Servicing the Target (Masters of the Shadowlands #10)(62)

Knowing he could give her that joy silenced the doubts in his mind.




Anne lay in her bed, her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest, stroking the crisp hair. His breathing had slowed as sleep caught up to him. His scent mingled with the musky fragrance of sex and the faint clean fragrance of her sheets.

Contentment enfolded her as closely as his arm behind her back nestled her into his side. The sex had been…more than just sex this time. A new element had been added.

She rubbed her cheek on his shoulder. This was why people called it making love.

She’d always cherished the bond between her and her slaves, one made up of affection and concern. It was love, in a way, but the kind of love she held for family.

What she had with Ben was different. And her weapon-based ranking scale was proving to be surprisingly accurate.

She’d called a first date equivalent to a .22. She’d learned to shoot on a sweet little .22 revolver. Easy to handle. Safe with no kickback or surprises. Nicely precise. It had planted small, sedate holes in the target.

But today, this was serious stuff, moving toward…love, and truly felt like firing an S&W .44 in a darkened shooting range. “I think you care for me, and I very much care for you. So yes, a .44. You’re not seeing anyone else, and neither am I. That’s exclusive. And I’ll be your slave.” The blast of his words had left her ears ringing, eyes blinking against the flame from the muzzle. The shell had ripped appalling holes in what her life had been.

Was she ready for this?

No. No, she really wasn’t.

But right here in his arms was where she’d ended up, even though she’d fought every step of the way. Sneaky submissive. But she wouldn’t change a thing about the journey.

Or about Ben.

She hadn’t wanted another slave yet, and he sure wasn’t the one she would have chosen, and she certainly hadn’t planned on letting one be her lover, as well.

Then Ben had maneuvered his way into her life, making changes right and left. He’d brought her Bronx—a furbaby to play with and treat and hug. Every night, Ben had been at her house or her at his. He filled her evenings with laughter and conversation and quiet companionship. Sleeping with him and waking with him had created an intimacy that she hadn’t permitted in years.

Maybe because she trusted him more than she’d trusted her slaves. He might not agree with her on everything, but the man’s rock-solid character was based on honor, honesty, and loyalty.

She admired him, respected him, liked everything about him, from his body to his easygoing stability.

And the thought of losing him, now that he had hold of her emotions, was terrifying.

Ever since she was a little girl, she’d known…known…what it felt like when someone or something tore her love out by the roots. That might be why her few attempts at taking lovers in the service and college hadn’t gotten very far. All unknowing, she’d avoided risking that kind of pain.

But now, she would. For Ben.

She curled a little closer, drawing in his scent, hearing his heart’s slow thudding. Please don’t let this go wrong. Please.





Chapter Fourteen



Anne leaned back in her office chair and studied the computer display. The wind riffled the curtains, carrying the scent of the beach and the pattering of heavy rain. Although near noon, the sky was almost as dark as nighttime. What an excellent day to be inside.

Even better, the weather had been beautiful all weekend for their sail. They’d spent the time picnicking in quiet coves, swimming under the stars, making love…everywhere. And she’d managed to teach Ben more about being a slave, about her requirements, about protocol. By the time they returned to the Shadowlands in a couple of weeks, he’d be comfortable in his role.

He probably wasn’t very comfortable today. Poor Ben.

Hours before, at dawn, he’d rolled over, seen the incoming storm, and jumped out of bed. Within half-an-hour, he’d headed off to Sawgrass Park.

BL Haugen. She’d been both mesmerized and appalled by his Chaos of War series. Now that she knew the photographs hadn’t been taken by a photojournalist, but rather by someone truly living the nightmare, she doubted she could view them without crying.

Her photo excursion with him two weeks before had been eye opening. She’d always admired how beautifully BL Haugen used light to evoke emotion. Her favorite photograph of his was of a panther, poised to spring. Behind the cat, black, ominous thunderclouds were piling high into the sky. The scene captured the eternal yet fleeting moment before violence and death.

Last Sunday had shown her how much time, effort, and discarded shots went into achieving one perfect photograph. And the poor guy was out today in the pouring rain.

Well, she’d needed quiet to work on Uzuri’s problem.

Sometime later, she heard the carport door open.

“Anne, it’s me,” Ben called. “Your mom is with me.”

Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard. But she had a search running and couldn’t shut it down. “Upstairs. I’m in my office.”

A door closed. Footsteps thudded on the stairs.

Her mother walked in, carrying a covered bread pan. Ben followed.

Anne sniffed. “Is that banana bread I smell?” The best part of living two houses away from her parents was getting some motherly pampering.