His Devil's Rage Page 2

  “Drop it, Bruce.”

  “Jacklyn? What the fuck are you doing?” he asked with shock raging through his mind. How could he have misjudged her so badly?

  “I made a deal.” She laughed derisively. “All this blood and wounds … fake, my dear. Except for my hair, but it’s a sacrifice I was prepared to make. The money they paid me secured a very lucrative life for me once I’m out of this hellhole.” She leaned closer and whispered in his ear. “And all I had to do was make sure the intel of our location reached the LC’s ears. It’s you they want. The cocky American who interfered with all their captives.”

  The brief altercation was enough for the rebels to break through their defense, especially as they were surrounded, cornered like rats in a cage.

  Bruce turned to Jacklyn. The Cheshire grin was the ugly confirmation of her greed. Her laughter as the rebel leader shot and killed four of his men, was proof of her lack of compassion, of a complete change in character.

  “You will pay for this, Jacklyn.”

  “No, Bruce, I already got paid and this is the end of the road for you. You won’t survive what they have in store for you, which is a pity, because fucking you would’ve given me such pleasure.” She leaned forward and planted a hard kiss against his lips. He yanked back his head and slammed his forehead viciously against hers. She fell backward from the force of the hit, unconscious before she hit the ground.

  It was at that moment that Bruce lost faith in the war, in the trust he’d unconditionally offered his superiors in an act that to him, was one of murder, callous and without consideration for the lives of innocent civilians. The betrayal of Jacklyn Long cut the deepest, a woman who had for the past two years, been playing him off against two of his best friends, Rhone Greer and Reece Talbot.

  A deeply vested hatred and a desire for vengeance kept him alive, just barely, until Rhone and Jack managed to extract him and the only two of his twenty men who had survived the four months in captivity.

  Upon his return, he retired from the military. From that point forward, he trusted his own instincts, his innate ability to read people and to act upon his own beliefs of what was right and wrong.

  Jacklyn Long had disappeared like mist before the sun.

  Chapter One

  There’s someone in the house.

  Bruce Rickett’s built-in warning system triggered. His senses were on immediate alert the moment he stepped into the house through the interleading door from the garage into the kitchen. The alarm system had still been activated upon his return, there weren't any obvious signs to indicate the intruder, except for the ingrained sense of danger he’d honed over the years as an undercover Black Ops Commander.

  He drew his weapon and started a systematic search. He walked on the balls of his feet, silent like a jungle cat. It was after one in the morning and the entire neighborhood was silent. He’d been in charge of the Sunday swinger’s night at Club Devil’s Cove and stayed until the last couple left forty minutes ago. He’d shunned the desire to stay over at the club, knowing he had an early Monday morning session at his home-based Psychology practice on the Equestrian Estate he owned on Frenchman’s Point.

  How the hell did they get inside the house with the alarm system still activated?

  His steps slowed as he neared his study. His muscles solidified. Since The Sixth Order Syndicate had increased their vendetta against the Precision Secure team with the blatant bomb attack during Max Shaw and Ethan Brodie’s double wedding at Jack Blackmore’s house, they’d all been walking on eggshells.

  In here. They’re in here.

  He pressed his back against the wall, next to the doorframe. He closed his eyes and allowed his senses to infiltrate the silent room, envisioning the layout in his mind. One body, he sensed only one body. The sound of silent breathing was only an awareness that he felt but he found it behind the huge cherry oak handcrafted desk.

  The two steps into the room coincided with flipping the switch. Light from the three lamps on small tables around the room, broke through the darkness, cascading over the female body curled up in his large leather chair in the soft glow from the business lamp on his desk. The light shimmered softly on the dark red tresses that trailed over her shoulders.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” His voice boomed across the room, giving the sleeping woman such a fright, she promptly tumbled from the chair to the floor. Bruce put away his weapon as he stomped closer, watching with a dark frown as she gathered her long legs and pushed into a sitting position.

  She glowered at him, ostentatiously unperturbed by his frightening and very large presence.

  “What the devil did you have to shout at me for? Don’t you know the danger such a big scare can have on a person’s heart?”

