Mastered By The Mavericks (34 page)

“Yep. That’s all.”

“So walk away with you—or them?”

“Technically, you’d ride away with us,” Jake inserted. “I’ve been told that the cruiser’s
back seat is comfy, all factors considered.”

Osten nodded. “Me, too. And the women’s holding cell should be fun for you, at least.
We always have at least a few characters in there during festival days.”

“Did we release Madame Curie yet?” Jake threw a sardonic look to Rebel. “You know
how hard it is to locate family for a scientist who’s been dead for eighty years?”

“Not yet,” Osten replied. “Though Davis told me she’d changed her mind. Today, she’s
Susan B. Anthony. Made for a colorful exchange with the three lovelies in black latex
bikinis brought in by second shift.”

Jake laughed. “I’ll bet it did.”

There was more where that came from, Brynna was positive of it—and she was damn tempted
to let them string out the performance, even at her expense—but in the end, she recognized
a deck of stacked cards when she saw one. It was time to throw up her own hands, jog
up her chin, and capitulate while she still had some dignity left.

“Fine. You win.” She shot a glare at the gallingly serene man across the pavement.
“You
win
, asshole. Happy?”

She braced herself for Rebel’s gloat. Instead, with unfaltering composure, the man
strode forward and hooked a hand around her elbow. “Not by a longshot,
minette petite
.”

His snarl was menacing and low. His grip closed in, painful and tight. But before
taking another step, he stopped to address the two uniformed men now behind them—for
all intents and purposes, the bastard’s partners in crime.

“Gentlemen, it’s been a supreme pleasure. I’m certain Double-Oh agrees. Thank you
again for the help with the interest­ing…errrmm…pre­dicament today.”

Both officers shot back more loaded laughs. “Moonstormer, when have your predicaments
not been interesting?” Osten drawled.

“Just happy that this time, he has his pants on,” Jake rejoined.

“For the time being.” Osten retrieved the keys from the SUV, pushed the lock button
on the fob then tossed the whole set to Rebel.

The pair chuckled harder, enjoying the air sliced by Rebel’s raised middle finger.
Seeming to forget his parting shot as rapidly as he’d dealt it, the man dug the full
force of his deep blues back down into Brynna. He’d left his cocky smirk behind, too—leaving
her with a bunch of residual wrath and not a shred of courage with which to hurl it
at him. No action felt right except the lead brick of a gulp now thudding down her
throat, while she endured more of the storm that had invaded his face.

He leaned tighter over her. Lowered his mouth next to her ear. She swallowed again,
breathing hard from the fresh fire fall that tumbled down through her body. Against
even her strongest will, her head fell back—
more; please more
!—until he snapped it back up, using only an unfaltering grip on her nape.

“March.” His mandate was as hard and rough as his hold. “And don’t stop until we get
to your room. One hesitation or word of backtalk, and you’ll be looking at the world
from over my shoulder. Understood?” After a long moment, he dug his fingers into her
scalp. “I don’t think I heard you,
mon chou
.”

“
Yes
,” Brynn finally retorted. “Yes, I understand you.” Then in a bitter mutter, “Asshole.”

Tension poured off of him, making her tense in expectation of being thrown over his
shoulder. He only pushed harder at her neck, guiding her to the little room at the
back of the main building’s bottom floor, located across from an old ice maker and
soda machine. Brynn wasn’t surprised to find the door already opened by a crack, kept
open by the safety latch from inside, undoubtedly the result of more fancy Rebel Stafford
string pulling.

Through the opening, she smelled dusty air conditioning tinged by the Shalimar perfume
she’d reluctantly dabbed on before leaving. She was shocked by how much the stuff
permeated the air, but what the hell did she know from fancy perfume? She liked light
body spray that kept as close to
her
as possible; as it was, the Shalimar had spent years in her bathroom cabinet before
she tossed it into her bag as a last-minute “what if” essential for this trip.

That list of ‘what ifs” had been a long one.

It had never included a contingency for this.

Especially because she wasn’t even sure what
this
was.

Strangely, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

Between one step and the next, almost like a time warp effect in a movie, everything…changed.
The focus of her world was completely different. The breeze on her face, nonexistent.
The echoes of their steps on the concrete hall, now muted. The creak of the door as
Rebel pushed it open, nearly silent.

But her heartbeat…pure thunder.

The potency of Rebel’s form behind her…painful.

The throb of his breath against her neck…excruciating.

The answering pulse from deep in her pussy…torment.

The atmosphere thickened as soon as Rebel ushered her in—to face the man already waiting
for them inside. With his Viking chest already shirtless and his denim-covered legs
braced, he sucked out her breath even as frantic air pumped her lungs in and out.
As he regarded her from head to toe, his North Sea eyes were as tumultuous as Rebel’s.
He raked her over with them again. Then again.

“Shit.” She finally got it out, though the thudding ache between her breasts didn’t
relent. But she sure as hell didn’t have a lot of options. There he was, less than
five feet ahead, while the man behind her formed another wall with the magnitude of
his stance.

“Afternoon, peach.”

Rhett hooked both thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans. Cocked his head at her
as if striking up a water cooler conversation…if said cooler happened to be filled
with ice.

“Hi.” She managed it, but in a rasp that nearly squeaked.
Good God.
Maybe she really
could
make this day into a stranger circus than it already was. She should be pissed as
hell right now. They’d chased her here, calling in favors on a scale
so
outside-the-lines that unorthodox didn’t begin to touch it, then had gotten into
her room using God knew what kind of line on the pierced punk rocker at the front
desk…

For what?

What the hell were they going to do now?

She needed to be more furious about that answer, too.

And scared. Really scared.

