weird dances in this man’s presence. And she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one fucking bit.

“Deacon, meet my team: Elliot Smith, Saint Solorio, King Moncrief. Elliot will be assigned to your daughter’s personal protection, of course.”

“No, she won’t.”

That jerked her head up. Her gaze clashed with grim brown eyes in a grim, hard face. Deacon Walsh stared down at her like she was a puppy who’d just pissed on his boot. “Excuse me?”

“I said, no you won’t.”

Dain shifted next to her. “Elliot is the best member of our team to—”

“You’re not assigning your weakest guard to my daughter simply because she’s a woman.”

It had been Elliot’s argument too, sort of, but instead of cheering, she gritted her teeth. Was this bastard saying she was too little to kick ass if she needed to?

She didn’t even realize she’d tried to step forward until Dain’s hand came out, blocking her advance. Elliot settled back on her heels and waited. Of course, she glared daggers into the man’s stern eyes while she did it, but what were they gonna do, fire her?

The thought almost made her snort. She held back just in time.

“Mr. Walsh…”

Dain’s words were cut off with an abrupt slash of Walsh’s hand. “My daughter is top priority on this assignment. Nothing else matters but her. She needs more than one scrawny wom—”

“Did you just call me scrawny?”

Elliot felt more than saw her team members take a step back, Dain included. A warm rush of pride filled her at their acknowledgment that she could fight her own battles, but she didn’t allow it to get in the way of her focus on Walsh. His gaze swept over her, and though she thought she detected a hint—a very vague hint—of embarrassment in their depths, mostly his eyes held frustration and anger. So did his response.

“I sure as hell did.”

The final word was barely past his lips when Elliot struck. A fake palm heel to the big man’s chin had him jerking back instinctively, giving her a mere second to connect a kick with his inner thigh. She did avoid the groin, though—no need to thoroughly piss off the client, after all. Her grin was probably a tad too exultant as the strike brought Walsh’s head forward, right into her elbow.

“What the fuck!”

“Smith!”

Chuckles from her teammates mixed with Dain’s and Jack’s shouts as she grabbed Walsh’s closest arm and turned, putting her back to his chest. When she dropped to one knee, Walsh flipped over her head. Ah, the joys of leverage. He hit the floor back first. A quick arch and push brought him to his feet—just in time for Elliot’s swift kick in the ass. Walsh stumbled forward.

Dain caught him, fighting hard to keep the grin on his face under control.

No more than fifteen seconds had passed, but Elliot was already briskly brushing her hands together like she’d finished taking out the trash. Or proving a point. Said point might get her fired, but what the hell. They were used to her lack of communication skills around here.

Jack sputtered behind his desk, his face a shade of red she’d never seen on him before. Not very flattering.

A loud laugh pulled Elliot’s focus to the client. Walsh bent, his back to her, the long furrow of his spine drawing her attention right down to the best ass she’d ever laid eyes on—and in her line of business, she’d laid eyes on a few. A warm hum that had nothing to do with a good fight sparked deep inside her.

Dain shook his head, one hand coming up to rub tiredly at his eyes. Elliot shot him a sheepish look.

Jack cleared his throat. “Mr. Walsh, I apologize—”

Walsh’s raised hand precluded any apology. “No need, Jack.” He turned, and Elliot read the amusement in his expression with relief. So maybe she wouldn’t be fired today. “I believe I’m the one who should be saying those words. Nice job, Smith.”

Not Miss Smith, which was what most clients labeled her with. Just Smith. As if she was one of the guys. The final bit of resentment fizzled out. Okay, I can work with that.

That was when she noticed the heat in her cheeks. Looking anywhere but at their client, her gaze met Saint’s. When she moved to stand next to him, he leaned in to whisper, “Don’t bother being embarrassed now, Otter. Too late.”

She punched him in the ribs. His groan was covered by Dain clearing his throat.

“Let me assure you, Mr. Walsh”—Dain threw her a “we’ll definitely talk about this later” look—“that Elliot will be much more circumspect with your daughter than she has proven to be here, won’t you, Otter?”

If she said no, she might get out of the whole nanny duty thing, but one glance at Dain said she’d pushed as far as he would allow her to. She cleared her throat of rebellion. “Of course.”

Walsh’s gaze skimmed her before returning to Dain. “I have no doubt.” He turned to Jack. “Now that we have that clear, perhaps we should get to the point.”

“Right.” Jack gestured them over to a conference area, where he, Walsh, and Dain took seats. Elliot stood next to Saint and King, lined up like good little soldiers behind Dain’s seat, looking on as Jack opened a thick file on the coffee table before him and pushed it toward their team lead.

