Cranston tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. “The Genoa family is cash poor, but there are still a few favors they can draw on. Not many, mind you, and contract killings cost money. I’d say if she doesn’t try to do something herself, then the person working with her will owe her a personal favor of sorts. My advice is to keep Ms. Lucas out of sight, and if you come in contact with Ms. Genoa, see how hard you can piss her off. Women are women, my friend, and many of them will always give themselves away in anger.”
John shook his head. Marlena was cool; hell, she was cold as ice. Getting her to crack wouldn’t be that easy.
“There’s no chance she’ll simply give up,” John mused aloud.
“Not a Genoa,” Timothy grunted. “She’s here to do the footwork, then whoever’s helping her will strike. We need to find out who’s helping her, why, and put a stop to it.”
“And we do this how?” John asked curiously.
“I’ve always found a Glock works really well.” He sounded way too serious, and John found the idea much too appealing.
“I like the idea, but I think if we both want to stay out of prison, we come up with another idea.”
Timothy chuckled as he rose from his seat. “I knew I’d like you, JW.”
“Keep calling me JW and I’ll kill you for sure,” John warned him.
Timothy only gave another short laugh. “Since we can’t kill them, we’re going to have to prove conspiracy and intent. That will be harder. We have help, though. The Mackay boys are looking for a little excitement. Marriage suits them, but I think they miss the adrenaline a little bit, too. I have a former agent or two in the area. We’ll work on them. Sit tight a day or so and I’ll see what I can come up with.”
John’s brows rose. Strangely, he couldn’t remember asking Cranston to handle this for him. But he knew the things he had heard about the former special agent. He’d let the little Leprechaun do his thing for the time being. John had a woman to protect. His woman, and learning about Sierra was more important than hunting up Marlena.
“How do you intend to handle it, Cranston?” Curiosity was getting the best of him.
“By doing what I do best.” Cranston’s smile was innocent, amused, and frankly terrifying. “By doing what I do best.”
By manipulating anyone and everyone involved or who could be involved, John thought. That was what Cranston did best. That was a damned scary proposition if even half of what John had heard about him was correct.
“Cranston, you’re retired, and you’re still trying to protect the world?” John would have been amused if he wasn’t fully aware of exactly how dedicated Timothy Cranston had always been to justice.
The former agent paused and stared out into the darkened lake for long moments before speaking. “I had a daughter once.” He spoke low, his voice filled with a haunted, aching loss. “I had a wife, and you know, they loved me.” He turned back to John. “I’m rumpled, a smart ass, and when I met my wife, God knew I was fast on my way to becoming an alcoholic, but she saved me. And my daughter made me realize the reason for my existence. When she was born, my wife made me swear that no matter what happened, I’d never let myself sink again.” He shook his head as he took a deep breath. “Monsters took my ladies from me, John. Men who had no respect for the law or even humanity. I swore to my beautiful wife I’d never get drunk again, but I didn’t swear I wouldn’t wipe as many of the monsters as possible out of existence. That’s what I live for. That’s all I live for. Because if I kill myself, then I don’t have a chance of meeting my ladies in Heaven, now do I?”
With that, Cranston turned and moved to the stairs.
“That’s why you’re here,” John said before he left. “That’s why you stay in Somerset, because the Mackays are family now, aren’t they?”
He shook his head. “No. I’m here because a Mackay married an agent that so reminded me of my daughter that I couldn’t help but love her as one. I stay here because there’s work to be done here, and because the Mackays allow me to be a part of their lives. Without them, I don’t know if I could keep that promise to my wife once the Department cut me loose. That’s why I’m here.”
For a man as rumpled, lazy, and clumsy looking as Timothy Cranston, he moved with a silence John could only envy as he left the houseboat, and left John with more to ponder than what he felt he actually needed.
He wondered if the Mackays were aware of the reason why Timothy Cranston had settled in Somerset. They were tolerant of him for the most part; they liked the rabid, calculating little bastard, there was no doubt. But John had a feeling they had no idea the true reason why the other man was still here, poking his nose in their lives and calling himself “Unca Timmy” to their children as he slid their parents mocking looks.
And now it seemed Cranston wanted to adopt him and Sierra as well.
Shaking his head with a rueful laugh, John turned to make his way back to the interior of the houseboat when a movement on the bank caught his eye. It was subtle, a gleam of metal where there shouldn’t be. A small dot of light, almost like that of a pair of night-vision binoculars. It was just there for a second, though, and then it was gone.
A trick of the light? He’d seen it before over the past months and that was the explanation he had given himself. What if it was something more?
Moving to the steps, John descended them quickly until he was once again in the living area of the houseboat.
Sierra was still sleeping peacefully in the bed, her thick, heavy lashes cushioned against her upper cheek, the long, thick strands of black curls falling around her face and shoulders. She looked like an angel. So damned innocent, and so sexy at the same time.
The oversized T-shirt and shorts she wore gave her a girlish appearance, and that innocence. He grimaced, a flash of something flitting through his mind as he frowned. Rising between her thighs, fitting himself to her?
