Heat of the Night(9)
Author: Sylvia Day

A quick search of the drawers and closet came up with little else. Some clothes and more spiked jewelry, like he’d seen the Guardian wearing earlier. Still no reader for the data chip. Sorry-assed luck, but something was better than nothing.

He looped the long handle of the bag over his shoulder and turned toward the door just as a key was heard pushing into the lock. Aidan froze for a heartbeat, his mind swiftly noting that the lights were on and clearly visible from the outside.

Dropping the bag, he crouched, preparing.

The door flew open in an explosion of movement and sound. His adversary lunged straight for him, her movements visible only as a blur of red hair and flowing black skirts. A scream of frightening volume and pitch rent the air, startling him and galvanizing him into action. Aidan sprung upward just as her body would have hit his. The opposing velocity of his attack jarred them both, the brutal impact forcing a grunt from him and a cry of something akin to rage from her.

They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs. She was swinging punches and he was right there with her, fighting back, refusing to allow his brain to acknowledge her gender. It was her or him. He couldn’t look at the altercation any other way.

She rolled him to his back, levering her torso up with one hand so that she could free her other for a downward punch. It was then that Aidan caught a quick glimpse of her face. A brief flash, but that was enough to shock him into stillness. Stunned, he didn’t deflect her swing, taking the full force of her fist in his jaw.

The bite of pain snapped him out of his horror.

Feet flat to the floor, he bucked his h*ps upward, tossing her over his head. He rolled to his stomach and crawled atop her kicking feet, absorbing her barrage of blows with gritted teeth. His arm drew back and punched hard to her temple. It was an assault that would have knocked a large man out cold. The redhead only bared her fangs and hissed like a wild animal.

"What the hell?" Aidan growled, struggling to restrain the feral Guardian.

Together, they crashed into the nearby dresser hard enough to bang the furniture into the wall.

Her nails tore at the exposed flesh of his forearms and snared his shirt. The experience was unlike anything Aidan had ever experienced in centuries of living. The woman was possessed, unrelenting and somehow tapping into some power that allowed her to continue when anyone else would be unconscious.

In the end, he had only one choice.

Grimly determined, Aidan fought to maneuver into position and encircled her head with his arms. Then, twisting like he would a twist-top beer, he attempted to snap her neck. A task that should have taken less than a minute except she was unbelievably strong and snarling like a mad beast. White hot pain seared deep into his leg, giving him the final adrenaline surge he needed to Wrench her neck far enough. The splintering of her spinal cord reverberated through the room.

The resulting dearth of noise—broken only by his gasping, labored breathing—was chilling.

Aidan stared down at the lifeless body in his arms still mentally grappling with her eyes, which were solid black with no pupils or irises for relief, and her teeth, which were jagged and wickedly sharp within the gaping hole of her mouth.

Whatever the hell she was, she wasn’t a Guardian.

That was for damn sure.

Aidan pushed to his feet and then stumbled back down onto one knee with a curse. Looking at his leg, he saw the dagger embedded there, explaining the vicious spear of pain he’d felt earlier.

"Damn it!"

Yanking the blade free of his thigh, Aidan ripped off a strip of the redhead’s flowing black cotton skirt and tied it around as a makeshift bandage.

He would be fully healed by morning, but he had the interim to get through.

"Shit." He glared at the dead thing on the floor.

"How the f**k am I going to carry you out of here with my leg like this?"

But he couldn’t leave her behind. She wasn’t human, and he couldn’t be indicted for murder.

Aidan pushed to standing again, leaning heavily against the television while the room spun. He was heaving in oxygen as if he’d run a damn marathon and now that the adrenal rush was abating slightly, he was becoming aware of the multitude of scratches and minor scrapes that wounded him. His leg hurt like hell, too.

Reaching down, he grabbed the duffle again. Then he slung the dead weight of his unwanted burden over his shoulder and exited the room.

He was several doors down when a group of dressed-to-impress young men rounded the corner in front of him and asked, "What’s going on, man?"

"I told her to quit after the fifth shot," he explained, slowing his pace. "She wouldn’t listen.

