Dangerous (3 page)

And alert, he reminded himself. It was easy to feel relaxed around her, with her surprisingly easygoing humor and personality, something he absolutely should not be. She was so at ease and so tranquil, not at all the vision of a woman in fear for her life. The realization sparked suspicion into the back of his brain again and he sat up a little straighter.

“What's going on, Ms. Candler?” he asked her directly, adding some sharpness to his tone in an attempt to bring them both to the point.

“Devon,” she corrected easily, “if that's not too awkward for you. And it's simple, really. My enemies have made a target of me, putting a price on my head. A very large price. Enough of a reward so that when they themselves rest from trying to harm me, others jump readily into their place. There have been six attempts so far, two that were extremely close.” Devon reached to lift a folder from the near table and handed it to him.

The first photograph was an eight-by-ten of a sandstone and terra cotta mansion engulfed in flames, the second photo showed only stone, burned black, remaining. Liam could tell that nothing would have survived a blaze of such proportions. The next two were burned-out cars, the destruction looking like bomb work. It was the fourth that took his breath away. It was an undated photo of a bedroom in an undisclosed hotel. The bed was covered in blood and it had been violently shot to shreds. His eyes swept up to hers, then burned over every inch of her body in search of scars or telltale markings that would identify that blood as her own. She graciously complied with his silent investigation and lifted the hem of her gown all the way up to her thigh. There, still rather freshly healed, was the pocked marking of a gunshot wound that sliced through the rear thigh muscles. It wasn't going to be much of a scar, he could tell, but her remarkable healing abilities didn't make the injury any less dangerous or compelling.

“Why have you waited so long to get protection?” he demanded through tense vocal chords, his blood seething with an inexplicable rage when he thought of her sleeping like that, ignorant of an approaching danger that had nearly succeeded in ending her life.

“Because I thought the house and the first car fire were accidents. Afterward, when I became more aware, I thought knowledge and caution would see me through.” She stood up and paced a thoughtful circuit before him, the shadows of her body dancing in transparent white silk playing merry hell with his concentration. The thin straps of that damned thong drew his attention every single time to the curve of her bottom as she turned or passed. “Unlike many women, Mr. Nash, I am capable of protecting myself.” Now that he was looking for it, Liam could see the limp that hampered her pace. It was the faintest thing. She was too proud to show an obvious weakness. He could see that in the straightness of her spine and the rigidity of her statement. “No one was in that bedroom but me and the assailant. I assure you, he's come to regret that.”

Polished and refined she might be, but Liam didn't doubt her for a heartbeat. In order for her to have survived, there had to be something as tough as steel running through her. Add her fierce pride to it and it probably irked the hell out of her that she had to go to others for help. Yet, she did it with dignity and aplomb.

“You could get any number of people to guard you,” he stated at last, studying her stoic features very carefully. “There are some fine firms out there. Why did you pick NHK, Ms. Candler?”

“Devon,” she persisted gently. Then more directly, “I prefer your . . . umm . . . style.”

“And what style is that?” Liam asked, a thrill of anticipation shooting down the back of his neck as he realized there was potentially a lot more going on here than the average babysitting job.

Devon stopped and looked at him. She suddenly kneeled before him in a graceful sweep of silk, her knees settling between the toes of his boots and her hands resting lightly on his bent legs. Their eyes locked with an instant sense of intimacy and he held himself very still as he tried to decide how to react.

“You dislike my being this close. It makes you uncomfortable. If I close the distance, the discomfort increases . . .” She demonstrated her point by sliding her hands up his thighs and leaning her body in toward his.

For Liam, it was as if he'd forgotten how to breathe. Or move. It was as good as having her kneeling naked in front of him, an image he had no trouble conjuring in his active mind. She'd been hot-wiring his senses from the minute she'd entered the room, and now she was about to drive the car right off the showroom floor. He felt her ribs sliding against his inner thighs, the soft weight of her breasts a torturous brush over the material of his blacks. Devon's scent flooded up and over him with a hint of orange citrus and some unidentifiable spice that blended deliciously with the smell of warm, sexy woman. On the back of that scent came heat. It was a body warmth that, as she leaned even closer, swept in fast and furious waves over his thighs, groin, and belly, methodically seeking its way up his chest. Completely out of his control, Nash's body responded to her lure, hot blood pulsing low into his hips until he was hardening in answer.

