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Careful to keep the lights out, he moved quickly and quietly up the metal stairs, the night-vision goggles firmly in place. He made hi
s way quickly through the upper level to Zoey’s room, where he’d have a clear view to the roof across the clearing. Tearing the goggles off as he reached beneath the bed, he pulled the rifle he’d stored there free and stepped to the curtained window.
Zoey’d be returning soon and he’d be damned if he’d let some bastard take her out. Even if it meant revealing himself in her life to her brother and cousins. He eased the barrel of the weapon to the edge of where the curtains met and adjusted the night-vision sights.
His lips thinned at the sight of the watcher in clear view now, night vision attached to his head as well and staring back at Doogan.
His cell phone vibrated with an incoming text.
I got this, the message read.
Got what?
Your back, bro! the watcher typed back. Your back!
“Fuck!”
We need to talk. Now! Doogan demanded.
Later. Don’t get distracted. Protect Zoey!
No! Now! Doogan demanded. Will come to you!
Later, bro!
Have to talk . . .
There was no answer. The message waited; the icon indicating that it was unread stayed next to it.
“Damn you!” He checked the rooftop again, but it appeared deserted. Son of a bitch, what the hell was Harley up to?
Later, bro, his ass. That damned kid was going to end up pissing him the hell off. And his mood was already iffy after hearing Zoey’s threats to head to California.
Dammit. Those August brats were family to her. Third or fourth cousins, he was certain.
Kissing cousins.
Like hell.
Pacing the bedroom, he waited for her return; the thought of her allowing those damned women-sharing bastards to touch her was more than he could tolerate. He’d be damned if he’d allow it.
Raking his fingers through his hair in frustration, Doogan refused to delve into the reasons why he was so damned pissed off over it. Because he’d never cared before who or what a woman was doing. If he found himself disapproving of a woman’s actions or interests, then he simply moved on. There were plenty of women in the world.
There was only one Zoey Mackay.
And that thought didn’t set well with him at all.
—
Sam Bryce stepped from her pickup; the glimmer of a vehicle parked on the dirt path behind the evergreen shrubs at the far end of the parking lot drew a heavy breath from her.
God, she was tired, and she knew damned good and well that the owner of that car wasn’t out to just check out the scenery. He had far better things to do with his time. And he had a key to her apartment. She had no doubt he was waiting for her.
Striding across the narrow strip of grass to her patio, Sam slid the patio door open and entered the apartment. Just to find out how very wrong she was.
“Let the light out, Sam.” Chaya Mackay rather than her husband stood leaning against the counter separating the kitchen and living area, a glass of Sam’s favorite wine held loosely in her hand.
There was a weapon clipped to her waist, a sheathed knife strapped to her thigh. Chaya wasn’t there for friendly conversation or tips on a new cookie recipe, she guessed. Son of a bitch, Mackays were getting on her last nerve.
