BIG: (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance) (5 page)

Her head spun. She didn’t know whether to be irritated by Ric’s “big brother” tone, be delighted that she could now put a deposit on any flat she wanted in Paris or be afraid of possessing the kind of money she couldn’t even fit into her head as a concept.

“Wow, you had no idea, did you?” Ric hunkered down and put his hands on her shoulders.

“No.”

“Ryker Arms is international. They sell a lot of guns. What do you think my dad was doing all day? Hosting tea-parties?”

“All right, there’s no need to be sarcastic.”

She imagined walking into an unused space just off the Seventeenth Arrondissement in Paris and making it her own, filling the walls with the work of brilliant but, as yet, unknown artists. Artists
she
would discover.

She’d thought about doing a PhD on the prior influences of the Batignolles artists, but she didn’t have to stop there, not anymore. She could tour art colleges, find talent... as long as the locals didn’t get annoyed with a rich, little new girl sweeping in on their turf.

“Do you think I could fit in on the Paris art scene?” she asked him, her voice sounding far away.

“I think you should make it fit
you
.”

“You’re such an American—and a megalomaniac.” She smirked. “You’ll make a brilliant CEO.”

“There’s a difference between megalomania and self-respect, Leesa.”

“I was teasing. But at least you believe in yourself now. That’s new. I like it.” Annalesa pushed her glass away and draped her arms round Ric’s neck. They both froze. She was afraid of his initial lack of response, but relaxed when his arms looped round her waist and she sighed in relief when he kissed the top of her head.

“I like it, too.”

“I’ve always believed in you,” she confessed, resting her cheek against the side of his neck, inhaling his warmth. “I tried telling you but... well, you didn’t like to hear it.”

“I know.” He gave her a little squeeze. “Come on, let’s go sit down.”

“In the den?” She didn’t say,
‘After what happened there?’
although she might as well have.

“I’m not a potato anymore, but I have to admit, I still like the couch,” he said and that made her laugh.

He picked up both their glasses in one hand and tugged her over to the sofa. She sat down, taking her drink when he offered it.

“The truth is, I hated myself, Leesa,” he told her softly. “I don’t anymore. But back then, I was always suspicious of compliments. I hated being ‘Big Dick,’ even if the nickname came about not just because I was fat, but because I was strong and protective, too. I thought those were good traits to have. But... well, that didn’t work out, did it?”

Annalesa groaned, but with enough liquor inside her, felt brave enough to at least glance at the elephant in the room. “Are you talking about punching Ryan?”

“He gave you bruises.” Ric’s eyes hardened, like little bits of green glass. “Was I supposed to just stand back and let that go?”

“He needed a beating,” she agreed. Fucking asshole had nearly knocked her down the flight of bleachers at a packed football game just because she’d saved seats in the ‘wrong spot.’

“You should’ve come home with me.” He sat beside her on the sofa, shaking his head.

“Well, I would’ve, but Ric, you broke his jaw! I mean, I couldn’t just leave him there—he ended up in the hospital. I had to make sure he was okay...” Her voice trailed off when he glared at her.

She put a hand on his forearm, feeling the tightness of the muscle underneath, saying softly, “It wasn’t because I was ashamed of you.”

“Sure felt like it.”

She drained her drink and put the glass on the coffee table, then turned back to him, keeping her voice and gaze as steady as she could. Then she confessed. “Don’t you think I’ve spent years wishing I’d walked away with you?”

“What would you do if I saw a guy treating you like that again?” he asked. “Because I’d do the same damned thing.”

“Ric,
you’re
the one who taught me to expect more,” she urged. “There isn’t ever going to be another ‘Ryan’ in my life.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“This time? I’d walk away with you.”

The drink hit her hard suddenly and she dropped her dizzy head down into his lap. Ric surprised her by stroking her hair. She stroked the back of her knuckles against his front, letting all her tension go. His face blurred a little above her, but his grin was clear enough.

“You never could handle alcohol.”

“I’m just a little squiffy. That’s strong stuff...” She struggled to put her words in the right order as they came out of her mouth. “Besides, you should be chuffed I’m still such a light-weight. That means that I haven’t spent four years at University building up my tolerance.”

“Nice reframe.” Ric laughed. “So, if you haven’t spent the past four years partying—what have you been doing?”

“Missing you.”

Crap.

The words were out before she could even think. And now they wouldn’t stop.

