The Storm That Is Sterling (19 page)

“Recovered fully,” he said.

Her shoulders relaxed, and she stepped away from the door. “Oh good.”

“Did you recognize the man with the knife, Becca?”

Her brow crinkled in this cute, pensive way as she considered. “No.” She thought a bit more and shook her head. “Definitely not. But then I was pretty focused on the knife in his hand. Should I?”

“No,” he said, not willing to scare her into thinking there were enemies inside the Renegade camp when he still had to convince her he was a friend.

“You were talking about me on the phone.”

“Yes,” he said, seeing no point in lying, but neither did he plan to tell her any more than he had to.

He reached for her arm. “How’s my magnificent T-shirt bandage holding up?”

She ignored the joke. “It seems fine,” she said. “I’m barely bleeding, and the pain is going away. What did… whoever that was on the phone… Caleb, I assume… say about me?”

He considered his response. ICE was healing her cut, just as it was healing her cancer. Who wouldn’t desire a cure? A promise of another day, another minute. Another breath.

Yet, everything inside him screamed with trust. Desire, lust, want, need. He was screaming a lot of things where Becca was concerned, but trust was in there. And damn it, he didn’t want to be a fool. He didn’t want to risk the lives of many because this woman had gotten under his skin somehow.

“You’re dangerous,” he said, intentionally giving her an emotional push to put distance between them, shutting her out before he lost his ability to do so. Before this woman did more than get under his skin. Before she crawled right into his soul and turned all that black sludge living there into a mushy, pink pushover.

Her chin lifted defiantly. “Says the wolf to Little Red Riding Hood. If anyone is dangerous, it’s you.”

He almost laughed at how true that was. “That’s right, little girl,” he said, and before he could stop himself, his hands slipped around her slender waist, and he pulled her close, his lips near her ear. “And we both know how easy it would be for me to gobble you up.”

Sexual tension radiated through his body to hers, hers to his. Her breath, warm and seductive, fanned his neck. His groin tightened, his body heated with demand. Memories of her on top of him, her breasts high, her nipples pink and pebbled, flashed in his mind. The thought of having her naked, all that creamy white skin pressed close, taunted him. Her body, hot and wet, wrapped around him, riding him.

With a low growl, Sterling set her back, put distance between them before he really did gobble her up and enjoyed every minute of doing it. Before he left her with that psychic imprint they had to avoid.

“I want you, Becca,” he said. “But there are reasons I can’t have you, a lot of reasons. The least of which being that if we were intimate, you’d carry the tracking residue.”

She drew a shaky breath and let it out, that full bottom lip of hers that he so flipping adored, quivering. “Yeah, well, I can’t trust you either,” she said, clearly assuming that was what he meant.

“But you want to.”

Reluctantly, she admitted, “Yes, I want to.”

He arched a brow. “And?”

Confusion touched her. “And what?”

“And you want
me
.”

Her eyes went wide. “You want me to say I want you?”

He nodded. “That’s right. I admitted I want you. We might not have trust, but we might as well be honest with each other.”

She shook her head as if clearing cobwebs. “You do realize that statement made absolutely no sense. Trust and honesty are the same. And based on that reality, I could say I want you and be lying.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “So humor me. Say it.” He didn’t know why he wanted to hear it so badly. He saw it in her eyes, and he’d tasted it in her kisses.

“Okay then,” she said. “Yes. I want you.”

His lips lifted in a smile at her confession. He had no idea why making her admit that out loud meant so much to him, why he’d burned for it so badly, but he had, and he did, and he liked it a lot. One hell of a lot.

She shook her head. “I could be lying.”

His smile widened. “But we both know you aren’t.”

***

Adam and Dorian materialized in two silent strands of wind inside the parking garage where Tad awaited their arrival.

“Well?” Adam demanded of Tad. “Where is she?”

“Her tracking device was removed,” he said. “But she couldn’t have gotten too far. We have men all over the garage looking for her.”

Adam leveled Tad in a stare. “This happened how?”

“We had her at the motel,” Tad assured him. “But your brother showed up. He put himself in the line of fire to protect the woman, knowing we would not kill him.”

Dorian tilted his head to the side. “My uncle is very strategic, isn’t he, Father?”

“He is,” Adam agree. “A talent we will appreciate more when he has joined our cause.”

“I wish to meet him,” Dorian said.

“You will,” Adam assured him. “Just as the world will soon meet you.”

Dorian tilted his head, staring into space a moment. “The woman is no longer in the garage,” he said, clearly using his ability to read the recent events that had occurred within an energy source.

“Can you find her, Dorian?” Adam asked, never underestimating his son. Though the woman had not been marked with a psychic imprint that a Tracker would need to follow a target, his son was far more advanced.

Dorian stared blankly into space as he often did when accessing new skills. “No,” he finally said. “But they removed the tracking device here in this garage. It left a certain energy residue.” He tilted his head again. “Interesting. I can reach the part of her mind that feels pain, Father. Would you like me to make her feel pain for betraying you?”

“You can make her feel pain from a distance?”

“Yes,” he said. “But it must be from this location, where that energy is strongest.”

Adam was pleased. “Could you cause her enough pain to kill her?”

A slow smile slid onto Dorian’s lips. “I do believe I would enjoy trying.”

Becca followed Sterling into what looked to be a typical sterile, well-equipped lab. She scanned the room—several tables, microscopes, and the appropriate high-tech machinery.

She cut Sterling a sideways look, intent on asking him a question that she’d completely forgotten. He was leaning lazily on the doorjamb, his T-shirt torn from where he’d made her bandage, rippling abdominals exposed. Her mouth watered as she thought of touching all that taut hard muscle, and she dragged her gaze from the deliciously tempting sight to find him watching her, heat in his eyes. As if he knew what she was thinking.