Discomfited, Liam reacted by dropping the folder on the floor and grabbing her shoulders tightly.

“Defense,” she said quickly to make her point. “You've stopped me from doing what you don't want me to do. But this is basic physics. You have to continually expend effort to keep me where I am. The threat stays, your energy is uselessly spent keeping me constantly at bay, and this doesn't change. Not until one day when you weaken, or when you aren't paying attention . . .” She marked her line of reasoning by sliding her unimpeded hands all the way up the insides of his thighs until her fingertips flirted just shy of discovering her effect on him. “One day something gets by you and you're victimized. There's only one thing you can do to stop it. Only one thing, or you must face the inevitable.” Her hands twitched and he felt the brush of stroking fingers along the rigid length of his fly.

Liam exploded off the couch, hauling her up and shoving her backward. All he wanted in that instant was to get her as far away from himself as he could reasonably manage before . . . well,
before
. He wasn't expecting her to stumble back awkwardly, landing hard on her bottom on the floor.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” he bellowed as he marched to tower over her, knowing that at his height and in the peak of fury he was beyond imposing. He told himself he didn't give a damn as his hands rolled into mighty fists. He fought not only his temper but an agonizing pulse of blatant sexual arousal.
What in hell was she thinking?

“Offense,” she gasped out, her expression folding into a taut tension. “Don't you see?” she panted softly. “Offense is the only true defense, otherwise you'll always be fighting to protect yourself.”

Liam stilled, his anger bleeding out of him so swiftly he was left a bit at loose ends, his body swirling with directionless urges and emotions. He suddenly and sharply comprehended the point she was making. He looked down at her, his entire body vibrating with tension and a keen awareness he didn't want to feel. Devon was flushed so deeply that he could trace the coloring along her skin beneath her sheer dress. She was breathing hard, with strain tightening every part of her body. Her lips had become less mobile, pressed firmly together, and he realized it was because she was in pain.

Liam remembered the bloody sheets in the photo and the scar on her leg.

“Christ! Devon, that was a stupid thing to do!” he spat out as he bent to scoop her off of the floor. “Touching a strange man like that! When he could take it for a damn invitation and overpower you easily? Especially after showing him your vulnerability? I didn't mean to, yet I still re-injured your leg!” He swept her over to the couch he'd abandoned and settled her onto it. He went to one knee beside her and pulled up the silk skirt of her dress so he could gently probe the angry wound. She sucked in a fast breath and he frowned darkly.

“I just didn't want you to tell me no,” she said tightly through her teeth. “I wanted to make sure you understood exactly how I feel.”

Liam looked up and met the penetrating jade of her eyes, his big hands resting around her warm thigh. “I do understand. But you could try asking first, straight out, and then attempt shock tactics
after
someone says no. It's a sounder plan of action.”

“I don't like being told no and then having someone change their mind later. It raises too many doubts. At least now you know what I'm capable of. I'm no precious damn porcelain princess who will stand idly by while someone tries to shoot me to shreds.”

Liam actually couldn't help grinning at that. She also refused to play the ignorant wilting flower, and that was going to be a key factor in saving her life one day. She faced her dangers proactively. Nash was the last person who'd condemn proactive behavior.

Provided it didn't get her killed or raped along the way. Liam's smile disappeared and his anger fumed up around him again when he thought about what she could have opened herself up to.

“Yeah, well, you're damn lucky I'm not a closet rapist. Going around and . . .” Nash wasn't shy, but he'd be damned if he was going to start talking about it out loud when he wasn't exactly over the memory of that ghostly erotic touch in the first place. “Talk about handing the mouse a big ass wheel of cheese,” he grumbled as he turned his attention back to her leg. He slid his hand between her thighs, drawing out her knee so he could see the healing exit wound. He ignored the eddy of incredible heat she gave off as it bathed his fingers and his aching palm. He was trying to keep the craving twitches in his fingertips down to a minimum as he rasped out, “Especially after showing up in a dress like this.”

“You don't like my dress?” She sounded genuinely upset as she studied the chic garment for flaws.

“Oh, I like it,” he muttered gruffly. “It's just a little overt.”

“Is it?”

