The Hell-Raiser : Men Out of Uniform Book 5 Read online

  Brown hair, the shade of melting chocolate, lay in messy irreverent waves on top of his head, and a jaw chiseled as though straight from the hand of Michelangelo rounded out a face that was too masculine to be called pretty, but was gorgeous all the same. Wide, firm but full lips casually drifted into a smile, one that held just the slightest hint of wicked arrogance, causing a deep dimple to emerge in the smooth hollow of his right cheek. A tremble eddied through her midsection and she longed to see his eyes, which, like hers, were hidden behind a pair of dark shades.

  He strode around the hood of his car, camera bag over his shoulder and met her next to her truck, then extended his hand. Huge, calloused, with blunt-tipped fingers and masculine veins. In a word, wonderful. Strong. Sensual. You could tell a lot about a person by their hands, Sarah Jane thought dimly, as she slipped her palm against his. Another little shock of sensation bolted through her and she smiled, deciding to pretend it didn’t happen. What the hell? It had worked for Scarlet O’Hara, hadn’t it?

  “Mick Chivers,” he said, his voice a raspy baritone that sizzled along her nerve endings and induced the irrational urge to weep. Or worse, giggle. Was it too much to hope for that he’d sound like Mickey Mouse sucking helium?

  Evidently.

  No! No! No! Not him! Not now! She didn’t have time for sex much less an inconvenient sexual attraction.

  “I’m Sarah Jane Walker,” she finally managed, her own voice a thready whisper she barely recognized. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mason’s amiable expression take on an odd look. No doubt wondering what the hell had happened to his employer. “It’s, er... It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  She’d never thought about those particular words before, but the mundane greeting suddenly took on a whole new meaning. She resisted the urge to jerk her hand back and bite her fist. In this case, pleasure and torture took on a synonymous translation because she could honestly say the pleasure of being near him was torturing her.

  Furthermore, those lips of his looked even better up close. His top lip, in particular, was rather overfull and when he smiled, a bit off-center. There was something equally sexy and endearing about that little imperfection.

  And he was going to be with her for the next five days. Second beyond second, minute by minute, hour after hour. She felt a trickle of sweat slide between her breasts and, because she’d somehow managed to lose her mind in the past minute, imagined it was his tongue.

  Geez God, and she thought it had been hot before.

  CHAPTER 3

  The fuzzy, out-of-focus pictures and the mug shot hadn’t done her justice, Mick thought as he stared down into Sarah Jane’s intriguing face, and the small but curiously firm hand presently shaking his had an even more interesting effect on the rest of his body--it immediately went into a full-on burn that had nothing to do with the blazing temperatures.

  This was internal.

  Not good, he noted, once again using those keen Ranger skills to deduce the obvious. A stream of blistering epithets raced through his head, a compliment to the environment and the unfortunate instant attraction currently blowing the top off his personal thermometer.

  She was his target, for chrissakes. Off-limits. Out of bounds. Out of play.

  Naturally, that made her all the more appealing to him.

  “Welcome to Monarch Grove,” Sarah Jane murmured. She had a nice voice, Mick decided. The perfect combination between throaty and feminine, and he instinctively knew she’d have a great laugh. Anyone who smiled so openly certainly wouldn’t try to repress a hearty chuckle. Refreshing, he decided. The women he occasionally dated--and that was a very loose translation because his career hadn’t left much time for traditional dating--tended to have more...affected charms.

  There was absolutely nothing affected about the woman standing in front of him.

  If she wore any make-up at all, she’d applied with a very light hand. Dressed in a pale pink T-shirt screen-printed with her company logo--Reclaiming the Past, an Architectural Savage Company--and a pair of white denim shorts, her thick caramel- streaked hair pulled into a ponytail, Sarah Jane simultaneously epitomized sexy, fresh-scrubbed and ready to work. Impressed, he stared down into her smiling face and wished he could see her eyes.

  The sunglasses, he decided moodily, were an attractive nuisance.

  “No trouble finding the place, I see.”

  Mick reluctantly tore his gaze away from Sarah Jane and directed his attention to the young man standing beside her who’d issued the statement.

