The Risqué Target (13 page)

“Why? Do you think they’re looking for us?”
Whoever
they
were
. “Wait a minute.
You
reset my shoulder?” She glanced disbelievingly at her arm in the sling.

“I’ve had a little training, but I’m not a doctor. You probably should get an X-ray eventually. I gave you some heavy narcotics for the pain and—”

“How long?” She was growing impatient.

“About thirty-two hours.”

Practically a day and half gone.
“Meanwhile, what’s been happening?”

“Let me tend to these wounds.” Ignoring her question, he went to the mirror and twisted around, attempting to get a good view of his back in the reflection. “After that, I'll fix you something to eat.”

“Here,” she said through gritted teeth. ”I'll do it.”

He glanced quickly at her in the mirror.

“Go. Over there.” She pointed to the attached room.

“The bed?”

She ignored his smirk. “Yes, the bed.”

She cursed at herself for the guilt she felt. She moved her shoulder gingerly. It was sore, but she had decent range of motion. He moved past her to the bed and settled on his stomach. His arms came up and hugged the pillow. Jaw tense, she sat beside him and applied ointment to the open wounds, leaving the scabs open to the air. Trying not to notice the graceful strength of his back, she placed the bandages on his wounds and taped them securely to his skin. “War wound?” She tapped the scar on his right shoulder.

“NESA wound,” he muttered.

Her finger moved along the wound between his biceps and shoulder. “This too?”

His head arched up, and he peered at her. “Yep.” He then rested his head again and closed his eyes. “And the one on my stomach is courtesy of NESA as well.”

She hated to think what type of assignments he had endured to leave him scarred in such a way. The most dangerous assignment she'd encountered herself was when she investigated the bombings with Gabe. He was the lead agent then, and she was still fresh. Since his death, she'd played bodyguard to a snobby, rich kid by the name of Tiffany, done a few weeks here and there with detaining and clean-up, and once went undercover as a paralegal to bring down a corrupt, but not physically dangerous, lawyer.

She knew her cases were more typical than Tantum's. She’d heard about the Iris Flower, but surely Valerie Barton hadn’t caused the wounds. She wondered what other assignments he’d taken that could have been so hazardous to his health.
Was it those cases that put such harshness in those astute eyes?

Free for the moment from their watchfulness, she canvassed his back, especially the scar on his shoulder. It had the shape of a distorted star. She ran her fingers over the blemish. The flesh was dark pink and well healed. “Gunshot. Only a coward shoots someone in the back,” she quietly said aloud.

He didn’t respond. His expression remained tranquil, and his eyes stayed closed.

Her hand moved to his neck. She feathered the tribal tattoo with the tip of her finger, an ink-colored upside-down curved sword.
NESA
? she wondered.
Or is the tattoo personal?
His body remained still, and he didn’t recoil from her touch. His breathing evened out, but eventually became heavier, deeper.
Is he sleeping?

The inviting warm skin beneath her fingers encouraged her to carry on along his neck. She ran them through the slightly long hair on his nape. Her hand shrank away, but then went in again, advancing up the back of his head. Soft, clean hair tickled her skin. The brushing of her fingers in his hair continued as she inspected a peaceful Tantum.

It was a perilous act to gaze at his flawless body. Rather than hindering his strength as one might think scars would, his only intensified it. His obstinate endurance almost terrified her. It shamed her that she wanted to be held in his arms again, to experience that odd, misplaced sense of security he'd offered when she was hurt. She hoped to God she wasn’t doing the unthinkable, falling for the infamous, suave, alluring Marcus Richards and forgetting Tantum Maddox, the killer.

His dark brown hair wisped against his face. His eyelashes, those little black wings, kissed the start of his cheekbones. His pallid lips were full, lithe, and palpable. Transfixed by his sleeping oblivion and alluring aura, she ran her thumb over his brow, down along his sturdy jaw line and lightly grazed his lips.

Suddenly, his blue eyes opened, a rushing tidal wave. “Please don’t do that,” he said with a snarl. Caution swirled in the profound, deadly waters of his stare.

Busted, she could think of no response. At last, he closed his eyes and rested his head back on the pillow. She wondered if her touch had caused him discomfort. She'd poked and prodded his open wounds, and he hadn't flinched, but the gentle touch to his face seemed to scorch him. Any other time she'd touched him, he’d encouraged it, but that had been his sexy, seductive playboy act. His Marcus Richards persona.

Is that his weakness? Is a tender touch what frightens the almighty Tantum Maddox? Could it really be that simple?

****

When the weight shifted on the bed, he cracked an eye open and watched her walk to the bathroom, the leftover bandages and first aid supplies in her hand. She shut the door.

Tantum found himself immobilized by the dormant feelings she'd awakened in his body, the way her fingers electrified him as she ran them teasingly through his hair. The guarded memories, so long locked in his head, reopened.

The sense of security, warmth, and home filled his immobile body. The young boy, crawling into the bed. He remembered his mother, her hairless head wrapped in a pale yellow scarf. Her dark Latino skin was ashen from the chemo, and her eyes sunken. Still, her pale lips, at all times, held a smile for him, no matter how badly she felt. He used to nestle his head into the safety of her soft lap. She'd run her fingers through his hair for hours, telling him stories, sometimes until he fell asleep.

She'd fought breast cancer for two years, only to be snatched from him by a car accident. At a mere sixteen years, he took it hard, and he found little solace or sympathy in the heartless father who was rarely around. When he did come around, it was only to get Tantum out of his latest escapade. He’d had too much money as a teenager, too many commodities for a kid. Reckless and angry at the world and its cruel joke on his mother after she’d fought so hard to live, he cared for no one, himself included. And that attitude led him into trouble. The older he got, the bigger the dilemmas.

