Primal Instincts (15 page)

She hadn’t noticed the werewolf leave. She didn’t think Strahan had either, judging by the annoyed look he gave Ed for bringing in gear without being ordered.
Control junkie.

“Thanks,” Strahan said grudgingly. He flipped open the case, which Ed had set well back from the bomb bag, and began methodically unloading equipment and padded protective clothing. He didn’t look up again, just said, “Out now. Both of you.”

For a moment Ed looked like he wanted to take her arm, but a toothy sneer from Francesca made him think better of the gallant gesture. He settled for walking beside her as they left the room.

“He’ll be fine,” Ed reassured her after gently closing the bedroom door behind them. “He’s the best at what he does.”

“So’s Wolverine,” she said. “And look at the horrible things that happen to him.”

The poor werewolf stared at her in confusion. He didn’t have a clue what she meant. He must have thought she was talking about a werewolverine—were
there such critters?—and not a Marvel superhero. Or possibly a Clan Wolverine Prime.

Francesca patted his bare shoulder. “Never mind. We have our orders. Let’s get out of here.”

She let Ed walk ahead of her but didn’t follow him very far. She knew she should stalk angrily out into the safety of the garden, but she couldn’t do it. Strahan didn’t want her around. She didn’t want to be around when he blew himself up. But how could she leave him when he was in danger?

One man I loved has already died alone—

She gave her head a hard shake and scrubbed blinding tears out of her eyes. And how the hell had that
L
word gotten into her head? Lust, yes, she couldn’t help that. But she wasn’t falling in love with anybody.

She knew damn well all this sentimental nonsense flooding her senses was simply the bonding process in action and that she ought to fight it. Where was her pride? Her strength?

Turned to mush by a big beautiful bruiser with the heart of a father and the soul of a warrior. It tore out her own heart to know he was in danger.

Strahan was in danger. She needed to be there.

“Never mind daylight drugs,” she muttered. “What we need is something to keep our hormones in check.”

No matter how much she tried, Francesca couldn’t find the will to do anything but be where he was. She walked back to her bedroom. Not that she went inside when she got there. You didn’t barge in on someone disarming a bomb. Or bang on the door and beg him to get out before he blew himself to pieces.

Oh, no, all she could do was sit down with her eyes squeezed shut, her back pressed against the door, and her arms wrapped around her drawn-up knees. She prayed to the moon goddess for his hands to be steady and his luck to hold and hoped that if there was an explosion, it would all be over fast enough not to hurt. She prayed that they would be together.

Because if they ended up dead, she was going to make Tobias Strahan’s afterlife anything but pleasant.

Tobias was not nervous, but Flare sure as hell was, and knowing it wasn’t making his dangerous job any easier. She was also angry. What the hell did the woman have to be angry about? And what was she doing there, right outside the bedroom door? Her heart hammered in his ears; the blood racing through it called strongly enough to make his sheathed fangs pulse. His own heart wanted to keep pace with hers.
Blocking her out of his awareness was impossible.

He’d told Ed to get her out, and when it came to werewolf against vampire, didn’t the vampire always win? Okay, he couldn’t blame Ed if the female didn’t do as she said she would and get out.

He was on his knees in front of the booby-trapped leather bag, dressed in protective gear, tools and chemicals laid out beside him. He kept his physical attention focused on the job. But his awareness of Flare was something on an entirely different level.

He couldn’t ignore her. He couldn’t go to her.

“Go away!” he shouted.

“No!” she shouted back. “Just . . . do . . . whatever, Mr. Demolition Man.”

He laughed. The sound was muffled by the shield protecting his face. “You are such a—”

“Bitch. I know.”

“I was going to say
nag.
”

On the other hand, he was steadied by the knowledge that she was nearby. She was waiting for him. She was depending on him to get them out alive. And would be totally pissed off if he didn’t manage it. He liked that about her.

He could not disappoint the lady.

His lady.

Was going to have to get over her objections to his profession.

All he could think to do was to drop every bit of mental shielding and let her in.

Watch this
, Tobias thought.
And keep out of my way.

Francesca held her hands up, staring hard to see through the fading images of the bomb being dismantled. These were
her
hands. Long fingered, graceful, elegant, soft skinned, the nails beautifully manicured. She recognized them, but they were not large, competent, and sure. There was no purpose in these hands. No strength. These hands didn’t hold the memories of scars healed and lovers caressed.

Lovers—

“Goddess damn him!”

Fury brought Francesca surging to her feet. Just as the door behind her opened.

She stumbled backward. Strahan fell forward.

She found herself tangled up with him on the floor once more. This time she was on top. She grabbed his shirt front. She would have shaken him, but how do you shake a mountain?

“What the hell was that all about?” she demanded.
“What the hell did you do to me?”

Strahan was totally unfazed. “Was it good for you too?” he asked.

“That wasn’t funny! It was—”

The question is whether to take it slow and careful or go for speed. Caress it or take it hard and fast . . .

The thought had come while her/his hands hovered over the leather case. At the time it had seemed perfectly normal, but now Francesca marveled at how close those big, sensitive hands had been to the case without actually touching it. She/he had been exquisitely aware of the softness and suppleness of the leather, almost sensing the molecules of the oblong packet of explosives beneath the thin surface of the material.

“It’s a tactile awareness,” Strahan said now. He gave a cocky grin. “It comes in handy making love too.”

Hard and fast.

What Francesca had then experienced through Strahan’s senses had been accomplished in a blur of speed faster than even a Prime should have been able to manage.