Dain planted his elbows on his knees and leaned forward over the intel. “Objective?”

“Protection,” Walsh said before Jack could speak. “My daughter is the primary objective. Despite my performance here today”—Walsh didn’t look her way, though his tone was filled with chagrin—“I don’t need protection from this bastard. But I can’t be with Sydney 24-7. I need someone who can.”

“What bastard?” Dain asked.

Jack answered this time. “Martin Diako.”

Elliot froze, even her breath stilling at the name. Martin Diako. She stared at the back of Dain’s head, pinning her composure on her lifeline to the man who’d taken her under his wing.

Martin Diako. Fuck.

Deacon and Sydney Walsh needed protection from Martin Diako. The man known as Mansa in most circles. Ruler. The monster in charge of the biggest modern-day African pirating organization operating today. The monster responsible for ruining an untold amount of lives in the last forty years, including Elliot’s own.

The monster who was her father.

Did you know there’s a FREE follow-up novella to Deceive Me? Download your copy of Surprise Me and learn new secrets about your favorite ENIGMA characters.  

Southern Nights: Enigma 3 - Destroy Me

Chapter One

These are not the droids you’re looking for.

One of the most overquoted lines in all geekdom, probably because it fit so many situations, including this one. Or rather, Lyse Sheppard had only found one “droid” she was looking for, but he wasn’t alone.

She shifted in her hard chair, the one from the dinette set that she’d snitched for a computer chair because all her focus had been on equipment, not comfort. She’d arrived in Ireland with nothing—no surveillance capability, no protection, not even a place to stay. The past two months she’d been able to establish her home base, but she forgot about padding until nighttime arrived and she was consigned to this damn chair. To aching hips and watching her former team live their lives without her.

Watching Fionn McCullough live without her. Not that he’d ever lived with her.

And why would he? She was just Bat Girl, right?

Pat the nerd on the head and give her a cookie.

Even knowing Martin Diako was dead—go, Elliot—Lyse hadn’t stopped watching over her friends, making sure they were safe from repercussions. Deacon and Elliot and Sydney. Trapper. Alvarez. Even Elliot’s team at JCL—King, Saint, Dain with his heavily pregnant wife.

And then there was Fionn.

Her heart sped up as he appeared on her computer screen. The image was grainy, rough. CCTV wasn’t the best source if you wanted clarity. It allowed her to follow her target with ease, though, watch his back.

This time his back—and backside—was being watched by a slender woman with long dark hair.

Lyse’s hands began to shake.

No, not this time. Turn it off. Don’t do this to yourself.

It was sound advice; she knew that. Just as she knew she wouldn’t take it. Not because she didn’t want to. She wanted with everything inside her to reach out, click the button, and turn the monitor off. But there was no button to shut her brain off. It would follow the path of Fionn’s sexy Lexus with the gleaming navy paint into the night, maybe to his house, maybe a hotel, who knew? It would follow him and the woman inside, and even if they were out of camera range, it would imagine exactly what happened the minute the door shut behind them.

Because torturing herself was her specialty—and no more than she deserved. 

Two months later and it still killed her inside to watch him. That was the point, after all. You didn’t try to blow your friends up and get away with it scot-free. Fionn might not be here to punish her, but he did just fine half a world away, whether he knew it or not.

His car was parked at the very back of Milligan’s lot, just out of range of the camera. The same place he parked every time he came, which was frequently. Milligan’s Pub was a favorite of Fionn’s. A couple clicks of her mouse and she’d switched to the surveillance camera used by the car dealership directly behind the bar. The one pointed in the direction of the chain-link fence and Fionn’s car on the other side. Under a streetlight. Perfect view for surveillance.

Fionn led the woman to the passenger-side door. He didn’t kiss her; Lyse never saw him kiss the women he was with. Instead he opened the door and ushered her in. His lips moved without sound, his cocky grin telling her all she needed to know about the conversation she couldn’t hear. And then he closed the woman in and circled the back of the car.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her lungs doing the same. Turn it off. Turn it off, Lyse. Stop punishing yourself for something that happened months ago.

Two months. Eight weeks. The night her life had ended. The night Fionn could’ve died.

She opened her eyelids, forcing herself to watch.

Fionn started the car, rolled down the windows. A pale hand appeared on his chest. Slid down.

A whimper escaped Lyse’s tight throat.

