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  ARMED

  AND

  DANGEROUS

  by

  NENIA CAMPBELL

  DEDICATION

  To you.

  Chapter One

  Catalyst

  Christina

  What is normal? It's a question everyone asks themselves at least once and has since man developed a sense of self—or since man first experienced the inception of modern adolescence. Whichever came first.

  It's like perfection: we all want to be perfect, but we don't know how to achieve it, or whether it even exists, but that doesn't stop us from spending our whole lives trying. As with perfection, the search for normality is eternal, and bitterly disappointing.

  I think it's pretty telling that after all this time we still don't have a solid answer to that question that plagues us, “What is normal?” Maybe that's because of how much easier it is to classify the things that violate our conceptions of normality than those which are actually representative of it. Maybe that's because such constructs, as we imagine them, don't even exist.

  When you think about it, it's kind of sad. We're so concerned with the idea of what we ought to be that we fail to take into account the things that make us who we really are.

  If I've learned one lesson from life, it's this: you can choose to take things as they come or you can let them destroy you because we all die in the end, either way. Some of us sooner than others.

  As I started to wake, my half-conscious musings fractured and fell apart, even as I struggled to retain them. Perhaps it was for the best; they were pretty morose considering I hadn't gotten out of bed yet.

  I yawned widely and rubbed the sleep dust from my eyes. Tangled chunks of hair were hanging in my face. I combed them out of the way, shivering a little when the strands tickled my neck.

  “What are you doing?”

  The sleep roughened voice bore a trace of Cajun lilt, like a splash of chiles in a thickly stewed pot of gumbo.

  “Nothing.”

  “You're shaking the bed,” Michael said, rolling over to face me. The action caused about half a dozen muscles to flex. “That's some kind of active nothing.”

  Seeing him undressed was difficult, not just because I was shy (I was), or because he was in better shape than me and that made me feel inadequate (it did), but because it was a reminder that his body was a weapon. He was a weapon. He could easily kill me.

  I know in romance novels one of the popular themes is a deadly man who could finish the heroine with one flick of his wrist, but manages to restrain his killer instincts out of his passionate love.

  The problem is, the instincts for survival are stronger even than the instincts for sex, and it only takes a few seconds to snap somebody's neck.

  If this is the way you think now, what will your thoughts be like at forty? Fifty? Eighty?

  Michael's eyes cracked open again, at exactly the right angle from the window, and I had difficulty looking away. I had never seen them so closely, not in such good light, and was struck by their beauty. There were bubbles of yellow caught in the green of his irises like bits of amber in free fall, winking in the dusty sunbeams filtering through the window.

  It gave him a vaguely feline look. More so when he rumbled, “So what were you doing?”

  “Stretching,” I said sheepishly.

  “You woke me up.” He leaned across the space between us as if he were going to kiss me. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  “No reason,” I whispered.

  But I knew. It was because he was magnificent, dangerous, like some golden beast of prey; it was because he held my heart in those strong, powerful hands, and he could crush me as easily as he could protect me; it was because I had always prided myself on being one whole individual, but he had broken me open and made himself right at home, and now I wasn't sure that I ever wanted him to leave.

  These feelings were new and confusing, and I knew that I had every right to be afraid, but Michael had awakened a part of me that no longer cared. That, in a way, was the most terrifying of all.

  “Hmm.” He leaned back against the pillows, oblivious to the turmoil that raged within me. “You're not going to get all weird on me.” Coming from him, it sounded more like a command than a question. “You're kind of quiet this morning.”

  He had no idea. I shook my head slowly.

  “You know that drives me up the wall.”

  “Everything drives you up the wall.”

  “Not sex.”

  Evidence of that was all around us, the clothes from last night scattered haphazardly on the floor.

  Remembering how good Michael looked in formal wear made my chest ache and reminded me of something Mamá had said to me long ago. Something along the lines of, “Don't ever trust a man who looks like a snake in a suit.”

  She never gave me any advice about what to do if the man in question looked even better out of it. I suppose the initial warning was supposed to keep the situation from progressing that far.

  Michael wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me closer. His erection dug into my pubic bone, as he whispered, “You drive me up the wall, though.” His lips scraped along my neck. “Fucking gorgeous, that's what you are. You have no idea how long—ever since that night on the boat—and the second taste was even better than the first.”

  But remembering that horrible night killed the mood. That cold, frightening night, when the smell of smoke and blood still filled my nostrils as he robbed me of my innocence.

  My stomach lurched, caught in the tide of my memories, and I pushed at his chest, putting space between us. “Don't,” I said, “please, don't talk about that night. It was…awful.”

  For a moment, he looked angry. Furious, even. Then resigned. He sighed, and his face softened when he caught sight of my expression, which must have been as wary as a dog that isn't sure whether to expect a pat or a kick. “I'm sorry. So sorry.”

  This time, I think he really did intend to kiss me, but, conscious of my morning breath and those bitter recollections, I turned my head away.