Liam watched her frown and nibble on a corner of her bottom lip thoughtfully. The pensive expression told him she was honestly debating his opinion. Nash quickly began to regret his remarks. Who was he to judge her? He'd stepped into her world barely ten minutes ago. Why should his opinion even matter to her? The dress was no different from hundreds he'd seen before on other fashionable women. Why did it rattle him in this situation when it was forgettable window dressing everywhere else?

Then he recalled the enormity of the task she wanted to hire NHK for and the daunting responsibility that came with it. She didn't just want protection from her enemies; she wanted her enemies eliminated. It was a cold and ruthless decision, but as she had so aptly demonstrated, it might well be the only option to save her life.

Liam ran gentle, thoughtful fingers over the wound along her inner thigh and asked matter-of-factly, “Devon, who is it that you've made enemies with? Who would go through all this trouble to try to kill you, and why?”

She opened her mouth, hesitated, then said, “I hold the key to the lives and deaths of a lot of people. Those who hunt me also hope to remove the hold I have over them.” She took a deep, unsteady breath. “I can't be more specific, I'm sorry. But you don't need to know the finer details. What you do need to know is that, besides those in search of a huge bounty, my main enemy is a Morphate.”

Devon was expecting his reaction, but still she jumped when he exploded up to his full height in an awesome rushing wall of bone and sinew that flexed and bulged with dozens of tautened muscles. She looked the long way up into his deceptively understated amber eyes, marveling at the glints of gold within them that flashed when his temper was aroused.

Morphates
was a word no human being liked hearing. She imagined Liam Nash had grown to hate it more than most. His personal knowledge of Morphates was one of the reasons she was so determined to have him.

It was also quite possibly the main reason why he might turn her down.

“Are you telling me that you have
Morphates
gunning for you?” Nash ground out in a voice so low and dangerous it was practically a growl.

“To be precise, it could be the leaders of a couple of different Dark Cities,” she said firmly, keeping her eyes steadily attached to his. “Whoever it is, he wants me to suffer . . . or submit. I have a lot of information the Morphate leaders feel is quite valuable.”

Devon did not blame Liam for his stupefied expression. Morphates themselves were stupefying. Once humans, Morphates had been created by a mad scientist named Eric Paulson a few decades back. His experimentations on the indigent, the criminal, and others had resulted in the people who now called themselves Morphates. Well known for their savage instincts, their ferociously sexual natures, and the fact that they were, by agreement with the government, supposed to limit themselves to the Dark Cities they had volunteered to live in, they were more recently thrust into human awareness because there were upstart Morphates who no longer wanted to be trapped behind the walls of those confinement camps. The Dark Cities were huge metropolises that had been overrun by the refuse of humanity—gangs, criminals, the homeless. Ultimately, humanity had thought it best to wall off cities like New York and Chicago, give up on them and let the criminals have them. They wanted to pretend that would be the end of the matter. When the Morphates had come on the scene, their leaders, their Alphas, had struck a bargain with the humans, agreeing to live in the Dark Cities. Agreeing to make themselves responsible for them. Agreeing to quietly keep to themselves along with all the other things that frightened mainstream humanity.

But that had been before they'd begun to breed new generations, before it had become obvious they weren't going to die off like normal humans did—before mainstream humanity had realized that Morphates couldn't be killed, not even by time or the aging process

The only thing that could control a Morphate was another Morphate. The Alphas, to be exact. The Alpha hierarchy was an absolute one. If you lived in their City, you obeyed and respected your Alpha . . . unless you felt yourself capable of challenging that Alpha and taking over his or her position. In the thirty-five years since the Phoenix Project, that had only happened once . . . in Dark Houston. All the other Dark Cities were still run by their original Alphas.

The Alphas themselves were controlled by an Alpha Council. Each Alpha answered to the political and legal power of the Alpha Council. Ideally. But recently two Dark Cities had broken away from the Council's control, had decided to start living by their own rules, and Morphates had started bleeding out of the Dark Cities. Some had gathered into new enclaves that occasionally liked to intimidate and bully the humans they considered inferior to themselves in so many ways. Luckily, for the most part, they paid humans about as much mind as they might a stray animal. They were more interested in fighting amongst themselves for power, feuding for control.

