Orion had been hired to hunt her. Maverick would protect her. And when the time came, he would be there to kill the hunter.
CHAPTER 2
“THAT’S MICAH.”
Risa heard Morganna’s statement at her ear, but she couldn’t turn away from the black eyes that held her. Eyes as deep, as dark as the night, yet there was something that sparked with warmth, that kept those eyes from being cold.
His expression was still. There was a hint of hardness, a suggestion of danger carefully leashed. But she couldn’t expect anything less from a friend of four former Navy SEALs.
Still, the very stillness of expression was comforting. As though he knew himself, his strengths and weaknesses, and had learned to live with his own demons. He wouldn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, or on his face. He was reserved. She understood reserved.
His entire body reflected his expression. He didn’t move as though he were in a hurry. There was no anticipation, no sense of urgency. His body was coordinated, lean, tough. Fit.
Black slacks conformed to his muscular legs and hips. The white shirt beneath the black jacket was a hint of color in an otherwise dark ocean of still emotions and graceful male confidence. His hair was cut close to the scalp, b Fintut still the thick black strands would be long enough for a woman to thread her fingers through.
And what made her think of that? she wondered. Why did her fingers suddenly clench on her purse as she wondered what his hair would feel like beneath them.
It was his eyes that held her, though, that called to her. They stroked over her face, always came back to her eyes, and some softening within them, a hint of male interest, of determination, had her heart racing through her body with a force that left her trembling.
She had expected him to be strong, powerful. He was, yet it was a subtle strength and power. His body wasn’t bulky with muscle and straining against his clothes. He was lean, corded. Male power shimmered around him, but it wasn’t heavy and wide such as Kell’s was. Kell Krieger was tall, his shoulders like a football player’s, padded with muscle. Even Reno and Clint were like towers of muscle and strength. Micah Sloane was just as tall as they were, but the bulk was absent. Some might suspect the strength was absent. She had a feeling whoever made that mistake would come to regret it.
“It’s about time you arrived,” Clint drawled from the other side of Morganna as Micah Sloane moved to the vacant chair across from her.
He shook Clint’s hand as the other man rose, repeated the move with Reno, Kell, and Ian. His eyes didn’t leave Risa’s.
“Micah, would you like to meet our friend Risa?” There was a hint of amusement in Morganna’s voice now.
“I believe I just have.” His words didn’t rise above the music. It was as though the music paused for him alone, certain it would regret foiling his wishes if it didn’t.
“Mr. Sloane.” Risa nodded, barely able to swallow past the nervousness that rose in her throat.
His hand moved across the table. She had no choice but to loosen her fingers from her purse and allow him to take them. She expected a handshake, firm and determined. She didn’t expect his hand to encase hers, his fingers to stroke against her wrist for one brief second, as though to ease the pulse pounding out of control there.
Then the warmth of his hand was gone, leaving her to regret the brevity of the contact as he loosened the button on his jacket and took his seat.
He leaned back in the chair and answered some question Kell had asked. His gaze came back to her, though it was never gone for long.
He didn’t demand that she stare into his eyes. The caress of his gaze was subtle, slow. It wasn’t enough to draw others’ interest, it was shielded by thick black lashes, but nothing could dim the effect it had on her.
“Risa Clay, meet Micah Sloane, a SEAL assigned to Durango team,” Clint introduced them.
Micah never once looked below her chin, but she swore she could feel the warmth of that look flowing over her body. His attention wasn’t crude; it wasn’t obtrusive. It was simply there. A stroke along her brow, along her chin. It touched her hair, her ear when she tucked the strands nervously behind it.
“Risa, Micah likes to play with cameras as well.” Kell leaned forward to speak to her, his green eyes bright in his somber expression. “The man carr Ko;Tas ies a camera with him everywhere he goes.”
Risa’s heart was pounding; she felt flushed, frightened. She needed to get away from the careful stroke of his eyes on her.
She couldn’t answer Kell. She couldn’t form a reasonable reply. Pushing to her feet, she tried to form an excuse to escape to the ladies’ room, but Micah’s eyes were on her, probing, questioning. She couldn’t form a single reasonable sentence. She turned and rushed from the table, weaving her way through the crowd and escaping to the dimly lit corridor and the tastefully appointed ladies’ room beyond.
She pushed through the door, let it swing closed behind her, and felt like crying out in relief that the room was empty. The velvet and tasteful walnut chairs sat in several groupings outside the main stall area. A long counter of sinks could be glimpsed on the other side of the wall, the bright lights picking up the forest green and amber gold color in the walls and floors.
It was cool, soothing, and she felt like a complete fool. Her heart was racing, perspiration dotted her forehead, and fear was like a maniacal pulse of searing heat burning inside her veins.
Pressing her hand to her stomach, she breathed in deeply and straightened from the wall. She was going to get a handle on this, she promised herself. She wouldn’t run again.
Turning on the cold water in one of the faucets, she held her wrists under the stream of soothing water and berated herself for her reaction. What the hell was wrong with her? She was going to do this. Micah Sloane was a damned good-looking man. He was safe. He wouldn’t hurt her. And he was interested.
She might be a plain Jane, but he was a man, and she wasn’t stupid. There had been interest in his eyes. Sexual interest.
One night, she wailed silently. Just one night. God, please give me the strength to make a memory instead of a nightmare. Her breathing hitched at the need burning inside her, the electrical pulse of feminine need, a woman’s need just to be held.
Pulling her wrists back from the water, she shut the stream off, then dried her hands. Straightening her shoulders, she stared into her reflection. She wasn’t ugly, not as she had been as a teenager, when her face had been all angles and sharp lines. It had filled out, softened. He wouldn’t have to push her face into the blankets—