He turned off the car. His seat eased backward, giving her a better view of his face. It was the perfect face. Not as pale as most gingers. Wide green eyes that could narrow into intimidating lasers when he was angry. A strong nose, high cheekbones. A full mouth that made women fantasize, especially when he gave you that grin. Panties melted away when the man grinned.

Just like he did now, as the woman crawled over the center console and shimmied her way onto the floorboard between his knees.

A fist clamped down on Lyse’s heart.

Fionn seemed to prefer risky locations, in his job and with his women. Tonight appeared to be no different. The woman bent forward. Lyse didn’t know if the door blocking her view was a blessing or a curse. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew this wasn’t only punishment; this was all she’d ever have of Fionn. As close as she’d ever get to her fantasies of him, the ones filled with the gravelly grunts and groans that escaped him now, she was sure. She’d imagined them over and over through the years. Hopeful years. Stupid years, filled with stupid fantasies for a stupid girl.

And yet her body heated at the thought of being between his legs, touching him, taking him in her mouth.

Stupid. What kind of woman watched a man with someone else and got aroused?

A desperate one. A damned one.

She clicked the mouse again, and the camera zoomed in just in time. Fionn’s face tightened. A soundless cry escaped him, his body jerking, emptying himself in the ultimate pleasure. Lyse watched, unblinking, until her eyes burned and her throat closed completely. Until the hard knot in her stomach grew so big, so full of bile and self-hatred that it rose up her throat and forced her away from the screen.

Thank God the trash can was close by. No puking on the keyboard, Sheppard.

When the heaving finally stopped—and when she could walk without her knees giving out—she carried herself and the trash can into the bathroom down the hall. The chilled water felt good on her flushed face, rinsing the bitter taste from her mouth. Hot tears mingled with the cold, but she pretended they weren’t there. Pretended she was okay. It was the only way to get through each day. Giving in to the pain didn’t help when it would only come back tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

Avoiding her reflection in the mirror kept the illusion of control intact for a few more, precious seconds.

She couldn’t even hate Fionn for what she’d seen. He was the resident lady’s man at Global First; everyone knew it. And it wasn’t like he wasn’t made for it. The man was an Irish god—one she wished she’d never met, most days. But then she wouldn’t be able to tear her heart out night after night, would she?

She walked back into the bedroom, grateful that whatever he’d done with the woman, she’d at least missed that part. Though watching him cradle her on his lap, his big hands running over her hair and down her spine, might be worse. Lyse could practically feel those long, rugged fingers on her skin. She shivered beneath the dream touch, then shuddered at her sick imagination.

The clang of water running through the pipes jerked her back to reality. Sean in the bathroom. Her next-door neighbor must have an early shift at the restaurant. Though their shared wall was insulated enough that they both had privacy, nothing could quiet the noisy pipes that ran through them.

She glanced at the clock display in the bottom corner of her computer screen to confirm the time, and relief flooded her. Time for coffee. It might be the middle of the night in Georgia, but here in Ireland the sun was just over the horizon. Though she didn’t deserve the reprieve, she clicked off her view of Fionn and began to cycle through her regular checks—Deacon’s property, Trapper’s apartment, the Global First compound—grateful when emotion began to ebb in favor of her critical thinking. Ones and zeros, observations didn’t require feeling. With anyone else she could shut it off, do the job. Retreat when the fuckup that was her life became too much to handle, which was exactly what she did now. Retreat. There was no shame in regrouping, right?

Right. Keep telling yourself that.

She rubbed at the ache in her chest, eyes on the screen.

The last house on her list wasn’t a team member; it was a house here in North Quigley Village. A quiet neighborhood off one of the main streets that bisected the town. The houses were small, cottages really, with bigger yards that allowed for plenty of the gardening that flourished in Irish country summers. The owner would be getting up soon, following her normal routine. Lyse paused her surveillance and rewound twenty-four hours, quickly scanning the video. Nothing unusual. Her finger tensed, about to close the program.

And that’s when she saw it—a shadow. Not near the house, but up on the street. The neighbors were all in bed, everything still, quiet in that way that only occurred in the dead of night. The dark, amorphous shape near the top-right corner of the screen didn’t cross in front of the house, simply lingered there near the hedgerow. Someone else might’ve thought it was a shadow cast by the full moon or a neighbor’s still-lit lamp, but Lyse had watched hours of surveillance on this particular house. She knew every branch of the trees, every nuance of the night hours as they passed. This shadow shouldn’t be there, but it was.

The emotional girl inside her retreated, allowing the intelligence-trained woman to take over.

