#2 Dangerous Games (30 page)

As many as he could get his hands on.

And Morganna had been madder than hell, furious that Clint had left her. He remembered clearly the fights between his parents before his father went off on a mission. Terrible screaming matches that would run for hours on end before

Clint's father slammed out of the house and headed out for war. And Clint's mother headed out for a round of parties night after night, man after man. Could he handle it? he wondered. Hell no, everything inside him screamed out in fury. If Mace touched Morganna, Clint didn't know if he could contain his rage.

His hands clenched on the steering wheel as he pulled into the open garage door and waited for the door to close and the interior lights to blaze on. He knew better than to step out of the car before Mace knew who was there.

When the lights flickered, Clint opened the door and raised his long frame out of the vehicle before moving for the door.

His fists were clenched, his jaw bunched so tight he could reel his molars grinding. Could he survive another man touching her after he'd had her? Would he lose his mind as his father had?

Clint shook his head as he moved through the house, feeling the weight of his fears bearing down on his shoulders as he fought to make sense of the soul-deep tiredness filling him.

The wall section slid open as he neared it, assuring him that no matter what may have happened through the night, Mace was watching.

"Thank God!"

Clint's hands automatically wrapped around the small body that threw itself into him no sooner than he'd stepped to the staircase landing.

As the wall slid closed, Morganna was sobbing against his chest, her hands running over his shoulders, his back.

"Are you hurt?" Her voice was hoarse as the words tumbled from her lips, demanding, fierce. "If you managed to get your ass hurt, I'll skin you alive."

"Bloodthirsty wretch." He inhaled the scent of her. He could smell his own darker scent beneath the sweet, clean smell that was so much a part of Morganna.

She still wore the skirt and corset, though she had kicked off her shoes. Leaning back from him, she let her gaze go over him, her misty eyes shadowed with worry and a hint of anger.

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"I am so mad at you." She slapped at his shoulder as she pushed away from him and stalked back down the stairs. "You just run off like Rambo...." Her words trailed back to him as she stomped into the main room. "All gung ho and tough and you leave me just sitting here twiddling my fingers. This is not going to work, Glint."

Did he smell food? Real food? Mace could cook, but what Clint smelled wafting up the staircase was pure heaven in the form of pancakes and maple syrup. But where was Mace?

Clint moved down the staircase, wary as he stepped from the enclosed stairwell. Mace was sitting across the room by his computers, his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at Clint.

Lifting his brow, Clint turned to stare back into the kitchen area where Morganna was muttering to herself.

"Everything okay?" he asked the other man.

Mace glared harder.

"Go ahead and answer him," Morganna snapped. "He's back now; I'm sure he can protect you." She sounded a bit upset.

"That woman is trouble in progress," Mace suddenly said. "I swear to God, you go off and leave me alone with again and I'll kill you. You won't have to worry about Fuentes." He swung around in his chair then and hunched over keyboard of his computer, his fingers striking the keys. “What did you do, Morganna?" Clint sighed, moving to a good look at her. She was flat-out furious. If possible, was more pissed now than she had been when he left. I didn't do anything." She propped her hands on her hips as a feminine little sneer curled her lips. "But he doesn't seem to know where his stupid hands belong-"

“Ah hell, just get me fucking killed, why don't you." Mace jumped from his chair, staring back at Clint wild-eyed, "I swear to God, it was harmless. I didn't mean nothing by it, Clint."

Clint took a deep breath. The fury that should have been re was overshadowed by confusion. Mace looked almost scared, and Morganna was in killing mode. "Look, you don't have to kill me. That damned little witch of yours nearly shoved my balls into my stomach. I didn't mean a damned thing by it. It was harmless."

"He patted my ass!" Her voice was a low, snarling growl she pointed a shaking finger at him. "He patted my ass!" She was shaking with feminine outrage. Clint blinked back at her, wondering if he should shake head to get his bearings here. "Mace pets every woman's ass." He gave in and shook his head as he looked between two of them. "He's a Romeo."

