The Mercenary (2 page)

“I have jet lag. I didn’t realize…” She tugged self-consciously at the hem of her jacket.

“I didn’t realize you’d be so long….” The man who’d let her in—reluctantly—had said his boss would be “right in.” That had been—she glanced subtly at her watch—four hours ago.

“Did we have an appointment?”

“Um…No. We didn’t. I’m Victoria Jones.” She held her ground while a flush of heat betrayed her. His presence was larger than life and seemed to fill the room with a pulsing sensuality that made her extremely uncomfortable.

“And?” Marc said drily. He’d found that out by checking the driver’s license in her purse. Her name meant nothing to him. When he’d bent to retrieve the tote from the floor beside her he’d gotten a lungful of a floral fragrance that had teased at his dormant libido. Ridiculous, of course. Even in the dim light, he knew this repressed-looking mouse wasn’t his type at all.

The name and San Diego address on her license didn’t reveal much. But whatwas mildly interesting was how hard she was trying to pretend she didn’t have a cast on her left arm.

It was barely visible beneath her sleeve, but its bulk was hard to miss.

He flipped on the light to get a better look at her. She looked like a throwback to the eighties, dressed as she was in a butt-ugly and unflattering business suit. Navy. The jacket boxy, the skirt neither tight nor loose. The hemline hitting just below the knee.

Her sensible black shoes were polished and sported a modest heel. Christ, from the neck down she looked like a freaking stereotypical librarian.

Marc concentrated on her unattractive clothing, and kept his attention away from her soft mouth, and the mile of uncooperative dark hair she was trying, unsuccessfully, to cram back into a bun at her nape with one hand.

“Whatever you’re selling, I don’t need,” he jabbed to see the spark of reaction. “Unless you’re here

about an overdue library fine?”

Her cheekbones flamed, but she didn’t drop her gaze. Maybe not a mouse, then, he reevaluated,

wondering just who in the hell she was. He’d never met her before, he was sure, but there was something

vaguely familiar around the eyes….

Could her skin possibly be as soft as it appeared? It was pale, silky and looked as though it tasted like

cream. Damn it, he needed to get laid. Soon.

“Snap it up, would you? I’ve had a bitch of a day. I’m cold, tired and hungry, and you’re standing in the

way of a hot shower and a meal.”

“Are you Marcus Savin?”

“The one and only.” He didn’t bother to conceal his annoyance as he stepped from the shadows into the

circle of light.

Tory blinked. In a flash she tried to take him in. Her world slowed its spin—a peculiar, terrifying feeling.

Dread tightened her throat. Marc Savin wasn’t anything like the man she’d envisioned.

He was about twenty years younger than she’d anticipated. And taller. Taller and broader, and

disconcertingly male. His hair was thick and dark and tied back, revealing a winking diamond—a

diamond!—in one ear. Good grief. His jeans were old and faded, the cream-colored fisherman’s-knit

sweater he wore looked soft and well-worn. The sweater was the only soft thing about him, she thought,

mouth dry.

He looked like someone who’d stepped out of the pages of a magazine. What the casual yet

well-dressed, brooding predatory male wore. Her eyes met his. Gray. Not the soft warm gray of a kitten

or the comforting gray of a favorite blanket. His eyes were the cold, icy-pale gray of the sky just before a

frost, the bleak soulless gray of bare tree branches frozen for all time. Tory shivered despite the blazing

fire.

She could sense dismissal coming. Straightening her spine she stepped forward onto the thick Persian

carpet between them, her hand outstretched. “Mr. Savin, I’m—”

“You’ve already told me who you are, Miss Jones. I just don’t know what you’re doing here.”

For a moment her hand stayed poised in midair until she realized he had no intention of taking it. Her arm

dropped to her side, and she flattened her damp palm against her thigh. Despite all the hours of rehearsal

on the plane coming here, she was suddenly tongue-tied.

She knew what she must look like—an exhausted woman, with mussed dark hair and wrinkled clothes.