She watched him too, unwilling to shy away. She’d had a few lessons lately on embracing life while she had it, and she wasn’t going to waste it being embarrassed. And Sterling was just plain hot—indeed, she thought once again—a man her fantasies were made of. Tall and blond, hard in all the right places, he was a stud muffin like she’d never seen the likes of. She did want him. What woman in her right mind would not?

That he wanted her only made her hotter. That he didn’t take her when he knew darn well she couldn’t resist him… that only made her want him more. His concern about creating a psychic imprint built trust, no matter how much she hated the restriction—if a girl had to die, let her die in pleasure.

Becca delicately cleared her throat. “I assume you evacuated any staff for fear I might cause them injury?”

“We don’t keep a scientific staff here anyway,” he said, neither denying nor confirming her accusation.

“Point for you for being good at avoiding questions,” she said, making sure he knew she wasn’t accepting that answer.

Becca moved to stand beside a cabinet of supplies and removed two items she needed to draw her own blood. “I assume your people want my blood.” She sat down on a stool. “So do I. How about drawing it for me? I can do it, but I’ve never been fond of sticking myself.”

“What makes you think I know how?”

She laughed. “Aside from the exceptional T-shirt tourniquet you made? I know the GTECHs are all ex-Special Forces. That means trained medics. Not to mention you sliced my arm up like a pro.”

He pushed off the door and sauntered to stand in front of her. Her gaze slid over those long legs hugged by snug denim, but not before she grabbed one more inspection of those abs.

“What I did to your arm had nothing to do with medic training and everything to do with necessity,” Sterling said, reaching for the needle and syringe. “I had to get that device out of your arm before the Zs found us.”

“Zs?” she asked. “Right. Got it. Zs are the Zodius.” She wrapped a rubber band around her upper arm. The good one. “As for my arm, as painful as slicing it open was, I’m glad you did it. You were protecting me. So far, if I have to be a prisoner—I’d rather be one here.”

He stilled, the syringe midway to her arm, his gaze snagging hers. “We don’t want to keep you a prisoner, Becca,” he said, standing close. So close. Too close. Not close enough. “It’s about keeping everyone safe, you included.”

“I know.” She studied him—the square jaw, high cheekbones, full lips. He was a beautiful man. Before she could stop herself, she reached up and touched his cheek. He didn’t move, but she could feel the instant awareness in him, see the darkening of his pupils, feel the heat radiate off his body. But he didn’t move, didn’t reach for her, or stop her.

She allowed her fingers to glide over the stubble forming on his jaw, her gaze following the movement, amazed at how sensual the contrast between her softness and the roughness of those whiskers aroused her. Someone had once told her that when you tasted death, life found new texture. Perhaps it was true.

She swallowed hard. Death. It always had a way of shaking her right back into reality. Becca pulled her hand back and forced herself to remember what they’d been talking about. She was a prisoner. And he was her captor but claimed he didn’t want to be. He had no choice. She got that. Really she even understood it.

“You don’t have a choice but to keep me prisoner,” she said. “I put everyone to sleep, and even if I didn’t, Adam is coming for me. So either way, I’m confined. I get that.” She held out her arm for the blood draw. “Let’s get this over with. I’m ready to have at least an hour or two without needles and knives. Draw five vials,” she told him. “But I get three. Your people can have two. And before you argue, it’s my blood. I decide.”

He hesitated an instant, as if he wanted to say more, but then didn’t. He did what she’d said and drew her blood. Becca rather liked ordering Sterling around and having him actually comply. That he did—well—that was another point for trust. No one inside Zodius would have let her order them around. “My people can be your people too,” he said, finishing the task, and then pressed a piece of cotton on her arm. He folded it at the elbow and held it there.

“I need to know the Renegades are really who you say they are before that can happen,” she said. “I need proof.” He stared at her, his eyes piercing hers, delving so deeply she felt they were touching her soul. All the while his thumb stroked a lazy pattern over her wrist. Warmth spread across her skin, up her arm, over her neck.

“You’ll get your proof,” he said finally, as if whatever he was looking for in that inspection he’d found. “Let me check out my handiwork.” He shifted his attention to her shoulder. “See if I need to throw a couple stitches in that arm for you.”

“You don’t,” she assured him, but let him unwrap her arm and study the wound. “It’s almost healed, and the pain is all but gone. It must not have been as deep as it felt.”

He tossed the T-shirt in the trash, and she glanced at her arm, confirming the wound had already begun to close.

“If ICE heals you this quickly,” he said thoughtfully, “then surely Adam was right when he said ICE would cure your cancer.”

Adam had told her the same thing, but she’d not dared to really believe it. She wet her suddenly dry lips and cursed the hope that flared inside her. She didn’t want another crushing blow, like the failure in Germany. “It doesn’t really matter unless we find an antidote for withdrawal. Until then, I’m dead when we run out of ICE.”

He reached for her, and she held up a hand. “Don’t. Don’t feel sorry for me. God, please don’t feel sorry for me.” She laughed without humor. “That’s
exactly
everything
I don’t want from you or anyone else.”

He stared at her, his gaze probing, seeing too much. “You don’t have to go through this alone anymore. You have me. And you have the Renegades, who are my family, who can be yours.”

Not family. The people obligated to care for her, like the families at the cancer treatment center. The idea of that just destroyed her. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Becca,” he said softly, trying to reach for her again.

She scooted off the lab stool and backed away from him, thankful he didn’t pursue, yet upset that he didn’t. “We need to find a common denominator in the ICE deaths. A variation in the ICE formula. A blood type. Sickle cell. Arthritis. It could be anything. It could be they are all smokers. Or they’re diabetic. I need to run tests, and I need the records you have so I can get to work. Bodies would be better.”