An hour later her analytical mind and quick fingers had supplied a face, a name, and a trail that led her back to a part of Fionn’s life he’d kept a closely guarded secret from everyone but Mark Alvarez and Deacon Walsh. A secret she shouldn’t know and had prayed would never rear its ugly head—but it had.

She knew it and the shadow knew it, but Fionn didn’t. And now she had a decision to make: keep herself safe, or protect the one woman Fionn had always loved?

Southern Nights: Enigma 4 - Deny Me

Chapter One

The trailer park was definitely on the wrong side of the tracks, but Charlotte Alexander had never cared. She’d been here numerous times—to pick Becky up for appointments, drop her off afterward, to bring groceries or paperwork or supplies she’d stocked for the baby’s arrival. Three weeks. That’s how close they were to delivery. The couple planning to adopt Becky’s baby were ecstatic.

Tomorrow they’d be heartbroken.

This afternoon the dilapidated state of the white and rust trailer served to remind Charlotte of everything that was at stake, not just for the baby but for Becky. She parked her car in the patchy grass in front of the girl’s home, her gaze falling on shiny chrome and slick paint. A motorcycle gleamed in the weak sunlight filtering through the pines overhead. A very expensive motorcycle. She didn’t know enough about brands to identify it, but the sheer power in its body screamed money. Something Becky and her family didn’t have.

Or shouldn’t.

Her belly twisted as she stared at the machine, beautiful in comparison to the old pickup next to it, the neglected home beside it. Only one person in that trailer could drive a bike that size—Becky’s father, Richard Jones. Big and mean, he’d intimidated Charlotte from the get-go, but because she was helping get Becky’s baby “out of my goddamn house,” as he put it, Richard had kept his distance. Today might not go as well, but intimidated or not, Charlotte needed answers. Needed to make sure Becky and the baby were all right.

Taking a deep breath for courage, she pushed open her car door on the exhale and stepped out. Her heel sank into the red clay soil as she put her weight on it. There’d been no time to change after the late lunch she’d hosted with potential contributors earlier, and she was highly conscious of the luxury inherent in her dress clothes as she crossed the stubby grass toward rickety wooden stairs leading to the front door. Her usual daily uniform—dress slacks and button-downs—worked for the office and interacting with both less fortunate girls and couples from all walks of life, but schmoozing those in her social circle for funding was a fact of life she’d accepted long ago. And moneyed contributors preferred moneyed directors; hence, the fancy clothes.

Right now, though, the same clothes that helped draw large donations underscored the vast ravine between her life and sixteen-year-old Becky’s, something she never wanted to rub in the girl’s face. Today she had no choice.

The rail wobbled as she grabbed it on the first step up the stairs. When her foot landed on the second step, the sound of the chain lock sliding reached her ears. She paused in her climb.

The door cracked open a few inches. Becky’s features were pinched as she peered out of the narrow opening. “What are you doing here?”

The whispered words carried the rasp of fear. Anxiety was etched into the dark circles under her tired eyes, and a faint purple bruise marred her cheekbone.

“Becky, hon...” Instinctively her hand rose, needing to touch the girl, to reassure her. To yank her from the trailer and carry her far away where she’d never have to worry about being hit again. “Are you okay?”

“You shouldn’t be here, Charlotte.” Tears welled, but Becky sniffed them away. “You need to go. Now.”

“Come with me.”

The door opened a few more inches, allowing the swell of Becky’s belly to push through. Charlotte had walked beside the girl every step of the way after she’d come to Creating Families to talk about giving her child up for adoption. She’d watched that mound go from a tiny swell to a basketball. Taking a personal interest in the women who came to her organization was a point of pride with Charlotte. They didn’t only care for the babies they helped adopt—caring for the mothers, during and long after their pregnancies, helping them build new lives for themselves, was a hallmark of Creating Families’ work. But she’d always had a special place in her heart for Becky, maybe because the girl reminded her of herself at that age. Of what might have been had the love of her life not walked away without a backward glance.

Had her body not betrayed her.

Shoving the memories aside, she gripped the railing hard enough that a splinter sank beneath her skin. “Becky, please. Come with me. He can’t force you—”

“Yes, he can.” A wary glance over her shoulder told Charlotte exactly why Becky was whispering. “I know why you’re here. I know you don’t understand why I’d back out of the adoption. Trust me, if I had any choice, I wouldn’t. But I—”

“Who you talking to?” 

The barked question sent a jolt through Becky’s body. Her eyes went wide, her grip tightening on the door just before it was torn from her hand. Richard towered behind her, his unshaven face and stained white tank so cliché Charlotte would’ve laughed if she wasn’t so busy trying not to reveal a hint of fear. The man’s mean eyes narrowed on her, turning her knees to water.

