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Apparently, when you look like Hercules you’re part psychic, too.
He’s too good at reading me.
Of course, I want to argue. But the instant his lips start roaming me, I have as much fight as a palmful of kitten.
That kiss travels down to my palm, my wrist, before he dips past my upraised arms to brush his mouth over mine.
“Stay with me for the day. Please, just stay,” he says.
So I stay.
Swallowing my fears, I let myself have this beautiful moment, even if I’m scared to the bone it won’t last.
Even if the price is pure hell tomorrow, today we’re making heaven.
I stay through the day, drowsing in his arms for another couple hours.
Through a lazy breakfast wrapped in the sheets and a whole mile of wild man.
Through falling back in bed, needing no words, and just holding each other.
Through taking in the festival we missed last night when we’d been lighting up each other like the fireworks that fill the sky tonight.
It still feels like it’s been forever since an explosion over Heart’s Edge was a good thing, a safe thing, and not a monster-thing with teeth and claws and raining death.
The happy atmosphere makes me feel like hope and magic are still alive here, even if they passed over me when the rest of the town rediscovered its hard-fought blessings.
His hand lingers in mine, thick and balmy as a summer night.
Pretend. Right.
...are we pretending?
It doesn’t feel like it’s just for show.
Not when that hand never lets go through the rest of the night.
Even when he takes me back to the cabin and covers my body with his and pins me to the sheets by our interlaced fingers as he moves over me, thrusting inside me again and again, he holds the heck on.
And I think I finally find a little magic after all.
I forget how to be afraid.
Because with Paxton, I feel like I’ve found a missing piece of my heart.
I feel like I can finally, finally come home.
18
Chained in Gold (Alaska)
It’s been a long damned time since I had to think in terms of offensive military strategy.
Thankfully, I’ve still got the knack. Old instincts never die.
And those instincts tell me this Lockwood syndicate isn’t a hydra I can handle on my own.
I need intel. Manpower. Experience. People who know their turf better than I do.
That’s how I end up in Holt’s office, laying out everything between three heaping mugs of coffee supplied by the woman I’m trying to save.
I’m not expecting him to drop everything in his busy life and call in backup. Hell, I’m half expecting him to send me straight to the FBI, knowing this town’s had enough rot on its plate, and him personally.
Surprise—I underestimated Holt Silverton.
I also underestimated how loyal his friends are to him and to anyone he says needs help.
So here I am, settled in a loose semicircle around Holt’s desk with the town’s larger-than-life heroes. Warren, Doc, Leo, and Blake, with Holt behind the desk, turning his monitor toward us.
Doc taps coolly at the keyboard he stole a few moments ago, muttering something about encryption and satellite links and VPNs.
I’ve got a top security background and even I don’t get what half the shit he says means.
After a minute, the screen flickers, and a video window pops up.
I take one look at the woman who appears on the screen. I can tell without a doubt that she’s killed people before.
A lot of people.
One trained killer can always recognize another like a dog sniffs out a coyote.
She’s older, maybe in her mid to late forties, but with a certain stark beauty—like the kind of beauty a well-honed weapon has. That’s what she looks like. A living dagger, crowned with a severe bob of black hair with that single white streak in it.
I think now I get what Blake means every time he mutters under his breath about black cats finding them again.
She looks at us through the camera with sharp, penetrating eyes, assessing, finally landing on me.
“Who added a sea lion to the menagerie?” she lilts mockingly.
I just shrug.
“He’s the reason we’re here,” Leo says, his huge tattooed forearm flexing. “Alaska Charter, the woman formerly known as Fuchsia Delaney. Fuchsia, Alaska.”
Her upper lip curls. “That’s not his real name.”
“And you want me to believe your parents named you Fuchsia?” I throw back.
“Please don’t get distracted,” Doc says dryly, steepling his fingers, his glasses gleaming. “You can run a deep background check on him later. For now, he—plus one of our longtime friends—needs our help.”
“So Scooby Doo and the gang got back together. I knew Heart’s Edge had a few more bruises waiting.” This Fuchsia woman sniffs, utterly disdainful. “The lot of you are so wholesome it sickens me.”
The guys just exchange amused looks, Warren and Blake chuckling under their breath.
Guess this is just what she’s like.
