On a Knife's Edge (14 page)

It wasn’t the grimy, oily smell of precipitation on asphalt
streets. This was the cleaner, fresher scent of rain in the desert. Add in the
fragrant perfume of the sagebrush, and it all worked to assuage her guilt at
having lied to her husband.

With Graham receiving a call about an emergency meeting in
Vegas first thing Monday morning, one of the deputies assigned to them needed
to drive him to the airport. The other officer had accompanied Wyatt to a classmate’s
birthday party. Rather than have her brother called in on his day off, Shasta
promised to stay in the house until the deputy returned, but hadn’t. She
couldn’t give up the chance to go for a run. It had been weeks since she felt
this kind of freedom.

But she vowed to make it a quickie. She had to. Wyatt was
due home at three. Plus she couldn’t chance Dell discovering her defiance.

A jagged bolt of lightning gashed the darkening sky. Seconds
later, thunder rumbled in the not-too-far distance. Suddenly the sky opened up,
releasing a deluge of rain. Typical Nevada weather…one second a few splatters,
the next a freaking downpour.

Instead of turning back, she increased her pace determined
to get a run in, albeit a short one. The rest stop was just around the next
bend. She’d take cover there until the cloudburst ended which shouldn’t be too
long.

Another clap of thunder sounded, closer this time. A blur
whizzed past her on the right. She turned just as a hand covered her mouth and
a muscled arm circled her waist. The whiff of damp leather teased her senses
right before she was yanked backwards against something rock-hard.

Then her feet no longer touched the ground.

Her instincts kicked in. She wrestled for escape, but her
assailant easily carted her behind an enormous clump of sagebrush and dropped
her onto the wet dirt. She rolled away only to have a heavy weight pin her face
down.

Despite the terror gripping her, she forced herself to
think. To remember her self-defense lessons. She took shallow breaths through
her nose. She needed to fight just enough to convince whomever was on top of
her she was trying to get away. Then she’d feign passing out. Hopefully he’d
drop his guard, allowing her to run.

She diminished her resistance and after a long moment, the heaviness
holding her captive lessened a bit. She trundled onto her side and drove her
knee upwards. It connected with something pliable. A pained grunt penetrated
the thrashing in her ears.

She tucked her arms to her chest and rolled three more
times, then surged to her feet. A powerful grasp cut short her freedom. Again,
she was tossed to the soggy ground. The impact whooshed oxygen from her lungs.
She continued to twist and torque, scratch and kick anything and everything as
she somersaulted with her attacker.

“Goddamn it, Shaly,” a gruff male voice hissed low. “Settle
down.”

She landed on her back and strong hands gripped her upper
arms, shaking her…hard.

“Shaly—I said to settle down.”

Shasta ceased her struggles. No one called her Shaly except…

She swiped rain off her face and stared into hypnotic, smoky
blue eyes. A tiny squeak slipped past her lips.

Lynch
.

Anger overrode her confusion. She slapped his chest and
shoulders. “What the fu—”

He again covered her mouth with his hand as he pulled a
handgun from the back of his waist. She felt her eyes widened, but he held the
barrel to his lips.

That’s when she heard men arguing—and they were very, very
close…

“So where the fuck’s that Dupree bitch?” one demanded.

Horror shafted Shasta’s chest. Panic must have shown on her
face because Lynch gathered her close, shielding her.

The feel of his hard body pressing into hers peaked her
nipples and swirled heat through her belly.

Good God. What the hell was wrong with her? She coerced
herself to concentrate on the conversation rather than her innate reaction to
Lynch.

“Think she turned around because of the rain?” a second man
grumbled.

“Hell if I know,” the first voice griped.

“Maybe one of the others grabbed her.”

“Yeah…maybe. Fuck. I ain’t got no goddamn signal out here.
Jesus…Junkyard’s gonna be pissed if we missed her. He wanted her on the
shipment to Vegas next week.”

“Should we look for her?”

Lynch tensed, his gun poised.

“Look where? Anyone’d be crazy to be out in this shit. I’m
soaked through. Don’t know why Junkyard wants her in the first place. She’s old
and has a kid, for crissakes. No money to be made with her.”

“Yeah, but if Junkyard wants her, that’s all we need to
know. C’mon, let’s go back. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find her ass.”

Sloppy footsteps trailed off, and Lynch slowly rose onto his
knees. When she followed suit, he placed his hand on her shoulder and leaned
close. “Stay put. I’ll make sure they’re gone.”

She shook her head. “No, I—”

His hand again covered her mouth, his gaze narrowing. “Do
not
argue,” he hissed. “Stay put.”