“Why you here, rich bitch?”

Speak, Charlotte. Becky needs you.

“I came to check on Becky.”

A heavy palm landed on Becky’s thin shoulder. The girl jumped. “Nothing for you to check on here, lady.” The man sneered. “We don’t need your charity no more.”

How had such a sweet girl come from this asshole?

“Becky doesn’t—”

“That’s right, she don’t. Her bastard don’t either. She don’t have to go through with no adoption. Now get out of here before I make sure you regret bothering us.”

She glanced toward Becky, whose face had gone sheet-white. Worry for the girl kept Charlotte in place. “Sir, I just want—”

A growl tore from the man’s mouth as he shoved Becky aside. “Get off my property, bitch!”

His bulk pushing onto the stairs caused Charlotte to teeter backward. One heel slipped from the step. For a second she thought she could pull herself back upright, and then she was falling through the air, her stomach lurching at the loss of equilibrium. Pain slammed into her as her butt landed on the concrete pad below the stairs.

Becky’s father huffed a laugh. Staring down his nose, he hocked out a glob of spit that landed perilously close to her hand. “Remember what I said. Come back and I’ll make you regret it. Becky ain’t your concern no more.”

The door slammed behind him, the slide of the chain lock being repositioned reaching her ears past the ringing that filled them. It took a minute before she could gather herself enough to struggle to her feet, seconds when she searched the windows of the trailer in hopes of seeing Becky’s face, making some kind of connection with the girl she’d grown so close to, but no face appeared. No sound came. Nothing.

She stood, dusting dirt from her backside with hands that shook like leaves, uncertain what to do. Whatever it was, she couldn’t do it alone. “I’ll be back, hon. I promise,” she said, knowing Becky couldn’t hear her but desperate to let the girl know. It felt like a betrayal to walk back to her car, slide behind the wheel, but what choice did she have?

David hadn’t defeated Goliath empty-handed. Her only choice was to find her stones and return to battle. That didn’t make it easier to back the car away from the trailer and drive off. She didn’t feel like David; she felt like a monster, leaving the victim with her abuser.

Without conscious thought, without a decision on her part, she pointed the car toward home, but when she reached the turnoff, she kept going. That same mindlessness took her miles down the road, south of town, past Lake McIntosh. Toward the piece of land that, no matter how lush with trees and hills, no matter how soothing the rocky creek that wound through its heart, should not be a balm. It should be a reminder of all she’d lost because of her own foolishness.

Too bad it was the only place she felt truly safe. 

The canopy enveloped her car in hushed shadows as she nosed her way onto the dirt road, the only access to the property. That was all it took for the hard shell she’d surrounded herself with back at the trailer to crack.

Why are you doing this? You know you shouldn’t be here.

And yet here was the only place she could just be, where she could let the shaking overtake her and cry the tears choking the back of her throat and give in to the fear shuddering through her in soul-sucking waves. Here, where no one could see. Where no one knew how weak she really was.

Where she could pretend that the arms that used to hold her safe, right here in this very spot, were still around her.

It was stupid. Senseless. That didn’t stop it from being true. The sobs came, shook her down to her bones. She sobbed until her stomach turned to stone and everything inside it threatened to come back up. Her chest went tight as a drum and she had a hard time breathing, but she let herself ride the waves until, finally, the stress subsided.

Long minutes later the muffled ring of her phone pulled her back to reality. Scrambling in her purse, she felt the cool rectangle of her cell all the way at the bottom and pulled it out. A glance at the screen brought a groan to her lips.

She tapped the green circle. “Mom.”

The word wasn’t as bright and cheery as she’d like, but hopefully it was close enough to fool her mother. Both her parents were supportive of her work, and at thirty they recognized the futility of convincing her to do anything else, but if they knew someone had threatened her? All bets would be off.

“What’s wrong?”

Thank God her mom couldn’t see the grimace that twisted her mouth. “Why would anything be wrong?”

“Don’t try that ‘answering a question with a question’ bit, young lady.” Kim Alexander might have been born and bred into the highest tier of Southern society, but she was also a hands-on mother who knew her daughter well, right down to the nuances of her voice. Damn it.

Leaning her head back on the headrest, Charlotte let a heavy sigh escape her, taking the last of her tears with it. The tension in her belly stayed behind. “Just some things going on at work, Mom. Really.”

“Did the luncheon go well today?”

