Mastered By The Mavericks (8 page)

God
damn
. If anything, the attire enhanced everything that awakened him sexually to her—even
the fandom for the Halos. What woman wore attire for a trip to the wilderness but
still
looked like fucking Aphrodite?

This was definitely going down as his most uncomfortable op-that-wasn’t-an-op.

Screw that. Off the books or otherwise, he was damn glad this was the first and last
time he and Brynna Monet would be “working” together.

Shay strode onto the tarmac behind her, bearing her small duffel bag. He actually
looked a lot better, though half-moons of darkness still haunted the bottoms of his
eye sockets. Though Brynn had come to an abrupt halt in her tracks, Bommer kept walking,
holding out a hand to greet Sam.

“Braw Boy. Good to see you, you filthy Highlander.”

“Same to you, drizzle shit.” The weatherman was at it again. Insults that sounded
like compliments. Shay didn’t let that pineapple wither too long on the ground, though.
He lobbed back a scorcher that somehow linked Sam’s ass with nuclear fallout, but
Rebel was beyond caring about the particulars—

Not when he noticed that Brynn still looked rooted into the blacktop. And stood more
rigid than the damn light poles.

He approached her, wondering if the deer-in-the-headlights routine was just her elaborate
set-up for the verbal smack-down she’d surely been working on since last night—when
doing the real thing to him. Three times in a row to be exact, as he’d been eloquently
reminded by a very gleeful Rhett. But even as he stepped close enough to see the caramel
ribbons that swirled through the chocolate of her gaze, she barely breathed, let alone
spoke.

Correction. She breathed, all right. In harsh, tight spurts that got sucked back in
as fast as they escaped. At her sides, her fingertips trembled, in between tapping
her thighs in a Morse code solely of her translation.

A frown pushed at his brows.

If he didn’t know better, he’d peg her vibe as…afraid. Scared shitless, actually.

“Brynn?”

She jerked a glance over, though not in surprise or fear. Not at him, at least. So
what the hell had her so
fugazi
, she was tossing aside a perfectly good chance to rib him once more?

“Brynn?” He lightly cupped her shoulder. Her muscles were as stiff as the steel in
the poles. “
Ca vien, minette
?”

His prompt seemed to work on a little of her strange trance. She blinked fast, swallowed
hard then pointed across the tarmac. “We’re going to Texas…in that?”

“Would I have told you to meet me here otherwise?” He deliberately chose a lighter
tone—out of concern, not cruelty. His sarcasm always seemed to bring out hers. Hopefully,
she’d grab the bait.

No chance.

“You told me we were taking an airplane.”

The wobble in her voice only intensified. Hell, talk about a perfect chance for turnabout
fair play. But taking advantage of a person’s fear was what terrorists did—a truth
he knew through firsthand experience. Entirely too much of it.

He deepened his hold on her shoulder, instead. “It’s a sturdy machine, Brynna.”

“It’s an oversized child’s toy.” She yanked from his hold, hunching her shoulders
in, starting to bite a nail.

His frown dug in deeper, coinciding with his confusion. “You’ve been on tour with
shows before, right? Haven’t you flown all over the country?”

“Not in glorified tin cans!”

Well, this was getting him nowhere—except, perhaps, to a clear way out of this whole
situation. Sam could’ve been standing there in full uniform, a chest full of candy
attesting to his expertise in the cockpit, but it wouldn’t have made a difference
to Brynn. She didn’t trust anything about the Piper.

“Look. We don’t have time to run through the safety record of the plane, or for you
to get therapy about this.”

She pulled her hand from her face far enough to make it a fist. “Did I say I needed
therapy?”

“Don’t think you had to.”

Shit. What was
that
, with the aw-shucks line straight from one of Franzen’s lame musicals? Worse yet,
what was this electric shock through his chest when his “sweet understanding” instantly
turned her eyes into huge pools?

Wrong. This was all wrong. Her horror should’ve been
his
triumph. Her reticence, flipped into his golden opportunity. At the very least, he
needed to be blasting fate a new asshole for withholding this loophole
last night
, when he’d gone hand-to-hand with the women and nearly ended up in traction because
of it.