“I mean, I know
now
why I never you saw
—
you were losing all that weight and rebuilding your life—but there were too many Christmases and birthdays without you, Ric.” Her voice sounded far away, even to her. “I missed our late-night phone calls. Our football versus rugby arguments. I even missed sparring with you about the Second Amendment. Your incessant need for the right to bear arms everywhere, even in the
bathroom
—”

“Okay, that’s one argument I didn’t miss.”

Did that mean he missed all the other things, like she had?

Then she laughed. “You even had a gun
in the gym
, for God’s sake!”

“Ugh. You’re so English.”

“All right, let’s not go there. Not while we’re getting along so nicely.”

She lay quietly in his lap for a while, loving the feeling of being completely relaxed with him again. His hand was still in her hair, petting gently, his thumb occasionally stroking her cheek.

She knew it was wrong, but she wanted him. She wanted to go to bed with this new Ric, press skin-to-skin with him, his arms wrapped round her front, and with nothing in the world to worry about.

So much history, though. So much to work through.

“You’ve changed,” he said suddenly, but it wasn’t an accusation.

“I hope so.” She pulled herself up and climbed into his lap.

Ric didn’t stop her when she straddled him, draping her arms over his impossibly big shoulders. She was heady, both from the alcohol, and from their closeness.

“I’ve grown up a lot,” she informed him, feeding him facts he couldn’t know, given the length of time they’d been part. “I’ve learned things.”

“What have you learned, Leesa?” he asked, sounding like he was indulging a small child.

“I’ve learned to speak up.” Her spine straightened and she saw him glance down at the cleavage that motion suddenly put on display. “I’m not afraid to say things. Or ask for things. If I want something, I mean. I’ll ask.”

“Oh yeah?” They were face-to-face. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. “So ask. You didn’t climb into my lap for nothing.”

For all her brave words, all she could do was look at him.

“Are you asking me for me, Leese?”

She drew a sharp breath as he put his hands at her waist, steadying her. She was so dizzy from the Akavit. And from him. From the look in his eyes, like an invitation, a question and a challenge all rolled into one.

“Oh… no… not really.” She said no, but her head bobbed yes. “But sort of. Okay, yes.”

“That wasn’t very clear.”

“Okay, yes… I... I want you.” She swallowed around her confession. “I mean, I wasn’t asking you to, you know, do anything about it right this very second. I was just... answering your question.”

His hands slid up her sides and around her back to her shoulders. The warmth coming off his palms amplified ten times through her body as he pulled her closer to him. They locked gazes and his eyes looked hungry.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Answering the question you didn’t ask.”

He brushed his lips past hers and they breathed cheek-to-cheek, feeling each other out again after the long absence.

Then he was kissing her, hard, like he was reminding himself of every little millimeter of her mouth, stroking her tongue with his and sharing her breath.

She wound her arms around his neck, trying to keep up with him, their breathing, the pace of their mutual discovery. Beneath the alcohol, he tasted fresh, light, clean. Her crotch was directly over his and she felt his erection through the denim, pressing up against her thigh.

So, I do appeal to this God-like creature, after all.

That was far more intoxicating than any alcohol.

Ric pulled away gently and cupped her face as she panted her way back to normal breathing. “I think that’s a good place to leave things tonight.”

She staggered off him backwards as he stood, feeling winded again at his rejection, but she understood it. They’d both had a lot to drink. Too much. No one here was thinking clearly.

“Got any plans for tomorrow yet, Leesa?”

“Uhhh... no.”

“Good. Meet me at the shooting range at HQ—thirteen-hundred hours.” He left a kiss on top of her head and headed up to his room.

She stared dumbly after him.

Thirteen-hundred hours? For God’s sake. What was wrong with one o’clock?

If this ‘mentor,’ Arensen, had turned Ric into a military jerk over the last four years, she might ditch the target practice and shoot at him, instead.

Ryker Arms headquarters was only about a mile from home, and Annalesa pulled her rental car up and threw it into park, glancing around. It had been a long time since she’d been there. New buildings she didn’t recognize had sprouted up. They’d expanded the manufacturing site a lot since the last time she’d been home, and there was a cement building where the range used to be, something the size of a five-or-six-bedroom apartment.

What in the world?

There was a yard to the left, as stern and functional as the sign on the perimeter gate that read,
‘Kill House’.
A group of men in the yard were strapping on tactical gear, helped by two guys in civvies. She got out of the car and pocketed her keys, making sure to lock the door—not that anyone would dare steal anything here.