Creating Families had gained generous donations this afternoon, no doubt about it. But it was what they’d lost, what Becky had lost, that consumed her.

“Very well.” She cranked her car, another sigh escaping her when the cool air from the vent hit her heated face. “I’m just about to head home.” It was early for her—normally she’d head to the office, work a few more hours, despite it being a Sunday, but today had been far longer than the actual hours she’d put in.

The silence on her mother’s end didn’t bode well for her chances of ending the interrogation. Then, “I’ll make some tea; how does that sound?”

Tea cured a multitude of ills, according to Kim Alexander. “Make mine iced and you got it.”

“Sacrilege!” A smile flavored her mom’s words. Delicate laughter filtered through the line, curving Charlotte’s lips despite her worries. “I’ll make it anyway. Be careful, hon.”

Careful. She glanced at the beauty before her. She needed to be careful with more than just driving.

Packing her emotions and her memories away, she put the car in reverse. Headed toward the highway and home. But with every mile, Becky’s situation nagged at her. The pain in the girl’s eyes. The bruise on her cheek. There had to be something she could do.

First things first. Time for a legal opinion. Hitting speed-dial on her console, she waited for the phone to ring.

“You’ve reached Wes Moncrief. I’m away at the moment. Please leave a message and I will return your call.”

Beep.

“Hey, Wes. It’s Charlotte.” She didn’t have to identify herself—they’d known each other practically since birth, which was part of why he was her closest friend—but she did anyway. Always. Because…

She skittered away from that thought.

“Listen, I was hoping I could talk to you about something going on with one of the girls. I just…I don’t know.” She paused to round a curve, trying to bring her words together and failing. Chewed the inside of her lip. “I need some help.”

Accelerating through the bend in the road, she eyed the short straightaway ahead. Could Wes help? He served as legal counsel for Creating Families, but Becky had already terminated her agreement. What could he do?

“The situation’s complicated, but I’m hoping...” What? She slowed for the next curve. “I don’t know. We’ll talk later. Will I see you at—”

A flash at the corner of her eye had her jerking her head around.

A pickup truck, its grill massive to her eyes, barreled toward her from a side road. There was no time to get out of the way. There wasn’t even time to scream. One second she was staring down that grill; the next, everything went black.

Southern Nights: Enigma 5 - Desire Me

Chapter One

It was her smile that caught Saint’s attention first. Small. Wary. Nervous. Every sense he had went on alert at that smile. Made him take a second look.

And holy hell, what that second look did to his libido.

She sat directly across the bar from him at Big Daddy’s, her focus on the waiter who’d just arrived bearing a platter of barbecue and fries. His mouth watered at the sight, but not because of the food. Because of the thick chocolate hair curling around her face. Brown eyes that zeroed in on her meal and darkened with greed. Full lips that went from tight and tense to genuine pleasure when she glanced back at the waiter. That pleasure made his gut go rock-hard.

Because Saint wanted her. And because the man serving her stood too close, seemed too interested. He had the sudden urge to stalk around the bar and chuck the guy across the room, then take his place, close enough to touch her. Take that fork from her hand and feed her himself.

Holy hell, indeed. What was wrong with him?

“What’s he staring at?”

“You mean who, right?” a wry voice answered. “[Who’s he staring at?”

A hard slap across Saint’s shoulder blades snapped his attention back to his companions. With a casualness that was a total lie, he reached for the frothy mug of local IPA in front of him before glancing toward his best friend, King. The man’s movie-star smile mocked Saint’s performance.

“What are you three going on about?” Saint asked.

It was his team lead, Dain, sitting on the other side of King, who answered. “Just remarking on your good taste.”

The bite of the alcohol in his mouth sharpened his tone after another swallow. “Good taste?”

King jerked his chin toward the opposite side of the room. “In scenery.”

“They’re not wrong,” Elliot said from her seat next to him, adding feminine input to the male-dominated conversation.

Saint graced her with a smile. “Usually I’d argue with that conclusion, but not tonight.” His gaze shifted back to the dark-haired beauty across the room. She was digging into her food with a gusto that made his cock stand at attention. The need to get closer, to discover what her voice sounded like, if her body held soft curves or lean angles, if her personality matched the one he was already building in his head based on no more than a look and a few avaricious bites of food, ramped up hard.

But he couldn’t abandon his team, no matter how interested his dick was. Or how long it had been since he’d experienced this kind of sudden interest. He dated plenty, maybe too much in some people’s opinions—his family, for one. They made no secret of their disapproval for his…what did his mom call it? “Footloose and fancy-free ways”? His sisters just called him a man whore. But keeping things casual worked for his lifestyle. Being a security specialist meant a lot of time on assignment, often living in with their clients until whatever danger had sparked their hiring passed. The job kept him busy, kept him happy, but it didn’t necessarily lend itself toward a focus on relationships.

