Dark Hunger (10 page)

Watching had always been his weakness. And he’d dreamed about seeing her naked for months. Having her beneath him, his cock pumping inside her until she cried his name and begged him not to stop.

He stood with a curse. Dammit, he was in trouble. Keller wanted him to get rid of her.

But he wanted to fuck her instead.

Annabelle undressed, her body coiled with tension, her emotions on a roller coaster. The last two days had been hell.

Her trip to the homeless shelter had proven fruitless. Then she’d combed the cemeteries asking the homeless people who slept there if they’d seen or talked to Warren Ames, but came up empty. If she could find his family, she’d do a human-interest piece.

Was the bombing an isolated event?

Could someone have put him up to the bombing? Drugged him into committing mass murder?

Had that text been a prank?

If it was real, when would the next bomber strike and where?

Needing to relieve her tension, she stepped into the shower and let the warm water sluice over her. Unbidden images came to her of Quinton’s dark, brooding face, his smoky eyes, his hands trailing over her, stroking her, massaging the ache from her shoulders, arousing her with his fingers and pressing his lips where he’d touched her.

She hadn’t been with a man in ages, had closed herself off from relationships after her mother’s death and her father’s desertion. She couldn’t contemplate the pain of another loss.

So why did she find Quinton so damn attractive?

His black eyes stole into her thoughts, and she pictured him crawling above her, kneeing her legs apart, settling himself between her thighs. Lowering his head to taste her mouth, then lower to her breasts, where he’d suck her until she bucked and begged him to fill her.

Then he’d free his hard length and thrust it inside her, stretching her until she thought she’d come apart.

Her hand moved, her fingers caressed, gentle feather-light strokes over her clit, then quickened, slid deeper, deeper, adding pressure as if they were his sex.

She sighed and moaned as titillating sensations rocked through her. Heaven help her. She couldn’t get involved with Quinton.

He was a government assassin.

A man who might be a demon…

Still, she had to go to him. Find out what he knew. If he had an idea where the bomber might attack again.

Fuck.

Hunger shot through Quinton as he watched Annabelle caress her body.

It was the most erotic sight he’d ever seen.

He zeroed in on the small tattoo of a rose on her hip and wanted to touch it.

Kiss it. Ask her the significance of the tattoo…

Unable to stand the tension, he unzipped his jeans and freed his hard length, then wrapped his fingers around his rigid penis and stroked.

He imagined ramming it inside her, watching her body buck as he plunged to her core. She parted her legs wider, her body quivering as her orgasm rocked through her. His body jerked and spasmed, pure hot pleasure rippling through him as cum shot from his tip.

He envisioned the sticky fluid flowing down her legs, the milky white bathing her crotch and thighs, and he groaned her name, mindless with erotic sensations.

Shit. No other woman had ever stirred his hunger to such intensity or aroused emotions like this in his chest.

His phone jangled, and he cursed, quickly cleaned up then grabbed the handset and checked the number. His handler, Keller.

He connected the call, automatically assuming his professional persona. No emotions. Killer mode. “Yeah, Valtrez.”

“We had a meeting.”

A film of cold sweat broke out on his brow.

“It’s time to get rid of the Armstrong woman. We can’t allow her to expose the team. If she does, it will have to be disbanded.”

Quinton ran a hand over the back of his neck.

“You’ll take care of her?” Keller asked.

A bead of sweat trickled down Quinton’s back. He was an eraser, a sniper. This was no different. Another assignment.

The darkness in him rose, hungry for blood, protective of his tribe of killers.

He’d sworn to take care of the team, the mission. He had no regret over the other hits. No remorse. And he’d never disobeyed a direct order.

But he glanced at the camera and saw Annabelle climbing from the shower, water droplets clinging to her skin, her face flushed from arousal, and he hesitated.

She wasn’t a terrorist or a soldier. She was a civilian.

He closed his eyes, banishing the image. He never hesitated. Hesitating would get him killed.

If he didn’t do this job, Keller would consider him disposable, would send someone after him. And after Annabelle.

Either way, her days were numbered.

He hissed in a sharp breath. “No problem. I’ll call you when it’s done.”

He retrieved his weapon system from the closet, then unlocked the case and pulled out the M24.

Reverend Narius spread his hands, waving them in a wide arc as he addressed the crowd in Charleston, his diamond-and-onyx ring glittering beneath the lights. “Turn your life over to my command, and you will be reborn. Follow me now, and redemption is yours.”

Women, men, and children alike bowed their heads and listened to his prayer, then stood and began filtering out of the Charleston chapel.

“Thank you for coming, Reverend.” The white-haired woman wiped at the tears in her eyes. “We heard you were in Savannah. God bless those people. Those bombings were just awful.”

He clasped her hand between his, pasting on the appropriate compassionate smile. “Yes, a tragedy. Another reason for each of us to ask to be saved. One never knows when our earthly time is up and the Lord will call us home.”

She shivered and he patted her gently. “You have been saved haven’t you, Miss Erma?”

“Oh, yes, years ago.”

