ANOMALY.MIL (The Conspiracy Series Book One): A Romantic Suspence Novel (7 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Seneca sat in the cab of the truck, still reeling from the information that Cat was pregnant. They had been trying to conceive for so long that Cat was beginning to accept the fact that it may never happen. But it did happen, and Cat and Dave had intended to share the good news with her brother and best friend at dinner…tonight.

God, had it only been this morning when the Feds had taken Cat? She glanced at Ansel. But now that it was dark, she was having a difficult time seeing his expression.

Not that it really mattered. He had not said a word since they got into the Chevy pickup, and started driving east over the mountains on I-90. It didn't take a genius to figure out what he was feeling. Not only did he want to protect his sister, but now he would feel the need to protect her child, too.

"I'm so sorry," she said, in the dark. Not really knowing what for.

His left wrist was resting atop the large steering wheel, and he turned his head to look at her for the first time. "For what?"

"All of it." He just stared at her, prompting her to explain, "For Cat, for Dave…for you."

"You didn't kidnap her," he said, to the windshield.

"I know, but I can still feel sorry for you."

"I don't need your pity, Ms. Reed." He was angry.

"It's not pity." How could he think that it was? "It's sympathy. Cat told me about the loss of your parents two years ago, and—"

"You know I hate it when people say that. I didn't 'lose' my parents," he growled. "They were killed. Murdered. Shot, during a home invasion."

He stared at her so long she thought they would run off the road.

"I'm…" Seneca was so shocked, she could hardly speak. Why hadn't Cat told her the truth? Why had she let her believe it was a car accident that killed their parents? Or maybe she had just assumed. "I'm so sorry that happened to you."

"You didn't shoot them in the back of the head, or kidnap my sister," Ansel spat, and she instinctively leaned away from his venom. "So, would you stop saying you're sorry for shit you didn't—"

Even in the dim light, she could see his face change. Did it relax, or tense? He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, and began to accelerate the truck.

"Ansel?" Seneca was getting nervous. "What are you doing?" She saw his chest rise and fall, more rapidly than it had a moment ago. "Ansel?"

They were still gaining speed, and Seneca leaned over to glance at the speedometer just as it topped ninety. She looked at him again, hoping that talking about his parents and his sister's situation had not, literally, driven him to suicide and consequently, her unfortunate murder.

"Ansel?" Her heart was racing as they hit a hundred. The truck barreled down the road, straining through the speed and forcing her to raise her voice. "You're scaring me a little."

A lot, actually
.

But then she looked at him again. His clenched jaw, the muscles straining in his forearms as he gripped the steering wheel. He was not suicidal. He was in a blind rage.

"Ansel," she said, as firmly as she could. "Pull onto that emergency truck ramp. See it up ahead? You know," she tried to sound reasonable, "the gravel ones that stop eighteen-wheelers when they lose their brakes coming off the mountain."

No response.

"Pull over."

It was almost too late.

"Right now. Ansel. Pull over!" she screamed, and he swerved to the right so violently that she crashed into his side.

Ansel slammed on the brakes and the thick truck tires lost traction on the gravel, spinning them around one hundred and eighty degrees.

The second the truck came to a stop, he was out of the cab and she lost him in the dark. Seneca reached over and turned the key, and the Chevy engine rumbled off.

She closed her eyes and gave a sigh of relief with her heart still stuck somewhere in her throat. But she only allowed herself a moment to calm down before sliding across the bench seat to set the emergency brake.

The moon was darting in and out of rain clouds and it was difficult to see anything, much less a man who did not want to be found. Seneca hopped out of the truck and started walking in the direction she thought he had gone.

The gravel crunched under her flat shoes, and Seneca was afraid she was going to slip walking down the hill. She decided to stay parallel with the ramp, thinking it would help her find her way back to the pickup if she got lost.

In the dark, unfamiliar noises led her to imagine things. She shivered. It was creepy, and she was getting scared. The gravel ramp towering over her, the base of which was almost as wide as it was tall. Seneca slipped as she looked up at it, but she didn't fall.

"Ansel," she said, thinking this was the beginning of a really bad horror movie. You know, those movies where the heroine does something stupid, like walk on the side of a highway in the dark. Alone. "Ansel?"

He did not answer. It was like the six foot three, two hundred and fifty-pound man had just disappeared into thin air. Or into the woods, like Sasquatch.

Shit!
What if there were bears?

That would be her luck, to be mauled by a bear while looking for an armed black ops soldier who refused to save her. Or she could always step on a rattlesnake. Seneca stopped on a dime and glanced at her feet.

No snakes. At least, none that she could see.

And then she heard the faint sound of gravel about twenty yards ahead. Seneca squinted, and with a flash of moonlight darting from between the clouds, she found him. A dark figure lying on the side of the emergency ramp.

He had to have heard her call his name, so she didn't bother to do it again. She just walked up and sat down next to him, until Ansel was ready to talk. But he didn't say a word, and she was not the most patient of people.

"Are you okay?" Which she knew was a ridiculous question, but she did not know what else to say.

His head turned toward her, and all she saw of his face were shadows against darker shadows. He was leaning flat against the gravel at a forty-five-degree angle with his feet firmly planted on the ground. His hands were behind his head, but even in a prone position his arms were huge balls of muscle.

Seneca wanted to be at eye level with him. She scurried up the incline, sitting down on his left side. The only problem was that the gravel gave way beneath her, and she kept slipping.

"I didn't mean to upset you," she tried again, looking down at him. "I knew…about your parents." He didn't say a word, but at least he seemed calmer. Reasonable. "I mean, Cat told me that they had…."

Seneca started to slip on the cool rocks. She pushed herself up, settling on her right hip.

