Chapter 3

Eight years ago, she had slipped from Dawg’s upper-deck bedroom and stolen from the Nauti Dawg like a thief in the early morning mists. But she had left something behind that morning, a part of herself she had never regained.

Now Crista stepped back through the reinforced French door that led into the living room and stilled herself against the memories that threatened to overwhelm her.

He still left a low light shining on the small table that sat beside the couch. It was a maroon plush couch now, where before it had been black leather. A matching recliner sat by the side of the same table.

The television was now mounted on the wall on the side they entered, and across the room on the opposite side sat a small dining table and four chairs.

A teak bar separated the dining area from the kitchen, two captain’s barstools placed under it.

The rug was a rich, thick forest green. Eight years ago it had been a dark tan. The living room and kitchen were more refined now, stating a mature taste in furnishings but still a broad male influence. Dark woods and few frills.

A picture of his Marine Corps unit sat on the table by the couch alongside a picture of the Nauti cousins in camouflage greens and a picture of Rowdy and his fiancée, Kelly Salyers.

There were no pictures or prints on the wall. There was nothing to decorate the rooms. Beyond the kitchen was another large bedroom and small washroom as well as an extra bathroom. From where Crista stood, she could also see the curving staircase that led to the upper deck and master bed and bath, as well as the steering controls.

She flinched as the door closed and locked behind her.

“I need a beer,” Dawg announced. “Want one?”

Crista shook her head as she gripped her purse and watched him move across the living room, then into the kitchen. He pulled a beer from the refrigerator before unscrewing the cap with a quick twist and tossing the cap beneath the bar, where the garbage can must have been hidden.

He moved to the sink first, pulled a dish towel from a small stack on the counter, dampened it, then tossed it to her.

“Clean your face.”

She felt her stomach heave at the thought of the blood that had sprayed over her. It was on her face, her clothes. She scrubbed at her flesh quickly, harshly, hoping she managed to clean it away as he stared at her.

He tilted the bottle of beer to his lips and drank deeply, his gaze never leaving hers.

He had stripped the bulletproof vest, but he still wore the shoulder holster and weapon. His black T-shirt stretched over his wide chest and thick biceps. Black jeans rode low on his hips and outlined long, muscular legs and a more than impressive bulge.

“You’re clean,” he announced, holding his hand out. “Give me the towel.”

Her gaze jerked from that area. It was more than obvious he was aroused, ready for her. And she hated admitting that her body had been ready for his since the moment he asked her if she was willing to spread herself for him alone.

She tossed the towel back to him, ignoring his mocking grin as he caught it and dumped it in the sink.

She was insane. She should have run from him while she had the chance.

“One night,” she whispered. “That’s all.”

The bottle was smacked on the bar top so hard beer sloshed from the top, and Crista jumped at the sound.

“You aren’t making the deal here,” he informed her, his expression hardening. “You didn’t catch me possibly breaking the law and consorting with criminals, Crista. I caught you, remember?”

Her fingernails dug into the leather of her purse.

“And I know what you want in exchange for my freedom,” she snapped back. “Fine, you want to fuck. You want something you haven’t been able to con me out of this year: my body. You can have it. For one night.”

“And if I want more than one night?” The black velvet tone of his voice had a tremor quaking through her womb, clenching at the muscles of her stomach as she stared back at him in shock.

“Why would you want more than one night?” She shook her head in confusion. “How many women have you kept more than one night, Dawg?”

She still had friends she had kept in Somerset, and they liked to gossip. Dawg was as newsworthy now as he had been eight years ago.

“You aren’t every other woman, Crista,” he drawled. “I’ve never had to chase one for eight years before. It’s built up a hunger. One that I doubt one night is going to sate.”

She blinked back at him in shock. She had expected what he wanted, but she hadn’t expected this. One night she could handle. More than one night?

“How many nights?” She kept her voice from trembling, barely.

Dawg’s expression hardened further. “I haven’t decided.”

