Wicked Lovers 01 Wicked Ties (8 page)

“Thanks. I knew I could count on you.”

“This the girl you called about, the one runnin’ for her life?” Brice gestured to Morgan, whom Jack still held.

“Yeah.”

With narrowed eyes, Brice peered closer and stared at Morgan. “You sure he’s not just out to bed her? She’s one jolie fille, but she dresses like a whore, that one.”

“It’s a disguise, Grand-pere.”

Brice frowned his gray head, disapproval still shadowing his strong features. Smiling to himself, Jack stepped around his grandfather and headed for the cottage’s lone bedroom. He set Morgan down on the bed, then bent to remove her black boots. If his grandfather weren’t watching, he’d pull off the rest of her clothes for the mere pleasure of looking at her…but Brice would both disapprove and get an eyeful that could damage his heart at eighty-two.

“You still been havin’ them dreams?” his grandfather asked suddenly.

Jack rolled his eyes, ruing the day he’d said anything. “They don’t mean anything.”

“Boy, you been raised in the bayou, even if the army and big city spoiled you some. A curse is a curse. If you’re dreaming about a redheaded woman over and over, you’re about to meet her and she’s your heart’s mate.”

Here we go again with this bullshit, Jack thought with a sigh. If Brice wanted to use the legend to justify his marrying an underage girl sixty years ago, goody for him. As it was, Jack refused to believe that some faceless woman he’d seen in his dreams with red hair glinting across bare shoulders in dawn’s light was destined to be his one and only love. There was no such thing. The redhead was just a fantasy fuck his mind had conjured up.

“Well, I haven’t met any redheads lately, so the whole point is moot. Dreams don’t mean a thing.”

“You keep tellin’ yourself that, boy. She’ll turn up. Won’t be long now. Didn’t you say you’d been having those dreams about five months?”

Six, but who was counting? Jack shrugged.

“She’ll make a believer out of you,” Brice contended.

“Whatever you say, Grand-pere.”

The old man grunted, knowing that Jack was blowing off the famous family legend he loved so much. The dreams…they had to be coincidence, a byproduct of loneliness and the fact he hadn’t had a good lay in forever. Nothing else made sense.

“Well, this old man is taking his body home and going to bed. Need anything else, boy?”

“We’ll be fine.”

“Take care of ta jolie fille.”

Jack sighed. “She’s not my pretty girl.”

And for some damn reason, it annoyed him to admit that. Probably because she was wasted on an asshole like Brandon Ross.

Laughter cackling with both amusement and age, Brice left. Jack heard the slam of the cottage door and returned to the bedroom.

He turned on the kerosene lamp in the bedroom, which emitted a soft glow over Morgan. She looked uncomfortable, as he watched her twist and mutter in her sleep.

He removed a pair of gaudy earrings he hadn’t noticed before and lay them on the side table. The purple leather…it wasn’t Morgan’s style, but would have to stay for now. Trying to take it off would surely wake her up. Shrugging, he realized he could only do one other thing to make her comfortable.

Gently, Jack reached under the sleek blonde wig and extracted a pin here and there. She sighed in sleepy appreciation when he lifted the wig away and tossed it on the table next to the earrings.

When Jack looked back, he frowned and lifted the lamp over Morgan.

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t.

But with mellow golden light shining down on her, there was no mistaking the glint of her fiery red hair.

Morgan woke to an unfamiliar room pervaded by shadows. Mosquito netting draped the warm, well-used bed. Beyond that, an old-fashioned kerosene lamp on a nightstand with mission-style lines dimly lit the room. Where was she?

Blinking, she sat up with a creak. She frowned when she saw purple leather stretched across her torso and hips. Purple leather? Her? It wasn’t uncomfortable…but had to be discomfiting to be seen in. Why the hell was she wearing it?

Then she recalled. Her stalker shooting. Master J—no, Jack—to the rescue, his gaze eating up her flushed skin, his hands on her body.

Still, she had to thank Alyssa for the shocking get up. It, along with Jack and his outrageous behavior, had gotten her out of Lafayette alive.

A downy beige comforter warmed her legs. Black sheers floated at the room’s lone window, made transparent by the silvery moonlight. A stout dresser of warm, old cherrywood sprawled against most of the wall beside the window.