  Ah, her protector, he thought, noting the territorial stance the boy/man had taken next to his employer. Funny, Mick thought. He would have expected her second in command to be both older and a bit more physically capable of actually helping her. Not to say this guy couldn’t...but he didn’t look like he did a whole lot of heavy lifting. “Not at all,” he said, smiling. “You must be Mason. Great directions.”

  Seemingly relaxing a bit, Mason smiled and murmured a thanks. “When did you get into town?”

  “Just now, actually,” Mick told him. “I thought I’d check into the Bed and Breakfast this afternoon when we finish up for the day.”

  “You’ve already made reservations then?” Sarah Jane asked, a furrow of concern emerging between her delicately slanting brows. He was suddenly hit with the almost irrepressible urge to lick one, to trace that gentle slope with his tongue.

  “Before I left Atlanta, yes,” struggling to focus. He hadn’t personally booked the room, of course. He assumed Payne had taken care of that. Either way, he knew he had a place to stay.

  “Oh, good,” she said, seemingly relieved. “Ordinarily there’s always a room available at Clara’s, but during the Fried Pie Festival space is at a premium.”

  Mick grinned. Ah, yes. The Annual Fried Pie Festival. Monarch Grove’s dubious claim to fame. “I saw the banners,” he said. All five-thousand of them, he added silently.

  As though reading his mind, a wry smile tugged at the corner of her distractingly ripe mouth. “You know us Southerners. We take our pie seriously.”

  “And if it’s fried, all the better,” Mason added. He nodded toward Sarah Jane and smiling, rocked back on his heels. “Sarah Jane has taken home the grand prize with her blackberry fried pies for the last three years. She’s always the one to beat.”

  Impressed, his gaze darted back to her once more. “Blackberry, eh?” The fruit suited her, Mick decided. Protected by thorny branches, but the reward was tart and sweet. He imagined her savoring a big juicy berry and felt his dick twitch in his jeans. Damn. “I’ll have to be sure and try one.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get your fill of pie while you’re here,” she said, a droll smile rolling around her lips. She released a breath and looked up toward the house. “I suppose we should get started.” She hesitated, shooting him a look of uncertainty. “I’m, er... I’m not exactly sure how this is supposed to work. Did you want to get any pictures of Mason and me before we went inside? Or are you just going to snap photos as we salvage the house?” Her shaded gaze found his once more. “This is all quite new to me.”

  Him, too, but now that she mentioned it, he supposed he would need to take several photos of her individually for the supposed “spread.” A perk, Mick decided, wishing he’d been acting more like a professional photographer than standing here gawking at her. Losing focus two minutes into his first assignment for Ranger Security sure as hell wasn’t a good sign. The memory of Huck’s concerned gaze rose like Lazarus from the dead in his mind’s eye, making his face heat with shame.

  Mick withdrew his camera from the bag and adjusted a couple of settings. “Actually, it would be great if I could get a few shots of you now.”

  Sarah Jane nodded. “Sure. Where do you want us?”

  Mick paused to peruse the grounds and for the first time really looked at the old house and surrounding area. The Milton Plantation was a sad old belle who, seemingly past her prime and beyond usefulness, appeared to have been abandoned by
her owners. The lawn had long ago surrendered the fight to creeping crab grass and tall weeds. Ragweed and Queen Anne’s Lace, their noble heads bobbing in the slight breeze, dotted the neglected landscape. A half-dozen live oaks, Spanish moss dripping from their limbs, provided shade beneath their leafy, gnarled branches. A single rose bush, decked out in dozens of fist-sized, pale pink blooms, defiantly clung to the side of the house near the corner of the porch and curled around the rotten, gap-toothed railing.

  Fancy fretwork sagged like spent, dirty lace from the eaves of the enormous two-story structure and pretty spindles--the few that remained around the upper porch--listed slightly to the right. But despite the broken window panes, peeling paint and rotten boards, it was easy to see the old house had been a showplace during her heyday.

