Harris (Alpha One Security #1) (3 page)

I collapsed against the wing, metal cold against breasts and belly, breathing hard.
 

And that’s when Nick’s phone rang.
 

He gently tugged himself free of me, reached up and into the cockpit to retrieve his jangling handset. “Harris.” He was using his curt business voice. It was Sunday, and everyone who had his direct number knew not to call him on Sundays unless it was important.
 

I flipped over, sat on the wing, resting on my elbows, watching my naked, beautiful fox of a man.
 

“Went missing, or was taken?” Nick asked, pausing to listen, and then he spoke again. “Have they contacted the police? No? Good. Tell them to leave everything as is, I’ll send Puck over with his kit ASAP. Yes, we’ll take the case. No, I’ll handle this one directly. Lonigan is too high profile to hand this one off to a B team. Usual fees apply, and since it might come to a retrieval situation, make sure they know about the hazard rates. Get the paperwork started and send everything you have to Layla. All right, bye.” He ended the call, letting out an unhappy sigh.

“What’s going on, babe?”
 

He spun the phone between thumb and middle finger. “Jon Lonigan and Callie MacPhereson’s daughter was kidnapped. He’s tapped Alpha One to bring her back.”
 

I grabbed a tablet from the nearby workbench and called up the basics on those two while Nick made a few calls.
 

Jon Lonigan and Callie MacPhereson were one of the most high profile Hollywood celebrity-couples in the world, married after a whirlwind romance that had been on the front page of every gossip rag in the world. Despite both of them having been married to other people at the time of their romance, they seemed to be making it work, since they’d been together for a good six years already and married for four, which in Hollywood terms is an eternity. They’d recently had their first child together, a beautiful little girl they’d named, in classic Hollywood style, Cleopatra. Yes, Cleopatra Lonigan. I mean, it’s got a ring to it, but…Cleopatra? Really?
 

“So you’re leaving again?” I asked, only pouting a little.

“Seems like it.”
 

“You just got back.” I sounded a little petulant, but then I felt a little petulant.
 

I knew I’d signed up for this and all, getting together with a man like Nick Harris, but it still sucked.

“I know. But this is a big case. Huge.”
 

“You’re huge,” I joked, and then reached for Harris, pulling him to me using his cock as a handle. “Think you can go again? I need to stock up, if you’re leaving again already.”
 

“Jesus, woman. I’ve come twice in the last thirty minutes. Give a guy a minute to recuperate.” Yet, despite his protests, I felt him stirring a little.
 

“Can’t help it if I’m starved for your loving. You were gone for two weeks. Two weeks! That’s fourteen days without your dick. Fourteen days of my vibrator, which just doesn’t cut it.”

“You’re insatiable, babe.” He leaned against me, pressing me back against the wing, kissing me.

“Like you’re any better?” I asked.

Oh yeah, definitely stirring. I stroked some life into it.

“No, I’m not better. Can’t get enough of you. Never will, I don’t think.”
 

“So how about this time you bring me with you? I can help with the case
and
keep your bed warm.”
 

He was hard by this time. Still perched on the edge of the wing, I slid him home, wrapped my arms around his neck and a leg around his waist so he hit the angle I liked best. This time I did the work, grinding my hips on him.
 

Seriously, Nicholas Harris was a beast, an absolute animal. Insatiable, unstoppable, wickedly virile. I couldn’t have custom designed a better man to meet my own unquenchable sexual thirst if I’d tried.
 

“You’re not coming with me,” Nick said, cupping my tits in his hands.
 

“Yes I am.”
 

“No, you’re not. Holy hell, don’t stop. I’m close.”
 

“I’m so coming with you.” I kept doing what I was doing, rolling my hips with Nick’s cock buried deep. His thick shaft hit me just so, which meant he was making me come too. “And I’m coming, like right now. Oh god, that’s good. How can it get better every single time, no matter how many times we fuck?”
 

“I don’t know, but it does. Jesus, you feel good. So fucking good.” He held onto both my thighs now and took over the thrusting, pumping himself to climax for the third time, and me for the…fifth? Sixth? I’d lost count. “And you’re staying here. If whoever took Cleo Lonigan was willing and able to snatch her right out of their Malibu mansion in broad daylight, they’re at least reasonably professional and likely very dangerous. I’m not risking you.”
 

