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“What about your tags?” Her voice was muffled, her heated breath wrapping around the heavy flesh of his shaft like a wicked, ghostly touch.
“Tags are counterfeit,” he grunted. “Think James Bond.”
She was silent for several long moments, but her nails were flexing against the denim covering his thigh in a sensual little caress sure to drive him crazy.
“Are you and Dawg related?” There was a heavy sigh of resignation in her voice. “The Jeep was like that before I bought it.”
Graham had to grin at the thought of Dawg’s Jeep Wrangler.
“Did he change the engine out before he let you have it?”
“Of course.” She sighed. “Took him and Natches two weeks to get it ready for me.”
Graham didn’t doubt that a bit. The male Mackays were careful bastards—the females of the family, on the other hand, were far too soft, gentle, and fragile.
“We’re coming up to the next alley. There are two men in the shadows up ahead. Don’t move, baby.”
The windows of the Viper were dark enough that he was certain she wouldn’t be seen, especially with the black leather jacket covering her. The figures remained motionless where they were hidden between the two buildings, no doubt watching his and Elijah’s vehicles carefully.
Theirs weren’t the only vehicles on the small side street, though. Another had pulled out behind them, and a pickup waited just ahead to turn onto the street. Each of them was carrying more than one occupant, giving Graham a reasonable assurance of security as they passed.
Elijah’s left turn signal blinked on; a second later Graham flipped the right signal of the Viper on. They’d converge at the entrance to the interstate a mile or so away.
Where Graham was keeping the appearance of casual boredom, Elijah on the other hand was moving a little fast, his body language nervous as he appeared to be watching everything and everybody and to be suspicious of it all.
If someone was going to follow any of these cars, it would be the pickup with the redneck acting like he had something to hide. And if anyone did follow him, Elijah would take care of it.
Keeping his speed just a mile or two above the limit, the driver’s-side window down halfway, country music loud enough to assure anyone who cared to be nosy that he didn’t give a damn who saw him, Graham continued toward the interstate.
The tags showing on the car were Lexington tags. The direction he would take would make it appear he was heading that way. And he’d make damned sure no one but Elijah was anywhere around when the tags flipped and he made the turn toward Pulaski County and Somerset.
“This is crazy.” Lyrica shuddered as they neared the entrance ramp and Graham flipped his turn signal on again. “Why would anyone follow me like this? Why would they try to shoot me, Graham? It’s been over a year since Dawg, Rowdy, and Natches helped Brogan take down the rest of that homeland terrorist group. Besides, that was Brogan’s deal. Why come after me?”
Because the Mackays had far too many enemies?
“Hell if I know, baby, but we’ll figure it out.”
“Stop calling me ‘baby,’” she snapped, her ire clear in the sharp retort. “I’m not your latest flavor of the month.”
He snorted at the title. “Lucky for you. If you were, instead of snapping at me like a little brat you’d be putting that pretty mouth to a much better use. Sure you don’t want to reconsider the position?”
She was still, silent. He realized he was holding his breath as he awaited her answer. Damn, her lips were so close to the throbbing, steel-hard shaft that he could barely hold back the demand that she release him, that she show him the sweet heat of her hungry little mouth.
He was crazy.
Evidently he had a death wish, because there was no doubt Dawg Mackay would kill his ass if he ever found out Graham had touched his sister. Or that he’d encouraged—hell, begged—her to touch him in such a way. And that didn’t even count what Natches Mackay, her cousin, would do. Natches’s daughter, Bliss, was a Mini Me replica of Lyrica, so Lyrica gave the other man a hint of what his daughter would look like as she grew older.
Lyrica was Natches’s favorite among Dawg’s sisters, it was said. And it was rumored Natches had threatened to take his very elite, well-blooded sniper rifle out of retirement for any man stupid enough to hurt her.
And she would be hurt, Graham admitted. He was the wrong man for her. And this was the wrong time for him.
“Can I please sit up?” Querulous and tense, her impatient voice almost had him grinning as he sped up, the Viper cutting through the night with smooth power.
“For now,” he relented. “But try to keep your head lower than the headrest, just in case.”
She came up immediately, the jacket flipping from her head and pulling forward to rest on her lap.
“I need water.”
