Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(47)

She was perched squarely on top of a hard-on that she could not fail to notice. He stared, hypnotized by her gorgeous eyes. As he had been from the first photo of her that he’d ever seen. The one he’d picked up from the floor of her father’s trashed living room.

The day he’d found Joseph Kirk’s mutilated body.

That jolted him back to business. He felt that questing tendril of invasive telepathy getting more intense, more palpable.

Concentrate. “You guys got your mental breakfasts ready?”

“Home fried potatoes, English muffins oozing butter, ham steak, fried eggs on top. Lots of coffee. With half and half,” Sean said dreamily.

“Black coffee, for God’s sake,” Connor said. “Half and half is for pussies. Sausage with lots of pepper and sage. And hot biscuits.”

The McCloud banter brought a smile to Lara’s face. First one he’d seen, ever. Even in photos, she was always solemn. It was fleeting, luminous. Magic, like the elusive glow of starlight.

He would do any crazy thing to score another one of those.

Then it was gone, and another bump in the road jolted her on top of his body. She wiggled, deliciously. Shifted, to steady herself.

Her lips were so close to his, the slightest movement would turn them into contact with his. Tension built, tugging him.

He felt the pinch, the probe, seeking. “We’re passing him.”

“I feel it.” Sean’s voice was remote, like he was in a trance.

“Me, too,” Connor added.

Silent seconds ticked by. No one breathed. He was locked, motionless on the floor, staring into Lara’s huge eyes.

The ticklish prodding faded, then vanished.

He gave her a nod, and she clambered off, onto the seat. Her cheeks were flushed a faint pink, along her sharp cheekbone. Pretty. A hint of color. He craned his neck to stare behind them. No one appeared to be following. His phone burped. Davy, texting.

clear no one following Tension released in a shuddering sigh. He closed his eyes. “Davy and Aaro made it past,” he said.

“Good. I’m hungry now,” Sean said. “Do you suppose—”

“No,” Miles cut in.

“By the way. Tam found a place for you to rest,” Connor said. “I tried to text you the info on the drive from Portland, but of course, you wouldn’t answer us. It’s a couple of hours from here, taking back roads. She figured you’d need to chill someplace real quiet. Since you were having such a hard time at the wedding. You know, with the noise.”

“I’m okay,” Miles glanced at Lara. “But I’m glad we can stop soon. It’s her I’m worried about.”

“I’m okay,” Lara said, from the far end of the seat. He missed having her on his lap.

“Can I, um, ask you something?” she said, her voice timid.

“Whatever,” he said.

“Hu said, um . . . remember how he said that you’d changed something, in the hospital database? Before Leah’s surgery?”

He nodded. “Yeah. What of it?”

“Is that true?” Her voice was very small.

He was affronted. “No! Of course it’s not true! What kind of sadistic * do you take me for? I’ve got nothing against that lady.”

A fresh smile dawned on her face, and it had exactly the same effect upon him as the one before. He started to blush.

“It was just a bluff, then?” she persisted.

“Of course it was,” he grumbled. “Jesus, Lara. As if.”

“I’m glad,” she said simply. “Leah’s a nice woman, I think. She didn’t deserve it.”

He couldn’t bear to look at that smile for another second. Too much. He stared out at the countryside racing by, just trying to breathe.





12


Lara didn’t have the nerve to ask him to hold her again. She stared out the window. She should be happy, excited, but she felt no elation. Just fear, and disbelief.

The rat hole had deformed and stunted her. She had no idea how she was going to navigate the world, if she had to face it feeling like this.

Then again, Miles himself would do nicely as a coping mechanism. Her Lord of the Citadel, made flesh and blood. If she gave in to another crying jag, he might cuddle her again. One little nudge, and she’d be a puddle of hysterical sobbing again. So easy.

Maybe it would be worth it. Just to be touched again.

But she didn’t want to be that helpless, damaged, crying girl that had to be coddled and fussed over. There was no future in that.

He got all uptight and defensive when his friends gave him hell about his superpowers, but that was exactly how it was, in her eyes. Sweeping in and carrying her away like that.

He slumped next to her on the back seat, coat hanging open over his naked torso. Pretending to sleep, but no way was he sleeping. She felt the energy buzzing off him. But his closed eyes made it easier to stare, so she did, greedily, memorizing every detail to obsess about later, when his sharp eyes were open again and she had to whip her gaze away. From the long, tangled, dark hair, full of leaves and dirt, down to that hawk nose, the lines carved into the sun-bronzed skin crinkling from his eyes. And his body. She was no innocent. She’d seen naked men in her drawing classes, and in her brief and ill-fated love affairs. She’d admired the bodies of male athletes, models. But she’d never felt the heat of lust rise in her body, or been transfixed by the perfect organization of sinewey muscle and long, graceful bones. He had no puffy gym bulk, just lean, practical, raw power. And he towered over her. He’d carried her as if she were a child.