Turning her head, Morgan skimmed the other half of the small bedroom. The open door led to beautiful hardwood floors, which gleamed in the dark, empty hallway.

And in the chair wedged between the door and an armoire sat Jack, shirtless and tousled, alert—and focused on her.

“Good morning, Morgan.”

Morning? His stare touched her through the moonlit inkiness of the room, caressing her cheek, sweeping over her mouth, gliding down her neck to the rise of her breasts above the leather bustier. With just a glance, heat bloomed inside her. Even eight feet away, the potency of his sexuality broadcast in blaring waves. Everything they had done in Alyssa’s bedroom came back to her in a rush…along with a tight, nagging ache between her legs.

She remembered everything—the way he’d touched her, his kiss, his touch, the way he took control. His mysterious scent, his growled words—they’d intrigued her. Even after a few hours’ sleep, nothing had changed. Curiosity and desire gnawed at her as Jack stared, knowledge hot in his chocolate eyes. The ache knotting her body tightened.

She couldn’t afford that, couldn’t afford him. Morgan looked away, breaking their visual connection.

How he felt, how she felt—none of it mattered. She had to focus on staying safe and doing research for her show. Drooling over the heavy slabs of muscles covering Jack’s shoulders and chest that screamed virile and contemplating all the ways he could use that power to pleasure her wasn’t going to improve her show— or her chances of staying alive.

“How are you? Okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she said finally. “What time is it?”

He shrugged and glanced out the window. “About five in the morning. You can go back to sleep. I’ll be here to watch over you.”

Morgan stared back. The knowledge that Jack’s eyes were on her was really going to induce her to roll over and sink into dreamland. As if. She could hardly breathe with Jack’s gaze all over her. Sleep would be impossible.

What was it about this man? Sure, he was yummy, but she’d dated good-looking guys before. Something about the way he stared?

The truth finally hit her like a slap. No, it was his intensity, his self-possession, his air of controlled power. She’d always been a sucker for men of power. And unlike the other men in her past, Morgan knew Jack was the real deal.

He wielded one of the ultimate powers, a sexual one. He wouldn’t just tie a woman down; he would dictate her response and his, be in complete control of her body, her orgasms, and in that moment, her very soul.

The thought appealed to Morgan far more than was wise.

Easing toward the edge of the bed to put distance between them, she said, “No, I’m awake. Do you want the bed to catch some sleep? I can get up.”

“Stay.”

The single syllable ricocheted through her body. It was a command, pure and simple. Every place it bounced around inside her, the heat intensified, confusing her. She didn’t like being bossed around—by anyone. But Jack barking orders at her made her uncomfortably achy in all the wrong places.

Hell, maybe she was just horny in general, and it had nothing to do with Jack. After all, it had been nearly a year since she’d split up with Andrew.

“I’ve been sleeping in the chair,” he clarified.

“That can’t be comfortable.”

He laughed. “Cher, go spend a few months in Afghanistan with the army. This chair will seem like the Ritz.”

Morgan nodded, conceding the point.

“If you’re awake, I want to ask you some questions. You need coffee first?”

She shuddered. “I don’t drink the vile brew. Too bitter.”

A flash of white teeth told Morgan that he smiled. “I wouldn’t say that too loud around here. We’re known for our thick chicory coffee. Not drinking that is sacrilege.”

“I’m likely to burn in hell for some other things in my life, starting with painting my cousin’s G.I. Joe’s fingernails pink when I was five. I’ll just add that to the list.”

Jack laughed, a scratchy sandpaper sound. “Wow, that is vile. Satan’s got a special place reserved just for you.”

Morgan nodded. Then the room turned quiet. The momentary banter drifted away, leaving a tense silence in its place. Still, she felt Jack’s gaze on her, lingering on her hair.

Self-consciously, she pushed the strands off her shoulders, behind her back. “You took off the wig. I—it’s red,” she stammered. “My hair, I mean.”

He hesitated. “I didn’t expect that.”

His stare changed then, turned pensive. Morgan frowned. What had he expected? Why did the color matter? Maybe he only liked blondes. Maybe…but his stare said otherwise.

“And I see you took off the boots.”

“They looked uncomfortable.”