Finally, when he was twenty-one, still not in college and living off the riches of his father, he wound up in jail for the third time, and in a city where his father couldn’t pay off the judge. The judge gave Tantum two options. He could go to jail, or take the other option, which was what ultimately changed his life. He was sent to AMU, a military university, and after he completed his two-year probationary assignment at a field office to become an FBI agent, NESA contacted him. He bailed on the FBI career. NESA offered him more freedom and riskier cases. He thrived on the danger, required the discipline, and enjoyed the distance from his sorry excuse for a father.

He’d gone more than ten years without seeing his father, and he was fine with that. But now he had taken a risk by returning to his mother's favorite getaway home, the place she’d come to paint and to fight her battle with cancer. He didn’t see his father’s limo when he and Nala arrived, so he assumed it was safe, at least for the time being. They’d hide out there for a few days while her shoulder healed.

What he wasn’t prepared for were the reminiscences of his past, brought on by her nurturing ways. Nala's fingers did more than slide through his hair. They disrupted his barrier. They jimmied the bolt to his padlocked heart, a room that had been boarded up years ago because it was too painful to remember how it felt to love. Normally, when someone attempted to pry the lock on Tantum’s heart, he'd disappear. But he couldn’t leave Nala. He had to stick around. Someone wanted to get them both, and he had to protect her. He also had to know the truth. Was she a killer?

****

The eggs sizzled in the frying pan, and the faint squeak of a sneaker sounded under the hiss. Tantum didn’t turn around. “How do you like your eggs?”

The clean smell of soap brushed his nose, and he knew she'd showered. He was tempted to turn around, to see her fresh-from-the-shower look with her damp hair and adorable freckles spanning her moist nose. But he restrained himself.

“I like my yolks runny but my whites cooked,” she said, and he heard her pull out a stool from the island behind him.

He flipped the eggs and smiled.
At least she’s not fighting me about eating, like I figured she would.
He buttered the toast, retrieved the bacon from the microwave, fixed two plates and pulled a stool out across from her.

She picked up her fork, but it appeared to slip from her grasp before she secured it again with her fingers.

He reflected on the odd movement as she started in on her breakfast. After a few minutes of a silent meal, he asked, “Is it cold in here?”

Her head tilted. “No. Why?”

“I thought maybe that's why you have your sneakers on. If you think you can run away, I guarantee it’s not going to happen.”

She shrugged. “Call me an optimist.” A sly little smile curved her lips.

He wanted to kiss that smile and scolded himself for that.
Damn it!
He tried to focus on his thoughts but found his fingers itching to touch the faint flecks sprayed across her nose. From there, it was impossible not to look at her eyes. They were baby blue, soft and lulling like that tender touch on his head when she had feathered her fingers through his hair. Fuck. She's only a woman. A crafty, lying, deceptive woman. The need to throw her up on the counter, tear her jeans from her body, and fuck her out of his system came hard and fast.

She dutifully got up from the stool, walked over to the sink, rinsed her plate, and washed her hands like a good little girl. He couldn't take his eyes off her, the metal to his magnet. She came back toward him, and the palm of her hand landed on his shoulder. She leaned in close to his ear.

Excitement rushed through him.
What the fuck? Get it together. She's your Target, your assignment!

“One slip-up,” she said, her voice dropping to a sultry bedroom tone that tweaked his nerves. “Just one. That’s all I'll need.”

He snatched her wrist hard and fast. Her eyes flickered, her brass replaced by a sliver of fear. She blinked it back, but he'd seen it.

He yanked on her arm, causing her to fall forward onto him. “I don’t slip up, sweetheart.” His hand moved along her arm, reminding her who was stronger. “Think you can just walk out the door? There's a code to get in, and another one to get out.”

The gallant stance, turned-up chin, and thinned lips proved she was a fighter. Sometime soon, she was going to challenge him, and when she did, he knew he'd have to show her who was in control. He didn’t look forward to that. Even now, her glower told him he’d better watch his back.

She couldn’t pull loose, but she did pitch up on her toes, placing her lips inches from his. “Just one slip-up,” she taunted stubbornly.

“It’s not gonna happen.” With that, he loosened his hold on her. He didn’t want to hurt her, not again, but he stood his ground, unmoving, his brows woven together in aggravation.

She returned a contemptuous look.

He wanted to grab her by the throat, pull her close, and kiss her hard, marking her with his fury. He snarled through clenched teeth, imagining himself bending her over his knee and swatting her on the ass for that snarky expression.

No matter how many times he consumed her with his eyes, he couldn’t seem to get his fill of her. She was beautiful. Irresistible. He leaned into her, her scent like a mist of aphrodisiac. His cock reacted to it as well, betraying him when he needed control. It throbbed not once, but twice against his pants. “Let's not forget, I've touched your body and tasted your lips. I know what you need. And what you desperately want,” he added, mocking her in return. Secretly mocking himself. He wanted, far too much, to make her toes curl, to make her lips part with the release of every pleasurable moan.

“Think so?” she retorted. “Think you know me, do you?”

“Smart. In control. Oh yeah, sweetheart, I know what you thrive on. What you long for in the bedroom, what will satisfy you. Most men don’t, do they? Disappointment is all you're used to finding between the sheets. Isn’t it, Nala?”

She shoved him hard in the chest, harder than he had expected. “Fuck off!” she seethed.