I let him pull free, holding onto his neck until he was out of me, and then I pressed my face into his chest. “I’m not staying here again, Nick. I’m just not. I’ve stayed back almost every mission. I want to go. I’m getting bored here.”
 

Nick paced away from me, running his hand through his hair in frustration. He jerked his jeans off the floor and shoved his feet into them, not bothering with underwear. Then he grabbed his boots off the floor, but didn’t put them on. Walking over to the control panel, he jabbed the button to open the bay doors, stopping it when they were open just wide enough to admit a body.
 

Paused in the opening. “Layla—god, you’re so fucking stubborn. I’m telling you, you can’t come on this one. I’ll bring you on the next one, I promise.”
 

I scooped up the bandoliers and draped them over my neck, snatched up the rifle, and followed him out of the barn. Once we were outside, he used the keypad on the outside to close and lock the doors, arming the alarm.
 

I stalked past him toward the house. “You say that now, that you’ll bring me on the next one. But you won’t. That one will be too dangerous, too. I’m not fucking helpless, Nick. Or have you forgotten Brazil?”

He was right on my heels, probably staring at my ass despite our disagreement. “No, I haven’t forgotten about fucking Brazil. My job is to keep you safe. Putting you in harm’s way is doing the exact opposite.”
 

I stopped in my tracks, spun around and jabbed a finger into his chest. “No, Nick, your job is
not
to keep me safe. Your job is keep me happy and to love me. I love it here; I love being an information analyst. It’s challenging, and rewarding. It’s the best job I’ve ever had, and not just because it’s with you. But I’m fucking
bored.
I don’t need you to babysit me, to keep me shut up in the compound like some fainting daisy prima donna. I can hold my own and take care of myself, and you fucking know it. I can be an asset…I
am
an asset.”
 

Nick snarled, a rare expression of extreme frustration and anger. “We’re not having this conversation right now, Layla.” He shoved past me and into the kitchen via the back door. I followed him.

And, of course, who should be sitting at our kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee but Puck Lawson. Five-nine, barely, but what he lacked in height he more than made up for in breadth. He was built like a wrestler, barrel-chested, arms thick as my thighs—which, let me tell you, is fucking
thick.
Trim waist, quads so massive it was ridiculous. Bald as an egg, naturally swarthy skin tanned darker by the sun, and sporting a black beard so long and thick it spread across his chest. Gimlet, intelligent brown eyes that never missed a thing. He reminded me of one of the dwarves from
The Hobbit
, actually, and not at all in a comical way. He was dangerous. Liked to drink a little too much, and liked to fight when he drank. Liked to gamble, and won more than he lost. Quick with his fists, quick with comebacks, and quicker yet with a trigger. I’d seen him perform feats of sharpshooting that shouldn’t be possible, pinging a nail head with a handgun from seventy yards, one-handed, without even really trying. Of course, his skill with firearms was tertiary to his real talent: forensics. He had a Ph.D. in forensic science, actually, which came after a tour of duty in Iraq, and eight years as a special agent with the FBI before being lured away by Harris with the promise of a massive salary and a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy regarding Puck’s wild ways.
 

Puck liked his women, too. I’d seen him down in town on several occasions with more than one woman on his arm, and never the same one twice. And now he was in my kitchen. The men weren’t allowed in our home, as a general rule. When Nick was home, I was naked more often than not, either post-fuck or ready for another round. Which meant the guys stayed out.
 

Because of situations like this. I hadn’t bothered to arrange the bandoliers at all, so they were all just hanging around my neck, not covering diddly-squat. And Puck being Puck, he wasn’t shy about staring.
 

I scooted over to hide behind Nick. “Puck, what the hell are you doing in here?”
 

He grinned over the rim of his coffee mug. “Waiting for the boss.” He gestured at Nick with the mug.
 

“Well couldn’t you have waited out front?” I glared at him from around Nick’s back.

“Could’ve,” Puck drawled, “But then I’d have missed this little treat. Got yourself a fine-ass woman, Harris.”
 

