Deadly Game by Christine Feehan
"I'm sorry, baby." He brought her hands to his mouth. "I know what you're like, and I should have tried harder to see your point of view. I swear I want to see your point of view, but the thought of your life at risk . . ."
"Is how I feel when you risk yours," she said. "You have to accept what I really am, Ken. I see you with your need to keep me close, and to protect me. I love that in you. I can even accept the fact that you're going to be an idiot every time a man looks at me, but you have to accept me for who I am. I was raised practically since birth as a soldier. That's who I am and you're not going to change that. I'm not going to change that. You're going to have to take me on as a partner. Eventually, if you do, your brother will. All three of us can protect Briony and any children our two families have."
"What if I can't get there, Mari? What if I don't have that kind of courage?"
"You do," she assured him, "or I would have kept running down that mountain. Come on." She tugged at his hand. "You need a shower. Why don't you let Jack take care of all the details, and let me take care of you?"
"Say it again."
"What?" Firmly she closed their door, and began to peel the ragged shirt from his powerful shoulders.
He caught her in a hard, bruising grip, gave her a little shake. "Stop teasing me. I've waited a long time."
"We could always compromise," she offered sweetly. "You give me what I want, and I'll give you what you want."
He lifted her into his arms. "You're going to say it a hundred times before we're done here," he warned.
And she did.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at Christine Feehan's upcoming paranormal romance,
SAFE HARBOR
Available in July 2007 from Jove!
" You want to tell me how the hell we got into this mess?" Jackson Deveau demanded as he whipped his arm around Jonas Harrington's waist and half-dragged him toward the flimsy cover of an industrial garbage container. "We have a nice comfy job on the Mendocino coast and you decide you're bored out of your mind, which is pure bullshit by the way. You'd think getting shot once was enough for you."
If he could have answered, Jonas would have sworn at Jackson, but he only managed a glare as he forced his feet to keep moving. The pain was relentless, stabbing white-hot like a branding iron. He could feel the breath rattling in his lungs, bile rising and reality fading in and out. He had to stay on his feet. He sure as hell wasn't going to let Jackson pack him out on his back--he'd never hear the end of it. Jackson was right. They'd made new lives, lived good, found a home. What the hell had he been thinking?
Why wasn't it ever enough for him? Why did he have to keep going back, over and over, dragging Jackson and other men down into the muck and garbage of the world? He was no noble crusader, yet time and again he found himself with a gun in his hand, going after the bad guys. He was weary to death of his need to save the world. He didn't save anyone; he only got good men killed.
The alley was dark, the shadow of the surrounding buildings rising above the small lane turning the edges black. They kept the garbage container between them and the street where it seemed everyone with a gun and a knife was hunting them. Jackson propped him up against a wall that smelled of times Jonas didn't want to remember, where blood, death, and urine all mixed together into one potent brew.
Jackson checked their ammo situation. "Can you focus enough to shoot, Jonas?"
That was Jackson, all business. He wanted to get the hell out of there and was going to make it happen. The men hunting them had no way of knowing they had a tiger by the tail. When Jackson used that particular tone of voice, men died, plain and simple.
They had to get past the entrance of the alley and it was blocked by the Russian mobsters. It had been a recon mission. Nothing more. They weren't supposed to be seen--damn it, they hadn't been seen--but someone had tipped the Russians off and it had all gone to hell fast, turning into a bloodbath, their driver down, and Jonas taking two bullets. Neither hit was serious, but he was losing enough blood to make the wounds fatal. Jackson had two knife streaks across his belly and chest, evidence they'd gotten just a little too close to the hornet's nest. Whatever they'd managed to get on film, the mobsters wanted it back.
No way.
Jackson slapped a full clip into Jonas's gun and shoved it into his hand. "You're good to go." He slammed home a full magazine and shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet. "I'm going up top for a few, Jonas. You put another pressure bandage on the wound in your side and no matter what, stay on your feet. All hell's going to break loose in a few minutes and you've got to be ready to run."
Jonas nodded. Sweat dripped off his face and beaded on his body. Yeah. He was ready to run--and fall flat on his face--but he'd keep his feet and the gun and back Jackson in whatever crazy scheme he had. Because, in the end, he could always count on Jackson.
Jackson melted into the night soundlessly, the way he always did. He had come home with Jonas when they'd both been sick to death of the life of living in the shadows--when Jonas just flat-out missed the hell out of his adopted family. They'd joined the sheriff 's department and lived a cushy life until Jonas had gotten himself shot on the job and became restless and edgy while recouping. His old boss, Duncan Gray--from a special ops team buried deep in the defense department--had come asking. Jackson would have given him a hard look and they would have stayed safe. But no, Duncan had known to come to Jonas, because he fell for the "we need you" line every damn time.
It was a hell of a thing he'd done, pulling Jackson into this mess. And it wasn't the way he'd planned to die, a soft recon on Nikitin's rival mob to see who was coming and going and why. Nothing special, but here they were, shot to hell, and blood leaking out all over the place. Jonas opened the packet of the pressure bandage with his teeth and spit out the wrapper, slapping the bandage in place before he could think too much about the wound.