“You haven’t decided? So I’m supposed to just be ready and available for you whenever you get a hard-on?”

Mocking consideration filled his face then. He nodded slowly. “That would work for me.”

Crista clenched her teeth and calculated how long she still had to wait before Alex returned. He had been gone three months. Her last conversation with him, he had indicated that he could return within the next few weeks.

Could she handle being Dawg’s lover that long? Could she walk away with her soul if she did?

“Don’t think about it too damned hard,” he bit out irritably. “I might change my mind.”

Crista wrapped her arms over her breasts and stilled the anger beginning to rise inside her. She couldn’t afford to be angry at this point; she had to think. Dawg always managed to mess up her mind. She couldn’t afford to let him do it this time.

“You’re being a bastard,” she told him forcefully. “You know I wasn’t involved in whatever you were doing there. I don’t deal with drugs, I never have.”

He shrugged easily as he propped himself against the bar. “I haven’t seen you in eight years, Crista. People change in that time.”

“Oh yeah, and people dealing in drugs work as waitresses at crappy little diners where they don’t even make minimum wage, too,” she snapped. “Don’t play with me; I don’t like it. At least admit that you’re using this to force something out of me that I wasn’t willing to give you.”

A frown snapped between his brows, causing her stomach to clench nervously. “I wouldn’t force you.”

“Then what do you call it? I can fuck you or I can go to jail? Hell of a choice there, Dawg,” she sneered.

Crista watched the muscle at his jaw tighten, a heavy tic rippling through it as he watched her.

“I thought I was being rather charitable,” he growled. “Deny you’re interested in being in my bed.”

“I have. Every time I’ve ignored your petty little efforts at flirtation. Or didn’t you notice?”

“I noticed that kiss earlier, too.” Black velvet seduction. His voice raked over her nerve endings and reminded her just how good it had been. “That wasn’t force, Crista. Stop fooling yourself. You loved it.”

Okay, he had her there. Her stomach tightened at the memory and at the knowledge that she had no defenses against him.

“I agree to one night—”

“And I said one night isn’t enough. I want the summer. All summer.”

Crista froze. Three months? Summer had just begun, and he wanted the rest of it.

“Why?” She forced the word past her numb lips as she stared back at him.

“It takes time to determine guilt or innocence, Crista Ann. I want you close while I figure which one to attach to you. If you’re really innocent, then at the end of the summer, you’re free to go. I find out you’re guilty, and your ass heads to jail. Consider it your trial period. Except instead of sitting in a jail cell, you’re enjoying all the comforts I can provide you.”

His smile was dangerous, sensual. It curved like a predatory smirk that had her heart racing in her chest.

And he was messing with her head again. Her mind filled with memories, the touch and the taste of him. How the slightest brush of his fingers could steal her defenses and leave her shaking in his arms.

His kiss. It was drugging, fiery. And what he could do to her heart, her emotions, should be illegal. He could tie her up in so many knots on the inside that she wondered if they would ever be untangled.

Crista swallowed tightly against the onslaught of remembered sensations and pleasures.

“You keep thinking about it.” He shrugged easily. “You can take a shower, rest a bit before you decide. I’ll loan you a clean shirt.” He smiled again. “You won’t need it for long.”

“You’ve changed, Dawg,” she whispered then. “You didn’t used to be such a cold-blooded bastard.”

“Sure I did,” he drawled. “You were just one of the few that hadn’t recognized it. Didn’t you hear all about that nasty little court battle after my parents died? Hell, honey, even my parents knew I was a lost cause.”

She had heard about the court battle. How his aunt had tried to take the entire estate his parents had left him based on a few letters his father had written to his aunt. Letters that were filled with disgust over his son’s lifestyle and his belief that Dawg didn’t deserve to share his name.

It had lasted for years. Even after he was in the Marines, he had been plagued with legal conflicts and the fight to hold on to his inheritance. It had finally ended after his return home four years ago, but he had lost tens of thousands of dollars in the fight.

