Mastiff Security: The Complete 5 Books Series Page 4

  “Who’s there?” she called again.

  Once more it was only silence that greeted her.

  Abigail was freaking herself out. She kept thinking of all the things that could be waiting for her in the deep shadows. A feral animal. A rapist on the run from the police. A drunk lost and frightened . . . dangers lurked everywhere in the world these days. Her parents hadn’t really understood that, because they never left this farm, never dealt with anything more unpleasant than Mrs. Philips’ weekly phone calls. But Abigail had seen things while she was at college that would forever haunt her. She knew how dark the world could be.

  The bruises on her roommate’s face . . .

  “Who’s there?” she called once more, her voice shakier than before.

  But this time there was a small groan. Her heart stopped for a moment.

  The sound was coming from behind the desk. The shotgun’s butt hard against her shoulder, her finger ready beside the trigger, Abigail walked around the end of the massive wooden desk. One of the feet had broken off causing the desk to lean toward her. She couldn’t have seen what was behind it from this side if she’d wanted to. She was walking into the shadows blind.

  Abigail moved her own little flashlight around the floor, trying to see everything at once. She finally caught sight of the light source that had rolled behind the file cabinet. It was a heavy-duty flashlight, the kind a cop might wear hanging from his utility belt. How Mrs. Philips had seen that from her house, she couldn’t imagine. She almost wished she hadn’t.

  Another groan came from behind the desk, the sound deep, but weak. A male voice.

  Was it the guy with the heavily fringed eyes?

  That thought, the idea that he might have been injured those days ago when she first saw him and been ailing here since, pushed her forward. But what she found sprawled on the floor behind the desk wasn’t anything like what she’d expected.

  A naked man.

  It was a man she’d never seen before. He was on his side, his legs pulled up against his lower abs as he tried in vain to protect himself from the cold. Blood pooled under his head from a wound on his scalp, obscuring the color of his hair. The flashlight revealed bruises and cuts all along his shoulders and chest—what she could see of it—marks that were clearly the result of some kind of violence.

  Abigail leaned the gun against the desk and dropped to her knees, hesitating only a second before pressing her fingers to his throat to find a pulse. There was one, strong and steady. That had to be a good sign. But his skin was cold, his fingers frighteningly pale. Abigail had seen the beginnings of frostbite before. She had to warm him up or he’d suffer worse damage than just the wound on his head. She had heavy blankets on the horse outside. They would help, but it would be better if she could get him back to the house and the heat. A hot shower would do so much more than just a couple of blankets.

  Abigail pulled back and was about to stand when the stranger snatched her wrist, causing her to cry out in surprise.

  “Don’t go,” he muttered.

  “I have to go back to the house, get my truck so we can get you warmed up.”

  Abigail tried to pull her arm away, but he held tight, his grip was surprisingly strong. He opened his eyes, revealing intense green eyes filled with pain.

  “You can’t leave. He’s out there.”

  Who was out there?

  Chapter 8

  Springfield, Illinois

  Mastiff Security

  “How did I know I’d find you here on a Saturday night?”

  Durango looked up from his computer. Kyle was leaning casually against the door frame, the slight smile on her lips a suggestion of pleasure. But Durango knew better.

  “Before you bite into me—”

  “We were supposed to endure that party together, Durango. You were supposed to be there to mingle with me so that I wouldn’t have to be the face of Mastiff once again. People are beginning to think you’re just some sort of rumor!”

  “I know. But I had to come back to the office and speak to Axel.”

  “You couldn’t have someone else give him the assignment?”

  “It’s a sensitive assignment. You know that.”

  “I do. I also know that making nice with the social hierarchy of this town will make or break us. Don’t you understand? You don’t exactly have a pristine reputation in this state. And these people are not only our intended client pool, they make the legal codes that we have to exist within.” She pushed away from the door frame; walking toward Durango, she crossed her arms over her chest. “That party was more important than just one client.”

  Durango sat back and studied his partner’s face. The anger danced in her pretty eyes.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “I realize that these parties and all this ass kissing isn’t exactly your thing, Durango, but you’re going to have to learn to embrace it if you want to change people’s opinion of you.” Her tone softened. “I know the murder trial took a lot from you. But the only way you’re going to get it back is if you learn how to play the game.”

  Durango’s shoulders tightened, and his chest constricted. He didn’t want to have this conversation, and he really didn’t want to hear anything about that farce of a trial come from Kyle’s lips. They’d put all that behind them the moment the ink dried on the contract. But, clearly, it hadn’t gone away as completely as he’d imagined.

  “The next party, I’ll be there.”

  “I think that would be for the best.”

  Kyle sighed, her eyes moving slowly over his desk and the paperwork he’d been organizing all day—paperwork none of his recent assistants had seemed capable of handling. She shook her head.

  “You really need to figure out a better system of dealing with your work. You’re never going to find an assistant willing to put up with all that crap.”