She glared back. She didn’t need him telling her what to do.
But those men were looking for her.
Specifically
for her…so she remained
on the wet ground.

Lynch shrugged off his cut and laid it over her. In a
half-crouch and gun in hand, he prowled away to the right.

Shasta curled into Lynch’s jacket, her knees to her chest
trying to get warm. She clamped her jaw tight to keep her teeth from clicking.

A monstrous clap of thunder rent the air. The ground shook.
She pressed her hands to her ears and squeezed her eyes shut.

Why hadn’t she stayed home? Why had she insisted on going
for a run? She was
so
stupid. God only knows what would have happened if
Lynch hadn’t shown up. A thought that had bile burning her throat.

A hand gripped her shoulder.

She scuttled away, finding a good-sized rock in the process.
She scrambled to her feet and spun around, prepared to bash in someone’s
brains…but it was Lynch.

With his hair plastered to his head and his t-shirt clinging
to his torso, he looked like hell. And she almost wept with relief.

“C’mon. Let’s go.”

If she weren’t cold and scared, she might question where
exactly where they were going. As it was, she allowed him to lead her to his
waiting Harley.

He retrieved a spare helmet from his pack, placed it on her
head and fastened the buckle. He threw his leg over the seat, helped her mount
up behind him then slowly rode down the jogging trail.

She huddled to him, working to calm her breathing and pulse.

She was safe. Lynch was taking her home. And she might not
ever leave again.

Chapter Thirteen

DRIVING
THROUGH THE
sheets of rain, Lynch became increasingly concerned about
the weather. Wiping out in the middle of nowhere during a ferocious
thunderstorm with Junkyard’s goons after Shasta was not a good scenario.

He squinted, but barely saw anything past his bike’s front
tire. The very real possibility of getting caught in a flash flood tightened
his gut.

He veered west and headed in the direction of the Bentley
ranch. It’d been abandoned since before he went to prison. With luck, parts of
the outbuildings were still standing.

Wetness soaked him to his marrow, but he took comfort in
Shasta’s body pressing into his. She was safe—thank God—but she was also
shivering—bad. And not just from being wet and cold. Shock had to be setting
in. He needed to get her someplace warm and dry, and soon.

At the derelict barn of the Bentley farm, he lowered the
kickstand and cut the engine. He climbed off, but Shasta grabbed his sleeve. He
leaned close to hear her over the storm.

“Why are we here?”

“Can’t ride in this.”

“But I need to get home.”

He shook his head. “Too dangerous.” He held out his hand.
“C’mon.”

For a moment he thought she’d refuse, but she gripped his
fingers and he helped her alight. He shoved his shoulder into the door to open
it. She hurried inside while he muscled his Harley across the threshold. He
hauled the door closed.

The smell of dank hay itched his nose as the rain pelted the
roof. His clothes clung to him like a sopping second skin. He pulled off his
half helmet and shook his head. Water droplets sailed everywhere.

Shasta shook so badly, she fumbled with the chinstrap. He
brushed her fingers away, removed the helmet and set it on the bike seat.

Rain dripped from her face and hair. She looked like a
kitten saved from drowning.

She wrapped her arms around her middle, visibly shaking.
“Jesus…I’m cold.” Suddenly she groped at her waistband. “Shit…I lost my phone.”
With her frantic movements, she almost toppled over. “God
damn
it.”

“Hey…” He steadied her. “We can’t do anything about your
phone right now. Here...” He retrieved a dry shirt and zip-up sweatshirt from
his pack. “Put these on. It’ll help warm you up.”

She shied from the offered clothes. “What about you?”

He quirked a grin. “I’ll be fine. I've got more meat on my
bones than you.”

Not meeting his gaze, she slipped off his cut, took the
t-shirt and pulled it over her head. She then donned the sweatshirt and zipped
it to her neck. “Thanks.” She re-crossed her arms, but she continued to tremble

Without conscious thought Lynch enclosed her in a hug and
rubbed his hands along her back. His body immediately reacted to her nearness.
To how her soft curves fit against his hard planes. To her spicy, musky scent.

He cleared his throat and eased her away. “Better?”

She nodded, her brown eyes staring up at him. Her pupils
darkened and her gaze lowered to his mouth. She licked her lips. A groan lodged
behind his breastbone. His cock swelled.

Against his better judgment he cupped her cheek. He couldn’t
help himself. After years of having nothing but brutal harshness in his life,
to touch something this supple, this beautiful was too tempting to ignore.

She leaned into his palm and her eyelids drifted shut. He
traced his thumb under her chin. Her mouth opened on a silent moan.

Lynch needed no other enticement. He dipped his head.