  I could feel him looking at me, half of him wanting to understand, half of him wanting to take. For several seconds, both of us were frozen, locked into fight or flight mode. He sighed again, breaking the tension, and resignedly kissed my cheek.

  To soften the sting of the rebuff, I cupped his face, tracing the half-healed scar running from his ear to his lip. The muscles twitched under my touch.

  “What are you doing to my face?”

  “Looking at your scar.” The pads of my fingers rasped along the stubble that peppered his hollow cheeks. “Does it still hurt?”

  Michael had closed his eyes, and did not open them as he said, “No.”

  “Not even a little?”

  I yelped when he snapped at my fingers with his teeth. “Stop trying to suss out my weak spots, you little temptress.”

  All jokes contain a kernel of truth, and beneath that teasing was a buried threat that warned me not to get too close. That was the frightening part. The part that made me wonder if being with him was worth it.

  I did not completely understand what held me captive to him. It was like the irresistible magnetism pulsing between two opposing poles. To explain the effect was to cheapen it, to make it redundant.

  Whatever the cause, the effect made me daring. He made me daring. Sometimes when I was with him I felt like a modern-day Scheherazade hoping that love would be able to ward off death.

  “I know one of your weaknesses.”

  Michael pulled his chin free from my lose hold.

  “Really.”

  Such a fine line between teasing and danger.

  “Me.”

  How little difference in intensity there was between pleasant wa
rmth and searing burn.

  He ran the back of his hand up and down my side, watching my skin dimple as it yielded to the pressure of his knuckles. “You. All hot and sweaty and naked, tangled up in my sheets.”

  “Yes?”

  He ran kisses along the pulse in my neck while sliding the sheet down from my breasts. I sucked in a breath at the cold air nipping against my skin and he chuckled breathily. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  And just like that, the game had become serious. I swallowed, and his eyes lowered to my throat, and then, after a swift flick back to my eyes, even lower.

  “I'm a mess,” I muttered, shifting uncomfortably. I was still tender and a little sore. He was a big man, and it was not in his nature to be gentle.

  “You look like you just got fucked long and hard.” Michael cupped my breasts. “It's a good look for you.”

  When I opened my mouth, a rusty squeak came out. “It is?”

  “Oh yes.” He traced his tongue along the corners of my mouth before tugging at my lower lip. “You should do it more often.” He flicked my nipple with his thumbnail. “How about right now?”

  Again, I pushed him away. “No.”

  I felt bad, but Michael wasn't the only uncertainty in my life right now. I had other, more imminently dangerous problems.

  “What's the matter now?” His voice was hoarse.

  I looked up into his face, searching for any trace of the reassurance I so desperately craved.

  Nothing.

  Michael could out-poker-face a slab of stone.

  “Do you really think the BN will take me on?”

  Impatience settled over his patrician features like a low-hanging cloud. “I answered that question last night, Christina.”

  “I know — but what if they don’t? How can you be so sure they will? What if they don't think I'm good enough? Doesn't that make me fair game?”

  “They haven't said no yet.”

  “They haven't said yes, yet, either. Don't you think we should at least look at the alternatives? At least hypothetically.” I liked having backup plans.

  Michael shook his head. “It's not like applying to the fucking Safeway. It won't happen overnight. They gotta do background checks, make sure you are who you say you are, that you can do what you promised.”

  “That's the thing. I can't hack into computers — not yet. What I told Hawk was basically an I.O.U.”

  This, too, had been gnawing at me since that discussion. I had said that I would learn tricks of the trade from my dad, but I hadn't gotten up the nerve to call him yet. I was afraid of his reaction, and of looking like a fool if the BN decided to renege.

  All those insecurities left over from high school were making a savage comeback.

  “It was a good enough I.O.U. that it caught and held his interest,” Michael pointed out. He seemed to be getting annoyed by this conversation. “He knows who your father is. Fuck, after what he did to our mainframe practically everyone who moves in our circles knows who he is. Knowing is half the battle.”

  “Was that a G.I. Joe reference?”

  Michael stared at me stonily.

  I guess not.

  “Anyway,” I said, “the BN might find someone more qualified. Someone who doesn't even need an I.O.U because they already have what they're promising to do for their organization.”

  “Who the fuck would that person be?”

  “I don't know. Someone with an authority complex fresh out of MIT or Stanford?”

  He shook his head again, mussing his mussed hair further. “Now you're just looking for reasons to worry.”

  “I am not.”

  “I don't want to hear another peep out of you about this until the man actually says no to you.” He let out his breath. “I've yet to meet a woman who frets half as much as you do.”

  “So what do you suggest I do?”

  The smile he gave me put the devil to shame as he nudged me back against the bed.

  “I have a few ideas.”

  I had been in the middle of my senior year when I had been snatched from my home by a man in a mask. He had kidnapped me because my father had hacked into the weapons logs of a group of organized mercenaries, and caused several of their terminals to crash by means of a computer virus called Pandora.

  My dad thought he was like Keanu Reeves in The Matrix, but he was more like Matthew Broderick in War Games. He really had no idea what he had gotten himself into until it was too late.

