“Not me.” His smile was hard, cold then. “I like living too much. But I’m sure there’s a nice, safe accountant, manager, or, hell, landscaper who could be. Give one of them a chance.”
Pulling the door open with a jerk, Elijah left the kitchen, the door closing just a little too loudly behind him.
Graham cursed.
The bastard.
Elijah had worked undercover in all three areas before coming to Somerset. Accountant, manager, or landscaper his ass. Graham would shoot him first.
But he had a point. Maybe the deadline wasn’t a deadline for her brother, but one for him.
Lyrica Mackay wasn’t nearly as maneuverable as she let her brother and cousins believe she was, he thought with a heavy sigh. Nor was she willing to give him time to find the self-control he needed to make sure her heart wasn’t shattered when this was over.
She was nothing like Betts.
The thought caught him so completely off guard that for a moment he was back there. The sun beating down on his desert helmet, attacking the dark sunglasses he wore as the military convoy dropped into base.
The four-man unit he was scheduled to take into the mountains above Kabul was in that convoy, he knew. His men were assembled, their gear ready for a week-long trek into territory sure to test the luck they’d held on to for months when it came to serious wounds or fatalities.
Then his third man turned and reached into the vehicle, and a second later Graham had kissed that lucky streak good-bye as the soldier helped a lone female from the truck.
Betts Laren. Delicate and black haired, though the shining cap was cut to frame her pixieish face rather than falling down her back. Her lashes weren’t as thick and lush as Lyrica’s, her slender body more compact than fragile, her eyes a softer green. But she’d relieved the lust he couldn’t seem to get a handle on where thoughts of the third Mackay sister were concerned.
The army intelligence officer was fearless and charming, and she’d fooled him in ways he’d never believed a woman could fool him.
Shaking his head, he stalked to the door and opened it, stepping out to the shaded porch to draw in the scent of Kentucky warmth as the memory of the smell of death began to fill his head.
He’d kept from touching Lyrica for two fucking days. Hellish days. He was so damned hard, so ready to fuck, it was all he could do to keep from throwing her over the table when Elijah flirted with her outrageously.
He’d known he wasn’t going to last much longer when he’d forced himself from the bed that morning. But he’d managed to get a handle on it, to push back the extremity of his lust. If he could detach himself from his need just a little more, then he could take her again and trust his ability to still think straight.
He would be able to still the hunger just a little while; keeping her heart from becoming more involved, perhaps. He didn’t want to hurt Lyrica.
There was no doubt he already trusted her. Lyrica didn’t balk at telling him exactly what was on her mind at any given time. And when she did, he always sensed it.
But he wasn’t a safe bet for her. He wasn’t a safe bet for any woman. His secrets were dangerous, and the chances of their resurrection far too probable. The only question was when.
He frowned, wondering . . .
Not possible; he shook the thought away. That particular secret still lay in a coma in a French hospital. He knew. He checked daily. And he lived with the knowledge that he’d jeopardized his own future when he hadn’t killed the man when he had the chance.
—
Breathing out a sigh of relief that Graham had left the kitchen, Lyrica stepped back inside to refresh her coffee and snag one of the prepared sandwiches Graham and Kye usually kept in the fridge for lunch.
Neither of them was big on cooking, Kye had laughed as she’d looked over the selection of sandwiches. So twice a week, one of them would put together the sandwiches, wrap them, and place them in the crisper.
They were always damned good, too.
Not too big, no condiments or additions. Just thick hoagie rolls and a variety of thinly sliced meats. Who needed tomato and lettuce, she thought as she bit into one of the meaty selections.
Finishing the sandwich and her coffee, she wandered into the sunroom, the memory of lying on that nearest chaise lounge with Graham between her thighs sending a flush racing over her body.
Damn him. Threaten to lock her in the basement, would he? Oh, just let him try. She’d make damned sure he regretted it.
And of course, threatening to lock her away was far better than touching her, wasn’t it?
God, had she really wasted the past six years of her life? Because if he thought for one damned minute that he’d made up for six years of tortured arousal, then he’d best think again.