Now, his goddamn brain was in the sling, instead—completely useless for lending his
voice
any
kind of authority.

Thank fuck they were standing at the center of a tarmac and not the middle of a Catacomb
playroom.

Annnd just like that, his body didn’t pay attention to any orders, either. Was it
expected to, when his imagination had suddenly populated Brynn Monet onto a St. Andrews
cross, naked and bound and spread for him?

Goodbye, pansy musical dude.

Hello, Master Reb—the Dom who’d let entirely too much time pass since his last dungeon
play session.

And now
really
needed to make sure this woman didn’t get on a plane with him, to fly to a ranch
house on twenty acres in the middle of Texas hill country.

“Okay, so this is going to be a problem for you.”
Much
better. Firm, decisive, final. “So no harm, no foul. Shay’s still right over there.
You can just leave with him, and—”

Her glare cut him short before her retort did. “Wouldn’t
that
fix everything perfectly for you?” She huffed out a laugh, shaking her head. “Plays
right into your wildest dreams, doesn’t it?”

You do not want to know what my wildest dreams are made of,
cher.

“My needs aren’t important right now.” He thinned his lips. “And neither are yours.
We’re wasting time bickering and biting our nails,”—pointedly, he dropped his gaze
to the finger she’d been tearing at—“when we should be getting clearance from the
tower and getting our asses out of here.”

Not a shred of Broadway Joe in that one, either. As a matter of fact, he should’ve
been damn proud of every snarled syllable.

Then why did he feel like such a douche when her shoulders fell again…and her chin
trembled, fighting back intense emotions? “I am extremely aware of our time constraints,
Sergeant. There’s not a second that goes by when I’m
not
aware.”

Sam finally made himself useful by stepping over with perfect timing, saving them
both from a surely awkward silence. “Greetings. You must be Brynna. You’re famous
already around here, you know.”

She flashed a smile that never made it to her eyes. “Peachy. Great to meet you, errrr…”

“Sam.” He picked up her hand then bowed over it, brushing lips along her knuckles.
“Commander Sam Mackenna, of Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force. I’m on loan to the ruffians
over at Nellis for a few weeks.”

“But right now, he should be finishing his pre-flight inspection.” Rebel all but broke
in between them, disgruntled as hell to watch Mackenna turn on the courtly accent
and the King Charles manners, a sure sign he was jockeying for some coo-coo-get-in-my-pants
action.
No fucking way
. “Go ahead. Move along. Check the oil. Kick the tires. Lay out the peanut bags. Chop
chop.” He shoulder-butted the guy, hard enough to let Sam know he meant business—only
to find himself pushed aside by the woman behind him, with the eyes of fear and chin
of stubbornness that wrenched at his chest all over again.

“So you’re flying this thing?” she asked—demanded—of Sam.

He bent over again, this time in gentlemanly deference. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Then don’t fuck it up.”

She whirled away from them both and marched toward the plane, head high and spine
straight, not a trace of her terror showing from this angle. Rebel, battling to ignore
what
did
show well from this view, caught up with her in time to help her step up into the
plane. As he did, there was no escaping the sensations that slammed him—nor did he
want to. He was…proud of her. And even more. Inspired.

The feelings weren’t difficult to peg. They were part of the good stuff about being
in Spec Ops, these moments where witnessing someone push past their internal walls
outweighed the exhilaration of watching them scale real ones. Pride came from the
honor of being part of the moment. Inspiration came from knowing that when
his
turn came for the wall leaping, he’d be able to use it as strength.

And God, did he want to remember Brynna Monet.

Every damn thing he could about her.

No sense in fighting that one anymore, either. No matter what kind of flame-out he’d
suffer when this was over, there was no way to fight the searing lure of her now.
Dan Colton’s loss was absolutely his gain—and he was going to savor every last possible
penny of this fortune.

But right now, nothing was about him. It was about parking his ass in the leather
bucket seat next to hers. Examining the white expanse of her face, the dilated terror
in her eyes, the taut coil of her hands. Reaching across her to grab the strap of
her shoulder belt—a detail lost to the obvious whirl of her thoughts—and clicking
it into the fastening on his side. Keeping himself turned toward her, one hand on
her jiggling knee, and forcing her to take deeper breaths with the steady squeeze
and release of that hand.