She fought the thought, jerking her head higher. “Well. Bravo, boys. You found Waldo.
Am I—what?—in trouble now?”

Rhett’s scrutiny didn’t falter until she injected the mocking tone. Only then did
his head tilt a little, making her think of a warden contemplating a sassy prisoner.
Trouble was, she felt like that captive, too.

“Do
you
think you’re in trouble, sweetheart?”

She almost thanked him for the line. It brought a laugh she
really
needed right now. “Oh-ho. Taste of my own head shrinker medicine, hmmm?”

“No.” There wasn’t a single note of celebration in Rebel’s comeback, growled into
her ear from behind. “He was asking a simple question—which you
will
answer, while I contemplate a prayer to the porcelain god from being so fucking sick
about finding you.”

For a long second, she couldn’t speak. She blinked hard, feeling punched in the gut—which
apparently, wasn’t as rough as what his stomach had been through.

He’d been worried
sick
about her? Why?

A fresh look at Rhett socked her with the same feeling. He didn’t seethe it like Rebel
but the emotions tugged at the rugged beauty of his face just the same.

“Oh, my God.” She dropped her head, chastened and moved, but still a little pissed
and afraid—and other things, too. Things like wishing she wasn’t here but not imagining
herself anyplace else. Things like craving how they looked at her, even with their
censuring eyes and their tight lips, because all that anger was ignited by something
deeper. So
much
deeper. Their fear.

She’d scared the crap out of them.

So much more than they’d ever terrified her.

Until maybe now.

Whatever was going on now, between them then arced out to her, was like a thousand
live electrical wires on the air—currents that fried the ends off of every nerve ending
she had in her body, replacing it with a buzzing awareness of them…only them. Every
harsh breath they took, tiny move they made, drop of sweat they shed, hit her conscience
like another burst of light that opened her, shattered her…

Moved her.

As she started to tremble, Rhett released a long exhalation. His face shifted like
he’d scrubbed it with his hand though he still barely moved from gazing so hard at
her. She had no idea how to read the look—but knew she hated being the source of it.

“I’m sorry.” The backs of her eyes heated. The liquid fallout coursed down her face.
“I didn’t want to—I didn’t mean to—I’m really, really sorry.”

She couldn’t remember meaning an apology more.

As she rasped it out, he drew in another breath. When he let it out, he lowered himself
to the bed just behind him. Spread both hands to his thighs then pushed them out toward
his knees. He stopped just before getting to the caps—then patted them both. Just
twice.

But that was enough.

“Come here, Brynna. Lay across my lap. Grab my calf for support…and lift your ass
high.”

The lead brick clunked down her throat again. Her heartbeat screamed. Her bloodstream
raced. Her senses roared with conflict.

No. No! Okay, you’re sorry—but you don’t show it like this. Think.
Think.
Give them other options. You don’t do things like this. You’re not submissive
!

But as she took a step toward Rhett, then another and another, her lips parted, dry
with fear…and arousal. Finally, they forced out two hoarse words.

“Ohhhh…
shit
.”

‡

W
ell…damn
.

As usual, Brynna Monet was fucking up all their plans to hell—in the most incredible,
beautiful ways she possibly could.

Rebel shot his stare to Rhett, not shocked to find the same sentiment stamped on his
friend’s formidable features. They’d gone through a vision of how this confrontation
would go down—extensively. Even with the high-speed escort into Austin, they’d had
time to outline exactly what they were going to do with this infuriating little wildcat,
if her crazy stunt didn’t get her raped or killed first. Some of the decisions had
been easy—like deciding she wouldn’t leave this room being able to think about sitting
down for three days. Other calls weren’t so cut and dry—like admitting that while
her execution sucked major ass, her idea about getting in past Adler’s security was
actually the best option they had right now.

Shit.

He refused to think about that at this moment.

But thinking was exactly what he had to do. Calmly. Ruthlessly. Preferably with a
shit-ton of anger along for more clarity, but fuck him if she hadn’t blown that to
hell as well, her sincere apology and her honest tears cleansing the air yet clinging
to it, like a sudden Spring rain storm. Only better. And worse.

In this case, so much worse.

When had the thinking part become so fucking hard—especially about Brynna Monet? She
was an “addition” to the mission, brought along exactly for this purpose: so that
they could throw her adorable little ass—and right now, with it swaying in front of
him, he could really attest to the “adorable” factor—into the mix of options for rescuing
Zoe from Adler’s place? When had thinking about this woman become next to impossible?

The answer bit in. Drew blood.

He’d stopped
thinking
about Brynna Monet…when he’d started
feeling
for her.

From their first kiss—a kneejerk thing that’d soared his senses to the skies they
were traveling in—to the days after that, in which he’d discovered her humor, her
laughter, her grace, her grit, her courage, her tears, and yes, her passion—to the
magic of this morning, when her passion had saved Rhett and he from tearing each other
apart…

She hadn’t just made everything okay. She’d made everything magic.

Because she didn’t step in as their wedge. She’d built herself in as their bridge.

Now, she was doing it again.

Though the floor beneath their feet was covered in cheap no-pile carpet, every step
she took toward Rhett was a boom in Reb’s soul, loud as the gongs of Notre Dame itself.
If that made him Quasimodo, so be it. He gazed at the new tension in her back, evident
even through her prim business blouse, and relished it. He reveled in her grace and
poise, even while doing something as foreign to her as bending over Rhett’s thighs,
and was awed to his fucking toenails by it. And yes, he savored the resplendence of
the man who welcomed her to his lap: the approving hum in Rhett’s throat, his strong
caresses along her spine, the way he parted his legs a little more, imparting stability
to her pose…and giving Rebel a glimpse of the growing ridge beneath his zipper…