"He's an alley cat," she snapped. "And he can keep his damned hands off my ass. No one touches my ass."

"I do," Clint pointed out. Something wasn't clicking here, just wasn't certain what it was.

Morganna lowered her chin and gave him the "moron" look, as he and Reno had always dubbed it. The droll glare, the slightest arch to her brows as her lips thinned in irritation.

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"For the moment, you have permission," she said sarcastically. "He," she pointed her finger imperiously,

"does not."

"Don't worry,". Mace growled back with no small amount of ire. "He can keep your ass. I was just being nice."

"Then keep it to yourself." She glared back. "And the stupid pancakes are done if either of you would care to eat them. Now that Rambo has returned, I need a shower." Then she frowned again. "Did you at least bring me some clothes?"

He lifted the small duffel in his hands out to her silently. He still hadn't figured out what had happened, but her face brightened, her lips trembling just for a moment before she pounced on the bag. She pulled it from his hand and unzipped it quickly.

"Yes! Comfies," she sighed, clutching the soft cotton pi pants and the loose T-shirt to her breasts. "God, I love you."

Before he had time to comment she was rushing to the other side of the room and disappearing into the bedroom. Clint turned back to Mace, who, being no one's dummy, was tearing into the homemade pancakes with a rumble of glee.

"Want to tell me what just happened here?" Clint queried as he moved to the refrigerator and pulled out the milk before snagging a glass from the counter and sitting down at the table.

"Woman's insane," Mace muttered around a mouthful of pancakes and syrup. "Swear to God. She was crying like a baby, Clint. Damned woman can't even sob. Just these silent tears and that lip trembling.

She was breaking my heart. I had to just hug her, man." His fork was poised halfway to his plate as he stared back at Clint in bemusement. "Ought to kick your ass for making her cry like that. But I just hugged her and patted her butt at the same time. Next thing I know I'm on the floor with my balls choking me." He glared at Clint again. "She's deranged. Told me to get in my damned corner and not to make the mistake of speaking to her again or she'd take a knife to me. I didn't speak." He shook his head, his expression frankly disturbed. "I haven't spoke for ours, Clint."

Clint sat back in his chair slowly. "Struck out, did you?" he asked casually.

"Struck out?" Mace blinked back in amazement. "Man, you'd have to be loose a few screws to go after that woman. Where the hell is your head? In your pants? That is not a woman you want to piss off. She is going to deball you and fry your nuts up for dinner and make you like it. Have you lost your ever-lovin'

mind?"

"What were you doing touching my woman's ass to begin with, Mace?" Clint asked him carefully. "I left her here for you to protect, not to be handling."

"A woman only belongs to a man if it's what she wants." Mace grimaced. "I'm telling you, though. That woman." He pointed his fork in the general direction of the bathroom, "Ain't no man gonna own, but only one man is gonna touch. And that's at his own damned risk. You sure you didn't lose a few brain cells
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when you took up with that mini-volcano?" Maybe he had, because he'd be damned if he couldn't fee1

something inside his chest melting.

"Oh man, you are so sunk," Mace grunted. "Get that fool grin off your face before she comes back in here. I'm telling you,. that woman is dangerous."

'Yeah, she is," Clint murmured, shifting in his seat, realizing he was suddenly hard, engorged with lust. He was so dammed tired that just eating was a chore, but damn if he wasn't ready to show Morganna just who that pretty ass of hers belonged to. "Eat, Mace. She'll forgive you in a few weeks.

Mace choked comically. "She racked me, man," he moaned. "And you're making jokes. I can't believe you're making jokes. And I was just trying to be nice." Mace stuffed his mouth with pancake, sighed, and devoured his half. Evidently being racked didn't affect his appetite. It was affecting Clint's heart, though.

He hadn't known a single woman who had ever rejected whatever attention Mace wanted to pay her.

Women loved him, lusted after him, stood in line to be at his beck and call. To Clint's knowledge, no woman had ever kneed Mace in his sexual history.

Until Morganna.

