Maxi was Miles’s soon-to-be-wife, and in fact, they would probably beat Justice and Fallon to the altar. After Fallon’s very sheltered and secluded upbringing, Justice was determined to make up for all she had missed. The big lug made it his life’s mission to wine, dine and woo his fiancée. Since Fallon, who was no longer insecure, beamed with happiness, they all figured Justice—at least in this instance—knew what he was doing.
“When’s the wedding?” Brand asked.
“She’s still remodeling the kitchen, so who knows?” Miles smiled. “She wants the wedding on the farm.”
Since Maxi had inherited the property from her grandmother, it had a lot of sentimental value. Miles had worked it out—with Sahara’s help—so he could be a bodyguard, and live with Maxi there.
“We’re all going out there next Sunday to build a gazebo by the pond,” Leese said. “Want to join us?”
Brand asked, “Will Sahara be there?”
Miles shrugged. “Not sure it’s her thing, you know?”
Two days ago, Brand would have thought the same. But not now. “Text me your plans and I’ll ask her. If she’s not interested, she’ll say so, right?”
They both stared at him.
Miles was the first to crack, grinning widely. “A-ha. So you two are involved. I knew it.”
He didn’t mind saying “Maybe. I’m still figuring it out.”
Leese asked, “So are you going to join the agency?”
“I’m not sure about that either. I can’t see me being involved with my boss, you know?”
Leese chuckled. “That’d be different, wouldn’t it? Especially with a steamroller like Sahara.”
Exactly. Brand rubbed the back of his neck, then admitted, “I have other things to consider, too.”
“MMA?” Leese guessed.
“Yeah. There are some...family issues I have to figure out.”
“If I can help, let me know, okay?”
That was nearly identical to what Miles had told him. Damn, he had good friends. “Think you could show me the suite before I head up there with Sahara? I’d like to get an idea of the layout.”
They knew now that he’d be staying the night with Sahara. Only Justice had complained, mostly because he’d rather be the one to guard her. They all respected her a lot, and more than that, they were fond of her.
Steamroller or not, Sahara was a very endearing woman.
To Brand, she was also sexy as hell.
*
ROSS MORAN WALKED through the posh club to a private meeting room in the back. Loud music vibrated against his skull and rattled in his chest. Strobe lights pricked at the periphery of his vision.
He fucking hated clubs. The monotonous techno beat, the writhing press of too-warm bodies, the overt sexuality. He liked seduction. He liked the hunt.
Give him a quiet dinner, an idle walk in the park, a secluded boat ride on the river any day over the chaos of a club’s let’s-hook-up atmosphere.
Sahara didn’t like clubs either. In all his research on her, he hadn’t found any instance of her indulging in the singles scene. No, she was more about business meetings, business dinners and swanky business parties.
The woman was all business—but he planned to change that.
One way or another.
Without knocking, Ross turned the doorknob and entered the room, his gaze sweeping over the occupants and the exits, gauging the situation in a single glance.
About what he expected: decadent perversion.
In the mere seconds it took him to make that assessment, a thick, no-neck goon moved to block him. Big mistake.
Ross landed a heavy punch to his gut and, before the man staggered back, easily took the gun from his hand.
“Call him off,” Ross ordered, “before I do real damage.”
Alarm flashed in the eyes of US District Attorney Douglas Grant. He clasped the narrow hips of the young lady grinding over his lap and shrugged off the other who stood at his side, her tongue in his ear.
“It’s fine,” he said quickly to No-neck, who’d already recovered only because Ross hadn’t wanted to maim the lesser man for attempting to do his job, and Grant knew it. To the others in the room, he said, “Leave us.”
One suited guest stood with prudent speed and made a beeline for the door, veering off only to move cautiously around Ross. Another refined fellow, more curious than wise, was a little slower but still gave him a wide berth.
The women, stripped down to their lingerie to show off enormous fake boobs and skinny butts, appeared too young for such world-weary expressions.
Ross opened his wallet and pulled out a few hundreds, passing them over to the girl still straddling Grant’s lap.
“Sorry,” Ross explained, “but I need at least a half hour.”
Grant sputtered, “But...”
One dark look silenced him. “Thirty private minutes.”
“I already paid!”
“You can afford it.” He winked at the woman. “You’ll share that, right?”
She slipped away from Grant and, eyes pretending interest, smiled at Ross. “Of course, baby. We work together and share everything.”
Instead of that enticing him, as she’d no doubt planned, Ross felt pity. No woman that young should ever be that desperate. It wasn’t like Grant, at almost fifty, carrying thirty extra pounds and blessed with a loose jaw, had anything to draw a lady other than his political power and bank account.
But then, for some women, that was more than enough.
He briefly wondered what Grant had planned for the evening. A threesome with guests watching? Sick prick. Maybe that’s how he kept his stature, by lording it over the underlings.
He had plenty of vile friends who encouraged and enjoyed his activities. Some more than others—which is how he’d first gotten involved with Grant.
Ross took the woman’s arm—as much to keep her from getting too close as to get her out of the room. Glittered lotion covered her skin, and now his palm. The sickening scents of cheap perfume and cheaper alcohol assaulted his nostrils. Her friend, looking more than a little baked, followed along in a stumble.
Fake bodies and paid-for compliance had never been his thing.
His appetites led more toward real women, with soft natural curves stacked around strength of character and a confident attitude. Yeah, that’s how he thought of Sahara Silver. Loads of attitude, haughty independence, an angel’s face and a sinner’s body.
Perfection, that’s what she was. Bending her to his will would be the sweetest satisfaction. He’d accomplish it gently, but firmly. And she’d end up loving it.
After minimal insistence, he got the ladies out the door, then turned with a smirk. “Damn, Grant, you’re the embodiment of irony.” As the DA, he was supposed to clean up shit like this, not contribute to it.
“It was a private moment,” Grant growled.
“With two suck-ups and lackluster protection as your audience? Twisted.” How such a high-profile social climber managed to skirt the inevitable scandal amazed Ross. “Wasn’t it you who hired me to get rid of your niece’s boy toy? Is she still mourning his early demise?”
“Shut up,” Grant hissed, his gaze frantically searching every corner of the dim—and empty—room. “There are cameras everywhere.”
Ross laughed aloud. “So having a couple of teenagers grind on you is okay, but no mention of your business?”
Grant half came out of his seat before thinking better of it and sinking back to the chair. “What do you want, Ross?”
He approached the table, pulled out a chair and sat to skewer Grant with his gaze. “You owe me, Douglas. I’m here to collect.”
Color washed out of the older man’s face. Voice lowered to a strained whisper, he asked, “What do you mean? I paid you.”
“To do various jobs, yes. But not to lie for you.” As a special job for Grant, he’d run off a whiny little shithead who, according to Grant, was “using his niece to try to blackmail his way into a fortune.” Ross suspected the young man had to go for a very different reason.
When it came to Grant’s niece, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. They were both sexual deviants.
Grant assumed he’d killed the punk. Ross preferred to make him disappear a different way—by scaring him out of town and making it clear he might not survive if he ever came back. Contact with the niece was strictly forbidden.
The nitwit had understood and vanished without a trace.
Shortly after Ross had accomplished his mission, they’d discovered that an undercover cop had been investigating the shithead for some serious drug peddling.