“No.” She shook her head. “You weren’t like this before. You would have never forced this on me then.”

“But I am now. You can make your choice while you’re cleaning up. But when you step back into this room, you damned well better have made your mind up. You’re mine for the summer, or you can belong to the federal government, it’s all up to you.”

Dawg didn’t let out a relieved breath until Crista disappeared into the lower bathroom long minutes later, one of his T-shirts clenched tightly in her fingers, her large brown eyes watching him warily as she closed the door behind her.

Minutes later he heard the shower running and ran his fingers through his hair as he blew out another hard breath.

For a while there, he honestly thought she was going to choose the alternative. When she had finally headed for the shower, he had to force himself to hold back, to keep from assuring her that nothing in hell could convince him to turn her over to the authorities. To just let her go.

He rubbed at the back of his neck as he grimaced at the thought. Eight years he had dreamed about her. When he least expected it, when he was weak, tired. Dreams so blistering hot he would wake up pumping his own dick like an adolescent and moaning her name.

The past year had been worse. He was like a damned love-starved teenager going out of his way just to see her. Hoping to catch her smile, craving the sound of her voice.

Damn, he had missed her after she left town. Not that he had stuck around for long. He had signed up with the Marines before his parents’ death, and he shipped out just months afterward. Long-distance court battles and the hell of trying to hold on to his parents’ estate had consumed him, but through it, he had thought of Crista.

She had left so suddenly, before he had the chance to gather up his nerve and do more than flirt with her a little bit.

When she returned to Somerset the year before, he thought maybe, this time, he could make it work. Until she stared at him like a slug crawling out from under a rock.

Why the hell did he even care? It wasn’t like she was the only game in town. He could have his pick from dozens of women. One night, one week, one month, one whole fucking year if he wanted to keep one that long.

Instead, he was blackmailing a woman who clearly had no interest in doing a damned thing about the attraction burning between them like wildfire.

And it was there. It sparked and exploded every time they were within seeing distance of each other. He could see her response to it. The widening of her eyes, the accelerated breathing, her hard little nipples pressing beneath her clothing and a wild flush to her creamy cheeks. She wanted him almost as damned bad as he wanted her, but she was denying it, fighting it with everything inside her, and Dawg wanted to know why.

He knew women. They didn’t fight something that strong without a damned good reason. Now, he just had to figure out the reason.

Breathing out roughly, he moved upstairs to his own shower and quickly stripped before stepping beneath the spray.

He showered quickly. He didn’t want to give her time to run. He wanted to give her time to think, though––to consider her options as they stood.

She wanted him, that much he knew. Wanted him enough that the whole time she was arguing the deal, her nipples were pressing harder beneath her shirt and her gaze was flashing with a subtle spark of lust.

Dawg had made it a point to know women before he had any business knowing them. Too young and too dumb to even understand why, he had been drawn to their softness, their veneer of sweetness. The dark undercurrents of passion, power plays, and feminine wiles.

Women who were the exact opposite of his cold-blooded, crazy mother. Women who gave soft touches and whimpered for the pleasure he gave them. Who reached for him, who whispered his name in ecstasy rather than cursing it in hatred.

He knew how to read them, how to pleasure them.

And he knew that look of veiled hunger they gave to indicate their willingness to be pleasured.

Oh yeah, Crista wanted him, but for some reason she wasn’t willing to accept the fact that he was there for the taking.

Dawg grinned at the thought as he quickly toweled dry and dressed. The cotton briefs and sweats did nothing to hide the hard-on raging beneath the soft material. Pulling on a clean T-shirt, he moved back downstairs, his gaze roving around the dimly lit room as he searched for her.

And there she was. His T-shirt draped past her thighs as she sat nervously on the couch, her long hair still a little damp. She had obviously made use of the blow-dryer he kept in the guest bathroom.

Beautiful long, thick, dark chocolate hair that fell to the middle of her back and gave her a waiflike appearance.

