Storm Warning (Security Specialists International Book 4) (8 page)

She sighed with satisfaction. Already she worked in tandem with the well-trained SSI operatives. But she wasn’t happy to discover—even after her internal pep talk—she was still somewhat breathless at the sight of Stuart.

Keely came around the front of the building and joined Vanko and her brother. She spotted DJ and waved, a big smile on her face. “Hey, DJ, come closer and meet Vanko and Tweeter.”

Meet Stuart? Actually talk to him?

She’d sooner have nails driven into her skull.

Gut it up, Dahlia Jane. You’ll probably never see him most of the time. You can be pleasant.

DJ plastered what she hoped was an interested, friendly expression on her face and strode through the snow to meet the two men. And damn, if her panties didn’t get wetter at just the thought of shaking hands with Stuart.

Gawd, why now? Why this man?

The cause of her angst eyed her with a gleam in what turned out to be ice blue eyes—wolf eyes—set off by long, thick dark lashes any woman would lust after.

Shit.
She had to shut this attraction down—and fast.

When Keely shouted, Tweeter looked up.

DJ Poe walked toward them. She was tall. She was armed—and carried herself like the baddest bad ass in all of Idaho. Sweet blonde curls escaped a dark watch cap. She had the face of an angel and eyes the color of a tropical sea.

Her expression reminded him of the one Keely had worn as a thirteen-year-old entering her first class at M.I.T; it was a mixture of fear and tenacity. DJ was scared, but wasn’t about to let it rule her.

A potent combination of tenderness and lust stormed through his body as ferociously as the winds raging around them. He willed his ill-timed sexual desire to subside. DJ didn’t need to see the evidence of his instant attraction. He was well aware of her background prior to entering the Army. Dev and Andy had given him, Ren, and Keely a heads up about her early years in Red Bone. He knew all about DJ’s bastard of an abusive father and about the sexual attack she’d endured at the hands of Sean Varney. He definitely didn’t want DJ to think of him as a sexual predator like the man who’d raped her.

Tweeter had been predisposed to like DJ—she’d saved his brother and his MARSOC team’s lives at the risk of her own. He recognized what an asset she’d be for SSI—her classified files indicated she had an impressive skill set and a high IQ.

But all his brothers’ mission anecdotes, the details of her early years in West Virginia, the dry vital statistics, and the two-dimensional military photos hadn’t prepared him for the in-the-flesh DJ Poe. There was no way he could’ve prepared for the fiery lust she’d ignite in him—and, probably, in every unattached male within the sight of her sexy body and sound of her low, honeyed tone of voice.

Fuck!
Was DJ already beyond his reach? All four of his horn-dog brothers had seen her first. Had any of them staked a claim? The Walsh brothers had a no-poaching rule after two dates.

That was a definite need-to-know. ASAP.

And if she wasn’t claimed by one of his brothers, then he’d work carefully to gain her trust. He never wanted to be the man to put fear in her eyes.

When DJ stopped opposite him, she avoided looking at him or the others. Instead, she glared at the merc at Tweeter’s feet who spat out a stream of colloquial Spanish at DJ’s approach.

“What did he say, DJ?” He had a fairly good guess—Spanish profanity was similar in most dialects. “That wasn’t the Mexican Spanish I’m used to.”

Tweeter was interested in how she’d respond, but he also wanted to shift her attention to him.

DJ looked up. Her aquamarine-colored eyes were beautiful. For several breaths, she said nothing. Her mouth thinned and her gaze grew fierce … then wary … then afraid … and, finally, back to fierce.

Why all the conflicting emotions? She was among friends. The danger was over. The civilians were safe. The bad guys taken down with dispatch and a lot of skill by her, Callie, and Keely.

The fierceness didn’t bother him; he liked strong women. The fear could be chalked up to a new job, meeting new people. But the wariness seemed to be aimed at him in particular. What in the fuck had his family told her that would make her so watchful where he was concerned? Or was she like this with all men?