It all went to shit after that. I’m just hoping I make it to our room before she pukes down my back."

"Sucks to be you, dude," commiserated one of the guys. "The clubs are just starting to rock and your night is done. No p**sy for you either, unless you ditch her."

"I wish I could," he said, meaning every word.

The rest of the group laughed and suggested he

"leave the bitch at home next time."

"Good idea," he muttered, continuing on.

It was a long hike from the room back to the rented dark green Honda Civic, a damn sight longer than the trip from the car to the room.

Lyssa hopped out upon seeing his approach, engaging the safety on the Glock before quickly tucking it into the waistband at the back of her jean shorts. Her shoulder-blade-length blonde hair was restrained in a ponytail and her taut abdomen was displayed by the cropped white T-shirt she wore. Her face was scrubbed clean and free of cosmetics, and Aidan was positive he’d never seen anything or anyone as beautiful in his life. He didn’t regret anything he had to do to keep her safe.

"Oh

my

god."

She

blinked

rapidly.

"You’re kidnapping her?"

"Something like that." He grunted as he stumbled over the uneven dirt road.

"What’s wrong? Oh shit! Your leg’s bleeding."

"Open the back door, Hot Stuff."

"Don’t ‘hot stuff me," she muttered, even as she hurried to obey him. "You’re not supposed to get hurt!"

"Yeah, well, it’s better than being dead like our friend here."

He could feel the wave of horror and confusion that moved through Lyssa.

"Jesus… she’s dead? And you’re putting her in the car?" She stood frozen, watching him arrange their passenger lengthwise across the seat. "What the hell am I saying?" she said finally, the high pitch of her voice the only sign of how deeply disturbed she was. "We have to take her with us.

We can’t leave her here, can we?"

"No, we can’t." Aidan backed out of the cramped backseat and straightened to face her. She was pale, her eyes too big, her lips colorless. For the first time, she was confronted with irrefutable proof of what he was—a warrior who killed as necessary. "Are you okay?"

Lyssa inhaled sharply, her gaze darting to the body in the car. Then she nodded. "Yeah."

"Are we okay?" he asked grimly.

She frowned, staring at him. Then her face cleared. "Yes. We’re okay. I know you did this for me. For us. It was either you or her, right?"

"Right." He wanted to touch her, to stroke her cheek, and to pull her close enough to breathe in the scent of her skin. But he felt dirty, and he didn’t want to put his hands on her until he was clean.

"Well, she’s not the one I’m in love with, so you made the right choice."

He heaved out a relieved little laugh, the tension draining from his body. "She had the taza, too, which is really f**king convenient since we’re not going to make it down to Ensenada."

As she regained her composure, her chin lifted and her shoulders went back. "Should I get out the supplies?"

They’d been cautious and brought along a medical bag of emergency items. Their life together was a dangerous one and neither of them ever forgot that.

"Not here," he said. His injury recovery time was rapid compared to humans, but he’d discovered that a stitch here and there could cut several hours of healing down to one or two. "Let’s head back toward the border. We’ll stop somewhere private."

There was an Army-issue shovel in the trunk, part of a kit he’d picked up at the local military surplus store. He knew Lyssa was thinking of it, too.

"What about the statue for McDougal?"

"I’ll tell him I was mugged and got injured, which cut our trip short."

Lyssa raised a brow. "You, big guy?"

Aidan shrugged. "He can’t prove me wrong."

"Alright." She stepped back and opened the front passenger door for him. "Let’s hurry."

Losing the battle to keep his distance, he pressed a kiss to her cheek before he gingerly attempted to get in the car.

"I love you," she said.

"Thank you." His gaze met hers. "I needed to hear that."

She blew him a kiss. "I know."

Within minutes, they were on the road heading north.

Stacey watched Connor spoon more Kung Pao chicken onto his plate. There were several mostly empty boxes of Chinese food scattered all across the coffee table. She set her chopsticks down and picked up a cream cheese wonton. "I have never seen anyone eat so much food in one sitting in my life," she said wryly.