  An unexpected pang of...something hit him--regret maybe?--while staring at the exterior. Though he hadn’t touched a hammer since the last time he’d visited his grandfather--almost a year ago, he thought, startled at how much time had gotten away from him--he was suddenly hit with the lunatic urge to set in on the repairs. Replace the rotten wood, level up the foundation, strip away the blistered paint and replace it with a glossy new coat of antique white. It could be beautiful again, Mick thought, as a corrected mental image of the old home place surfaced in his mind.

  A carpenter by trade, Charlie Chivers certainly hadn’t let those summers Mick had spent with him go to waste. While no one would ever mistake Mick for a master carpenter, he knew his way around a toolbox, and had always taken great pride in helping his grandfather with his work.

  Frankly, he’d always looked forward to those summers, learning new things, better ways to repair and build. At the end of the day, he’d never failed to be pleasantly exhausted and proud of what he’d accomplished. Though he could say the same for every successful mission he’d made for Uncle Sam, Mick had to admit the levels of satisfaction had been...different. He couldn’t say one had been any better than the other, but they certainly hadn’t been the same.

  Funny, until now he’d forgotten about that, about how much he’d enjoyed the weight of the hammer in his hand, the weariness in his muscles at the end of the day.

  “It’s a shame, isn’t it?” Sarah Jane asked, as though reading his thoughts.

  Mick felt a sigh slip past his lips. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “A total waste. What happened?”

  “The usual. Lack of finances.” She shrugged. “One drought too many. The family ultimately scattered, each pursuing their own dreams.” She gestured to the land surrounding the house. “It takes more than a few people to run a farm of this size. Smaller families, less help and lesser money. Eventually the bank foreclosed and Ervin Manus bought the place at auction on the courthouse steps for less than the cost of a new car.” The note of bitterness in her voice was unmistakable. “The house is scheduled for demolition in a couple of weeks. He’s putting in a dirt bike track out here. Says the landscape is perfect.”

  Damn, Mick thought. He’d been wrong. It was more than a waste--it was criminal.

  “It took a lot of fast talking to get him to agree to let me do the salvage,” she continued. Her lips twisted into a forced smile. “He didn’t want me messing up his ‘dozer ‘schedule.’”

  Mick inclined his head. “Ah, well. You wouldn’t want to get between a man and a bulldozer, that’s for sure.”

  “Ervin’s a cretin,” Mason remarked, disgusted. For some reason the boy/man put him in mind of an overweight Shaggy from the Scooby Doo cartoons. “But you can bet that will never happen again. We put every bank in a hundred mile radius and all of the corresponding county clerk’s offices on notice.”

  “I would have bought it myself had I known,” Sarah Jane explained at his puzzled look.

  Surprised, Mick arched a brow. “For yourself?”

  Though she didn’t sigh, Mick watched her shoulders droop a bit. Sarah Jane looked up at the house, her unreadable gaze still hidden behind those damned sunglasses. She finally turned to him and, pulling a slight shrug, smiled. He felt the impact of that casual grin resonate oddly through him. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I just hate to see it destroyed. Renovated, this house and property would make a lovely home for a family.” She grimaced and kicked at an errant rock at her feet. “Knowing that it’s going to be razed and a dirt track put in its place, frankly, makes me sick to my stomach.”

  Him, too, and he shouldn’t give a damn. About the house, or about how losing it made her feel. He wasn’t here to care. Until he learned otherwise, he was here on behalf of Chastity Walker, her step-mother, and nothing more. He was here because he’d almost gotten a man killed, because Huck had taken pity on him and gotten him a damned job he wasn’t sure he even wanted and damned sure didn’t deserve.

  He was here because his life was in total shambles and he couldn’t afford another screw-up.

  Mick took a couple of steps, lifted his camera and pulled Sarah Jane’s intriguingly beautiful profile into focus, framing the first shot of his target.

  She was that, dammit, and nothing more. He’d do well to keep that in focus.

  * * *

  Sarah Jane snuck through the backdoor into Clara’s kitchen just as Tina was smacking Chase’s hand away from a take-out container. “That’s not for you,” she admonished.

  Tall, blonde and gorgeous, with a dimpled cheek and baby blue eyes, Chase smiled, looking wounded, and shot her one of those slaying glances that never failed to make her friend melt. “What? You didn’t save me a plate?” He lowered his voice an octave. “You know I love your lasagna.”