She finally replied, “Nothing my crew hasn’t ever called me before. It’s nothing.”

The merc let loose with another spate of angry Spanish.

Tweeter nudged the merc with his boot and said in his fluent Mexican Spanish, “Shut the fuck up.” Then he looked at DJ’s now studiously blank face. “What did the
pendejo
say to you? What I managed to catch wasn’t nothing, and if your crew ever said such to you, they should’ve had their asses kicked out of the Army.”

DJ’s brow creased and then she shot him a quizzical look as if she were surprised he cared. “Let it go, Ace. They’re just words from a loser.” She then fixed her gaze on anything but him.

Okay, she was definitely uncomfortable with him. That was puzzling and unacceptable if for no other reason than they had to work together.

Then it hit him—“You called me Ace. You know you can call me, Tweeter,” he said, drawing her gaze back to him.

DJ worried her lush, lower lip. Her trigger finger rubbed the barrel of her Beretta. Nervous tics. “No, I can’t. Sorry.”

“Why?” Tweeter needed to figure a way to get her past being nervous around him. He wanted her to like him—trust him—because without those two things, she’d never allow him to get closer.

“Stuart’s your given name. It’s a fine name and a very proper Southern one, but too formal for co-workers.” She teethed her lower lip for the space of several breaths and then exhaled on a sigh. “You handled the Black Hawk like a pro … an Ace. From what your brothers told me, you’re also a computer ace.” She gave him a firm look. “What you aren’t is a Tweeter or a Tweetie. So, Ace it is, unless you object.”

“Ace is fine.” She could call him anything she liked as long as she stopped being nervous around him.

DJ had turned her attention back to the mercs.

The merc at his feet groaned and uttered something in a snarling, nasty tone. Tweeter was just about to teach the asshole to clean his language up around the ladies when DJ leaned over and rattled off a few sentences in, what sounded to Tweeter’s ear, the same Spanish dialect as the merc’s.

“What did you say to the
govnyuk
?” Vanko asked.

DJ looked Vanko in the eyes; her lips twisted in a feral smile. “I told Cervantes to keep his filthy mouth shut or my next shot would be in his pencil dick.”

Okay, she didn’t seem to have a problem relating to Vanko. Was it because she knew Vanko was happily married and thus not a threat?

“Cervantes?” Keely asked.

DJ turned toward Keely. “One of his men called him that. I suspect he’s the leader. He’s lucky Ren wanted him alive. I had a head shot.” She looked at Cervantes. “Right between his beady eyes.”

Vanko barked out a laugh. “That’s just mean. I think I like you, DJ.” Vanko turned, his attention caught by something behind them. “Elana!” He moved to his wife, gathered her into his arms, and kissed her.

In that instant, Tweeter wanted what Vanko and Elana had. What Ren and his sister had. What his parents had. He cast a glance at DJ who stared at the affectionate couple, a look of longing on her face. DJ probably didn’t realize it—but her expression indicated she wanted it, too.

“I like ornery.” Tweeter was happy to see DJ cast him a shy, questioning look. He added, “Keely was always ornery.” His sister stuck out her tongue, proving his point. “So, I expect we’ll get along just fine. Welcome to SSI, DJ.” He held out his hand and waited to see what she’d do.

Tweeter let out the breath he’d been holding when DJ moved closer and offered her ungloved hand. Her hand trembled slightly.

Okay, she was still watchful, but not avoiding him. He could work with that.

Tweeter gently gripped her fine-boned hand and stared into the depths of her beautiful eyes. Their Siren call could lure him in and hold him forever—and he’d be a very willing victim.

“Thanks, Ace.” She shook his hand once, then pulled away quickly as if his touch burned her skin.

And maybe it had. The minimal contact had sent another tingle of heated awareness down his spine. He inhaled sharply. This close, her scent was something sweet, musky, and warm intermingled with the crisp smell of snow, the green scent of the tree she’d climbed, and the smoky residue of gunfire.

Everything in him shouted that DJ was meant to be his. Yet, she reacted like a small wild creature around him. If he came on too strongly, he’d scare her off.