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

The explosive was removed and slathered in a cool chemical goo before the wiring even knew it was missing.

She’d been there—felt and seen it all. It was over,
and she was still scared—with him, for him. Reaction burned through her.

She pounded a fist on his chest. “Damn you, Strahan! How dare you mess with my head like that?”

He blinked. Opened his mouth to say something—

Her mouth came down hard and hungry on his, tasting that he was alive and burning just as fiercely as she was.

And, oh, those hands were indeed skilled! He had her sweater and jeans off her almost as fast as he’d snatched the bomb out of its case. She was naked on the cool tiles, but she was anything but cold.

His lips and tongue moved down her breasts and belly and between her legs. She clawed at him, ripping through his shirt, scoring his shoulders.

Should have left on the Kevlar
, he thought.

She needed blood and came as soon as she caught the scent of it. And laughed at his thought. The amusement only increased her pleasure.

What are you doing to me, Strahan?

This.

His fangs sank into the soft flesh of her inner thigh.

Her world went white hot with pleasure.

Banshee.

What?
Francesca responded to the thought that brought her back from overwhelming sensation.

You’re screaming like a banshee.
The shape of Strahan’s thought was laced through with smug
satisfaction.

I suppose you know a banshee?

Several. But I’ve never bedded one before.

She heard a maddened howl and knew the sound was her own primal response. As if she’d never been bitten by a vampire before.

In fact, she hadn’t.

You’re a blood virgin?
Strahan projected absolute male pride and delight at this revelation. She’d never been anyone else’s but his! His being was aglow.

She should have been repulsed. She was pleased instead.

But I bit you first!
she thought, teasing him.

But I bit you more
, he responded, teasing back.

Even more would be better.

But his fangs were no longer piercing her skin. Pleasure still pulsed out from the spot where he’d tasted her, feeding into her growing desire to share herself with him in every way possible.

Strahan moved to cover her mouth with his. She tasted the tang of her lust and blood. Their tongues played around each other’s fangs, teasing, stimulating.

Woman, you taste of moonshine.

“White lightning becomes you,” he whispered in her ear. Then he bit her earlobe and sent another fiery orgasm shooting through her. She bucked beneath him.

And one of his many communication devices
sounded.

“Damn!” they swore as one.

“Is it too much for you to turn those off?” she demanded.

“Don’t nag me, woman!” he shouted back.

Then he thrust hard into her. His hips ground hard and fast and deep. Francesca met each rough thrust with joy. And if she continued to scream like a banshee into his ear—well, maybe that was partly in revenge for being called a nag. And partly to drown out the sound of his phone calling him back to duty.

And mostly because she’d never felt anything as wonderful as his rough-and-tumble way of making love to her before.

As you know, we can trace ancestry from your mother’s side through mitochondrial DNA. But what I want you to take a look at on your individual results screens are those lines that look like bar codes. Those are called bonding patterns, and that’s what was used to trace your paternal descent . . .”

Saffie’s biology teacher went on talking about variable-number tandem repeats and other stuff she might normally have found fascinating, but Saffie’s attention was riveted on the blotchy black dash patterns on her laptop screen that told her who her father was.

Or maybe what.

She’d had a bad feeling coming into this, and if
there was one thing she’d learned from her adoptive father, it was to trust her feelings. To double-check her feelings, she tilted her laptop so the girl seated on her left could see it. She got a look at the other girl’s DNA information in turn. This got a giggle from Pattie, who was on her right, so she and Pattie exchanged views as well. Saffie was
so
not reassured by what she saw.

Students weren’t supposed to access the classroom’s Wi-Fi without getting permission and a password from the teacher, but a Dark Angel wasn’t going to let minor details get in her way.

Saffie was still careful to slowly tap out her message when she sent an e-mail and a couple of sips, so the soft clatter of keys and hand movements wouldn’t give away what she was doing. Frustration at being stuck in the mortals’ world boiled in her while she surreptitiously tried to make contact with her own.

Holiday vacation was coming up very soon, but not nearly fast enough for her. She had to get away from this place, these people. Maybe the DNA evidence, whatever it meant, would be enough to convince her father of what she’d been telling him all along. She didn’t belong there.

Saffie got no immediate replies from the messages she sent, so she was forced to wait for the end of biology class to make a phone call. She hated bothering Tobias or Dee while they were on an op, but this was
important
!

She’d known going into it that it was important, but had they listened to her? Why did they still treat her like a mortal kid with no psychic gifts of her own? Well—not completely. At least Dee agreed she had a talent for magic, which kept her from being a complete washout for the Crew.

Magic.

A smile spread across Saffie’s face, and her worry eased a little. Maybe that was what was wrong with her paternal DNA profile. Maybe she’d inherited some sort of magic-enhancing mutation from her biological father. He was a great and terrible wizard and that was the cause of the conclusion at the bottom that read:

Sample not consistent with human DNA.

Saffie held on to this reassurance until class ended.

Before she could leave, the teacher stopped her with, “A word, Ms. Strahan.”

Having spent her life around soldiers, many colorful and profane responses came to Saffie, but she managed a meek, “Yes, sir.” While she slowly made her way to the teacher’s desk her mind raced, trying to find plausible excuses for what she knew she was going to be asked.

“Your reputation as a troublemaker has reached a new height,” the teacher told her. “I don’t know how you tampered with your saliva, but this example of
your witchcraft isn’t funny.”