Your teammates would beg to differ.

Of course they would. They’d peg him as being stubborn, needing to play the field. The truth was, he had no desire for a permanent relationship at the moment. Someday, definitely, when the time was right. That time wasn’t now, not for him.

Dain, Elliot, and King—all with respective significant others—worried about him “being alone,” feeling left out when they were all involved in relationships. That’s why they’d dragged him out for drinks. Not that he’d had to be dragged to spend time with them, but neither did they need to be concerned. He was content as he was, single and carefree.

Free to see anyone he wanted. And right now he wanted to see the woman he couldn’t stop staring at from across the bar.

“Shouldn’t you be getting back to your very pregnant wife instead of commenting on my choice of ‘scenery’?” he asked Dain. Their team lead’s wife was due to deliver their first child in only a few weeks. A Christmas baby.

“What does ‘very pregnant’ mean?” Elliot asked, tipping her beer toward Dain down the bar. “I mean, Olivia is either pregnant or not.”

“She’s about to pop; that’s what it means,” King said.

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” Saint advised. “Women do not want to hear words like ‘pop,’ ‘balloon,’ ‘basketball,’ or anything having to do with size when they’re…well…about to pop.” He knew that from vast experience, having four older sisters intent on single-handedly repopulating the world.

His teammates laughed. When the laughter settled, Dain leaned his forearms on the bar and shook his head. “I can’t believe he’s almost here.”

“He?” King raised a sharp blond eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“No,” Elliot answered for him. “Olivia has him by the balls. She hasn’t even hinted to me or Sydney about the baby’s sex, and Sydney can drag intel out of anyone. She’s going into military intelligence as an interrogator when she gets older, I swear.”

Elliot’s soon-to-be stepdaughter didn’t have to interrogate—she turned on the cuteness factor, asked a question, and everyone around her simply spilled their guts. Saint had a couple of nieces who were just as effective.

Dain ignored Elliot’s input. “No, Olivia hasn’t said anything. But I just know.”

“What he means,” King said, “is that the idea of having a daughter makes him feel like the guy in Alien with the monster tearing its way through his chest. So yeah, it has to be a boy.”

Laughter made the rounds again, but in the midst, Saint found his gaze wandering back across the bar. It wasn’t until Dain stood from his barstool that his attention came back to his friends.

“So, Monday?” Dain said.

“Monday,” the rest of the team groaned.

“Hey, at least we’re not on assignment this weekend,” Elliot pointed out. They’d been working more often than not lately, but the holidays were shaping up to be quiet, thank goodness. His mom would pitch a fit if he missed another Christmas dinner with his family.

Elliot stood as well, and then King. Time to go.

Saint glanced across the bar one more time.

Elliot and Dain headed for the door. King’s heavy hand landed on Saint’s shoulder. “Coming, bro?”

Saint hesitated.

King’s chuckle was knowing. “I thought so.”

He shot around on the stool. “You thought what?”

“I thought you might be staying behind.” King squeezed his shoulder, then gave him a hard pat that almost threw Saint into the bar. “We’ll see you on Monday, okay?”

Saint snickered. “Sure. Give Charlotte my love.”

King and Charlotte had been childhood sweethearts, but they’d only recently come back together when Charlotte’s life was threatened. Another reason Saint was happy to play the field. It seemed like anyone his team got involved with was already in danger. The thought of a woman of his being in danger… A red haze shifted across his eyesight.

“Will do.” King’s gaze shifted to the dark-haired beauty across the bar; then he gave Saint a wink. “Later.”

Saint grabbed his beer and downed the last swallow, enjoying the bite as it slid down his throat. The bottle landed on the bar with a faint rattle, and then he was off his seat and headed around to the other side of the room.

He’d made it no more than five feet when a heavyset man moved in on his target.

That red haze? It made a reappearance so swift the room spun.

His casual stroll turned into a charge worthy of a bull. Whatever the asshole was saying, it was clear the woman was increasingly uncomfortable. Saint could read the protests as they left her lips, practically hear the demand in the man’s voice despite the crowd separating them. But it was the meaty paw landing on the woman’s arm and clamping down that brought a roar to Saint’s lips, a roar he barely held back.

