He stared back at her, his light green eyes icy, unemotional, as he watched her. His expression was as dark as the shadows around them and as still as death.
This wasn’t the man she had known eight years ago. Charming, though brooding, James “Dawg”
Mackay had had a will of iron, but he hadn’t been cold. He’d been hard but not unemotional. Not as he was now.
He had joined the Marines just after she left town; she knew that. He’d spent one tour, when he had been shipped home because of a wound that shattered his kneecap. Not that she had seen any sign of an injury in the way he moved.
But right now, he was rubbing his knee almost absently as he watched her.
“We’ll talk about this on the boat,” he finally said warningly. “Not here.”
“No, Dawg.” She reached out, gripping his arm as he moved to open the door. “Not at the boat. I won’t go out to that boat, and I won’t spread myself for the Nauti Boys. I wouldn’t do it when I was too stupid to know any better, and I sure as hell won’t do it now. You’re fooling yourself if you think you can convince me to do otherwise.”
“And if going to that boat didn’t mean spreading yourself for anyone but me, Crista?” he asked her. “Would you go then?”
THREE
Eight years ago, she had slipped from Dawg’s upper-deck bedroom and stolen from the Nauti Dawg like a thief in the early morning mists. But she had left something behind that morning, a part of herself she had never regained.
Now Crista stepped back through the reinforced French door that led into the living room and stilled herself against the memories that threatened to overwhelm her.
He still left a low light shining on the small table that sat beside the couch. It was a maroon plush couch now, where before it had been black leather. A matching recliner sat by the side of the same table.
The television was now mounted on the wall on the side they entered, and across the room on the opposite side sat a small dining table and four chairs.
A teak bar separated the dining area from the kitchen, two captain’s barstools placed under it.
The rug was a rich, thick forest green. Eight years ago it had been a dark tan. The living room and kitchen were more refined now, stating a mature taste in furnishings but still a broad male influence. Dark woods and few frills.
A picture of his Marine Corps unit sat on the table by the couch alongside a picture of the Nauti cousins in camouflage greens and a picture of Rowdy and his fiancée, Kelly Salyers.
There were no pictures or prints on the wall. There was nothing to decorate the rooms. Beyond the kitchen was another large bedroom and small washroom as well as an extra bathroom. From where Crista stood, she could also see the curving staircase that led to the upper deck and master bed and bath, as well as the steering controls.
She flinched as the door closed and locked behind her.
“I need a beer,” Dawg announced. “Want one?”
Crista shook her head as she gripped her purse and watched him move across the living room, then into the kitchen. He pulled a beer from the refrigerator before unscrewing the cap with a quick twist and tossing the cap beneath the bar, where the garbage can must have been hidden.
He moved to the sink first, pulled a dish towel from a small stack on the counter, dampened it, then tossed it to her.
“Clean your face.”
She felt her stomach heave at the thought of the blood that had sprayed over her. It was on her face, her clothes. She scrubbed at her flesh quickly, harshly, hoping she managed to clean it away as he stared at her.
He tilted the bottle of beer to his lips and drank deeply, his gaze never leaving hers.
He had stripped the bulletproof vest, but he still wore the shoulder holster and weapon. His black T-shirt stretched over his wide chest and thick biceps. Black jeans rode low on his h*ps and outlined long, muscular legs and a more than impressive bulge.
“You’re clean,” he announced, holding his hand out. “Give me the towel.”
Her gaze jerked from that area. It was more than obvious he was aroused, ready for her. And she hated admitting that her body had been ready for his since the moment he asked her if she was willing to spread herself for him alone.
She tossed the towel back to him, ignoring his mocking grin as he caught it and dumped it in the sink.
She was insane. She should have run from him while she had the chance.
“One night,” she whispered. “That’s all.”
The bottle was smacked on the bar top so hard beer sloshed from the top, and Crista jumped at the sound.
“You aren’t making the deal here,” he informed her, his expression hardening. “You didn’t catch me possibly breaking the law and consorting with criminals, Crista. I caught you, remember?”
Her fingernails dug into the leather of her purse.
“And I know what you want in exchange for my freedom,” she snapped back. “Fine, you want to f**k. You want something you haven’t been able to con me out of this year: my body. You can have it.
For one night.”
“And if I want more than one night?” The black velvet tone of his voice had a tremor quaking through her womb, clenching at the muscles of her stomach as she stared back at him in shock.
“Why would you want more than one night?” She shook her head in confusion. “How many women have you kept more than one night, Dawg?”
She still had friends she had kept in Somerset, and they liked to gossip. Dawg was as newsworthy now as he had been eight years ago.
“You aren’t every other woman, Crista,” he drawled. “I’ve never had to chase one for eight years before. It’s built up a hunger. One that I doubt one night is going to sate.”
She blinked back at him in shock. She had expected what he wanted, but she hadn’t expected this. One night she could handle. More than one night?
“How many nights?” She kept her voice from trembling, barely.
Dawg’s expression hardened further. “I haven’t decided.”
“You haven’t decided? So I’m supposed to just be ready and available for you whenever you get a hard-on?”
Mocking consideration filled his face then. He nodded slowly. “That would work for me.”
Crista clenched her teeth and calculated how long she still had to wait before Alex returned. He had been gone three months. Her last conversation with him, he had indicated that he could return within the next few weeks.