  “Yeah, well, so do I,” Sarah Jane said, before her friend could swoon. She wearily dropped her purse onto the worn butcher block counter and took a seat at the little antique table reserved for back-door guests. “Back off, buddy. You should have called her.” It was a jibe with double meaning and, judging by the momentary uncomfortable look Chase’s face, he knew it.

  Tina blinked, seemingly coming out of a trance, then huffed an exasperated breath and jerked her head toward the table. “Sit down,” she relented, predictably. “I’ll share mine with you.” She shot him a look. “But you can fix your own tea.”

  A wry smile tugged at the corner of Chase’s mouth. “You’re a hard woman, Tina,” he needled, sauntering over to the pitcher on the counter.

  Tina heaved a put-upon sigh. “Shut up or I’ll change my mind.”

  Doubtful, they all knew, but it was fun watching the exchange. Tina had been in love with Chase for as long as Sarah Jane could remember--easily since junior high--and Chase, while notoriously set on remaining single, couldn’t seem to make up his mind between Tina and Laura Irving, one of Chastity’s best friends, sadly with the same set big breasts and questionable morals. Laura delighted in keeping Chase on the line and would occasionally reel him in just for the sport of it.

  More than anything, it bothered her to see Tina continue to hold out hope for a relationship Sarah Jane wasn’t all too sure would ever materialize more than beyond it was--flirtatious banter punctuated with the occasional night of hot sex. In her opinion, it was time for Chase to fish or cut bait. In fact, if he didn’t do one or the other here in the near future, she’d more than likely tell him so.

  She was sweet like that.

  Tina retrieved another plate from the cupboard along with some silverware and, though a faint smile curved her mouth and a blush of pleasure had washed over her cheeks, grudgingly set them down before Chase.

  Sarah Jane repressed a grin and helped herself to a steaming square of lasagna. A groan of pure pleasure eddied off her loaded tongue as she savored the creamy ricotta and marinara mixture.

  Chase quirked an evil brow. “So that’s what does it for you, eh?”

  Sarah Jane rolled her eyes, enjoying her dinner. “Shut up,” she said. “Honestly, is sex the only thing you men ever think about?”

  Chase calmly took a sip of tea, then leaned back and scratched his chest. Probably because scratching his balls w
ould have been rude, Sarah Jane thought, suppressing a laugh. “Nope. We think about football, too.”

  Ignoring Chase, Tina’s wicked gaze found hers and Sarah Jane knew before she even opened her mouth what was coming. “Speaking of doing it for you, I saw your photographer come in this afternoon.”

  The ooh-la-la wasn’t spoken, but implied enough to cause Chase’s gaze to sharpen. His fork stalled halfway to his mouth and he frowned. “Photographer? What photographer?”

  Heat simultaneously scorched the tops of Sarah Jane’s ears and thighs at the mere thought of Mick Chivers. Of those mouth-wateringly wide shoulders and that intensely carnal mouth, specifically.

  Rather than admit that she’d been in a constant state of miserable, bone-melting arousal all day, Sarah Jane told herself the day-on-end one-hundred degree-plus heat had made her entire system malfunction. This low hum in her belly and persistent tingle between her legs was the result of dehydration, extreme heat and the general lack of sex in her life. She was having such a strong reaction to Mick because he was new and interesting and, because she hadn’t been able to resist a little prying, single.

  All of those factors combined had tangled around her woefully deprived libido, taken one look at Mick, and gone haywire.

  Logically, she knew all of this.

  But attraction was rarely logical and Sarah Jane knew no matter how many times she tried to tell herself this--or how many excuses she made for her bitch-in-heat behavior--the outcome would be the same.

  Simply put, she was in lust.

  To the nth degree.

  She glumly cleared her throat. “Oh? He’s settled in, then?”

  Tina snorted. “The man doesn’t look like he ever ‘settles’, but if you mean has he checked into a room, then the answer is yes.” She shot her a reproachful look. “Why didn’t you tell me he was gorgeous when you called?”