Fire ripped through him, stabbing so deep his body shuddered in reaction. He had to hold himself up by gripping the garbage container hard--and wasn't that sanitary. Damn, he was in real trouble this time. He stood swaying; the only thing steady was his gun hand.
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a photograph, the single one he carried, the one that mattered. He should have destroyed it. He could see his own face, the terrible raw truth caught on film. He was staring down at a woman and the love on his face, the stark hunger, was so evident it was a betrayal, there for everyone--even him--to see. His finger glided over the glossy paper, leaving a smear of blood. Hannah Drake. Supermodel. A woman with extraordinary, magical gifts. A woman so far out of reach he might as well try to pull the moon from the sky.
He heard footsteps and the whisper of clothing sliding against the wall. He rammed the photograph back in the pocket of his shirt, close to his heart, and shook his head to clear it. More sweat dripped into his eyes and he wiped it away. The hard-asses were coming in first, staying to the shadows but definitely advancing. The sweat stung his eyes and blood ran steadily from his side down his leg, mingling with the rain that had begun to fall in a relentless downpour. He steadied the gun and waited.
At the end of the alley, a man dropped and the first shot rang out almost simultaneously. Jackson was hell on wheels at that distance. Lying up on top of the roof, he could just pick them off if they were stupid enough to keep coming--and they were. Jonas took his time, waiting for a muzzle flash as one of them gave his position away by firing up at Jackson. Jonas squeezed and the count was two for them, but the entrance to the alley still looked a long way away when the stabbing fire was spreading through his body and his blood was leaking all over the ground.
Don't be such a pansy-ass. You're not going to die in this dirty alley cut down by a few low-life rats. Geez. He spoke sternly to himself, hoping the pep talk would keep him from doing a face plant in the muck. The trouble was, these weren't just low-life rats--they were the real deal, trained in tactics just as Jackson and he had been, and they were going for the rooftop t
Whatever was on that video tape they'd captured tonight was worth a lot of lives. Jackson fired again and another body dropped. No one returned fire, knowing Jonas was there waiting for the flash. He groaned softly as realization hit him. They knew his position exactly. He should have moved the moment he'd fired. He was even farther gone than he'd thought. He swallowed hard and stayed low, trying to be a part of the container, knowing he had to get out of there, but afraid his legs wouldn't hold. A wave of dizziness hit him hard, nearly putting him on the ground. He hung on grimly, breathing deeply, desperate to stay on his feet. Once he went down, he'd never be able to get back up.
Jackson came out of the shadows, blood dripping from his chest and arm, his face grim, eyes savage. He touched his knife and drew a line across his throat, indicating another kill--and that kill had come between Jackson and Jonas, which meant they were surrounded. He held up four fingers and directed Jonas's attention to two positions close and two behind them. He pointed up.
Jonas felt his heart skip a beat. No freakin' way was he going to climb a fire escape ladder three stories up. He doubted if he could have run the gauntlet, straight down the alley, but it looked a hell of a lot easier--and shorter--than three stories up. He took a breath, ignored the protest as a thousand dull knives sawed into his insides, and nodded his assent. It was their only chance to get away clean.
Jonas took a step away from the receptacle, following behind Jackson. One step and his body went ballistic on him, the pain crushing, robbing him of all ability to breathe. Shit. He was going to die in this damn alley and worse, he was going to take Jackson with him--because Jackson would never leave him.
Enemies were closing in from every direction and there was just no way he could climb that ladder. They needed a miracle and they needed it fast. There was only one miracle that he could count on, and he knew she was waiting for his call. She always knew when he was in trouble. Jonas spent a lifetime protecting her, wanting her so badly he woke up night after night, sweating, her name echoing through his bedroom, his body hard and tight and so damned uncomfortable he sometimes wasn't sure he'd live through the night. But he refused to give in and claim her when he couldn't stop himself from taking jobs like the one he was on--because he'd be damned if he got her killed.
Still, he had no choice. She was his ace in the hole and he had no other option but to use her if he wanted to survive. He reached out into the night and connected with a feminine mind. He knew her. He'd always known her. He could picture her in his mind, standing on the captain's walk overlooking the sea, her platinum and gold spiral curls cascading down her long back all the way to her luscious butt, her face serious, gaze on the sea--waiting.
Hannah Drake. If he inhaled he could breathe her in. She would know he was in trouble. She always knew. And, God help him, maybe that was what this was all about. Maybe he had wanted her attention--needed her attention--and this was the only way left to him. Could he be so fucking desperate that he would not only risk his life, but Jackson's as well? He didn't know what he was doing anymore.
Hannah. He knew he touched her mind, that she touched his. That she had known the moment the trouble had started and she had been waiting, steady as a rock. In her own way she was as reliable as Jackson; she waited only for a direction before striking. Now that she had one, all hell was really going to break lose. Hannah Drake one of seven daughters born to the seventh daughter in a line of extraordinary women. Hannah Drake. Born to be his. Every harsh breath he drew into his lungs, every promise to stay on his feet, to stay alive, he gave for Hannah.