  Bruce’s lips flattened. His eyes narrowed into slits as he watched her struggle to her feet to fall back into his chair with a distinct lack of feminine grace.

  “What? Have you suddenly gone mute? First you thunder at me at the top of your voice and now you stand there glaring at me with a mouth full of teeth.”

  Bruce could imagine her small foot stomping with frustration had she been standing. His one eyebrow did a cynical foray upward.

  “Well? Aren’t you gonna say anything? Like … I don’t know,” she shrugged, “it’s nice to see you again, Morgan.”

  “I prefer to refrain from lying.”

  Her chin tilted upward in a defensive gesture, but Bruce didn’t miss the slight vulnerable twitch of her full and pouty, coral colored lips.

  “Don’t tell me you’re still sour that I walked out of our last session? I told you I didn’t need any more mumbo jumbo chit-chat that didn’t lead us anywhere. No offense to your skill as a psychologist.”

  “None taken. My ability to assist a person is limited to those who wish to be helped. You proved you didn’t, so I ask again. What are you doing here? Now, after almost eight months.”

  “I came to warn you.”

  Bruce walked around the desk and without her noticing him move, she suddenly stood next to the desk and he was sitting on the chair she’d fallen asleep in two hours earlier.

  “Now that was creepy,” she huffed as she spun around to sit down in one of the visitor’s chairs opposite him. “Impressive but creepy.”

  She pulled her feet up under her, a move that Bruce had seen Morgan Adler do every time she’d come for a session after she’d been rescued—along with Joanne Blackmore and eleven other women who had been kidnapped and kept in a secure compound in Yabreen in Saudi Arabia as sex slaves. Of all the women, she’d been the strongest, the most resilient, and scoffed at his efforts to get her to open up to talk about her ordeal.

  “It’s late and I want to get to bed. Say what you came to say and leave.”

  “Are you always this grumpy this time of day?”

  “No, I’m annoyed to walk into my house and find it invaded.”

  “Jeez, lighten up, big boy. You’ll thank me later.”

  “Get to it, Morgan. Like you said so eloquently, I don’t have time for this mumbo jumbo, chit-chat.”

  “Well, now, isn’t that impressive. And here I thought you didn’t listen to anything I’ve said since you got here.” She studied him with her head tilted sideways. “Okay, okay!” She held up her hands in defeat as his eyes shot warning daggers at her. Why she always felt the need to act like such a brat in his presence, she had no idea, except that it loosened something deep inside her when they sparred with each other. A trickle of heat low in her stomach that she’d believed she’d never feel again. Not after … She dogmatically pushed the unwanted thought of the year as an abducted sex slave to the back of her mind. It was a time in her life she preferred to forget.

  Except in her sleep. Then she had no control over the recurring dreams that had come back to hound her the past two months, along with the other nightmare she’d been wishing away for four years.

  “I’m waiting.” His brusque voice yanked her back to the present.

/>   She squared her shoulders. “You’re in danger. You and the rest of the Precision Secure team.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Okay, Mr. Smartass, this is serious.”

  “And how would you know, Miss Know-it-all? You’re an artist. I’m sure you don’t move in the circles where we’re the main topic of discussion.”

  “I don’t paint anymore.”

  “Why? Your paintings are known all over the globe. I’ve heard people refer to you as the Picasso of modern times.”

  She shrugged. “I lost my mojo after I returned from … you know. I had to find another source of income.”

  “Don’t tell me you turned into an assassin?”

  Her tinkling laugh found resonance deep inside Bruce. He immediately closed his mind against the warmth it awakened in his heart.

  “Of course not. I’m a bounty hunter.” Her mouth pursed as he burst out laughing. “Laugh away, buster, but I’ll have you know I’m the best out there. I close more cases than anyone in the States.”

  “Congratulations. I’m sure it’s a very satisfying occupation. So, is that the danger we’re in? From you?” An amused smile curved his lips.

  Morgan just stared. She shook herself. It wouldn’t do to go all gaga over him—no man for that matter. “No, Bruce. I came to warn you. There’s a worldwide contract out on every member of the Precision Secure team and the prize money is massive.” Her lips twitched into a sour grimace. “Every assassin out there has you and all your friends in their sights.” She shrugged. “And bounty hunters for that matter.”