She absently touched her face where the cushion had left an indentation on her cheek and forced herself

not to fuss with her clothing. Her injured arm throbbed. But not for a moment was she going to let him

see just how terrified she was. Girding herself, she tilted her chin and met his stare.

His gaze raked her body from head to toe. His eyes narrowed when he noticed the cast on her arm, and

everything inside her froze as he asked grimly, “How did that happen?” She’d thought her sleeve covered

the blasted thing.

“I fell.” Into a wall. Unadulterated fear made her go icy cold all over.Don’t think about it. Don’t think

about it. Do not think about it.

“Take off your jacket.” He didn’t move, but his words felt sinister.

She gave him a startled look while her heart pounded beneath her rib cage like a trapped animal. “What

on earth for?”

“Because I say so.”

“I’m a guest in your home, Mr. Savin. I won’t be bullie—”

“Guest? Guests are invited. Don’t make me strip it off for you. I’m too tired for games.” He was unyielding. As much as she hated obeying, Tory choked down her pride and shrugged off the

jacket. It hadn’t been easy getting the fiberglass into the sleeve, and it wasn’t any easier getting that arm

out. Bunching her jacket against her body, she held up her arm, shooting him a fulminating glare. Which

might have been effective on some level if she hadn’t felt her chin wobble.

She wouldnot cry in front of him. She gritted her teeth. “Satisfied?”

“Far from it.” His eyes took in the grubby cast showing beneath the edge of her white cotton sleeve, then

scanned her face. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to touch any of the bruises she’d

so carefully covered with foundation to make sure he couldn’t detect them.

A muscle clenched in his jaw. “Who did this to you?”

“I told you. I fell.” Often and hard. Oh, God. He was going to know she was lying through her teeth.

She was lousy at it, and he seemed to be able to see directly into her brain with those pale, unamused

X-ray eyes of his. Tory felt the heat in her cheeks get hotter and her gaze skittered back to the pattern on

the carpet before she forced herself to meet his eyes.

“Let me put it this way, Miss Jones. I’ll ask the questions. All you have to do is supply truthful answers.

If I don’t like what I hear, you’ll be out of here so damned fast your head will spin. Got it? What

happened to your arm?”

Tory licked her dry lips. “I was mugged at the airport.”

“No abusive boyfriend or husband following you?”

Hateful man. “I’m not married.”

His lips twitched. “Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” Tory tried to make her arm inconspicuous and bent to pick up her purse from the floor where it had

fallen. Her mouth was dry and perspiration beaded on her skin. She was so tired of being scared. And he

scared her to death. There was just…so much of him.

His hair, as dark as her own, was tied back in a short ponytail and the diamond stud flashed in one ear.

His scuffed cowboy boots were set apart, his arms loose at his sides. He didn’t look like a spy or a

mercenary. Not that she’d had any idea what one looked like, but surely not like a cross between aGQ

model and a predatory animal.

Obviously not impressed by what he was seeing, he said, “What can I do for you, Miss Jones? It must

be something compelling to get you to stand here when you’d rather be anywhere else.” His eyes shifted

to the indented cushions on the sofa behind her and then narrowed on her face.

Victoria had never had a man look at her like that. It was disconcerting. She shrugged back into her

jacket, despising herself for almost asking his permission to do so. But she didn’t ask, and he made no

comment as she buttoned the serviceable navy serge up to her throat.

The wind sounded mournful as it whipped the bare tree branches and rattled the window. The perfect

setting for the nightmare she found herself living. Jerking her gaze away from the night sky, she turned

back to him.

It didn’t matter whether she liked him or not. Whether he scared her or not. She was here for one thing,

and one thing only. “I need your help.”

“Why should I help you?” He asked over his shoulder as he strolled to the built-in bar across the room

and poured himself a drink. “I don’t know you.”

“May I have a drink, too, please?”

His shoulders tightened before he said in an amused voice, “Sure. You’ve already slept on my couch.

What’ll it be?”

She supposed that he had every right to his irritation. “Whatever you’re having, I don’t want to be a

bother, really.” She walked over to the French doors and rested her hand on the icy pane.