Damn, she was small. Barely five feet six inches tall in her bare feet, with delicate bones and a nicely rounded figure. She wasn’t stick skinny, and he liked that, though he was well aware of the delicacy of her body in comparison to his.

Her face was still pale, her eyes too dark, but she looked composed. Hell, she looked like she was heading to the gallows rather than his bed.

“You aren’t the best salve to my ego, fancy-face,” he told her as he moved through the room, watching her with an edge of amusement.

She rose slowly to her feet.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

She had never liked being called fancy-face, but that was how he saw her. Her face was a little irregular, her lips pouty and winsome, her nose pert with the slightest little tilt, and high, glorious cheekbones.

She was different in a way that stood out. She wasn’t beautiful in the acceptable sense of the word, rather she was eye-catching, mysterious. Unique.

“Why?” He glanced at the clock and almost winced. Damn, it was nearly two in the morning; no wonder she looked like she had been run over by a truck. She was exhausted. And so was he.

Now, if he could just convince his cock how tired he was.

“Because I hate nicknames,” she retorted.

Dawg shook his head. “Look, it’s damned late. I just had a killer day, and from the looks of it, yours wasn’t any better. Let’s sleep on this, then we’ll see how things look in the morning.”

She licked her lips warily. “In separate beds?”

“In your dreams,” he grunted back. “Damn it, Crista, stop waffling like a damned little sissy. Either you’re going to fuck me or you’re not. Let’s get this over with now so we can both get some sleep.”

“I haven’t decided yet.” Crista narrowed her eyes on Dawg, considering the irritation in his expression and the flash of lust in his gaze.

She was trying to keep her eyes off the erection clearly displayed beneath his sweatpants. Okay, she had already made her decision. Sort of.

She was furious over it. It wasn’t enough that she had tried to stay out of his way, that she had rebuffed every overture he had made. Now he had to take the decision away from her, force her to risk her heart to him again, knowing the outcome.

As the minutes had ticked by, she had only become angrier as she showered. It had taken her years to put him behind her enough to even date another man. And still, when the nights were the darkest, she felt the same ragged pain and loss that she had felt that summer, as clearly as she had felt it then.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You haven’t, huh? What are you waiting for?”

Crista clenched her teeth in anger. “I’ll sleep with you.”

His brow arched.

“But I won’t just spread myself for you, Dawg. I can’t just fuck you like that.”

“Spread yourself?” he asked softly, his voice dark as his gaze narrowed back at her. “Like what, Crista?”

“Like one of your damned playmates,” she bit out.

The more he stared at her like that, the more angry she became. Nerves, exhaustion, and the fallout from terror were crashing through her system. On top of that, she had to deal with blackmail by a man she could have never expected blackmail from.

“You are my playmate now.” He grinned back at her, his expression becoming one of intense satisfaction. “And I do like to play, Crista. You should be aware of that by now.”

“Aware of it!” The anger snapped through her then. “Dawg, I was aware of it eight damned years ago when you decided you were drunk enough and horny enough to fuck me without your cousins standing by to join in. I’m not the one that forgot that fucking night; you are.”

Horror slammed through her. Her hand clapped over her mouth, and the breath stilled in her throat as his expression slowly stilled from amusement, then shock, then outright fury.

She had never seen Dawg mad. Few people had ever seen Dawg really mad. Crista had only heard of it, and she had decided long ago she never wanted to see it.

“You’re lying.” Cold, brutal certainty filled his voice.

She was already too pissed off to take that one silently. Her hand lowered from her lips as her gaze raked over his body with heated memories and fiery anger.

“You know better,” she sneered. “You were falling down drunk outside of town the night you buried your parents, Dawg. How do you think you got home? I brought you home, and you spent the night screwing me. All night,” she cried out. “Before you told me exactly how those Neanderthal bastard cousins of yours were going to fuck me. Where and how, and how long.”

