Street Game (GhostWalkers #8)(3)
Author: Christine Feehan

“What are you doing here? Hi, boys. I missed—most of you,” she greeted from the floor.

“Hey, Jaimie,” Kane said.

“Man, Jaimie,” Javier added. “Sweet damn security system. I should have recognized your work.”

“Great to see you, Jaimie,” Brian Hutton added with a little grin. “Although we’re seeing more of you than brothers are comfortable with.”

“What the f**k are you wearing?” Mack demanded. Lust punched hard and mean, his entire body tightening, his c**k hard as a rock. He was furious with her, scared for her. Shocked at seeing her. What was going on? She had f**king left him. Left him.

Disappeared without a trace.

His hand gripped her throat and he trapped her there on the floor, letting her feel the strength of his anger—of his need. He leaned close. “Did you find yourself, Jaimie? Did you find everything you were looking for?” Did you miss me the way I missed you? Did you bring my heart back, because I have a damn big hole where it should be.

He stared down into her eyes—eyes he’d always fall into, eyes he’d always drown in. Damn you, Jaimie. Damn you to hell for this. The attraction was worse than it had ever been, flooding him until his body was no longer his and discipline and control had gone out the window.

“Don’t you dare look at me that way.”

She swallowed hard. He felt the movement against the palm of his hand. “What way?”

“Like you’re afraid of me. Like I’m going to hurt you.” There was panic in her eyes, fear almost amounting to terror, and it sickened him.

“Mack.” Kane’s voice was very soft. “You’ve got your hand around her throat and you’re sitting on her. That could be interpreted by some as an aggressive action.”

Mack hissed, his head snapping around. “Anyone else have anything brilliant they want to contribute?”

No one else was that stupid—or brave.

He loosened his hold on her throat but retained possession, feeling the satisfyingly frantic beat of her pulse in the center of his palm. “What the hell are you wearing?” he demanded again. “You might as well be wearing nothing at all.”

“It’s called a nightgown,” Jaimie replied, her voice sarcastic. “Mack, let me up. In case no one’s ever told you, you’re heavy.”

He was solid muscle. And right now every single inch of him was as hard as a rock. Moving was going to be painful, one way or another.

Sighing, because everyone was going to know exactly what she did to him, he shifted very carefully. “Get some clothes on.” Abruptly, Mack was on his feet, pulling her up with him. A quick flick of his eyes and his men found the ceiling interesting.

They were grinning like idiots. All of them. Even Kane. Mack resisted swearing at them.

“Have the decency to turn around,” he ordered the others.

Morons. Every single one. He didn’t turn around. He glared at her. Daggers. “That’s a hell of a thing to wear unless you’re entertaining, Jaimie. Are you entertaining?” His hand slid down to the satisfying hilt of his knife. He’d do some entertaining of his own if some son of a bitch was moving in on Jaimie. Not waiting for an answer, he tore off his jacket and threw it at her. “Cover up.”

“Go to hell, Mack. This is my home. My bedroom, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Still, she slipped her arms into the jacket and inhaled, rubbing her cheek along the material without thinking, and then stalked across the room to yank open a drawer.

“You’re a long way from home.” Jaimie made the observation as she donned a pair of charcoal sweatpants. “Not to mention you’re a little overdressed for these parts.”

He noticed her hands were trembling as she pulled the edges of his jacket together. Her voice was exactly as he remembered. Soft, husky, beautiful. Like clear running water. It hurt him to look at her. Her chin was in the air—the same defiant Jaimie he’d known forever. But she wasn’t looking at him, not directly, and that wasn’t like Jaimie.

“The next time you want to drop in, local custom demands that you do me the courtesy of knocking.” She paced away from him, back again, unable to rid her body of the adrenaline. “What are you doing here, Mack?”

“We followed a shipment of weapons.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “To San Francisco? To my home?”

“Right to your front door, baby.”

She winced. “I’m not your baby, Mack. That was a long time ago. What are you really doing here?”

“Our information . . .”

“Mack, come on.” She crossed to the window and looked out over the pounding waves. “You and I both know this is too big of a coincidence. If you weren’t the one to arrange it, then your informer wanted you here. Wanted us together.”

He wanted them together, so whoever had done this, deliberately or not, Mack owed them. Jaimie had disappeared out of all of their lives some time ago. She’d been a big part of their street family and now here she was—practically in his lap.

He crossed to stand behind her, gently taking hold of her shoulders and moving her back away from the window.

Kane cleared his throat. “The information was, the shipment we’re after was offloaded and stored in this block of warehouses. Corner. High security. That’s this warehouse, Jaimie.”

Her sapphire gaze touched his face, jumped away. “Actually, it’s not. You want the one at the end of this block. Mysterious trucks in the middle of the night. Hard cases, trying to look friendly. You want that warehouse, not mine.” Her gaze swung back to Mack. There was something faintly accusing in the depths of her eyes, but then she glanced away from him—as if she couldn’t bear to look at him.

Deep inside, there was a stirring, an answer. Mack could feel his body’s reaction, taut, dangerous, a man’s reaction. Jaimie Fielding. His fists curled. His Jaimie. Stubborn Jaimie, with her outrageous sense of humor, her computer brain, and her pure ethics.

Her small teeth bit nervously at her lip, drawing Mack’s immediate attention to the fullness of her soft mouth. He had always wanted to crush her lips beneath his when he saw that mouth—still did. She’d left him.

“I think my rights as a United States citizen have been severely violated,” Jaimie pointed out. “You just invaded my home.”

Mack swept a hand through charcoal hair. “Can it, Jaimie,” he snapped. “This isn’t funny.” Seeing her threw him. Drawing her scent into his lungs sent his body into some kind of permanent overdrive. He was supposed to be disciplined, but somehow, with Jaimie around, his body went haywire, thinking with other portions of his anatomy rather than his brain.