Nauti Dreams (4 page)

cousin and his woman?”

Her lips parted as she fought to drag in more breath. He could do that. Make her

breathless. Make her want. With only a look, he made her feel like a virgin on the verge

of her first kiss. And that was very dangerous. He was dangerous. In more ways than one.

“You’re not answering me, Chaya.” He was one of the few people who dared to call her

by her given name rather than the name she used in the agency. Greta. It was nice and

plain and unassuming. But he had to call her Chaya instead. He had to remind her of who

she had once wanted to be rather than who she was.

She licked her lips again, fighting for her composure.

“You’ll have to ask Cranston.” She was not taking the blame for this. “His orders. I just

live to obey them.” That was nothing less than the truth in the past few years. He

controlled her. For now.

Natches shook his head, straightened, and moved closer. Standing her ground wasn’t

easy. She wanted to run. She wanted to run to him, touch him, stroke all that hard, dark

flesh, and let the intensity of these dangerous desires free.

She wasn’t married anymore, she reminded herself. She had been reminding herself of

that for years.

She watched him, wary, suspecting the danger that lurked beneath that easy smile.

Suspected nothing, she knew it lurked there. She knew she was facing a man who at one

time had been a cold, hard killer. He had been taken into sniper training within six

months of his enlistment with the Marines and within a year was ranked as one of their

most proficient assassins.

And now he was retired. Bum shoulder. He liked to grin when claiming the injury that

pulled him out of the Marines. She doubted a single cell on his body was “bum.”

“You know, Chaya . . .”

“My name is Greta,” she grated out. “Use it, Natches.” She had to find some kind of

defense against him. The name Greta reminded her, kept the memories of the one mistake

that had shaped her uppermost in her mind.

“Chaya.” His lips caressed the words as he drew closer, within a breath of her, forcing

her to stare up at him. “Darlin’. Cranston’s gonna get you in a shitload of trouble. You

know this, right?”

Oh God, if she didn’t know it before, she was finding out now. She had thought working

with Cranston would make her life easier, that the team that worked stateside only would

ease her slowly away from the horror of the past and allow her to step out of the world

that had begun to smother her.

“Take it up with Cranston.” She forced the words from her throat as his hand curled

around the side of her neck and the dark, sexual light in his wicked eyes began to gleam

with intent.

That touch, just like that, the implied power and gentleness of that hold, had her knees

weakening. She was a trained agent; she wasn’t supposed to let emotion or lust cloud her

judgment. But right now it was clouding her entire mind.

His fingers flexed against her neck, the power and strength in his arm echoing along her

nerve endings. Pleasure corrupted her normally logical thought processes and eroded the

control she had fought for over the years.

Suddenly, she was in the dark, fighting to breathe through the agony of a hell she

couldn’t accept, holding on to only one thing. Holding on to Natches’s touch.

She couldn’t let herself hold on to that memory.

Chaya didn’t bother to struggle. She could see the desire already burning in his eyes, and

she knew she didn’t have a chance against him if those luscious lips actually touched

hers. She would be lost in him, and she couldn’t afford to ever lose herself again.

“Don’t kiss me, Natches. Don’t do that to me. Please.”

He froze, those fingers contracting on her flesh, stroking cells that hadn’t known a man’s

touch in so very long.

He had no idea how hard it was to turn away, to walk away. How she ached at night,

tossing and turning in her bed, the thought of the promise in those cat’s eyes of his

burning through her soul. She wanted him with a strength that terrified her.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t,” he said, his voice low as those fingers stroked

against her flesh. “You’re not married anymore, sweetheart.”

His gaze wasn’t mocking now; it was somber, intense. The memories flashed in his eyes

as well, and she couldn’t bear it. It connected them, made it so much harder for her to

break away, to hold herself steady as she fought through the never-ending abyss of

emotions that threatened to swamp her.

“Because I can’t handle you, and we both know it. Have mercy, Natches. Don’t you have

enough women in your little stable? You really don’t need me.”

And there was no way she would survive it. He was wild, intense, the most wickedly

alluring man she had ever met in her life. And he wasn’t the man for her. She wanted him

until she ached with a force that tore at her soul, and she couldn’t allow herself to have

him. This man, the one who fired her soul, who made her dream when she had no right to

dream.

“That’s not a good enough reason.”

She gasped as his lips covered hers. Sensation exploded through her body; pleasure

rippled and waved over her nerve endings and began to burn along her flesh. This kiss,

this man, he was like nectar, like a drug she couldn’t get out of her system.

She gasped harder as her weapon dropped to the ground and she felt Natches’s hands

tugging at her shirt, baring her, allowing the warmth of the sun-filled air to touch her

flesh.

She told herself the perspiration was from the heat of the day, but she knew better. It was

from his kiss.

Oh God. His kiss. She flattened her hands against his chest to push him away, but he

wasn’t budging. His hands stroked up her back, beneath her shirt, then around, the pads

of his fingers at the tender swells of her breasts, covered by nothing more than lace.

Chaya struggled with the war waging within her now. Her body, eager, desperate, it knew

this man’s touch, knew his possession. Her heart, her head, was screaming out in

warning.

And her body was winning.

“Ah, Chay.” He nipped at her lips. She loved that sexy little sting and lifted closer,

begging for more. “There you go, baby. Show me how you can burn again.”

She breathed in sharply as his hands slid to her hips, gripping them and lifting her until

she was sitting on the hood of the jeep, then lying back, his big body pressing her down

as her hands tugged at his shirt.

She should be pushing him away, not baring that gorgeous body. But that was what she

was doing. Baring all that hard, delicious muscle. Feeling the rasp of crisp chest hairs

against her palms, the dampness of his sweat beneath.

