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“I’m Natches’s heir . . . Natches will kill you . . .”
Natches’s heir. Harley was a hunter; he talked about it all the time. Hunting and guns and Natches’s new best hunting buddy? Well, that made sense, didn’t it? As a former Marine sniper Natches would want an heir to teach what he knew, and his adopted son, Declan, had a tendency to laugh if someone suggested he go hunting with Natches.
Harley and Natches had been great hunting buddies, though.
“. . . I’m Natches’s heir . . .” the voice of a nightmare whispered through her head.
“. . . don’t forget you killed me, Zoey . . .” Harley demanded in those bloody images, demanding she remember.
Jumping from the seat of the motorcycle, she paced several feet from it, searching the area frantically for something to concentrate on, something besides a nightmare she just wanted to forget.
“Damn, Eli, is it going to take you all friggin’ evening?” she snapped into the silence of the valley. “Let’s hurry already.”
“You could have come in with him.”
Zoey swung around at the sound of the brooding tone, rife with amused mockery.
Her brows arched and she allowed a small smile to threaten the corners of her lips. Now, didn’t he just look rather fun?
“Zoey Mackay?” A single dark brow arched, interest gleaming in his dark, chocolate-brown eyes.
He stood almost lazily next to the front wheel of her cycle, hands tucked into his black slacks, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled several cuff widths up his tanned, light-haired forearms, his longish, dark brown hair framing aristocratic, damned imposing features.
“And you are?” she asked warily, though she had a good idea who he was. The boss’s boss. It was damned funny how even Eli refused to use his name. Like some kind of talisman that could hold him at bay.
He did look kind of dangerous, though, in a very aristocratic sort of way. In a very arrogant lord-of-all-he-surveyed way. And she had to admit, it was a damned arousing look.
She liked it.
A little too much perhaps.
Her eyes narrowed then. It had been years. Five years, to be precise. He was harder, his face sharper, his expression colder. But it was him.
She’d danced with him one sultry summer night, certain he’d kiss her once the dance was over. Instead, he stepped back, ran his finger from her temple to her jaw in a gentle curve, before turning and just walking away.
But did he know who she was? He didn’t appear to recognize her, and it had been five years after all. Perhaps she hadn’t made the same impression on him.
His lips quirked. “Who did Eli tell you he was meeting?”
Propping one hand on a leather-clad hip, she slid her gaze to the plane, then back to his amused features.
“His boss’s boss.” She wrinkled her nose with a hint of disdain. “Be careful of him, he tends to get his agents shot at, you know.”
Casually, ensuring that the move appeared natural, Zoey lifted her jacket from the seat of the cycle and pulled it on once again. “Hopefully he doesn’t get Eli shot at before we leave. I’m certain I have things to do tonight.”
“Really?” The interest deepened in his eyes now. “Perhaps you can give him a few more minutes while you explain how you know so much about his boss?”
Lifting one arm, she checked her nails for a moment before lowering it once again and directing her attention back to him.
“I’m a Mackay, we tend to know these things. Instinct perhaps.” She shrugged as though no more interested in the conversation than she was in the grass growing in the fields surrounding the airfield. “Think the boss’s boss will be done with him soon?”
He turned and gave the plane a long look before turning back to her. “I don’t quite think he’s finished yet. You could come up with him if you like.”
Uh-oh. That did not sound promising. For Eli at least.
“What’s he doing?”
“A hundred push-ups for bringing a civilian along,” he answered far too seriously. “And if I don’t get back, he’ll cheat on the count. There’s cold drinks in the plane if you decide to join us.”
