Wicked Edge

Temper roared through her, and she planted her feet at the top of the stairs, only to slide across the wet surface.

“Ma’am,” said the nearest faceless soldier, reaching for her arm.

She jerked free and rounded on him. “I swear, if one more person calls me ‘ma’am’ or apologizes for the inconvenience of dragging me off a very nice beach in Maui several hours ago, I will take his gun and shoot him.”

The man’s expression didn’t change. “Yes, ma’am.”

She bit down a scream. “All right. Listen up. We are in Seattle, and I know we’re in Seattle.” She pressed her hands against chilled hips and tried to stand taller. “Do you know how I know?”

“No, ma’am.” Well trained, definitely at ease, the soldier kept his gaze above her right shoulder.

“I know,” she said slowly and through gritted teeth, “because I looked out the bloody window when we were landing. The next time you kidnap somebody, you might want to blacken out the windows.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded his head, ever so slightly, toward the doorway to the plane.

“This is kidnapping, and I’ve had it. We’re in Seattle, and yep, guess what? I live here. So I’m going to head home, take an incredibly hot shower, change my clothes, and then call—well, somebody. Anybody who will tell me what the hell is going on.” Her rant would end perfectly if she could just get past him on the steps, but he easily blocked her way.

“All apologies, ma’am, but our orders are to escort you. Please embark.” He kept his voice level and polite.

She swallowed. There were six of them, one of her, and no way would she win a physical altercation. “Not until you tell me where we’re going.”

“Nora?” A voice called from inside the plane. “Get your ass in here.”

Every nerve she owned short-circuited. Her gut clenched as if a fist had plowed into her solar plexus. Slowly, spraying water, she pivoted toward the opening. It couldn’t be. It really couldn’t be.

The voice she knew so well. Male, low, slight Scottish brogue a decade in the States hadn’t quite banished. Her heart thundered, and fire skidded across her abdomen to flare deep. How was this even possible? She steeled her shoulders and approached the opening of the plane as if a bomb waited inside. So many thoughts rioted through her brain, she couldn’t grasp just one.

Warmth hit her first when she stepped inside, followed by another shock wave. “Deacan Devlin McDougall,” she murmured.

He stretched to his feet from one of the luxurious leather chairs, standing in the aisle—the only place high enough to accommodate his six-foot-four frame.

All the thoughts zinging around her head stopped cold.

Nothing. Her brain fuzzed. The years had been good to him, experience adding an intriguing look of danger to his masculine beauty.

His green gaze, dark and piercing, scored her see-through shirt, light wrap, and bare legs. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for the extraction.”

Her chin lifted. Heat seared through her lungs, lifting her chest, and she slowly tried to control her body. No way would she let him see how difficult he made it for her to breathe—even after all this time.

He wore faded jeans over long legs and a dark T-shirt across a broad chest—no uniform. But the gun strapped to his leg was military issue, now wasn’t it? The weapon, so silent and deadly, appeared at home on his muscled thigh.

His dark brown hair, glinting with red highlights, now almost reached his shoulders. Very different from the buzz cut he’d had years before. His eyes, the green of a Scottish moor, held secrets, unplumbed depths, and promise. Chiseled face, hard jaw, and definite warrior features proudly proclaimed his ancestry, and even now, she could see the Highlander in him.

The door banged shut behind her, and she jumped.

He gestured toward the seat across from the one he’d occupied. The engines roared to life.

She faltered. “Where are we going?”

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