One kiss, he told himself. That’s all. He wouldn’t take
more. Just a chaste kiss to recall what he’d once had with this woman.

He lightly touched his lips against hers. He fought the
primal urge to ravage her mouth. But like a man lost in the desert for seven
years, the first sip of sweet water proved his downfall.

He crushed her to him, his palm behind her head holding her
in place for his plundering tongue. He swept through the savory recesses of her
mouth, over and over and over again.

If she’d protested in any way, shoved him back or turned her
head, he would have stopped. But she didn’t. Her nails bit into his biceps and
her gurgled moans rang in his ears. She seemed to crave this kiss as much as
him…

His hands traveled down to her luscious ass and hoisted her
up. A squeak vibrated deep in her throat then her sleek legs wound around his
waist. Not relinquishing control of her mouth, Lynch knocked her helmet to the
ground and perched her on the hammock seat.

He broke the kiss and grasped the pull tab of the sweatshirt
zipper. With purposefully slowness, he lowered it. He bore his gaze into hers,
giving her the chance to stop him. She just stared at him with eyes so huge, so
round, he thought he’d die within their rich brown depths.

Once the jacket hung open, he flicked it off her shoulders
then skimmed the wet t-shirt up her torso. She lifted her arms and he pulled
the shirt over her head.

He snagged her wrists. “Keep ‘em up, kay?”

Her delicate throat muscles labored as she nodded.

Lynch ghosted his palms over her sports bra then wormed his
fingers under the bottom. Still holding her gaze, he tugged it up. She licked
her lips and her arms quivered slightly, but didn’t lower. Within seconds, her
breasts were bared. He devoured them with his gaze.

They were flawless. The perfect size with two perfectly
pearled nipples.

He outlined one areola with his finger. Her body trembled.
He shifted her position so she laid prone on the seat, her feet near the
handlebars and her head resting on the passenger cushion.

He kissed her again. His balls ached and his cock pounded at
twice his heart rate. His hand molded around one breast. The satiny feel sent
another shaft of hunger through his blood.

He kissed her eyes closed before nipping his way to her
ticklish earlobe. Goose bumps erupted across her skin and her body arched
toward him. His mouth journeyed down her delectable flesh to lick the velvet
hollow of her neck, then down farther to a rigid nipple. Her body went
completely still—almost like she’d stopped breathing—as his lips closed over
the puckered crest.

Lynch stroked his tongue over the peak while his hand
skimmed across her flat belly to the snug waistband of her jogging shorts.

Shasta braced her heels on the handlebars and elevated her
hips. Lynch pulled while she wiggled. At last, he peeled the offending garment
off one leg then the other, along with her running shoes. He replaced her
socked feet to the outside edge of the handgrips.

Air back up in his chest as he feasted on her spread before
him in all her naked glory. Her skin held a slight rosy hue and her earthy,
sexy scent filled his senses. Her nest of pussy hair tightened the knot in his
belly. He never dreamed he’d see her like this again.

He again gently gripped her wrists and placed her hands on
the passenger seat. “You best hold on, Shaly,” he croaked.

She swallowed again, her fingernails curling into the
leather.

Using his body to keep her from falling to the ground, he
leaned over and took command of her lips in a raw, scorching kiss. He poured
every ounce of pent-up desire—seven fucking years of pent-up desire—he felt for
this woman into that kiss.

When his need for oxygen overrode his need to consume her
mouth, he dragged his teeth down her neck to a taut nipple. He suckled her
deeply while cupping her mound, his fingers teasing through her wet folds, his
thumb circling her clit.

Tension quaked her legs. She widened her knees. But he
didn’t delve into her canal. Not yet. He wanted to revel in her writhing body.
In her puffy gasps of air that was his whispered name.

He paid homage to the other breast then finally turned his
attention lower. He ringed his tongue around her bellybutton and nipped each
hipbone.

He snaked his hands under her upper legs to hold her steady
as his fingers parted her folds. He immersed his face between her thighs.

 Her taste hadn’t changed, not in seven years. It was still
the freshest, purest, most intoxicating flavor known to man. He lapped at her delicate
skin while his middle finger pressed deep into her slit. Her feet came off the
handlebars which opened her even more for his questing mouth and probing
finger. He closed his lips over her clit, worrying it slightly with his teeth.

And she exploded.

God.

It took all his self-control not to come in his jeans. He
loved the sound of her strangle cries. Loved how her hips bucked and her
intimate muscles fucked his finger. Loved the taste her succulent juices on his
tongue.

But he wasn’t satisfied. Not by a long shot.