She twisted under him, feeling his knee press between her thighs, and saw stars explode

behind her closed lashes as he pressed against the sensitive flesh between her thighs.

“Hell yeah.” He groaned against her lips as he worked her jeans loose. “Burn for me,

Chaya. Just a little bit. Burn for me wild and sweet, sweetheart, just like you do in my

dreams.”

His voice was rough, tight with arousal, and she knew it could become guttural. That his

drawl could slur his words and make him sound drunk with passion. She wanted that

sound. She wanted him drunk on her.

“Natches!” She cried his name as his hand pushed beneath her open jeans and his fingers

found her. Found the slick, too-thick layer of juices that prepared her for him, that

betrayed her need.

That need was killing her.

She twisted, arched to him as his lips slid down her neck to her breasts. His teeth rasped

the tender tip of a nipple as his free hand pulled the cup of her bra beneath the swollen

mound.

Then his mouth was covering it, his lips closing on it, sucking it inside with tight, hard

pressure that sent sensation ripping to her womb.

Long, broad fingers speared inside her vagina, drawing another cry from her. Flesh

unused to any touch but her own since he had taken her so long ago. Too long.

She came instantly. The stretching heat, the feel of his mouth sucking her nipple, his

tongue lashing her, it was too much. She exploded in a prism of light and color, his name

on her lips and in her heart.

Oh God, she was never going to be free of him. And in this moment, exploding around

his fingers, she wondered if she ever wanted to be.

She struggled to open her eyes, then lost her breath as she watched him. He pulled his

fingers free of her, lifted them, and tasted her. Right there, beneath the sun, the breeze

whipping around them, he opened his lips and sucked the taste of her from his fingers.

“Natches.” She could barely do more than breathe his name when his face suddenly

stilled, his head lifting, like an animal scenting danger.

“Son of a bitch Cranston.” He was jerking her bra in place and pulling her shirt down

when she caught the sound of a helicopter coming closer.

Pulling back from her, Natches let her fix her jeans, his green eyes filled with mocking

amusement as the helicopter flew around the sheltering trees and came over the clearing.

It couldn’t land, but she knew who it was. The Department of Homeland Security had

found her. They had nearly seen more than she could have safely gotten away with.

Natches drew farther back from her, his expression hardening. “Come on. I’ll lead you

back to the main road. Then you can call Cranston and tell him to meet with me. I’ve had

enough of this crap. It ends now.”

What was going to end now she wasn’t certain, but she was more than ready to get the

hell out of there, away from him. Let Cranston deal with him, because she knew, as sure

as she was standing there she knew, there wasn’t a chance in hell that she could handle

him.

ONE

Somerset, Kentucky

October, One Year Later

Natches Mackay sat silently in the jeep and watched as Chaya Dane hauled her luggage

into the hotel she had reserved in town. The Suites were just that. A nice hotel that

offered a variety of live-in suites with a bedroom, a small living room, and a kitchenette

for those required to be in town for an extended stay.

Chaya was registered for a two-week stay but the luggage she brought wouldn’t have

kept one woman for four days. A single large suitcase, an overnight bag, and a laptop

case. She was definitely traveling light.

Eyes shaded behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, he rubbed the short growth of beard

at the side of his jaw and considered this new development.

It had been a year since she had been in town. A year since he had pulled the trigger and

buried a bullet in his first cousin’s head. And seeing her again brought the memories he

tried to suppress back in vivid detail.

Johnny Grace had been a disgrace. He had masterminded the hijacking of a missile

shipment as well as the sale of the weapons, and attempted to place the blame on a young

woman who his other cousin Dawg Mackay was in love with. To add insult to injury, he

had then attempted to kill her when he found out Dawg was onto him.

Saving Crista hadn’t been easy, and Natches had known, as he drove to the rendezvous

point where Johnny Grace was meeting his lover and coconspirator, that Johnny wouldn’t

leave there alive. It was a promise Natches had made to himself. Rowdy and Dawg were

family, like no one else was. If it hadn’t been for them and Rowdy’s father, Ray, Natches

wouldn’t have survived the turmoil of his own life when he was younger.

People who knew the Mackays knew you didn’t strike out at one of them. All of them

came running if you did. And Rowdy’s and Dawg’s wives, Kelly and Crista, were strictly

hands-off. It was hands-off or Natches would go hunting.

Johnny should have known better. He should have known Natches would be waiting with

a bullet for him. But the little fucker had been convinced he could pull it off without

anyone being the wiser.

His death had ended the investigation. The missiles had been recovered, the prospective

buyers had been arrested, and all was supposed to be right in this little part of the world.

Not that Natches slept any easier at night, but he had found a measure of peace. That

peace had been hard-won over the past five years, and he had been enjoying the hell out

of it.

Until last year.

He watched as Chaya disappeared into the hotel. Chaya was the pet agent of Timothy

Cranston, the special agent in charge of investigations. She was his gopher and shit

wrestler, and as much as it grated on Natches to see her following the snide little man’s

orders, he had still considered her rather intelligent. Smart enough that he had tried to

stay the hell away from her.

Maybe she wasn’t as smart as he had thought. Because she was back here, and he’d be

damned if any of his sources had warned him of an operation going down here.

What that operation was, either no one knew, or no one was telling him.

He rubbed at his lower lip and stared at the hotel entrance she had disappeared into. She

hadn’t looked happy to be back—she’d looked worn, tired, as though she had slept about

as much as he had in the past year. Which amounted to less than nothing. And she looked

damned good enough to eat. Unfortunately, she wasn’t much into being a snack for him.