The temperature had risen since breakfast, so she pulled off her hoodie and tied it around her waist. It was warm enough to walk around in jeans and a tank-tee. Too warm, really. She fanned her face a little. She’d probably regret the jeans too, after a while.

She saw him as she slipped through the gate, drawing glances from some of the men. Ric was bent over in the corner, yanking the laces on his boots and making low conversation with a man who had cropped blond-grey hair. The man looked vaguely familiar. The older man said something to make Ric laugh.

A little hitch jolted inside her—Ric’s whole face lit up when he smiled now. She’d never seen him look so relaxed and carefree.
My God, that smile.
He stood, gathering his hair back into an elastic band, sunlight dancing off his short sideburns, making them glow dark-blond. His black, long-sleeved shirt clung to the muscles of his shoulders and upper arms like a second skin.

Annalesa slowed her pace, not wanting to interrupt them, but Ric glanced her way and waved, stopping only to pick up an enormous assault rifle from the ground by his kit bag. As he approached, her slack-jawed staring at his alpha gear had turned into a grimace at his weapon.

“Please tell me that’s just a paintball gun?” She’d seen the orange tip—a sign that the gun was no longer actually firing live rounds. The thing looked like it weighed as much as she did!

“It is.” He laughed, bending to kiss her cheek. “You’re nearly an hour early. We were about to do an assault simulation.”

“I thought I’d get in a little target practice before we hooked up. I’m rusty.” She glanced around, frowning, hands on her hips, and wrinkled her nose at him. “But the range seems to have moved.”

“Sorry, forgot you haven’t been here in a while.” Ric grinned. “The range is where the conference rooms used to be. Dad expanded Ryker’s private security wing, so we built the kill house for urban assault training. Private security is now Anders Arensen’s baby. You remember Anders, right?”

And there he was—the older man who had said something to make Ric laugh.

Annalesa put her hand out as the man with the silver-blond hair joined them. His hair was so close-cropped she could see the pink of his scalp.

“Good morning, Commander Arensen.” She did remember him, now.

“Just Mr. Arensen.” He shook her hand—a confident, firm grip. “I’ve retired from the Forsvaret.”

“Still with NATO?” she asked, trying to remember what her stepfather had said about the man.

“Yes, I’m still the liaison. It’s good to keep the company’s ear to the ground.” He let go of her hand, giving her an appraising look. “Do you like my kill house?”

“It’s... beautiful.” She blinked at the fat, squat building. What, really, could you say about something called “a kill house?” She didn’t like the way he claimed ownership of it though—even if it was his “baby.”

Arensen gave a short laugh, turning to clap Ric on the shoulder. “And what do you make of your brother’s incredible transformation?”

“I didn’t recognize him,” she admitted honestly.

“You won’t recognize him in the field, either,” Arensen assured her, squeezing Ric’s big shoulder in his hand. “He’s been working with our operations team for two years. We’ve got him up to mission-capable standards.”

Ric looked quite proud of that fact and she smiled her congratulations at him. She felt proud of him, although that seemed to matter to him far less than the older man’s opinion. Annalesa told herself she was being ridiculous, but she didn’t like the way Arensen seemed to claim Ric’s success as if it were his own.

Ric had been the one doing the work, after all, and she didn’t like to think of him training with a man who looked like he’d step on a kitten if it got in his way. But maybe she was judging the man too harshly, she told herself, as Arensen turned back to Ric. Clearly the older man felt he’d done his duty in being polite to her and began barking out instructions for the upcoming simulation.

“Keep a better eye on your six,” Arensen admonished. “I can’t count the number of times you forget to watch your own damned back, Ryker, for fucksake—”

“That’s because I’m busy watching yours.”

“I don’t need mine watched,” Arensen snapped, although he was wearing a half-smile, half-scowl on his face. “Who’s training who here?”

Annalesa stepped back, giving them space as they sparred in a series of masculine half-insults while they worked out an extraction strategy. Clearly they’d done this before and she just was in the way.

She shaded her eyes from the sun, looking where the conference center used to be, where Ric said the new range now resided—when she overheard Arensen comment about Ric being heavy on his feet when clearing a room.

“You gotta be smoother, Ryker. Pie those corners. You’re like Frankenstein’s monster thudding around clearing a room.” Arensen snorted a laugh at his own metaphor. “Can’t get lazy just because you’re so close—don’t want to let them hear you at the last minute.”

Ric nodded, taking in the criticism, but the words made Annalesa’s spine stiffen. She pointed over to the kill house, directing her comment at Arensen.

“So, am I wrong, or did you model that on the Navy Seal training center in Virginia?”