The idea of Jack touching her as she slept unaware raised the heat coiling in her body another notch. Had he touched anything more intimate than her head or feet, while she slept?

That question ratcheted up her body heat again, now laser focused between her legs. Morgan squirmed, seeking relief. She didn’t find it.

“What do you want to ask me?” she said. Conversation, yes. Much safer than staring.

Jack’s slouched posture instantly gave way to a taut awareness. He leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. “How about we start with anyone you can think of who might want to stalk and kill you?”

Boom. Direct. Morgan wasn’t really surprised. That really was the heart of the matter, after all, and she suspected Jack would be a pretty bottom-line man.

“Honestly, I can’t think of anyone. I’ve had weird fan mail, but not this weird.”

“It seems as if this guy knows you pretty well, where you live, where your friends and family live, where you might run to.” Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me about your relationships.”

“What do you mean?”

“Previous lovers,” Jack’s raspy voice demanded as intriguing shadows played across the hard angles of his face and torso. She could stare at the man for hours and never be bored. Hot and bothered, yes. But never bored.

Damn it, she needed to keep her mind on her safety, her show, not her protector himself.

She shook her head. “The last one left me, not the other way around, so I doubt he’d suddenly demand that I belonged only to him.”

“Before him?” he barked.

Morgan felt a flush creep up her neck. “I was involved with a pro football player a while ago, but when this started happening, he would have been on the road, so he couldn’t be taking pictures and leaving them for me. I dated an ambassador briefly. He’s currently abroad. So it’s not him, either. I hooked up with a guy in college who’s married with a daughter now.”

“Who else?”

“Who else what?”

The line of his jaw hardened. “Who else have you let fuck you?”

The intensity of his voice—and the words—suggested that he asked for reasons that weren’t strictly professional.

“You’re getting awfully personal, not to mention crude.”

“Just getting a full list of suspects and cutting to the chase, cher. Answer me.”

His no-nonsense tone had returned, and she found it oddly difficult to argue. “No one else. Actually, I didn’t even sleep with Ambassador Sweeny.”

“Three past lovers?” Jack asked, curiosity ripe in his voice. “No more?”

She supposed that having only three lovers by the ripe age of twenty-five made her an anomaly. But she wasn’t going to give him all the details about her sex life just to appease his curiosity. The point of this exchange might be to build a list of suspects, but the low-voiced probing in his tone had a sexual edge that shouted warning.

And he wouldn’t stop staring. With every clinging gaze, he lashed Morgan with memories of his kiss, his touch, the way he took control. Her body kept warming like an oven on pre-heat.

“Why does it matter?” Morgan shot back, aware she was dodging the question. “Aren’t the most important facts that this monster knows my habits, my friends, family, and the places I’m likely to go?”

He shrugged. “Cher, there isn’t a man alive who isn’t willing to kill to get a woman he’s truly desperate for. But if she’s running from him, thwarting both him and his lust…that man can get a hell of lot more ruthless.”

With a shiver, Morgan wondered if Jack somehow meant to imply that description could apply to more than just her stalker. Did he include himself in that group? Somehow, she didn’t picture Jack needing a lot of excuses to get ruthless, but she also didn’t picture a lot of women turning him down.

“He’s especially dangerous if he’s already had a taste of what he’s missing. I need to know all the possibilities so I can check them out, run them down. Then we’ll get to your other questions. Now, you’ve had just those three lovers?”

“Yes.”

“I need names, vital statistics, age, and last known addresses to start digging.”

“This is embarrassing.”

“This is critical. Start talking.”

Morgan sighed, squirmed in her place, and looked down at her hands folded in her lap. “Sean Gardner is…about five-ten, maybe. Sandy hair, brown eyes. I think he’s twenty-eight by now. Last I heard he’s living with his wife and kid in San Diego.”

“And he was the first?”

She nodded. “When I was a sophomore in college, yes.”

“When did you see him last?”

“About four years ago, just after he graduated. We only dated six months or so. It wasn’t that serious.”

“But you gave him your virginity?”

“I already said that.”

“Why?”

“I’m not answering that. That goes beyond name and vital statistics.”

“I need to establish motivation, cher. Maybe he still thinks of you as his little virgin and doesn’t like the thought that you’ve shared the pretty pussy he considers his with other men.”