Another elderly man approached, and he released Erma’s hand, then extended it to the old man. “You’re a godsend, Reverend,” the old man said. “I once was tempted by evil, but I’ve resisted.”

“In Matthew, even Satan tempted Jesus, but he overcame temptation through the word of God,” Reverend Narius said smoothly. “So many are lost and need salvation. In fact, I’m on my way now to visit the homeless shelter nearby.”

“You’re a good man,” a young woman with twin toddlers tugging at her legs said. “So kind of you to stop and see them.”

He shrugged. “It’s my mission to serve.”

Gratitude and admiration flickered in her eyes, and his chest puffed up. He was the first to admit that he enjoyed the accolades. “I work for the Master,” he said softly. “And I will be an obedient servant to the end.”

But salvation came at a cost. And the ones who followed him had to earn their way. He smiled.

So easy to twist their minds and persuade them to follow.

Annabelle had to talk to Quinton. If he had any idea who was behind the bombing or threats and where they might attack next, something had to be done.

Of course, working with him would be akin to making a deal with the devil, but lives depended on their stopping another attack.

She flipped on the news while she pulled on a robe, wondering if another station had accessed information she didn’t yet have.

“Reports that vultures attacked the bombing scene in Savannah are disturbing. Witnesses said they preyed on the humans as if they were animals.

“Folklore says the vultures are an omen of impending death. Oddly, reports are now flooding the lines from Charleston, South Carolina, saying there have been at least a hundred sightings of the predatory birds hovering above the town. Residents are wary, and veterinarians and environmentalists have been called in to address the problem. Some are worried that the vultures may be a mutant strain that preys on humans, or that they may carry diseases that could be passed to humans.”

A shudder coursed through her as she remembered the vultures greedily eating human flesh and cleaning the bones.

A tapping sounded at the French door, and she glanced up, expecting the wind to have rattled it, but a black vulture hovered on her patio, pounding the glass with its sharp, pointed beak.

Then a shrill screeching sound erupted from the bird, and she jumped backward, terrified it was going to break the glass and attack her.

Traffic crawled by as Quinton drove across the bridge and into Savannah toward the B and B and his target. The tourist crowd that had been bustling on Halloween now seemed minimal, although some curious souls had ventured out to see the ruins of the ship left after the bombing, and the homemade memorials people had made. Flowers, trinkets, teddy bears, toys, and other memorabilia decorated the area, reminders of the individuals who’d died such violent and needless deaths.

He turned on the radio news.

“People in Charleston, South Carolina, are reporting a disturbing number of vultures within the city limits as well as on the outskirts of town.

“Oddly, the vultures are described as having the bodies and heavy, sturdy feet of old-world vultures, not the more common turkey vultures prevalent in the U.S., which have chickenlike feet for running on the ground. Old-world vultures are normally found in Europe, Asia, and Africa.

“Also, in South Africa, hundreds of headless vultures have been found. Poachers have been killing the vultures, then removing their heads and putting them through a drying process to sell, because of beliefs that the vulture’s keen eyesight enables it to see into the future. Unscrupulous dealers are selling the heads for up to $1,000. Due to the fact that vultures are an endangered species, bans have been placed on killing the animals.”

Quinton’s shoulders stiffened, and he flipped off the radio as he parked down the street from the B and B in an alley where he wouldn’t be noticed. He had to focus. Couldn’t make any mistakes today. Couldn’t get caught. Had to be invisible.

Dry leaves crunched beneath his boots as he walked to the inn. A damn vulture circled above, as if watching, waiting for someone to die.

He moved stealthily into the gardens, through the rows of topiaries and giant azaleas, scoped out an empty room across from Annabelle’s, then climbed the rail, jimmied the door, and slipped inside.

He set up his M24 with its attachable telescopic sight and aimed it at Annabelle’s window. Through the lens, he watched her. She was sitting at the desk in her robe, sipping coffee and tapping on her computer. He forced himself to tear his gaze from her body and zeroed in on the screen.

She was researching vultures.

Determined to finish the job as quickly and painlessly as possible, he aimed the weapon. He had a clear shot. Could take her out quickly. She would never know what hit her.

Then she clicked to a file of the bombing and more photos appeared. Pictures of the explosion, of people maimed and dying. Women and children crying. The blazing fire and smoke pouring from the ship.

Then another of him on the ship, reaching down to help an injured woman off the burning deck. Dammit, he shouldn’t have been photographed. Shouldn’t have put himself in that position. But his humanity had surfaced, and he’d wanted to help that night.

He swallowed, slid his finger over the trigger. Felt the cool metal against the pad of his thumb. Could already smell the scent of death. Could hear the glass crashing and see Annabelle’s body jerk with the impact. Blood spewing from her pale forehead.

His throat convulsed. The darkness ate at him, urging him to do it. He had to in order to protect the team. She was simply a casualty of the cause.

But he thought of her as Annabelle, not the target, and his hands began to shake. His palms grew sweaty. His vision blurred.

His breath came in pants, erratic. Lifting one hand, he wiped the sweat on his jeans and swallowed hard.

Shit. His control was slipping.

Anger churned through his blood. He
never
lost control. And certainly not over a woman.

He hated her for it.