  “Speaking of which.” Durango gestured with a little nod toward the door. Gracie was standing there with another pile of file folders in her arms.

  “Sorry to bother you,” she said in her soft, wistful voice. “I thought you’d want to look over these applications before you started interviewing again on Monday morning.”

  “What are you doing here on a Saturday?” Kyle asked, not unkindly.

  Gracie shrugged. “I didn’t think anyone else was around. I was just going to leave these on the desk.”

  Durango watched Gracie cross the room, the confidence in her stride despite the way she held her head down like she was afraid to make eye contact. Gracie baffled him more than any woman he’d ever met. If he didn’t know better, he might suspect the shyness was an act.

  “I’m headed out. Unlike the rest of you, I have a life,” Kyle announced. “I’ll see you Monday.”

  “Hot date?” Durango asked.

  Kyle just flashed him a bright smile before leaving him alone with Gracie.

  Durango looked at the bashful woman standing in front of his desk, finding the way her hair obscured the soft curve of her jaw a little irritating. He didn’t know why, but it bugged him to no end. His fingertips literally itched to push it out of the way.

  “You should go home,” he said, suddenly needing her out of his office.

  “I was just headed back downstairs. I have a few things to finish.”

  “We don’t pay you overtime, do we?”

  “No. Strictly salary,” she was quick to say.

  Durango nodded, his eyes flicking to her briefly before focusing on his computer. Time to shut it down and get the hell out of there for the night. There were better things he could be doing.

  “I’ll walk you down.”

  He slapped the laptop lid down and stood, dragging his sports coat off the back of the chair. Gracie didn’t seem to know what to do when he held out his hand to her. She hesitated, finally moving into step just ahead of him.

  “How long have you worked for us?”

  “Since you opened your doors.”

  Durango nodded. They�
��d had ten employees the first six months they were in business. He vaguely recalled Gracie working as a receptionist at the time, but he was out in the field back then, working operations that ranged from simple protection to investigations to undercover stings. It had been an exciting time for him. He preferred being in the field, but now that they were at more than a hundred employees, there were too many administrative duties for him to be out in the field.

  “Do we treat you well here?”

  “Of course.” Gracie glanced back at him as they approached the elevators, a startled look on her face. “I can’t complain.”

  “Good.”

  Durango was at a loss for what to say next. He was suddenly regretting that he’d offered to walk her to her office.

  “I hope that new list of applicants will be more to your liking,” Gracie said as the elevator doors opened. “I vetted them as best as I could.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  Durango glanced at her. She was watching him until their eyes met. Then she looked down, a blush burning on her cheeks.

  “Sure.”

  “You might write out a list of expectations for the candidate you choose; that way there won’t be any confusion as to what you might want them to do.”

  “I’ve done that.”

  “I’ve seen your notes.” She hesitated, a little hiccup escaping her lips before she spoke again. “You could be clearer in your needs.”

  Durango turned and leaned against the wall of the elevator. “What do you suggest?”

  She shrugged. “Step-by-step instructions that make things very simple and crystal clear.”

  “And then I’ll be accused of speaking down to them.”

  “No. Then you’ll have no blame in their mistakes.”

  He tilted his head slightly, beginning to see her point. “Would you help with that?”

  She smiled, an expression he only caught part of, because she once again turned her head down to the floor. “I’d be happy to.”

  “Thank you.”

  The elevator doors opened quite perfectly in that moment. He held his hand over against the doors to keep them open as she stepped out. He watched her move, watched the way her pencil skirt swished around her ankles. Gracie was the total opposite of Sarah—short where Sarah had been tall, curvy where Sarah had been almost boyish in her curves—but there was something about her that drew his attention. And he resented it.

  “Good night, Gracie.”

  The elevator doors slipped closed before she could say anything. But he could see she’d wanted to.

  * * *

  The bar was crowded, the familiar smells of smoke and booze filling his nose. He pushed his way through the masses and ordered a shot of tequila. As he waited, he surveyed the room, his eyes moving over the multitude of unfamiliar faces, searching for something familiar, something that would fill the emptiness for just a few hours. It took a few shots, but he finally spotted her, a leggy blond sitting with a group of friends at the back of the room.

  She wore a short skirt and a dark blouse, her laughter almost husky. He watched for a while, picking out the little things that were not quite right. If he watched for too long, he’d talk himself out of this.

  But, as fate would have it, she was chosen to get a refill on the beer pitcher for her friends.

  “Are you going to use some clichéd line on me?” she asked as she came to stand at the bar beside Durango. “Like, come here often?”

  “No.”

  “No line?” She stuck out her bottom lip in a mock pout. “I’m disappointed.”

  “I was simply going to ask how long before you can dump your friends and have some real fun.”

  She cocked her head slightly, an amused light in her eyes. And interest.

  “They don’t need a fourth pitcher of beer.”

  Durango took her hand and pulled her toward the back of the bar where he knew there was a fire door no one ever bothered to lock. She giggled a little as he pressed her against the brick wall, his hands slipping over her sides in a familiar sort of way.

