Storming His Heart

Chapter One

The Locklen Estate, Savannah, Georgia

Storm Buchanan stood well away from her arranged date, the man of the hour, and did her best to circulate through the crowded ballroom. Pretending to be a fictional heiress wasn’t the worst way she’d ever spent a Thursday night. The estate she’d infiltrated was incredible. Built in the early 1800s, the place had withstood the Civil War, the Great Depression and the current owner’s penchant for all things gold. Priceless antiques littered the space, making the marble-floored mansion more a mausoleum than a home.

But hey, the hors d'oeuvres were killer. Trays laden with tiny quiches, croustades filled with salmon mousse—her personal favorite—lobster frittata and a host of other dishes she could barely pronounce filtered through the crowd on the hands of neatly tailored wait staff. Not a cocktail weenie, beer or pair of jeans in sight.

The food and drink more than made up for the getup she’d been forced to wear. Earlier this morning, a large box had been delivered to her hotel room, courtesy of Mr. Miles Locklen. Her date apparently wanted a high-class call girl, or at least a woman who dressed like one. The clingy black silk she wore showed off her cleavage, her entire back and a flash of thigh from two leg-baring slits when she so much as twitched. The price tag couldn’t be worth the amount of material missing from this excuse of a dress. Not to mention her feet friggin’ hurt in heels that made her feel like part of the stratosphere.

Storm took a step back from a rotund man drinking a bit too much and strove to keep her balance. She only hoped she wouldn’t be running from the security guards anytime soon. Between the heels and the dress, she’d end up flashing half the party if she had to do much more than stroll anywhere.

But negative thinking didn’t help matters. Storm was a professional. She’d complete her job with no one the wiser until it was too late to stop her.

A glance over her shoulder showed Locklen still occupied. Perfect. In the short two hours they’d been acquainted, he’d accidentally brushed his arm against her breast at least four times. When he’d whispered something about his best friend and the slut he’d brought with him, the tip of his tongue had grazed her ear. But none of that had distracted her from his clammy hand skimming her ass.

At that point, she’d convinced him to give her space and mingle with his many admirers. She’d never been so thankful for her ability to manipulate minds as she was tonight. Her psychic mojo allowed her to take risks others might not. And in this case, to benefit herself. But whatever worked. Buchanan Investigations had a reputation to uphold.

“Focus, you hussy.”
Tonight, her telepathic brother didn’t seem to have an off switch.
“I have twenty that says your date gets a fist in his face before the night’s over. Luc is betting on a kick to the nuts. Break his nose and I’ll cut you in on my take.”

“Shut up. I’m working here!”
She promised herself she’d kick Thorne’s ass the minute she finished the job. He had a knack for setting her up in miserable situations. He called himself a psychic investigator. More like psychic troublemaker. And her other brother was no better. Some backup.

“Luc said to hurry the hell up. We don’t have all night, you know,”
Thorne said. Too bad she hadn’t been gifted with telepathy. As it was, she could only talk to him using the mental pathway he’d created.

She kept her smile in place as she replied,
“Then maybe you should be here getting groped by an obnoxious millionaire while I sit back and make wisecracks.”

“Okay, I’m shutting up. But when midnight strikes, if we don’t have those jewels in the client’s hands, she’s out her shares in the company. Then the boss won’t be happy. And when Uncle Max ain’t happy, we ain’t happy. I’m just sayin’…”

Like she needed the pressure
. “Thorne…”

“Fine. I’m out. Think my name hard if you need me. I’ll be listening for it.”

“Okay.”

The band began to play, and a man across the ballroom nodded subtly in her direction. As agreed, he’d keep Locklen occupied while she ran the grab-and-go. Time to get started. She made a beeline for the stairs.

As she reached the top, she noted the huge men stationed discreetly at the entrances to several hallways. She had just reached the left wing when her brother interrupted her.

“Be careful. I just got wind that Westlake might be involved.”

Westlake Enterprises, a rival investigative firm, was a real pain in the ass. More problems she could do without. Distracted, she stumbled in her uncomfortable shoes. One of the guards reached out to steady her.

“I’m so sorry.” She blushed, feeling gauche. “These heels are killing me. I was just going to take a short break in our room. I’m with Miles.”

“I know, Miss Davenport.” He smiled and stepped aside. “Have a nice night.”

Tight security. Locklen wasn’t leaving much to chance. He had electronic and human guards everywhere. But Storm’s firm had their own experts in the field. And those same experts had told her where to find the client’s stolen jewels.

She walked down the hallway, her heels clicking along the solid floor veined with gold. At the doorway to her room for the night, she keyed in the digital code she’d been given earlier. She entered the grand room and closed the door behind her. The sight of such splendor astounded and annoyed her. As anticipated, Locklen had planned for her to spend the night with him, in his room.

Normally, she’d take offense to that kind of highhandedness. But she needed access to his room to do what she’d been hired to.

The room had been made with pleasure in mind—soft blue walls, masculine touches with a taste of class, so unlike the downstairs. The plush bed had a white duvet that looked like a cloud. Storm gave in to the urge and sat down on the bed, only to sink into luxurious comfort.

She closed her eyes as she removed her heinous shoes and pictured herself lying here, her dream lover looming over her. He’d be sensitive yet strong, and unable to bend to her will. Mr. Perfect all wrapped up in a bow and nothing else.

Storm sank her toes into plush carpet and opened her eyes. Locklen would be all too happy to be her dream lover. If she didn’t stop fantasizing about the impossible, she’d end up having to deal with him.

Right now, her reality included finding the client’s heirloom jewels. She had to find the statue because the jewels would be nearby, or so Thorne had said after picking through Locklen’s mind for clues. But she didn’t see anything resembling a statue anywhere.