It had started snowing. The snow looked pretty illuminated by the lights from inside the house, soft,

white. But snow was another unknown. She shivered. Already unnerved by too many weeks of the scary

and the unfamiliar, Tory gritted her teeth and turned back into the room.

It was warmed by the blazing fire in the hearth, which caused reflections of dancing amber light from the

highly polished dark-wood floor and the smooth surfaces of the two black leather sofas that flanked it.

Wall-to-wall mahogany bookcases rose to twelve-foot ceilings. Victoria moved from the door to trail

one hand across the tempting bookbindings before casting an anxious glance at the man across the room.

Having counted all the books on the left-hand wall after she’d arrived hours ago, she was about to start

on the right when he came up behind her. She almost jumped out of her skin as he handed her a glass.

The touch of his warm fingers across hers made her breath catch.

Too close, was her panicked reaction to his nearness. Much too close. She sidestepped, almost falling

over her own feet in her haste to put a decent amount of space between them. She could feel the heat of

his large body coming off him in waves. The smell of him, male and far too sexy, made her suck in a

breath of surprise.

He scowled. “You okay?”

Tory’s sheltered life hadn’t in any way prepared her for him. It hadn’t prepared her for anything else

she’d experienced in the past few weeks, either. As Grammy used to say, What didn’t kill you would

make you stronger. She hoped.

Nodding, she realized he was waiting for a verbal response and choked out, “I’m perfectly fine, thank

you.” Oh, Lord. She sounded just like her grandmother.

He gave her an undecipherable glance, and she stayed where she was even though every intelligent cell

in her brain was telling her to run. Fast and far away from Marc Savin. The safest tactic was to find a

fault, an Achilles’ heel to focus on that might make him less intimidating. Her gaze hunted for just such a

flaw.

What man wore a stupid ponytail? If his hair had been loose, it would probably touch his broad

shoulders. At least it was clean. And shiny. And silky looking. Her plan wasn’t working too well. Oh,

good Lord. Get a grip.

His snug jeans outlined the bulge…Oh my God, Victoria Francis! Stop looking at his…

at his—She took

a long drink. The liquid was room temperature and wet and for an instant felt very soothing as it slid

down her throat—until it burned her esophagus like fire.

His expression was impassive as she gasped for breath and the whiskey fumes made her eyes water and

her throat close up. It took every ounce of her control not to cough.

She shot a poisonous glare at his back as he sauntered across the room.

“Next time,” he told her unsympathetically, “ask for water.” Jesus, she was a throwback. An anomaly.

One small shy, question mark. The clothes. The hair. The skittish demeanor. None of which added up in

this day and age; it made her almost intriguing. There was something vaguely familiar about her.

Especially around the eyes, but he knew he’d never met her before.Her he would have remembered.

While there was less ranch work in winter, he’d still put in a long day. Tired and hungry, Marc dropped

down on the leather sofa opposite her and stretched out his legs, the drink balanced on his belly. He

settled one arm behind his head and watched her.

Christ, she was skittish. Her eyes slid away from his, then back. Her arrogant little nose tilted.

The mugging story was bogus. There were many ways to detect a liar, even a good one.

Marc hadn’t

needed to see the pupils of her enormous green eyes dilate, nor did he have to hear the way her speech

raced when she was telling him she’d been mugged.

Victoria Jones was a lousy liar.

Besides the broken arm she had contusions on her slender neck, and more bruises beneath the light

application of makeup on her otherwise unblemished face. He was almost intrigued enough to dig deeper.

Almost.

“You know my brother.” She moved cautiously to the other end of the sofa and sat on the very edge,

pulling her skirt down lower over her calves. When she leaned forward to put her glass on the coffee

table, she exposed the vulnerable ridge of her collarbone below the lacy edge of her collar.

“Alex—Alexander Stone.”

Alexander Stone and VictoriaJones? He narrowed his eyes fractionally. “I don’t know anyone by that

name. Sorry, honey. Try again.”

“Lynx,” she said tightly. “You know him as Lynx. He was sent on a mission to Marezzo seven months