Savage Burn (Savage Trilogy 2)

“After you shower off that mud.”

“You have a problem with mud?”

“Only when it’s dirtier than you are,” I assure him.

He laughs. I laugh, warm with the idea of a shared shower and bed. Warm with the knowledge that tonight, we’ll sleep together for the first time in eight years. I kiss him and this earns me a smile before he pushes off the bed. He walks out of the bedroom, giving me a nice view as he does. He returns quickly, tossing his bag on the floor by the bed, his phone already ringing again, and quickly at this ear. “What’s cooking, asshole?” he asks, listening to his caller.

I’d like to take this moment to appreciate the fact that he is naked and talking on the phone, but there’s a subtle tensing of his body that smashes that idea. Apprehensive now, I grab the throw blanket we’ve somehow shoved to the floor and wrap it around myself.

“Now?” Rick snaps at his caller, which has me glancing at the clock that reads one in the morning. Now is not good. Now means trouble.

“Yeah, yeah,” Rick says. “Don’t get your panties in a wad, little girl. I’ll be right there.” He disconnects.

“Now?” I ask, watching him grab a clean pair of pants from his bag and start pulling them on, encouraged that he’s sans underwear. It means he doesn’t intend to keep his pants on or kill anyone before we sleep. That’s always good. “What’s happening now?” He sits down and pulls on his boots. “Adam has some data that he wants me to look at. He’ll be here in five.”

“It must be important for him to come over now.” I sound nervous. I am nervous. “Did they hint at what might be wrong?”

He stands, tugs his T-shirt over the hard wall of his chest, and then goes down on a knee in front of me, setting his phone on the mattress. “Everything is time-sensitive, baby. You know that. We need to end this.” He kisses my hands. “Nothing more. I promise.”

“My father—”

“If they knew something about your father, they’d warn me. We’re doing this in person because we’re dealing with the CIA and the government. Conversations are better held in person, not on the phone.” His phone buzzes with a text and he glances at the message. “Adam’s here. I’ll only be a few minutes. All is well. Or it will be when I’m in bed with you again.” He kisses my hands again and pushes to his feet, walking toward the bedroom door.

I watch him disappear into the hallway, all too aware of the fact that I don’t know what the right question was and he didn’t ask me to join him and Adam. All is not well.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Savage

I exit the bedroom with the sweet floral scent of Candace’s perfume clinging to my muddied skin, while my mood is decidedly edgy and with good reason. Adam wouldn’t be here, asking to see me in the garage, out of Candace’s hearing range, if there wasn’t yet another problem. I have an excess of damn problems. And the only thing I like in excess is Candace, guns, pizza, and tacos, no side order of more fucking problems.

Eager to get this over with, I cross through the kitchen and exit to the garage. Adam pushes off the hood of the Porsche where he’s sitting, arms crossed.

“You’re not bleeding,” I say, pulling the door shut and closing the space between us. “I assume you wanted me to fix that problem.”

“Two things,” he says when I step in front of him, close enough to keep our voices low and between us. “The good news first,” he continues. “Gabriel told his side chick that he’d stay in Austin for a few more days to ‘fuck her brains out.’ That’s a quote. To fuck her brains out. He’s a real romantic. I’m not sure what Candace is doing with a dud like you.”

As far as I’m concerned, he just told me I have more time alone with Candace, to win her back, and convince her to come back to New York with me. “What’s the bad, aside from the fact that he’s still breathing on the same planet?”

“Smith trailed Tag and his men to a house on the south side.”

“And that’s bad news why? Come on, man,” I add in frustration. “It’s like you want me to pull teeth and unless I’m torturing you and hate you, I don’t pull your fucking teeth. You’re getting close to that level, though. You’ve been warned.”

His hands settle on his hips and he studies me a moment before he says, “Apparently, you hurt Tag.”

“What’s he a sensitive emotional little bitch now?”

“Physically hurt Tag,” he clarifies.

“He needed a doctor. A doctor came to visit him.”

I’m not stupid. I know where this is going. I scrub my jaw, give him my back and then turn back around. “It was my father.”