Clint finished the pancakes Morganna had made, delicious, fluffy pancakes that damn near melted in his mouth, before he carried his plate and glass to the sink.

"Go get some rest. I'll get these dishes. I'm just running some intel on the computers right now; it will be an hour or so before I have anything worth mentioning."

Clint turned back from the sink, dragging in a weary breath before releasing the pack he still carried from his belt. The black pouch bulged with the four cell phones and a variety of matchbooks, little black books, and an assortment of receipts.

"See what you can get from these." He tossed the pouch on the table. "They came off the four men tailing me."

"Gave 'em up willing-like, did they?" Mace picked up the pouch and hefted it slowly.

Clint stared back at him directly. "It's hard to disapprove of something if you're dead, Mace," he told him softly. "Fuentes has a nice little message coming his way."

"Shit," Mace muttered. "You sure they were Fuentes' boys?"

Mace had a problem with killing first and asking questions later. Clint didn't.

"I recognized one of them right off." He shrugged. "The other three I had to study on. They were all with Fuentes. and four were looking to ambush the dumb little SEAL they were tailing. Their mommas should have raised them better."

"You're cold, man," Mace sighed. "Real cold."

"One of my men is dead and those bastards want to rape my woman," he snarled in reply. "Yeah, Mace, I'm real damned cold, and I can get colder, my friend. Don't you doubt that."

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But first he intended to get warm. Real warm. He flicked a final glance at the pouch Mace was picking up before moving through the underground room to the bedroom. Mace had himself a cool little setup here. The bedroom was almost soundproof, the entrance sealed shut with another wall-like door that slid in place when he hit the switch on the inside of the bedroom.

From there, there was a trapdoor down in the bathroom that actually did lead to a sewer access tunnel.

Mace was a paranoid SOB, even more so than Clint.

As the wall sealed shut behind him, Clint stripped off his shirt, then sat down in a surprisingly comfortable wing-backed chair to take his boots off. He could hear the water running in the bathroom.

Bathwater rather than a shower. Mace had the biggest damned sunken tub Clint had ever laid his eyes on in there. Evidently Morganna was taking advantage of it.

The thought of that had him grimacing at the hard-on swelling beneath his leather pants. The thought of her

stretched out in that huge tub alone, all that sweet darkly tinted flesh, her Spanish ancestry evident just enough to tint her flesh, to give it a soft earthy glow that he loved so much.

It also gave her that damned temper, he thought with a smile.

He couldn't believe she had racked Mace. As Clint placed his boots and socks beside the chair, he rose to his feet, shaking his head at the memory of Mace's bemused expression and Morganna's furious one.

If there was one man on the face of the earth Clint would swear could crack any woman, it was Mace.

Morganna had racked him instead.

Clint padded to the open bathroom door, the smell of sweetened vanilla reaching his senses. She was using the bath gel he had chosen from the all-night convenience store where he had found pj's. Warm vanilla sugar. That was the scent. The name had reminded him of Morganna and made his mouth water for the taste of her. So he had bought it. He had bought the bath gel and the pajamas, even though he had no intention of allowing her to sleep in them.

He stepped into the steaming room, intent on joining he: in the bathtub, until he saw her. The steamy water lapped around her slender form as she sat with her knees bent, her face buried against them as her arms covered her head.

Her shoulders were shaking, but the only sign of her sobs was the soft hitch of her breathing. Long, wet corkscrew curls floated in the water around her like a silken cape.

"Morganna." He knelt beside the raised side of the tub fighting his shaking hands as he pushed the long strands of her hair back, over her shoulder. "Baby, why are you crying?"

She shook her head, hiding her face.

His heart was breaking. He could actually feel the splintering effect in his chest, the tightness in his throat, as she turned her head from him.

"Morganna, honey, you know I can't stand to see you cry. It makes me crazy. You have to talk to me here."

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When she still didn't speak, he moved slowly, sliding into the water behind her and forcing her back against his broad chest as his heavy thighs bracketed her small body.