As she got to work searching the room, she considered the waste of such a terrific bed on her host. But who was more pathetic? Locklen with his groping and leering, or Storm with her nonexistent love life? Because the rich jerk happened to be the best date Storm had had in months.

She sighed. She had no hope of finding a decent guy. Between her overprotective big brothers and her talent—which was great for getting a free beer but absolute hell on relationships—she feared she’d die an old maid.

She needed a man she couldn’t push around, who wouldn’t fall prey to her often unintended manipulations. Storm wanted so badly to find Mr. Right that she grew overeager whenever she had a date and unconsciously used her talent. She’d tried holding it back, but the stronger she felt, the more she’d broadcast. A Catch-22 with no resolution in sight.

The room proved as big a disaster as her current social calendar. No statue and no jewelry. Then again, would Locklen really leave it out in plain sight? Though their intelligence indicated the jewelry was somewhere in his bedroom, Thorne had been known to make mistakes. Mind reading didn’t guarantee he found the right answers every time.

Storm spotted the study door and hurried. A glance at the bedside clock showed she was running out of time. She dragged her shoes with her, careful to leave no evidence of her presence behind.

Using the codes Thorne had also appropriated from Locklen’s mind, she unlocked the door and entered. The light from the bedroom illuminated the moderate space. She noted the shelves of old books, nautical charts and antiques encased in glass. And there, atop his large mahogany desk, a wrought iron statue of Captain Michael G. Locklen, founder of the family’s dynasty. That statue meant the jewels were close.

A sudden bang made her jump. Outside, the wind shrieked and blew a tree limb against the study window overlooking the back gardens. With her luck, the power would go out. Not needing more of a headache than she already had, Storm closed the heavy drapes and the study door before turning on the desk lamp. Shadows darkened the corners of an already dim room, but she didn’t dare expose herself with more lighting.

In this room, Locklen relied on simple locks to secure his valuables. His antiquated security matched the aged valuables he held dear. She made short work of his desk using a lock pick she’d hidden in the heel of her shoe. A search through his things turned up nothing. She tapped her foot in frustration.

“Where are you?” The statue was here; therefore, the jewels had to be here. She looked again around the room and noticed an antique lamp standing over a plush leather reading chair. It was hard to see since the desk light didn’t illuminate much more than the top of the desk.

Storm approached the lamp for better study. She still didn’t want to turn on the main light on the off chance one of the guards patrolling outside the house might notice. And then she saw it. A sparkling, emerald necklace atop the lampshade, right in plain sight. From a distance it had looked like part of the lampshade’s decoration. Relieved she’d finally found it, she reached for the necklace.

“Move and you’ll be very sorry,” a voice whispered in the darkness a split second before someone yanked her back against a hard frame and covered her mouth with his hand.

Storm froze. She didn’t necessarily need to see this intruder to get him to bend to her will, but eye contact always strengthened her bond. She struggled to get free.

“Don’t scream or I’ll gag you,” he threatened and released her mouth, keeping his hand close should she try to yell.

“I don’t know who you are, but I’m sure you don’t want me,” she whispered, her voice smooth, like the deceptive calm before a hurricane. She concentrated on an image of herself walking out of the study. “Why don’t you just let me go and I’ll forget you were ever here?”

The arm around her tightened—not what she’d expected. He secured her hands behind her back with a speed that betrayed expertise then turned her around. Unfortunately, she could see nothing of his face through his ski mask but brown eyes and a firm mouth.

Those eyes… Damn it. She knew those eyes. Her own widened. “You were at that bar trying to steal my witness three weeks ago,” she said, wishing she didn’t sound so breathless.

“Whose witness?” he drawled, humor in his deep voice.

“Who are
you?” But she knew. Just her luck that of all the agents she might have run into, she had to encounter the one she had nightly fantasies about. Rafe Savage—sexy asshole extraordinaire.

Thorne’s rumor had turned out to be true. Westlake was definitely involved.

Buchanan Investigations was one of two firms of its like—a top-notch investigative service whose investigators possessed psychic abilities. Though their paranormal talents remained fairly secret, the success of the firm did not. The only fly in the ointment was the equal success of their competitor, Westlake Enterprises. It just figured the only man Storm found even remotely interesting worked for the enemy.

“Maybe I should be asking you that question,” he rumbled in a low voice. “You stole my witness, started a bar fight I had to clean up and left before we could be properly introduced. Now you’re here in the middle of my business once again.”

Oh man, Savage was even bigger and faster than she remembered. And just as sexy, something she had no business thinking about with the job on the line.

Now how to distract him until she could collect the jewels?

“I can almost hear you plotting.” He pushed her into the leather chair, forcing her to sit with her hands behind her back, and turned on the antique light. Removing his mask, he studied her as she squinted under the light’s glare. Dark brown hair cropped a face filled with hard planes and a granite jaw, to say nothing of his lethal stare. No two ways about it, Savage was not only tough but incredibly handsome.
And he works for Westlake.

It was disgusting how often she had to remind herself of that fact.

“Storm Buchanan. In the flesh. So many times we’ve run into each other, but this takes the cake. You look different tonight.” He ran a gloved finger over her collarbone, eliciting an involuntary shiver.

Storm tried to shrug off the arousing intensity of his touch, both thrilled and unnerved he knew exactly who she was. He’d never before called her by name. “Don’t you want to let me go?” She tried again to command him and had no luck. Strong-willed bastard. She couldn’t see well under the dim light. Was he looking at her face or her figure in the slim-fitting dress? At his appreciative whistle, she bet on the dress.