Nick’s voice was colder than ice and sharp as razors. “Get out, Puck, and stay the fuck out.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Puck stood up and moved to the front door, taking the mug with him, walking backward, and still trying to get another glimpse at me.
 

“Puck.” This came out as a whip-crack. “Talk about Layla like that again, look at Layla like that again, enter this house again—I’ll fucking bury you. Got it?”
 

Puck didn’t seem fazed. Just winked at me. “I didn’t mean no harm, boss. I just can’t help admiring a work of art.”
 

“Puck!” Nick actually took a step forward, fists clenching.
 

And Puck? His eyes widened and he moved back a step. You do
not
fuck with Harris, and all his men knew it. Puck, being a gambler, liked to push buttons. He was the sort who would take a tiger by the tail, just to see what it would do. But even Puck knew when to back off when it came to Harris.
 

“I’ll meet you outside. Need you to brief me on this Lonigan SNAFU.” Puck left then, whistling a tune under his breath.

Nick shook his head in disbelief. “I swear to god, if that man wasn’t the best goddamn forensic scientist I’ve ever seen, I’d put a bullet in his thick skull. He’s absolutely incorrigible.”

“He’s an asshole,” I said.

“Yes he is. But he’s a loyal and talented asshole. If you’re his friend, he’ll take on Hell itself with a squirt gun for you. And god help you if you get on his bad side.” Harris poured a mug of coffee for both of us. “Plus, he makes a hell of a cup of coffee.”
 

“Is he really that good at forensics?”
 

Nick nodded. “Hell yes. He graduated high school at sixteen, had a Master’s by twenty, got recruited by the FBI at twenty-one and had his Ph.D. by twenty-three. And the only reason he didn’t move up the ladder at the FBI is because he’s too much of a wild card. He’s got the intelligence and the skills to run the whole show if he wanted, but he’d rather drink, fight, and fuck than sit behind a desk in Washington.” A quick grin. “Plus, he’d have to shave his beard, and that’s not happening.”

“That beard is out of control.” I sipped at the coffee; it was exceptionally good. Which is puzzling, because it’s not like he used different water, beans, or brewer. He used everything we have here in our kitchen, but the coffee just tasted better than when Nick or I made it. What was his secret?

“That beard has it’s own Facebook page. Legit. Look it up sometime: Puck’s Beard. It’s crazy. He has as many products for that fucking beard as you do for your hair. You have no idea.”
 

I laughed out loud. “A Facebook page? You’re joking. You’ve got to be joking.”
 

“Truth, babe.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, opened the Pages app, and tapped on, yes, Puck’s Beard. “Take a look.”
 

And there it was in all its glory, the beard itself in dozens of different photographs. Selfies of Puck, close-ups, pics of women touching it, a little boy tugging on it out on the street somewhere, and even a photograph of a cockatoo peeking its head through the middle of the beard.

“That is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen.”
 

“You should see him groom it in the morning. He’s got special shampoo, balms, oils, brushes, combs, and all sorts of shit. We all rag on him for how long it takes him to get ready in the morning. Thresh won’t room with him when we’re on assignment. Says it’s too much like having a bitch around, the amount of time it takes to get Puck out the door.” At my raised eyebrow at the “bitch” comment, Harris held his palms up defensively. “Thresh’s word, not mine.”
 

“I really don’t know where you dig up these guys, Nick,” I said.
 

Thresh was…another rather unique individual. Standing a full seven feet tall, with a bodybuilder’s physique—acres of muscles piled on mountains of more muscle. White-blond hair cropped into a Mohawk three inches wide and spiked an inch or so tall, with permanent blond scruff on his cliff-sharp jawline, as if he never shaved but couldn’t grow an actual beard. Scariest motherfucker I’ve ever seen. Spoke four languages, deadly with any weapon and even more so with his bare hands, and was a proficient hacker, although Lear Winter was the resident tech expert. But Thresh was just…ungodly gargantuan. I watched him deadlift a Ford Taurus right off the ground, once. And not just lift it, but haul the vehicle a half a dozen feet away. The owner of the Taurus had parked too close to Thresh’s pickup, and that was his way of dealing with the situation. The owner, being still in the car when Thresh moved it, had learned his lesson, I imagined.