He sucked her clit into his mouth and tunneled a second
finger into her slick channel. He twisted his digits high and hard, grazing her
g-spot to prolong her orgasm. To wring out every last morsel of her pleasure.

She shuddered and quaked, and pure male pride streaked
through him. Even after seven years, he knew her body so well. Knew how to give
her this kind of pleasure. The ultimate pleasure between a man and a woman.

Lynch withdrew his fingers then stroked her clit with gentle
licks to soothe her down from her climax. But her convulsions continued. As did
her hitching breaths. He looked up at her, and dread tightened his shoulders.

Both arms were folded over her face, still he saw the tears
tracking down her cheeks.

Realization clicked in his brain.

She’d reacted the way she had because it had been years
since any man touched her. Because she was married to a man in a wheelchair.

Regret carved a hole in his heart. He straightened and
tenderly gathered her into his arms. She shook her head and brushed away his
hands, but he insisted. He sat on the seat, Shasta cuddled on his lap, and
awkwardly draped the sweatshirt to cover her nakedness. She crossed her arms
over her breasts and wept into his shirt.

He rocked her and murmured low, the words incoherent in his
own ears. He traversed his hands back and forth across her back, desperate to
alleviate her anguish, his earlier lust forgotten. The only thing that matter
was Shaly, and making sure she was okay.

She cried for a long time. Long enough for the rainstorm to
cease and for sunlight to peek through the holes in the barn rafters. She took
a deep, stuttering breath then eased away from him. The moisture brightening
her eyes landed another hard blow to his heart.

She knuckled moisture off her cheek. “Sorry.”

“No…I’m the one who’s sorry.” He caressed hair from her
forehead. “I shouldn’t have allowed anything to happen between us.”

“It’s not like you did it alone.” She sat up, drawing the
sweatshirt tighter around herself like armor. “Is it still raining?”

He set her on her feet. “No.”

“Then I should go.”

His eyebrows veed. “Not by yourself.”

“Oh, please. I’ll be fine. Those guys are gone.”

“No they’re not. They’ve been watching you for weeks.”

Blood leaked from her cheeks. “Watching me? How do you know
that?” Her eyes widened. “Wait…do you
know
them? Were they Streeters?”

Lynch picked up her discarded clothes and shook off the
stale hay, mentally kicking himself. He couldn’t tell Shasta the truth—that
might put her in greater danger, not to mention jeopardize the FBI operation.
But to say nothing would fuel her curiosity. He handed over her top and shorts.
“Probably.” He turned to retrieve her shoes and helmet and give her some
privacy.

“Probably? Don’t you know who’s in your own club?”

He heard fabric rustling. “Not anymore. There’s a lot of
guys in the crew I don’t know, and don’t trust.”

“Like Junkyard?”

“Yeah. He’s the new VP.”

“It sounded like he had me targeted. Why?”

“Retribution for your brother taking me into custody.”

“But I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

He heard the distress in her voice. “Doesn’t matter. Not to
guy like Junkyard.”

“And the shipment thing they were talking about?”

“You don’t want to know.”

She stepped in front of him, pulling on his sweatshirt. Even
with messy hair, swollen eyes and a slightly blotchy complexion from crying,
she looked beautiful.

“Same with the money?” she asked.

“Same with the money.” He held out her shoes.

She slipped into them, but didn’t bother with the laces.
“Are you taking me home?”

He shook his head while stowing his damp clothes. “Can’t
risk Junkyard’s guys seeing me. I’ll drop you at the Grab-n-Go on 314. You can
use Felix’s phone to call someone to pick you up.”

She puffed a grim laugh. “Dell’s gonna freak when he hears
about this.”

Lynch seized her upper arms, ignoring her startled yelp. “No
one can know about this, Shaly. Especially your brother.”

“But Dell’s the sheriff—”

“I don’t care. You tell no one. If you do, you could be in
more danger.”

“Okay. Okay. I won’t say anything.” She shrugged her
shoulders and he released her. “So those guys get off scot free?”

“No.” He handed her the spare helmet then donned his own and
buckled the strap. “I’ll handle the situation.” He straddled his bike.

She fastened her chinstrap. “Handle it how?”

“Don’t worry about it and don’t say anything, understand?”
He extended his hand to assist her onto the seat behind him. “There’s one more
thing…”

She paused and met his gaze.

He gave her his best scowl. “No more running in the desert
by yourself.”

She rolled her eyes.

He tightened his grip on her fingers. “I mean it, Shaly.
It’s not safe.”

Her nose wrinkled. “You sound like Graham.”

He stared at her. A blush stole across her cheeks as she
shut her mouth with a click of teeth. She averted her gaze and settled onto the
bike. He slowly motored the Harley out of the barn.