Just the same, there were hostilities between the two species. Morphates didn't respect humans, and why should they? Humans were inferior creatures compared to Morphates, with the abilities and power that they wielded. Humans feared and despised the unstoppable prowess of a species that could potentially wipe humanity from the face of the earth.

To further complicate things, Morphates could easily pass as normal humans if they wanted to. Some people thought that they
were
still technically human, but many humans and most Morphates disagreed with that, each finding it to be a little bit insulting. Still, the Constitution protected American Morphates just as it did anyone else, and all laws applied. Then there was that little thing called immortality. You could put a bullet in a Morphate's brain and it would still survive, healing from the wound completely intact.

Oh, and there was one more little thing . . . that little thing about drinking blood . . .

So she wasn't surprised by Liam's reaction in the least. It was to be expected.

“I chose you because you have experience in this kind of altercation. Your people have the equipment needed to hurt them, to slow them down, as well as the training specific to fighting Morphates. I'm not asking you to burn them to the ground, although in a perfect world that might be nice, but I do need you to make enough of an impact that you get the message across: to leave me alone.”

“Last I checked, assault on that scale is still illegal,” Nash reminded her stiffly. “My people are bodyguards, not mercenaries. Oh”—he smiled sarcastically as he folded brawny arms over his chest and settled in a firm stance—“and it's common knowledge, you can't kill a Morphate.”

“You've killed a Morphate, Mr. Nash.” She took satisfaction in the way his breathing froze into silence, the superiority on his face falling away in a rush of shock. “And the only reason the incident is even on record is because you reported it to your C.O. in the Secret Service as a matter of protocol. It wasn't as though there was a body left behind.” She threw up her hands and made a poofing sound to indicate the vaporous cloud that occurred when a Morphate was finally, truly dead, its body dissolving into its basic gaseous components.

Liam stared at her as if she'd grown an extra head.

“How do you know that?” he demanded. “How did you find out about that?” His eyes narrowed to amber slits when she didn't respond immediately. “There are only a handful of people who know how to kill a Morphate. Even fewer know what happens to them when they die,” he said in a low voice full of threat. “Now I ask you again, Ms. Candler, how do you know that?”

“Hmm.” She contemplated her answer for a moment, watching as his huge hands dropped to his sides and curled into tightly clenched fists. “I suppose I don't have a choice,” she mused.

Devon was testing his patience and taunting him, and it probably wasn't at all wise to do so, but there was something fascinating in the way Liam Nash reacted to her. She had seen hours of video files on this man, everything from interviews to reports, and even supremely stressful tests of strength and mental fortitude. In each and every one he had remained as still as stone and even less expressive.

Not anything like the man who stood before her now, clenched tight with suppressed storms of emotion.

The man whose extraordinarily fit body, in spite of its forbidding solidity, had quivered like a taut bowstring when she had boldly touched him.

Devon concealed a shiver as her fingertips burned with carnal memory of the all too brief caress against his blatantly aroused cock. It had been a shocking surprise in spite of her bold tease. She had never expected him to respond to her as a man does a woman. Not after everything she had seen, read, and learned about him. She had assumed that as well trained as he was, a veteran of every tactic known to man, he would have been completely dispassionate. Completely immune to . . . well, to her.

But he had been hot and hard . . . and he had scolded her for wearing an “overt” dress.

Devon lowered her eyes lest he see the smug amusement blooming in them and twitching against her lips. She liked the idea of having him a little off center. She didn't know why. She just liked it.

“Candler International,” she said quietly, “has a military contract. Research focused on stopping Morphates both temporarily and permanently. Specifically, creating viable weapons.”

“And you succeeded,” he breathed in unabashed awe the instant comprehension dawned. “That's why they are after you. That's why they all want you dead.” He dropped quickly to his knees again, swiftly energized, his amber gaze gleaming with anticipation. “Tell me, how are you carrying the main component? What's your delivery system? The bullets we're using now are hazardous for humans to handle and too unpredictable. How did you get around the toxicity factor?”

Devon laughed at him, unable to help herself. He was like a kid on Christmas morning. His hands and inspection returned to the wound inside her leg almost absently and she felt them actually shaking.

“I've never seen anyone get so excited about a new weapon before, Mr. Nash,” she teased him.