He grinned that broad boyish smile that made her stomach flutter. "You’re a pretty good eater, too,"

he said. "I dig it."

"My h*ps don’t."

"Your h*ps don’t know what’s good for them."

"Ha."

Connor sent her a mock glare and expertly wielded chopsticks to convey a piece of chicken to his mouth. Her gaze dropped to his bared stomach and she admired the sheer masculine beauty of his six-pack abdomen. Even after eating enough food to feed her and Justin for a week, he still looked taut, lean, and hard.

Gorgeous.

She was still having trouble processing the fact that they’d had sex, although her body still tingled from the aftereffects. They were sitting cross-legged on the living room floor watching The Mummy, one of her favorite movies. She was a sucker for a blow ’em up action flick with a hot hero and a touch of romance. Connor said he liked it, too, but he spent more time watching her than he did the television. She’d have thought his interest would wane after the sex, at least a little.

Instead he seemed more interested than before.

She had to admit, she was intrigued by him, too.

"So why are you here?" she asked, setting her elbow on the table and her chin in her palm.

"I have some information for Aidan."

"You couldn’t call?"

He shook his head with a smile. "I tried that. He doesn’t remember a damn thing I tell him."

"How like a man," she teased.

"Watch it, sweetheart."

Stacey liked it when he called her that. There was something in the rich brogue that lent sincerity to the common endearment. "Are you ex-Special Forces like Aidan?"

"Yeah." There was a melancholy tinge to his response.

"You sound as if you miss it."

"I do." He reached over and snatched the half-eaten wonton from her plate and popped it into his mouth.

"Hey!" she protested, frowning. "There are fresh ones in the box."

"They don’t taste as good."

Her eyes narrowed and he stuck a playful tongue out at her. On the screen, Rick O’Connell was battling against a mob of people with the plague.

She watched the scene for a moment, then asked Connor, "So what do you do now that you’re out of the army or wherever?"

"Same thing as Cross."

She’d tried to get Aidan to name an actual branch of the military and country affiliation, but he was tight-lipped. Lyssa said it was super-secret covert stuff.

So, what? Stacey had said. If he tells me, he’ll have to kill me?

Lyssa laughed. Of course not. ‘Cuz seriously, Stacey muttered, the curiosity is killing me, Doc.

He might as well tell me. That would be a kinder way to go.

Of course, Aidan elected not to put her out of her misery. She knew Connor would be the same.

He had a similar air of wariness about him, as if he was dreading the questions he knew were coming.

"You know," she said, "in romance novels the Special Forces heroes usually become high-tech security experts when they retire. Not…

researchers… or personal shoppers."

Connor wiped his hands on a napkin and leaned back, supporting his weight on his arms behind him. He wore only loose-fitting striped pajama bottoms, leaving his torso bared to her perusal.

His body was a finely honed machine, able to hold up her weight as if it were nothing. The impressive breadth of his shoulders rippled with muscle and his biceps…

Her mouth watered. Dear god, he was savagely beautiful. There was nothing tempered about him. Nothing refined. Even at rest, as he was now, she sensed an alertness to him, an inner coiling of power that left him always ready to pounce.

"You’re staring," he purred, his blue eyes watching her with predatory intensity. She knew if she gave him even the tiniest bit of encouragement, he would have her on her back in a minute or less.

The image made her shiver.

"I know," she said, mimicking his earlier statement.

The corner of his shamelessly luscious mouth lifted in a half smile. "So… are you telling me that I’m not romance hero material because I don’t install security systems?"

He was romance hero material, all right. At least on the outside. And in bed.

"I didn’t say that." Stacey shrugged lamely and dragged her gaze back to the television. It was torture to look away from all that golden skin, but it was self-preservation, too. "I’m just saying that I wouldn’t expect guys such as you and Aidan to be interested in hunting down old stuff for old guys with too much money. I’d think you would be bored after all the… excitement of what you used to do."

"The Black Market isn’t without danger," he said softly.

"Anytime different people want the same thing, it can get ugly. If they want it bad enough, it can get deadly."