  “Except you?” His eyebrow eased into a question mark.

  “Well,” she huffed, “seeing as you believe I’m talking shit, I might just decide to turn you in and grab some of that reward for myself.”

  Bruce slouched lower in the chair and steepled his fingers together over his stomach.

  “I have a feeling the award would be for the corpse of one of us. I hardly think you have it in you to kill a fly, let alone a human being.”

  “Gmphf,” she scoffed. “Shows how little you know. Some of the assassins offered a very hefty price for inside information that would lead to you and Rhone Greer specifically.”

  “We don’t live in hiding, Morgan. Anyone can find us with a little effort.”

  “Yes, but they’re after more, your habits, the routes you travel, family, loved ones, that kind of thing.”

  “In other words, they want information to enable them to hit us where it’ll hurt the most and when we least expect it?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “I’m curious as to why you came to warn me. Surely you could do with the money yourself?”

  Morgan frowned and shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “I’d never be able to live with myself. It would feel like betrayal. Not after what you all did to help us escape and … what you tried to do for me afterwards.”

  “Failed to do, you mean.”

  Morgan looked startled. She blinked and lowered her eyes to hide her emotions from his intense regard. He was too perceptive by far and that had been the main reason she’d run away from his sessions before. She’d just escaped the cruelty of a yearlong captivity of being forced to submit to men that made her gag, and there she was, falling into lust with him every time he walked into a room. The day she realized it was starting to morph into more than desire, she’d left. Scared that what she’d felt wasn’t real but a result of falling for the first man who showed her empathy and understanding of what she’d gone through. Not that it had been any worse than … she felt bile rumble in her stomach. She forced back the memories.

  “You did help, more than you know.” She shrugged and looked around the room, anywhere but at him. “Your voice stayed with me ever since and whenever I felt the darkness close in on me, I focused on things you said.” She smiled briefly and glanced at him. “I still do.”

  “In other words, you didn’t go for further counseling since.”

  “No.”

  Bruce studied her, noticing the growing blush on her cheeks. Of the eleven women that had returned with her, she had been the strongest, along with Joanne, and the others had leaned on them for support. She was also the only one who had managed to get under his skin … maybe because there had come a point when he’d wished she wasn’t a patient.

  The way she fiddled under his direct stare, confirmed the suspicion he’d had then; that she wasn’t immune to him either. He allowed his gaze to move over her heart-shaped face. Like before, her natural beauty stunned him, even with her hair all tousled and wild. Her skin appeared like glowing marble in the soft light, satiny soft, not pasty and dry like when they’d been rescued. Her small, straight nose twitched an inch higher under his regard. Her eyebrows arched over glimmering almond shaped eyes, the color of a clear lake in a dark forest. When he’d met her at first, the color had been startling but the longer he gazed into them, the more he’d become enamored with her. She still captivated him, with dark red tresses that tumbled in glorious waves over her shoulders. His hands itched to drag the luxurious length through his fingers. He noticed her squirm and dragged his attention back to their discussion.

  “And have you moved on with your life?”

  “I told you, I became a bounty hunter.”

  “What about sex? Have you—”

  “Enough already, Doctor Rickett! I came here to warn you and here you are, analyzing me instead of being concerned about your own life.”

  “I’m big and strong enough to take care of myself.”

  “In other words, you’re saying I can’t?” Morgan clipped in a cold voice, snorting with feminine disgust. She slapped her palm on the arm of the chair. “This is serious! I came here to warn you, to offer my help.”

  Bruce’s lips twitched. “Well, if you insist. I’m in the need of a housekeeper. Can you cook?”

  “Can I …” Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

  Bruce found the way her body turned rigid with affront endearing. He wondered how she would be as a submissive—in Club Devil’s Cove, cuffed to the St. Andrew’s cross. Sassy, cheeky and most probably as much of a brat as the subs of all his friends.

  She untangled her legs and lowered her feet to the floor.

  “I never took you as a sexist or chauvinist, Bruce Rickett. I guess I was mistaken.”

