Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three (60 page)

“The most minor of my many sins,
manita
,” Alejo replied, shrugging carelessly as he exhaled. He stepped toward her and Rox held out her hand. Her brother passed her the cigarette, and she took a quick puff, savoring the rare musky, slightly salty taste of tobacco and nicotine.

“I wish this was pot,” she told him honestly, handing him back his cigarette. “Calm my nerves some.”

Alejandro came to stand beside her, leaning against the railing. “You worried?” he asked, taking another drag.

She smiled up at him, shrugging lightly. “Not anymore.”

And in a way, it was true. Just her big brother’s nearness soothed her ragged nerves, made her feel a little more centered after days of riding a wired adrenaline rush that left her jittery and unsatisfied, like coming down from too much coke.

“Aw, you missed me, brat?” he teased her, nudging her shoulder.

“Not even a little bit,” she lied, nudging him back. It was a rare pleasure to be with her older brother, even under these circumstances. The few times Alejandro had leave from Delta Force, they’d try to meet, but it was always difficult coordinating schedules between his missions and her somewhat
sub rosa
gigs. Despite time and distance, though, her brother remained her best friend, her closest confidante. They hadn’t always been this way, growing up years apart, but what they had now was a cultivated, deep connection that transcended age, distance, and history.

“You doing okay?” he asked her, exhaling smoke over his shoulder.

“Well, there’s a psychotic asshole on the loose with a nuclear weapon, half a dozen people know who I am now, and my brother is killing me with second-hand smoke. What do you think?”

“You sound like you haven’t slept in days,
manita
,” he chided, tossing what was left of his cigarette and grinding it out with the heel of his boot. “When was the last time you got more than a couple hours?”

Days. It had been days since she’d slept a good night’s sleep.

“You need to be on your A-game,” he murmured.

She sighed, rubbing her eyes. They felt gritty from staring at the museum schematics for hours with the team, going over all the entry and exit points, discussing vulnerabilities and the clearest lines of sight. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t know. When this is over, I’m taking a week off and sleeping for days. What about you?”

“I’d be happy just going home to Chicago, watching a Cubs game, eating a bunch of shit I shouldn’t eat, and chugging it down with ice cold beer.” She saw the glint of her brother’s grin in the moonlight.

“We’re so fucking basic,
mano
,” Rox laughed. “We’ve got the whole world as our playground, and all we want is a nap and some baseball.”

“I miss home,” Alejo replied with a shrug. “Being around Sam and her family makes me miss what you, me, and Mom had, you know? It wasn’t much, but it was good.”

“Yeah it was,” she murmured, thinking back. They’d lost their father when they were young and had been largely raised by their mother. A strong, proud first-generation Mexican woman who’d run one of the best
mariscos
restaurants in Little Village back in the day, before she passed of a heart attack right after Rox had graduated from high school. It was a sudden and terrible loss that had hit them hard. Alejandro and Rita were both deployed at the time, and had only been able to return to Chicago for the short funeral. Rox had probably been the most devastated. As much as she and her mother had quarreled, her mother had been her ‘Polaris.’ Rox had spiraled after that, losing her way in a turbulent relationship with Joaquín and the commitment to the Kings. Things had never been the same after that.

“Tell you what: We survive this craziness with Lightner—and I’m taking you to Wrigley Field. My treat,” she promised her brother.

“Beer and hot dogs?”

Alejo looped an arm around her neck, squeezing her to him and ruffling her hair. “It’s a date,
manita
.”

“Hey—don’t fuck up my hair,” Rox protested laughingly. She was still wearing the wig she’d had woven in while she was in Israel. She’d gone for deep auburn locks with thick fringe across her brow since she hadn’t had time to mess with prosthetics or too much contouring to hide her face. She’d also been wearing a lot of heavy eye make-up and grey contacts to distract from her features.

Alejandro peered at her in the moonlight. “You look like a comic book character with that hair and your outfit,” he told her, referring to her tight black jacket and leather leggings.

She shrugged. “Red today, gone tomorrow. Maybe I’ll go blonde next time.”

“You think people have figured out you’re my sister?” he asked quietly, and Rox shook her head. They didn’t look like each other anymore. Not after all the surgeries she’d had to fix her face. She recalled the first time Alejandro had seen her after she’d recovered. The tears in his eyes as he’d stroked her fresh scars. She’d only ever seen her brother that upset at their parent’s funerals. But in a way, Roxanne supposed he’d also been mourning
her
death. She had changed irrevocably.

“Jack and Jaime know. So do Rush and Talon, but that’s it. We need to try to keep it that way,” she told him. “If anyone in Chicago finds out I’m still alive—”

“Won’t happen,” her brother interrupted, his voice reassuring. “No one could recognize you anyway. You wear enough make-up to give a transvestite a run for their money.”

“What?” he smirked. “Just callin’ it like I see it.”

She rolled her eyes. “I better head in. Try to catch some shut eye before tomorrow’s madness begins.” She pushed away from the railing.

“Roxy—” Alejo grabbed her hand. “Be safe tomorrow, okay? I know you want this asshole, but don’t do anything crazy, okay?”

She lifted a brow.

“Okay, don’t do anything crazier than usual,” he amended.

“I could say the same of you,” she pointed out. “Good luck keeping up with Sam tomorrow. If she gets to Lightner first—no telling.”

“Just—take care of yourself, okay?” Alejandro reiterated. “If something happened to you—” he stopped, glancing away. Rox knew how he felt. It was just the two of them left now of their once tight-knit family. They couldn’t lose each other.