She hated the fear and the pain and the fist-sized lump that tore at her chest every time she remembered. By God, if he was going to blackmail her into his bed and sneer at her attempts to protect her heart from him, then he could hear the truth.

“Don’t worry, Dawg,” she spoke in ragged bursts now, just trying to find the breath to sustain her through the rage. “You don’t have to worry about the one that got away. Because she never got away from anything but the foursome you seemed determined to force her into.”

She stepped back, fear and panic raging through her body with the same force, as eight years of pent-up anger finally flowed free.

Escape. She needed to get away from him. She needed to run, just as she had before, just as far away from him as she could get.

“Touch that fucking door, and I’ll have you arrested in an hour flat.” His gaze smoldered with anger now.

Oh, this wasn’t the Dawg she knew. The Dawg she knew was unaffected, playful, cynical. He didn’t become enraged, and he sure as hell wasn’t tormented. Which was exactly how he seemed now.

He paced into the kitchen, jerking another beer from the fridge before uncapping it and tilting it to his lips. In two long draws, he emptied it. A second later it shattered as it hit the wall.

Crista flinched violently, staring at the dark paneling across the kitchen, bits of glass clinging to the dampness a small amount of the liquid had left. Dawg rubbed his hands roughly over his face before pushing them through his hair and dislodging the leather thong that held the loose ponytail at the nape of his neck.

“Did I rape you?” His voice was unemotional, but his eyes weren’t. They seethed, darkening in spots, lightening in others as he stared at her from across the room.

“You didn’t rape me,” she gritted out, there were times when she wished she didn’t have such an aversion to lying.

“What happened?” His lips were a thin, furious line, his expression rigid.

Crista shook her head wearily. “Dawg—”

“What. Happened,” he bit out again, his voice harsher, icier.

“You were drunk. I brought you home. We had sex. End of story.”

“How?”

“What?” She watched him warily now, her stomach knotting in tension at the tone of his voice. It was hoarse, brutal.

“How did we have sex?” he repeated, his chest moving harshly, nostrils flaring as his expression seemed to grow colder.

“The usual way?” She retreated an additional foot.

His gaze sharpened at her movement as his lips twisted in contempt. “I didn’t rape you then; I won’t do it now,” he rasped. “Now answer me. How?”

“I answered you.” Her fingers tugged nervously at the bottom of her shirt as the air filled with dangerous tension.

“You were a virgin.” It didn’t sound like a question.

Crista nodded slowly.

“I took you.” He swallowed tightly at that point. “I took you hard.”

Did he remember? He didn’t appear to, yet he was right. He had taken her hard, and she had loved it.

Crista nodded again. She began to shake.

“I fucked your ass!” His lips curled back in an enraged snarl as his hands curled into fists and the muscles beneath his T-shirt rippled and bunched tensely.

She didn’t shake her head, she didn’t answer him. She stared at the phenomenon that she was certain no one else had ever seen.

Dawg enraged. She had only rarely heard of him appearing truly angry, let alone enraged. Even drunk, he had been playful, mocking, a little silly, but never angry.

“Answer me!” he shouted, causing her to jerk violently.

“Why should I answer you?” she snapped back. “It’s obvious you’ve remembered it. Why pursue a piece of ass you’ve already had? And why the hell would you be stupid enough to blackmail me into giving you more? You didn’t think much of it the first time, or you wouldn’t have wanted to give it away.”

She watched him cautiously, rather like watching a rabid bulldog straining at a chain.

Dawg saw the wariness in her dark eyes. He dreamed of those eyes. Dreamed of being mesmerized by the chocolatey color, drowning in them, burning in them.

And her face, a flush of arousal burning across her cheekbones, her lips swollen from his kiss, and her voice whispering across his mind. Begging for more.

It hadn’t been a dream. The words crashed in his skull. The dreams that tortured him for eight long years had been insidious memories that had managed to survive the drink-induced haze his mind had been in. He had had her, and the memory of it, so dim and shadowed, had haunted him ever since.