“We did.” Arensen raised a fine, silver eyebrow. “By financial necessity, it’s a little more compact, but—”

“Well—” she interrupted, crossing her arms and narrowing her gaze at the kill house. “Unless you’ve got carpet and other acoustic-buffers in there, I’d venture to say a prima ballerina would sound like an elephant clearing those rooms.”

“Wow!” Ric laughed loudly at that, sliding an arm around her neck, his face full of pride. “Where the hell did you pick all that up from?”

“Cyril—the model-bastard.” She returned his smile, liking the weight of his arm around her shoulder. “He had this thing about American military stuff.”

“You were clearly paying attention, Miss LaFevre.” Arensen’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Would you like to see our little exercise close up? We could even change the scenario from simple assault to a hostage extraction—with you in the starring role, of course. If you were willing to volunteer...?”

She peeked up at Ric to see if he was okay with the idea—he shrugged and looked at her as if to say,
why not?
—then Annalesa broke into a grin of sheer delight.

“Love to,” she replied—in truth, she couldn’t wait to see Ric in action. The thought made her feel warm all over.

“Put your hands out, Miss LaFevre.” Arensen produced a length of soft cord from a pocket around the back of his flak jacket and doubled it.

She held out her wrists, doing her best to flex the muscles in her forearms as much as she could—a tactic the aforementioned Cyril had told her about—so she might have a little slack in the rope when she relaxed.

From the look on Arensen’s face, she knew he was the kind of man who took these “little exercises” quite seriously, and she wouldn’t put it past him to take the whole thing too far. She expected him to tie the knots tight, and he did—but she was actually a little surprised he didn’t use zip-ties.

“Ready, prisoner?” Ric grinned down at her.

She noticed him studying the way her wrists looked, all tied up like that, and she liked the light in his eyes.

Ric escorted her into the kill house, directing her to a small bunker room just inside the front door on the left. It was a video viewing room, and he put her in front of a cart of monitors so she could see the entire assault on several split-screens from her position. He looped another rope behind the knot, securing her wrists and lashed it to a post.

“You okay?” He squatted down, checking the ropes, and she could smell his scent, clean and deliciously masculine. It made her mouth water. “Not nervous?”

“I’m fine. I trust you.” She smiled, loving the look of concern on his face as their eyes met. “I just hope no one gets me with one of those paintball guns. I hear they sting like hell.”

“Like all kinds of hell.” He grimaced. “Tactical protection’s great, but there’s still the occasional guy who thinks it’s funny to paint my ass.”

“Really?” she laughed. “They wouldn’t dare!”

“They’re paid to dare.” Arensen appeared at the door and jerked his thumb back at one of the guys who had previously been wearing civvies, but who was now wearing a grimy white t-shirt and filthy jeans, dirt smeared all over him.

Such realism, she thought, and suppressed a giggle.

“This is Henrik,” Arensen told her by way of making introductions. “He’ll be the last line of defense before Ric or I get in to liberate you.”

“Hi, Henrik.” She looked at him, judging he was about her age. He wasn’t quite as big as Ric, but he was still pretty big. He had white-blond hair and a sweet smile that she returned. Ric scowled at that, but she pretended not to notice. “I’m Annalesa.”

“Ma’am.” He gave her a little salute. “You want chair? Water?”

“I’m fine,” she assured him, unable to suppress a little laugh. It wasn’t because his English was so broken—his accent was obviously Scandinavian—it was the offer of creature comforts that made her want to giggle. “It’s nice to know I’ll be in the care of the politest insurgent ever.”

“Now, now, Miss LaFevre, no chatting with the hostiles. We don’t want to have to add the reality of a gag.” Arensen quirked a half-smile and dipped back into the corridor to give an ear-punishing whistle.

In a moment, all the men from the yard were clustered at the doorway of the video room. He gave a rapid run-down of instructions in Norwegian, then in English.

“So, all nine insurgents, take up your positions. Ric and I will be the last of the extraction team sent to rescue the hostage and neutralize your threat. And remember—all sidearms are to be stowed.”

“Bet you a hundred bucks I get more kills than you.” Ric grinned at Arensen as the men dispersed to their defensive positions.

“It’s a bet.” Arensen returned his grin, shaking Ric’s hand to seal the deal.

As they left, shutting the video room door behind them, Annalesa looked around to get her bearings. Like every other room in the compound, this one was open-topped—there was a ten-or-twelve-foot gap between the top of the wall and the ceiling.