He had rounded the final edge of the bar, still several feet away, when the asshole reared back, his hands coming up to cover his nose. It was the man who roared, not Saint. No, as he watched the woman’s elbow lower back to her side, it was a laugh that escaped him. She hadn’t needed him after all. Why did that fill him with pride?

“Jesus fucking Christ, woman! What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t like being manhandled,” she said clearly. The words hit Saint like a one-two punch—appropriate, considering. The woman’s voice had a northern accent, not New York but something flatter, less pronounced, wrapped up in a husky tone that sent tingles down his spine straight to his balls, and a self-assurance that turned him on more than either of the first two. The intense need to meet her, to know her, skyrocketed the second her voice registered in his ears.

Mr. Asshole stumbled back toward a group of what had to be his buddies in the far corner—they were laughing too much to be anyone else but an interested party. Saint continued forward without even a consideration of stopping, and before he knew it, he was standing behind the empty barstool next to the woman. “Nice move.”

Beneath the fall of her dark, curly hair, the woman’s shoulders tensed, readying herself for another attack. The knowledge pierced his gut in a way sexual attraction didn’t.

“Hey.” He made no move to touch her, though his fingers itched with the need. “No worries. Just an observation.”

She snorted as her head jerked in his direction. Mouth open, no doubt to tell him to get lost. But the words died on her lips the minute their eyes met.

She felt it too. If the lack of words didn’t tell him that, the stunned look in her eyes did. And that made him one lucky son of a bitch.

Across the bar the sight of her dark eyes had drilled deep into him, but here, this close, mere inches away, they worked a magic that totally threw him. A magic he couldn’t resist. It wound around his body, tightened, holding him captive, and damn if he didn’t feel that look gripping his cock right through his clothes. His breath choked off in his throat.

She cleared her throat. “Uh, hi.” Her words were accompanied by a smile that was a one-eighty pivot from a moment ago. Softer. Sweet. Definitely interested, thank fuck.

“Hi.” He indicated the empty stool. “Mind if I sit?”

He wouldn’t barge in without permission, no matter how interested she seemed. He wasn’t Mr. Asshole.

She stared at him for a long moment before nodding. His sigh of relief escaped silently as his ass hit the cushion.

“I have to admit”—he grinned, more at his own arrogance than her—“I was totally riding to the rescue over here.”

A husky laugh left her lips. “Totally?”

“Yeah.” His chuckle mingled with hers. “Not that you needed it, or me. Or anyone, for that matter. Like I said, nice work.”

Her eyebrow rose, and she gave him a damn right look. “Thanks.” One shoulder lifted nonchalantly. “I’m used to dealing with jerks.”

“If I promise not to be one, would you promise not to introduce me to that elbow?”

Her eyes lightened to caramel when she was amused, he noticed. “How about I consider it? You’ll have to earn my trust first, though.”

The flirty tone in her words kicked his heartbeat up a notch. “I’ll earn whatever you let me earn,” he promised.

She smirked, the slight curl of her lips pulling his attention to their glossy surface. His mouth watered. “Sounds like a deal,” she said.

She glanced across the room toward his original seat, confirming his suspicion that she’d spotted him before. The space he and his team had occupied was now empty, but the confrontation had drawn the notice of several parties around the bar top. Catching the interested eyes, she dropped her gaze to the drink in front of her as if the attention bothered her.

“Forgive our nosy Southern tendencies,” Saint said. “Some of us have no idea how to hide it.”

Her snort was downright cute. “That’s obvious.” She gave him a small smile. “But some of you don’t need to.”

The sudden intensity in her eyes seemed to search his depths, though what she was searching for, he didn’t know.

He glanced around, seeing far too many people focused on them for his comfort. His gaze dropped to the drink she slowly twisted around on the counter—the bottom half still brown, maybe tea, but the top half clear, watered down. “How about you let me replace that”—he nodded toward her drink—“and find you a booth to enjoy it with more privacy? Someplace with less of an audience.”

No pressure, just an offer. Would she take it?

Tension returned to her shoulders, and he leaned back slightly, giving her space.

Dark eyes studied him for a long, long time, so long he figured her answer would be no. But then she said, “My name’s Rae.” Pushing her glass away, she held out her hand. “What’s yours?”

“Saint. Saint Solorio.” Her hand slid into his like it had been created to fit him. He gripped it firmly, warming her skin with his, savoring the feel of her against him. Wanting to feel far more. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rae.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her dark, determined eyes. “Saint,” she murmured as if testing his name out on her lips. “I wouldn’t mind someplace more private, if that’s all right.” Sliding from the barstool, she gathered her jacket from the back and slipped into it. “Let’s go.”