  “Don’t you want to know my name?”

  “Will it make a difference?”

  She bit her bottom lip, excitement rising in her blue eyes. “Not really.”

  He kissed her roughly, his mouth capturing hers like it’d belonged to him for years. She tasted like beer and cheap cheese sticks, but those tastes would fade after a moment. In the back of his mind, she tasted like coffee and strawberries and she smelled like vanilla. In his mind, she was a different woman who just happened to have the same color hair, the same blue eyes, the same sophisticated taste in clothing.

  In his mind, she was Sarah.

  He bent his knees and slid his hands over the back of her thighs, pushing them under her short skirt. Her skin felt like satin, her ass firm in the palms of his hands. She wore a delicate pair of thong panties rather than the cotton briefs Sarah had preferred, but it made no difference to him. They were gone after a short struggle with his fingers.

  She moaned against his mouth as he squeezed and kneaded the flesh of her ass, as he lifted her so that his erection fit perfectly against her clit. Her hands were digging at his shirt, her fingers fumbling at the belt on his slacks. She was as anxious as he was, her need evident in the heavy breaths she took as he moved his mouth over her throat, the pounding of her pulse there in her neck. It was beating like a drum, such evidence of life and vitality. It made him ache, this connection with another human being.

  He needed her in a way he couldn’t express. But he didn’t want to see her face, didn’t want to hear her voice. He didn’t want to be reminded that she wasn’t Sarah. He didn’t want to be pulled out of this moment, this piece of a past he would never get back.

  She undid his slacks, reached inside to hold him in her hand. She stroked him slowly, gently, pushing him toward an edge he desperately wanted to stand on. He lifted her again, encouraged her to wrap her legs around his waist. And she guided him to her, rubbed his sensitive glans against her soft, satin lips. He groaned, his fingers digging into her ass.

  “You have a condom?”

  It was a simple question, a logical one. And he did, tucked in the back pocket of his slacks. But there was something about the way she asked, something about the intrusion of her husky voice, that pulled him out of the moment. As he stared at her, Gracie’s face rushed through his mind so suddenly that it was like a physical push, shoving him back from this stranger in his arms.

  He untangled himself from her, quickly fixing his slacks as he stepped back, turning as though he couldn’t quite remember where he was.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

  “If you don’t have one, it’s okay. I can go back inside and find one. I’m sure one of my girlfriends—”

  He just shook his head, confused and a little angry with himself.

  “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  He walked away only slightly aware of her voice following him. He had to get out of there, had to clear his head. He had to figure out what the hell was the matter with him.

  No, what he really needed was a fucking drink. Many, many drinks.

  Chapter 9

  Rain Drop Farms

  Abigail lay her hand on the naked man’s, trying to ease his grip just a little.

  “Who’s out there?”

  “He is,” he mumbled, shivering again. His eyes slowly closed, and he let her go, pulling himself into a ball in an ineffective attempt to warm himself.

  Abigail watched him for a moment, aware that he was falling into unconsciousness. When she was sure he was out, she carefully backed up, grabbing the shotgun before heading toward the main doors. Romance was eyeing her warily as she approached, anxious to either run some more or to get out of the freezing wind. Abigail released her reins and tugged her into the barn. After pulling the doors closed and securing them to keep the wind out, she removed the blankets from the horse’s back and
returned to her unwanted guest. She left the shotgun leaning near the main doors, not really interested in this confused, injured man grabbing it in his delirium.

  That had to be what it was, right? He was delirious, right? What else would explain his current state of undress and his urgent warning?

  She took the heavy blankets to him and tucked them around his freezing body, afraid that it wouldn’t be enough. But it would have to do for now.

  Abigail grabbed the heavier flashlight and held it over the man’s face, studying his features with a great deal of curiosity. Did she know him? Was he a local? She didn’t think so. In this light, she could see that he was a ginger, one of those pale redheads who’d stick out in any crowd. There was only one family of redheads in town, and Abigail knew their eldest son, Conor. He had gone off to college weeks ago. Anyway, this wasn’t him, and there wasn’t anyone else in the McGregor family this man’s age.

  He had to be about thirty, maybe a year or two younger. And those green eyes . . . she’d never seen eyes like those, not in this town. If she had, she would have remembered. Not only that, but this man was in the military. Abigail traced her finger over the Navy SEAL tattoo on his shoulder. None of the McGregors had served as far as Abigail knew. The Smiths sent all three boys to the Marines, and the Willis’ had lost a son in Vietnam like half the families in the area, but not the McGregors. She was convinced he couldn’t be from around here. But if he wasn’t a local, how had he ended up in her barn? Naked?

  She moved the flashlight to take a better look at the wound on his head. It was a gash about five inches long that ran from about an inch back from his hairline to just over his ear. It almost looked as though someone had clocked him over the head with a sharp object. Any harder and he probably wouldn’t be waking up at all.