“Liam,” he corrected. Devon sucked in a sharp breath when his probing fingers hit a painful spot. She hoped she hadn't pulled her hamstring muscle again during the fall. She'd done it once already and it was a damned nuisance as well as painful. Incapacitation irritated the hell out of her.

Then the sadist squeezed her thigh again and she threw her body back against the cushion, her hips lifting reflexively as she moaned long and low.

“Something I can help you with there, Nash?”

Nash twisted around when someone spoke from across the room. Devon turned her head to see a man and a woman standing there, fully armed and wearing outfits identical to Nash's. The woman was a Latina beauty with insanely gorgeous hair, but the man was almost prettier than she was. He was about six feet tall with golden hair cut short and neatly fashionable, and dark, almost black eyes. He looked more like a model than a soldier, even though he was clearly the latter. With a Roman nose, chiseled lips and cheekbones, he probably melted hearts everywhere he went. The body he maintained in order to perform his job only improved the package. Plus, the mischievous smile and amusement dancing within his eyes instantly made her want to return his good humor.

Devon realized what she and Liam must look like. When Nash merely turned back to what he'd been doing, she was momentarily impressed with his composure. But that was only until she realized the so-called hard ass soldier was flushing slowly from the neck up, and she bit her lip as she stifled a giggle. His eyes shot to hers and he gave her a look that could have killed even a Morphate.

“Gordon, we got a medpack in the Hummer?” he asked evenly.

“Of course,” Gordon snorted as if he couldn't believe Nash had asked such a thing.

“Bring it up.” He added sharply, “Double time!”

Devon watched as the man and woman exchanged looks of humor, but the male did move quickly out of the room to obey the order.

“Devon Candler, this is Inez Flores,” he introduced without looking at his coworker, but raising a hand to beckon her forward. “Flores, this is Devon Candler. Ms. Candler was assaulted not too long ago and has a healing gunshot wound to the thigh. She fell and has re-injured herself. Could you take a look please?” Nash turned to Devon. “Do you mind? She's an excellent medic.”

“I don't, but I wish you wouldn't make so much of a fuss.”

Nash just gave her a look that asked her to indulge him so she lay back with a sigh and tried to brace herself for the pain of more probing. Flores kneeled beside her commander. “She's already starting to swell,” Nash indicated softly as he turned Devon's leg with incredible gentleness for such daunting looking hands. She could feel the roughness of his calluses gliding over the skin along her inner thigh and she suppressed a shiver. She had reacted the same way the first time he had touched her, an unexpected thrill from an unexpected source. “It's the exit side I'm worried about. How long ago were your stitches removed?” he asked her.

Devon smoothed back her hair on one side and told him her first lie since they had met. “A couple of days,” she said vaguely. “Please, I wish you wouldn't . . .”

His quelling glance worked. Devon's heart danced with a flutter in her breast when he mastered her so easily in spite of her own assertive personality. She was instantly fascinated, probably as he had been when he'd first seen her. He'd been obviously taken aback, though she was certain he hadn't realized how transparent his expressions had been. She'd gotten used to the reaction from those who expected Devon Candler to be a man, or some sort of old gray warhorse instead of a young, thriving beauty, but there was something more to Nash's response than there was with others. She'd been studying him ever since.

“No bleeding. Not at the edges of the wound anyway. The bruising isn't darkening yet so I don't think she tore anything inside,” Flores mused as she gently probed from one side of the wound to the other. “Too soon to tell for certain, but nothing more than swelling as far as I can see. Actually, it looks pretty good for a recent injury.”

“I've always been quick to heal,” Devon dismissed easily, finally losing patience and brushing away the hands touching her leg. She sighed with relief when she was able to pull the skirt of her gown back into place. She didn't sit upright, however, her leg too sore now to withstand the pressure of sitting directly on it. As if reading her mind, Nash picked up a pillow and placed it under her calf and knee, raising her thigh from the couch and supporting the weight of her leg, instantly making it feel even better.

Soon after that, the fair-haired Mr. Gordon came bounding back into the room, breathless enough to have run the entire way back and forth. He handed a nondescript black box she assumed was the med kit to Nash, who laid it on the ground and popped it open. Gordon stood with feet braced and arms across his chest as he watched his commander pull out a white chemical pack. Nash crushed it in one hand and shook it rapidly to combine the chemicals that would cause it to become instantly cold. Then he pushed it under her elevated thigh.