  “Before you castrate me, you should know that my previous housekeeper slash chef was a male. If not for the fact that he had to return to France to take care of his ailing father, he’d still be here. So, I’m waiting.”

  He crossed his arms over his broad chest and plastered an expectant look on his face. He’d forgotten how refreshing it was to spar with a spirited woman. Most of the subs at the club were wary of him because of his size and walked circles around him. Morgan … well, she was just what he’d been looking for.

  “I stand corrected,” she offered in a stiff voice. Her chest heaved as she dragged in a deep breath. “I’m offering my services as your bodyguard … don’t you dare laugh, you humongous lout!” Morgan growled as he burst out laughing. She sat in helpless surrender; all she could do was stare and hope she didn’t look like a fish out of water.

  Holy damnation! This man is dangerous … dangerously gorgeous.

  Morgan could feel her cheeks flushing deep red. The constant throb in her loins was disconcerting. Her clitoris felt like it had been charged by an electric circuit as soon as she’d slapped eyes on him, regardless of sitting flat on her ass gazing up at him. She’d never experienced such a level of arousal toward any man, especially a man who had never treated her with anything but professional courtesy.

  She choked on a breath when his metallic gray eyes seared her with an amused look. Good lord. Even that brief glance rattled her libido into warp drive. She frowned fiercely at her body’s reaction. It wasn’t fair to the female population for a man to be this gorgeous.

  “Just let me know when you’ve managed to contain your mirth,” she grumble
d as another bout of his laughter found resonance deep inside her.

  His rugged features were captivating and bewitching with tousled dark brown hair, thick and lustrous that shone in the dim lights from the desk lamp. A prominent jaw angled gracefully around his chin and sloped upward into chiseled features.

  I can just imagine that jaw becoming rigid when he climaxes. Morgan! Get your mind out of the man’s pants, for heaven's sake!

  The dark eyebrows, sloping downward, drew her gaze to his lips. Perfect and ripe for kissing. Her tongue took a slow foray over her suddenly dry lips, coating them with an enticing glistening film.

  “You’re asking for trouble, squirt,” Bruce rasped as his eyes dropped to the inviting fullness of her pursed lips.

  “Squirt?” She frowned in pretend annoyance, giving herself the opportunity to force her rising libido under control. “Far be it for me to remind you I’m anything but,” she snipped, pointing to her breasts. His eyes dropped dutifully. Morgan groaned as she felt her nipples tighten in response to the lascivious grin that formed on his lips. She squared her shoulders.

  “Well, men like you should come with warning signs,” she mumbled under her breath. His eyebrow arching upward warned her that her voice had carried further in the quiet night than she intended.

  “Hmm, tell me, Ms. Adler, would that offer pertain specifically to guard my body in bed at night?”

  Shit! See what you’ve done. Now the damn man knows you’ve got the hots for him.

  Her chin inched up a notch. Her stare was regal, warning him that she wasn’t intimidated at all. Aroused maybe … but not intimidated.

  Yeah, right! Like your soaked panties is a maybe.

  “I wouldn’t share your bed if you begged me, buster,” she clipped in a cold voice. She refused to give credit to the resulting shiver that trailed down her spine as his lips curled into a boyish grin.

  “I never beg, squirt. I order and command.”

  He stretched his long legs lazily as he leaned back in the chair, a picture of complete control over the situation.

  Bah! Let him believe it all he wants. Try as she might, she couldn’t ban the vision that flashed in front of her eyes of him dressed in his leather pants and vest, his bulging muscles and physique on display while he swung a long tail whip at the ass of a sub tied to a Saint Andrew’s cross. A memory that had been carved into her mind since the one time she’d gone with Joanne to Club Devil’s Cove. It was there that the first trickle of heat and arousal for the emphatic, yet aloof psychologist had been borne. It had been surreal, watching him in full control of every snap of the tip against the woman’s skin, the way he soothed her when he stepped against her, his hands curling around her breasts, teasing her nipples while his other hand delved deliciously between her thighs. While she watched, Morgan had felt every caress shiver over her own skin, the heat rushing to wet her thighs as he pinched the sub’s nipples.