Jackson pointed back toward the building and Jonas swore under his breath. He took a tentative step back toward the shadows, bent over, stomach heaving, tossing up every scrap of anything he'd had to eat or drink in the last few hours. The terrible wrenching sent another wave of dizziness sweeping over him and jackhammers did a macabre tap dance, ripping through his skull. Sweat dripped and blood ran and reality retreated just a little more.
Jackson got an arm under his shoulder. "You need me to pack you out?"
They'd need Jackson's gun if they were going to make it. Jonas had to find a way to dig deep and stay on his feet, crossing the distance and climbing for freedom with two bullets and a still-fresh wound from an earlier gunshot. He shook his head and took another step, leaning heavily on Jackson.
Hannah, baby. It's now or never. He sent the silent prayer into the night, because if there was ever a moment that he truly needed her unusual skills, it was now.
The wind answered, rising fast and furious. It blew down the alley with the force of a hurricane, howling and ripping strips of wood off the buildings. Debris swirled, rose into the air, and flew in all directions. Cardboard and other trash hurtled through the air, slamming into anything in its path as the wind made its way to the back of the alley where it curved and began to race in a horrifying circle around and around, faster and faster, building more speed and ferocity. The wind never touched either Jackson or Jonas; rather, it moved around them, creating a cocoon, building a shield where dirt and debris churned to form a barrier between them and the world.
Be safe. Two little words, wrapped up in silks and satin and soft colors.
"We've got to move," Jackson said.
Jonas forced his feet to keep shuffling, every step wrenching at his insides, the pain grinding through his body until he could only clench his teeth and try to breathe it away. His efforts didn't work. Hannah. Baby. I don't think I'm going to make it home to you.
The wind rose to a shriek of protest, throwing everything in its path into the air. Arms and legs tangled as men went down or slammed into the sides of the buildings along with the debris. Jonas could hear screams and grunts of pain as their enemies, caught out in the unnatural tornado, were tossed about in the fury of the wind.
Jonas stumbled and managed to catch himself, but pain and the waves of dizziness and nausea were his enemies now. His stomach heaved and the ground tilted. Blackness edged his vision. He stumbled again, and this time he was certain he would go down, his legs turning to rubber. But before he could fall, he felt the pressure of the wind nearly lifting him, supporting him, wrapping him up in safe arms.
He let the wind take his weight and carry him to the ladder. Jackson stepped back to allow Jonas to go up first, all the while watching the alley and surrounding buildings, squinting against the force of the wind.
Jonas reached up toward the last rung of the ladder and white-hot pain burst through him, driving him to his knees. At once the wind caressed his face, a soft fanning, as if a small hand touched him with gentle fingers. All around him raged a virtual tornado, yet tendrils broke off from the spinning mass and seemed to lift him up in strong arms.
He let Jackson help him to his feet, buoyed by the wind, and he tried again, working with the Hannah's windstorm, allowing the strong updrafts to aid him as he bent his knees and leapt to close the gap between him and the lowest rung. The metal struck the palms of his hands and he closed his fingers in a tight grip. The wind pushed and he reached for the next rung before his body could absorb the shock of taking his weight.
Somewhere far off, he heard someone's hoarse cry of agony. His throat seemed ripped raw and his side felt on fire, but he let the wind push and push until he was moving up the ladder to the roof. He crawled onto the roof, praying he wouldn't have to get up again, knowing he had no choice.
Jackson dropped a hand on his shoulder as Jonas knelt on the roof, fighting for air. "You got another run in you?"
His ears were ringing so loudly, Jonas almost missed the thin whisper. Hell no. Did it look like it? He nodded and set his jaw, struggling back to his feet. The rain was relentless, pouring down on them, driven sideways by the wind, but still they seemed wrapped in a cocoon of protection.
Below, they heard shouts as a few of the braver men tried to follow them up the ladder. The wind built
Men screamed and let go of the ladder, jumping to the ground in an attempt to get away from the blast of bolts rocketing toward them. A few of the bolts drove deep into the wall and others into flesh and bone. The screams grew frantic.
"Damn, Hannah's royally pissed," Jackson said. "I've never seen anything like this." He got his arm around Jonas and half-lifted him to his feet.
Jonas had to agree. The wind was Hannah's favorite medium to work with and she could control it. And man, was she controlling it. He didn't want to think too much about how much of that anger might be directed toward him. He'd promised the Drake sisters he wouldn't do this kind of work anymore. They'd know he'd dragged Jackson right along with him, and telling them Jackson had insisted on coming along wouldn't do anything at all to get him off the hook.
He concentrated on his breathing, on counting steps, on anything but the pain as Jackson dragged him across the roof to the opposite edge. Jonas knew what was coming. He was going to have to jump and land on the other rooftop where they could climb down to the street and to safety. Hannah would hold off the Russian mobsters as long as she could, but only Sarah was in the country to help aid her, and Hannah's strength would eventually give out. She'd be all alone up on the captain's walk in the cold. He hated that--hated that he'd done that to her.
"Can you make it, Jonas?" Jackson asked, his voice harsh and clipped.
Jonas pictured Hannah standing on the captain's walk overlooking the sea. Tall. Beautiful. Her large blue eyes fierce as she concentrated, hands in the air, directing the wind as she chanted.