  In movies, kidnappers always have a soft spot, a story to tell — the man who had stolen me had none. His mission was to use me as a bargaining chip, and to question me, if at all possible, about my father's exploits.

  From the very beginning, he made it clear that he was in this for the money and nothing else. My life, especially, mattered little to him. He possessed a moral compass that swung towards money like true north, and was at times purposefully, horrifically cruel just to hammer in the point that he did not care.

  But he did. Yes, at some point he did start to care and that was when everything began to go to hell, because by that time I had learned to fear him and found his so-called love as frightening as his hatred or his indifference. Maybe more so.

  There is no redemption in a cruel man's love.

  It was hard to reconcile that man with the one who was in bed with me right now. Because Michael had changed, and he had done so for me.

  We cannot change our pasts — but maybe we can change our futures.

  Michael was not a good man in any sense of the word. He had killed people — I had seen him kill people, which was worse in a way, because it was harder to pretend it hadn't happened if I'd seen it firsthand. He had tortured people. He drank, and he lied, and when he got angry there was nowhere you could run fast enough to be safe from his wrath.

  Basically he was by most people's definition a very bad man. There was goodness in him but a prominent darkness tainted his tattered soul. And when I was with him, I sometimes wondered if doing so made me a bad girl, by proxy.

  It was something to think about.

  Sex turned Michael into a different person. It bought out a more playful side that made me wonder what kind of personality he would have under other circumstances. Jocular, maybe, like a guy in a frat.

  Or maybe he would have been shy and standoffish, with a hidden dark side.

  We kissed, breaking apart only to draw air.

  There was a flush in his cheeks, his eyes narrowed to slits. He was breathing hard, face slack with pleasure, and as I watched, he lolled his head back and let out a throaty roar that made me jump a little.

  I tried to imitate him, but my voice broke. I was so breathless. Michael looked at me. He bent his arms so that his torso was suspended mere centimeters above my own. His chest was slick against mine, hard and immobile.

  “Don't do that,” he said huskily.

  “Huh?” Speaking was hard. “Don't do what?”

  “Don't fake it. I'm not a goddamn moron. I can…tell the difference. Did you think I wouldn't notice?”

  I must have looked mortified.

  A smile curled the corners of his mouth.

  “I noticed you didn't come,” he said deliberately.

  I was glowing with heat, but now my face was burning even hotter. It became uncomfortable.

  “I was thinking about…something else.”

  More specifically, the BN, and whether or not they would permit me to work for them.

  Michael lightly pinched one of my nipples. “I find that offensive.”

  I swatted his hand away. “I'm worried.”

  He caught my wrist. “Don't even think about saying what I think you're going to say. And don't lie to me either.” He kissed me on the lips. “I know that look. You're as bad a faker as you are a liar.”

  “I'm getting better.”

  “And you're practicing on me? Mm-mm-mm. Didn't anyone ever tell you not to mix business — ”

  He pulled out of me, sliding back on the bed. His penis
brushed against my thigh as he bent and laved his tongue along the valley between my breasts.

  “ — and pleasure?”

  I squeaked in surprise when he pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss just below my navel. I tried to sit up, and he pushed me back down.

  “You're not getting away, cher.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  He flicked his tongue into my navel.

  “I'm going to fuck you with my mouth.”

  I stiffened when he lowered his head and nipped the inside of my thigh.

  “I'm going to tongue that sweet little cunt of yours until you scream.”

  My thoughts went momentarily blank as I felt his warm breath between my legs. I braced myself, tensing, but instead of moving up he switched to my other thigh and began to tease the tissue-thin skin.

  I shuddered. “Oh God.”

  “That's right,” he said. “Let it out. Let it all out. Don't hold anything back, darlin, so long as it's real.”

  Somewhere along the line, the boundaries between us — everything — had all grown distorted. It might have began when he traveled across the country with a bullet wound in his chest, just to save my life. Or when he slammed me up against his bathroom mirror and kissed me hard enough to bruise, and then told me he loved me in the most broken voice I'd ever heard. Or maybe it had been when we were in that beautiful sandstone cave, with the mineral striations that looked like oceans of fire when the light was right, and he confessed that the abuse he inflicted on me while I had been in his charge still haunted him every night.

  I didn't know when everything changed. Only that it had, and now I no longer knew what to do about my life except to take things in stride and try not to go made in the process.

  “Say my name, baby doll.”

  His voice, slightly muffled, drifted up towards my scarcely-hearing ears. He ran his tongue along the various folds and ridges that make up the landscape of a woman's pleasure, and then closed his mouth over the part of me that was a live wire and began sucking hard enough that I saw sparks.

  “Michael, please — ”

  “Scream it, Christina.”

  His teeth ran lightly over the outside ridges, following the natural grooves of the flesh, and my hips bucked right into his face. I tried to speak, to apologize, and then I felt him smile and he did it again, before switching back to his tongue and inserting a finger.