April—Midnight

Wyatt Towers, Houston, Texas

J A C K

H
e couldn’t sleep.
Not with the unpleasant anxiety that rested inside his belly, not with the whisper of ill-defined misfortune and impending doom waiting for him and Samantha at tomorrow night’s gala.

Carey, Talon, Rush, Alejandro, Roxanne, and Samantha were all staying in the penthouse, too, and everyone had turned in after a long day of game planning with the rest of the team. She’d given Jack a beautifully-appointed and luxurious bedroom down the hall from hers. The architect in him appreciated the sculptural lines and panoramic views, but for all its refinement and considered design, the place felt impersonal, like a stunning façade designed solely to impress. It wasn’t a home. Not like his duplex at the Whitney in Chicago, or Samantha’s comfortable quarters at Wyatt Ranch. The penthouse was like a marvelous showroom, a palace in the sky, resplendent and cool, a gem at the top of a spire.

Restless, Jack stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the guest suite, staring sightless as the city stretched out in front of him like a shimmering labyrinth of steel, glass, and concrete in the moonlight, the distant lights from buildings, street lights and homes winking at him like luminescent latticework.

Jack was startled from his reverie by a soft knock at the door—so soft he might have missed it had he not already been awake.

“Come in,” he called out, pleasantly surprised when Samantha slipped inside, silently closing the door behind her. A warmth spread through him at the precipitousness of her visit. He took in the silky Japanese robe she wore, ivory cranes edged in gold thread, long kimono sleeves that draped against her body in pristine origami folds. She looked gorgeous and wild, her hair falling around her like a black cloud, her neckline bare and exposed, just begging to be touched, kissed—
worshipped
. She stood in front of him, barefoot and vulnerable, though her expression had a certain determination to it, like she’d made a decision and she’d come to see it through.

“
Tesoro?”
Jack murmured, turning toward her fully. He was only wearing lounge pants, and her gaze dropped to his chest, eyes flaring with desire and emotion. She moved toward him, her limp slight, her gaze black and unnerving, the way a predator fixates on its prey, already tasting the win.

A frisson of awareness thrummed through him, the vital attraction they shared filling the space between them with a kind of breathless electricity as she came closer. He caught her scent as she neared, tantalizing, the smell of jasmine now forever reminding him of the lush, sensual beauty of her. This woman. His woman.

“Samantha, are you alright—?”

“I want you,” she said simply, touching him, her voice low and laced with something dark and delicious—a kind of willful determination. The voice of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and exactly how she was going to take it.

Enthralled, Jack watched as Samantha slid cool fingertips along the firm ridges of his chest, down the muscles of his stomach, with an indecent slowness, goose bumps on his skin conveying his unspoken need. Her fingertips went lower, following the edge of his waistband, her expression intent, lashes half-lowered so that the crescent shadows formed on her cheeks. She dipped her hand into his pants, gripping him. He was already half-hard in anticipation, thickening in her hand as she dragged her fist over him from root to tip, making his breath fracture with each caress. She stared at his mouth, watching him struggle with his control.

The only sound was their breathing, as she worked him with erotic slowness, and he accepted her caresses, half delirious, though his mind would not completely acquiesce to the unexpected pleasure. Something was happening beyond the sex. Jack looked at his love, trying to see her—really
see
her—even as she cradled the shape of him, heavily aroused now, huge and rearing against the enticing pressure, wanting—
needing
more. More than just this. More than a seduction.

He pulled her closer, arms wrapping around her, and for the first time since he’d arrived to Houston, Jack felt the reverberations of her emotions, normally so tightly bottled and controlled, running her ragged on the inside as he looked into her eyes.

She wanted something more than this. She’d come for more than this. But she didn’t know how to ask for it. They’d always connected on this level, their passion like a flash fire, powerful and distracting. But Jack wanted more than sex now. He wanted her heart with it, and he suspected she wanted it too, though she didn’t know how to give it.

“
Tesoro
—” he said again, running his fingers through the silky strands of her hair. “Tell me what you need, love. Tell me, whatever it is—”

She stopped him from saying more when she caught his bottom lip with her teeth, pulling gently before she soothed the little sting with the tip of her tongue, the motion slippery and carnal. Jack groaned, gripping her jaw so he could find that perfect alignment, kissing her with the urgency she was building up inside him, her thumb rubbing through the cloven tip of his cock, spreading the slick heat of him round and round in luscious circuits.

“Dear God,” he gasped, pushing against her, seeking the satisfying pressure as he hardened to steel. It was a distraction though. He knew it. He could feel it: the barrier to her heart. The way Samantha used sex like a weapon. A way to bolster and protect herself in the face of true intimacy. He’d also come to realize that she used sex to distract herself in the face of chaos and uncertainty – a last, passionate stance against the tsunami rising on the horizon. Jack remembered the way she was with him the night before she left for Afghanistan—the fear in her eyes. The way she’d moved against him, desperate and a little lost, trying desperately to meld without truly connecting. Jack wanted her—wanted her more than anything—but not like that. Not without giving him the one thing she needed to trust him to protect—her heart.

Jack tried to pull back, tried to look at her again, but Samantha pressed closer, coaxing his mouth open, fitting herself to him with the full-on tilt of her hips, rocking against him with a low, savage sound. She tugged the waistband of his lounge pants, pulling them down roughly. The air felt immediately cool against the hot skin of his ass, his sex.

He gripped her shoulders, pushing the thick brocade silk back off her shoulders, her torso bared to him as it fell back. “What do you want, Samantha?” he growled, deep and needy.
Tell me. Talk to me. Trust me—