Finally, she seemed to get the idea. Her chest began to rise and fall with longer,
calmer flows. Rebel remained silent, communicating with her simply through his touch—and
his gaze. The latter couldn’t be helped. Now that he had her locked in and to himself,
he took greedy advantage of the chance to stare his fill. Those dark red lashes, fanned
over her cheeks with a little curl at the ends. The bright red wisps escaping her
braid, playing at the elegant slope of her neck. The contrast of her lips, the color
of ripe raspberries, against her pale, pale skin.

Without notice, she blinked her eyes open. Peered at him—then actually cracked a fast
smile. It was such a surprise, Rebel burst into a laugh.

“Not funny.” Her chide had no rancor. If he pretended hard enough, he could almost
imagine they were in bed together, after he’d spanked her into an orgasm then fucked
her into a couple more.

Not. Going There.

Too late. His imagination had hammered down stakes and the tent of debauchery was
on the rise.

“Of course not,” he returned, all mocking smirk and teasing eyes.

“I’m serious, Rebel.”

“So am I.” And suddenly, he was. Even through the extended moment of thick silence
between them. Even through the lift of his fingers, softly stroking those errant hairs
off her neck as well. Even through the seconds he took to swallow with purpose, before
murmuring, “So what are we talking about here? Natural heebies about flying in a…‘tin
can’…or deep-seated childhood trauma I really
will
need to call the shrink about?”

She swallowed, too. Leaned her head over a little, toward his hand, which he’d dipped
just a little beneath the collar of her shirt. It was either do that or try to behave—in
which case, his gaze would’ve migrated toward her cleavage. Not that the work shirt
showed it off well, though it was much better than her workout attire from last night.
Damn sports bras. They needed to be renamed tit crushers.

“Can I pick something in between?” she replied. When he pressed his fingers to her
nape in a wordless affirmation, she went on, “The last time I was in one of these,
Enya and I were on vacation in Costa Rica.”

“Enya?”

“My little sister. Well, not that little. Not so little that she didn’t get a wild
hair up her backside and sign us up for a ‘ziplining adventure’ in the middle of nowhere.
After that plane ride, I thought I’d be dying in the middle of nowhere, too.”

He compressed his features, hoping they spoke his commiseration. “Wish I could say
I don’t know how that feels.” Even the world’s finest pieces of military aircraft
didn’t make up for RPGs or missions in shitty weather conditions.

He was glad to see his reassurance sink into her—though bewildered by the rest of
her reaction. With a little turn toward him, she leaned her head sideways against
the cushion, as if settling in for a warm chat over tea. “Yet here you are, ready
to do it again.”

He couldn’t help the new quirk of his lips. Well, imagine that. The smooth little
psych major
did
want a heart-to-heart, disguising her question as observation. Did she know how thoroughly
he
knew this drill already? How many times he’d already had his head torn open by the
base shrinks, being the guy on the team most exposed to the possibility of watching
his guts blown out of his body as his last mortal sight?

But if this soothed her nerves for the flight, he’d be more than happy to oblige.

She wouldn’t learn a thing he didn’t want her to.

“In my line of work, you learn to live by fear or possibility,” he offered. “If you
want to keep serving your country and making a difference, you have to choose the
latter.”

There. That should give the little Freuds in her head something to snack on for a
few minutes. He waited for the signs of it—the slight furrow in her brow, the tentative
chew on her lip—though damn it, all she did was change the angle of her smile and
reach for him, too.

As her fingers lifted, Rebel tensed. Shit. She was going for his face.
Not the goddamn face
. It wasn’t that he hated it. He just didn’t exactly…enjoy it. It was why he’d gotten
so good at all the fun of bondage. Tie them down before the naked stuff started, meaning
he controlled every inch of contact. Yeah yeah; he’d seen the explanations on paper—mommy
issues, intimacy issues, fucked-up-beyond-recognition issues—like any of that happy
horseshit made them easier to deal with. Only one thing helped with that. Not indulging,
period. Not allowing those special little female touches that all but sucked his soul
straight to his eyes—and the pain back into his heart.