"I just didn't know about the home invasion, and the…shooting. I'm so sorry." She was slipping again. "That must have been horrible for y—"

In one powerful movement, Ansel wrapped his right arm around her waist to stop her from falling. His hand lingered and neither of them spoke. They were locked in a sensual battle of chicken, and Seneca dare not move. But he did. He leaned forward, and she fell back against the gravel as if being pushed by an opposing magnet.

The moment her back hit the cold stones, she gasped, giving him the perfect opportunity. He kissed her, hard. No gentle first touching of lips. No tentative exploration, building to more. No. Ansel pulled her against his chest and consumed her, slipping his tongue between her lips, and coaxing her to follow.

He was very persuasive.

So persuasive that she was getting lost. Her breathing was getting heavy, crushing her breasts against his chest each time she tried to recover. She clung to his back for stability. But with every muscular inch she roamed, Seneca became more unsteady.

She sighed, unable to stop herself, and he took it as permission. Ansel grabbed her ass, pulling her against his lean body, and his triumphant groan of satisfaction sent a flash of lust swirling up her body and into her foggy head, creating all kinds of carnal thoughts about what she wanted to do to him. What she wanted him to do to her.

His erection was pressing against her, and her nipples tightened in response.

His large hand slid under her shirt, until he was cupping her breast over her bra. He squeezed with a practiced hand, and she moaned in appreciation of his skill.

Ansel’s kisses were becoming more insistent, and he slid his lips behind her ear and kissed down her neck. His hot breath made her shudder, and she arched her back to give him greater access to her throat.

His mouth was on hers again as he rolled on top of her, his weight pressing her deeper into the gravel. His knee moved her leg to the side, so he could settle himself between her thighs. He rolled his hips into her, and moaned with pleasure before lifting himself just enough so he could unzip his fly.

Wait.

What? Her head cleared.

"No," she said, pushing against his chest.

He didn't move.

"Seneca," he whispered, and she could hear his plea entangled with her name.

"No," she said, still breathless. "We would never do this under normal circumstances." He was out of her league. "You're just…upset."

She slid from underneath him and walked back to the Chevy, trying not to cry.

The man was clearly distraught when he kissed her. Naturally it was her response to attack the guy, right after talking about his dead parents and kidnapped sister.

Nice, Seneca
. Real nice.

She dusted off her ass and the front of Ansel's ex lover's shirt. The truck had a step on the side and she was able to get into the cab without his help, just thankful that it was dark and he would not see that she was completely mortified.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Ansel collapsed against the gravel, still trying to catch his breath. He wiped his face with both hands, as if that would erase his stupidity. It didn't. He dropped his hands to his chest, and just waited for the blood to rush from his groin back to his empty head.

What was he thinking?
Fucking
i
diot!

He had been so upset, so angry when he realized. And Seneca had been so sweet, so…comforting.
God, how he wanted comforting
. Needed it, desperately. So he took it. Forced her on her back and…took it. Demanded that she open to him as he kissed her.

And she had, he had convinced her. He felt the moment she melted into him, and it was so…sensual, so fucking sexy that he had unzipped his fly like a sixteen-year-old boy who couldn't wait to get it in.

He was getting hard again just thinking about it.

"Fuck." Ansel jumped up, furious with himself.

Standing alone in the dark, he tried in vain to think of what he would say to her. How he could explain his inexcusable behavior.

But there was no excuse.

He sighed, then bit the bullet and walked back up to the truck. His brows furrowed when Ansel saw that she was in the driver’s seat, and then he grinned.

He had practically killed them both, and he totally understood her desire to be the one in control. Honestly, he had no idea the truck could even reach those speeds. It was dangerous, and stupid, and he felt terrible that he had frightened her.

Ansel got into the passenger seat and sat as far away from her as he could.

They did not say a word to each other as she pulled out onto the freeway, following in Gunner's wake. He glanced at her, the words on the tip of his tongue, but they fell back into his throat.

His right knee bounced up and down as he fidgeted, and Ansel tried to steady himself by laying his left arm along the back of the bench seat.

"I apologize." It sounded formal and uncomfortable, which he was. "It's how I…cope with stress."

Seneca did not say a word, and he really didn't want her to. But he owed her an explanation.

"My job…I do a lot of dangerous things." Her head turned ever so slightly towards him, and he wondered what she was thinking. "So, I cope with…" Ansel cringed. "Sex."

God, he sounded like a deviant. Probably was, and for the first time in his life, he was embarrassed by the number of woman he had slept with.

She shrugged. "You're under a lot of…stress."

He was. But so was she, and it sure as hell did not excuse his lecherous behavior.

"It was inappropriate."
It.
Meaning, him trying to fuck her. "I'm…sorry," Ansel repeated, and then explained why he was so distraught. "Earlier, when we were talking about my parents—"

"You don't have to talk about them if you don't want to," she said, with such kindness that it stilled him.

"Yes, I do." He needed to explain his loss of control. Both in the car and out there on the ramp. He pushed away the shame of his behavior and began again. "When we were talking about my parent’s deaths, and how they were murdered…"

She nodded. "Yes."

"When I told you that they had been shot in the back of the head…" He stated it as a simple fact, void of all emotion. "It occurred to me that my parents' deaths, and the government's use of force on my sister might be—"

"Oh my God!" She was shocked by his suggestion.

"The events could be related," he finished. "Home invaders rarely shoot their victims in the back of the head. And if the local law enforcement weren’t looking, they would never see the signs of a government operation."

"You mean an assassination."

Ansel shrugged. "Probably, yes."

But he and Gunner had been together on an operation of their own in Asia when his parents were murdered, so it had to have been another special ops unit.

Or another agency.

"Why?" Seneca was shaking her head. "I still can't imagine what threat Catherine could possibly pose to the US government."

"Me either." But Ansel could not wait to ask them.