He shook his head. The fantasy of that first night, the night he had nearly had her, still tormented him. There was no figuring it out quite yet, though.
Locking the doors and pulling the drapes, he moved to the back of the houseboat and the small office he used the guest bedroom for. There, he edged the side of the curtain aside and watched the bank closely.
Shadows shifted and moved as his gaze narrowed. That tingle at the back of his neck that he’d acquired as a Marine kicked in.
There was definitely someone there, definitely a threat. And it had been there far longer than Sierra’s arrival. Only tonight had that knowledge that it could become a threat begin to tingle at his nape.
Because Sierra was there.
He pulled his cell phone from his hip and hit speed dial.
“Dawg.” Dawg Mackay answered on the first ring.
“I have eyes on me,” he said quietly.
“Where?” Dawg was instantly alert.
“At the rear, at the nine o’ clock position. Meet me there in the morning.”
“Fuck morning,” Dawg growled. “I’ll call the others, we’ll be there within minutes.”
“And they’ll be gone,” John guessed. “I have a situation here, Dawg. Just catching whoever or whatever watches won’t fix it. But we can use them.”
There was a long moment of silence. “I’ll call Cranston.”
“Cranston just left but call him. Slip in tomorrow morning separately. Let’s do it all at once, or Sierra will never be safe.”
And nothing mattered but her safety.
SEVEN
Sierra awoke to strong arms holding her, the warmth of
John behind her, his head resting against the top of hers, his legs entwined with hers.
It was definitely unusual. She had never slept with a man before John, and she was almost frightened at how easy it was becoming to get used to it.
Not once had she awakened wondering who was behind her, or terrified that the nightmares were returning. Not once had she felt uncomfortable, or that she shouldn’t be here. Unfortunately, a part of her felt as though she were at home.
She turned slowly, trying not to awaken him, but wanting to see his face.
The laugh lines at the side of his eyes hadn’t been there before he left Boston. Come to think of it, it had been years since she had truly seen John happy, until now. He laughed now. Amusement and fun gleamed in his eyes as it had so long ago. Before he had gone to the Marines. Before he had returned from blood and death.
As she had noticed before, he was stronger, tighter, broader. He was, on the outside, the man she had always known existed on the inside.
Lifting her hand, using only the tips of her fingers, she slowly pushed back a long, thick strand of hair that had fallen over his face.
He looked more arrogant than ever before, she thought in amusement, and John Walker Jr. had arrogance in abundance before he ever left Boston. He was more relaxed here, though, less austere and critical. He was the man who had stolen her heart years ago as a young girl.
As she watched him, the hunger for him rose. It was a natural extension of any thought of John. That need that filtered through her body, heated her flesh, and left her aching for him. She felt it in her breasts, in her erect nipples. That sensitivity that only arose whenever John was present, whenever she thought of him.
The heat that built there worked its way lower as well. It heated her clit, burned in her pussy, and clenched in her womb. From there, she felt the sensitivity working beneath her flesh, filling her with a hunger for him that she knew would never be completely sated.
She trailed her fingers from his hair, to a broad, muscled shoulder. Lightly. She kept her touch light, wanting to feel the subtle heat and texture of his flesh rather than the well-honed iron beneath.
She had always loved his body, but she loved it even more now. It was a rich, golden bronze. It was heated, pulsing, and hard like living iron beneath.
As her fingers roamed over his shoulder, his lashes drifted open. Sleepy violet eyes stared back at her for a second before he turned slowly to his back.
An invitation. An invitation to touch as she pleasured, to pleasure as she wanted. He was giving her carte blanche to his body and her senses exploded with chaotic hunger at the realization.
Moving over him, she couldn’t help but ache for his kiss now. A kiss she could measure, control, relish. Her lips lowered to his, brushed against them, and her entire body clenched in need as they responded beneath her.
The kiss flamed, but rather than blazing out of control, it only began to burn brighter, hotter, while maintaining the need for a slow, easy caress.
Lips stroked, tongues licked, tasted, and built the desire rising between them.
Touching him was like being in the center of a firestorm, protected, yet awash with the heat. It was like drawing in that heat, filling her soul with it.
The taste of him infused her senses, his kisses growing hungrier as she felt the need rioting inside her.
Dragging her lips back from his, Sierra drew them down the rough flesh of his neck as her hands stroked his hard abs. She nipped and licked, tasted and enjoyed him as she had never enjoyed anything in her life.
She felt as though she were becoming drunk on him. Each taste of him was more intoxicating than the last. When his hands threaded into her hair, his body arching against her, the knowledge she was bringing him pleasure amped her own arousal.
Her nails scraped along his thighs, feeling them tighten beneath her touch as her lips trailed down his abs. She knew where she was going, she knew what she wanted.
His control was shot. John could feel the last threads of restraint beginning to slip through his fingertips despite the battle to hold on to it.
He’d seen Sierra’s face, her expression as she began kissing her way down his body. She wasn’t just pleasuring him, hell, she was finding pleasure in each touch she was giving him. He’d never seen that expression on a woman’s face before. He’d never known of a time that a woman had actually known pleasure just from touching him.
