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Always the hard way. And look at what she had lost. Sometimes Chaya wondered if she hadn’t lost her soul in a desert so bleak it sucked the spirit out of a person.
She snorted at that thought as she kicked at a clump of grass and leaned against her car, determined to enjoy just a few minutes of being unreachable by her boss, Timothy Cranston. No doubt he was frantically calling both the cell and sat phones. And here she stood, breathing in the fresh mountain air, feeling the peace of the place wrap around her, sink inside her.
Beseeching her to relax. To remember. To remember one night. One man. Urging her to close her eyes and to remember his touch. A touch filled with tears and her sobs, but also with his gentleness, with the warmth of his kisses, the heat of his possession. A night she only remembered in her dreams.
Her lips kicked up in a grin at the thought. Yeah, relax and drop her guard. Hadn’t she done that before? And hadn’t she paid for it? Hadn’t she lost everything she loved in life because she had trusted the wrong person? And here she was, a part of her wishing, regretting things she knew she had no right to regret.
Strong arms that didn’t hold her through the night. A voice like aged whiskey that didn’t rasp her name with heated passion at his release. Hands, calloused and possessive. And she regretted, because that illusion was the most dangerous one she could ever reach out for.
A second later an unexpected sound had her jerking her weapon from the holster at the small of her back and taking aim at the front of the car.
She knew who it was. She took the precaution of waiting, watching, but the sound of the jeep rolling up the mountain was unmistakable. Powerful, a hard, male throb of power that her piece-of-crap borrowed jeep didn’t have.
At least he was driving up in front of her rather than slipping through the trees and taking aim. He could have taken her out before she knew what hit her. And he would. No matter how well he knew her, no matter the short history they had shared so long ago, he would put a bullet between her eyes as fast as he would an enemy combatant if he felt she was a threat.
She held the Glock comfortably, confidently, as the wicked black vehicle pulled over the rise. If a jeep could strut, it strutted up the mountain and caused her to grit her teeth. Cranston could make her crazy running her in circles, but he couldn’t give her a vehicle decent enough to make those circles in.
Tall tires, gleaming paint job, and a black pipe bumper. A winch at the front, the top pulled back, the man behind the wheel staring back at her from behind dark glasses, hiding those incredible green eyes.
But nothing could hide his somber expression as he jumped from the driver’s seat, the engine still idling, throbbing. Like the rumble of a monstrous cat.
This was the dream, and the illusion. And somehow she had known he would be here. Here, in the mountains that bred him, as strong, as secure, as dangerously primitive as the man himself. As dangerous as the regrets that whispered through her as she watched him.
Chaya licked her lips slowly, staring back at him, trying not to notice the smooth, corded grace of his body. The way his jeans hung low on his hips and drew attention to his thighs. The way his gray T-shirt snugged over taut abs. The aura of power and male grace that seemed to ooze from the pores of his heavily tanned skin.
The wind ruffled through his overly long black hair, whipping it across his forehead and along the nape of his neck. Those thick, tempting strands had her hands itching to touch them, her fingers curling into fists to restrain the need.
Hell, she needed that cigarette bad now. She’d been working with him for months, and she still couldn’t dampen the s
ickening nerves, the pain each time he came near her. The need. Oh God, the need wrapped around her until sometimes she wondered if it would eventually drive her insane. The need to touch. Just one more time, just one touch, one kiss, one more night to hide within his arms.
Instead, she tucked her weapon back into its holster and shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans as she watched him. The way he moved. The intensity in his forest green eyes, the knowledge in his expression. There was always that knowledge, the words that whispered just below the surface, the memories that never really went away. The hunger that never really receded.
Natches moved lazily to the front of the jeep and leaned against the heavy bumper. He stared at her, unsmiling, as he crossed one booted foot over the other and eased the dark glasses from his face.
Piercing green eyes tore into her senses, scrambled her brain and had her heart throbbing like a schoolgirl’s. Summer’s heat rushed around her then, stroking over her body and reminding her, always reminding her, of things she shouldn’t let herself remember.
“Busted. ” He lifted his brows mockingly. “Want to tell me why you’re following my 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.