DJ turned away from Tweeter and called out, “Elana?”

Elana walked over with Vanko glued to her side. His friend had a besotted look on his face and a possessive hand over his wife’s stomach. She must be pregnant. He was pleased for Vanko—and again envious. Tweeter loved kids and enjoyed being a doting uncle to his nephew Riley. Coming from a large family, he’d always planned on adding to the Walsh clan—and sooner sounded better than later.

“Yes, DJ?” Elana asked.

“Where’s my momma?”

“She’s sitting in the restaurant with Callie and Lacey and holding Riley.” Elana laughed. “Your mother likes Riley very much, and Riley adores her.”

“Good, that’s good.” DJ looked around and then fixed her gaze on his sister sitting in the driver’s seat of one of mercenaries’ trucks. “Keely, you get a position on their base camp yet?”

“Yeah,” Keely shouted. “Tweeter, get your ass over here. I need your portable GPS so I can transfer these coordinates. We need to move out. Who knows when these yahoos were supposed to check in? With no word, their friends could up and leave at any time.”

Tweeter ran over and climbed into the passenger side of the truck in which his sister sat. DJ followed on his heels, but detoured to the driver’s side.

“Where’s their base camp?” DJ leaned into the driver’s side. “Is it close?”

“It’s not too far away,” Tweeter replied before Keely could while he programmed his portable GPS and sent the coordinates to the chopper’s on-board computer. “Looks like Morrissey’s rental cabins, not too far from Fire Tower 9.”

Sirens sounded in the distance. “The law’s here,” he said. “They can block off the access road at the base of the mountain. The chopper will get us on scene faster.”

“Ren’s here, also,” Keely noted as one of the SSI Hummers pulled into the lot ahead of an Idaho State Trooper’s car and Sheriff Dan Morgan’s Jeep.

Ren, Ren’s brother Trey, and Price Teague exited the Hummer, guns in hand.

Now was the time to make his first move in gaining DJ’s trust and friendship—before Price or anyone else set eyes on DJ.

“DJ, you want to fly the Hawk? The coordinates are already locked into the chopper’s nav system.” As Ren closed in, his brother-in-law’s eyebrow arched, but he didn’t countermand Tweeter’s offer. “I’ll ride second seat,” Tweeter added to make sure he was in close proximity to DJ at all times.

Ren grunted and shot Tweeter a “we’ll talk later” look.

“Sure.” DJ’s whole face lit up with her enthusiasm at the chance to fly. She leaned into the driver’s side even more and scanned the truck’s nav system which highlighted the area around Morrissey’s property. “Even without the specific coordinates, I know exactly where those cabins are.” She smiled at him. “Thanks, Ace.”

Ren caught his eye and mouthed, “Ace?”

Tweeter ignored the smirk on his brother-in-law’s face and drew DJ’s attention back to him and away from the nav maps.

“No need to thank me.” Tweeter winked. “You’re part of the team.”

DJ’s reaction was to grin and nod. “Damn right I am.”

He’d guessed correctly—one key to winning DJ’s trust and friendship: Her love of flying.

A second key: She wanted to be a part of the team … to be needed.

DJ shoved away from the truck and strode toward the SSI’s Black Hawk, sitting like an exotic, black behemoth in the snow-covered parking lot. Her long, skin-tight-jeans-covered legs ate up the yards away from the truck.

Tweeter and Ren hurried to catch up and then paced her.

“How do you know the Morrissey place?” Ren asked.

Like a flash, the excitement Tweeter had seen in DJ’s eyes vanished. She was back to the expressionless mask she’d used when he’d first seen her. She turned toward Ren and held out her hand. As with Vanko, there was no trembling or any signs of guardedness.

So … most men—well, at least, married men—didn’t bother her.
Interesting.
Since she had no reason to fear or hate Tweeter—after all he was darn sure his mom had sung his praises and his brothers would never make him out to be a bad guy—the only other reason for her nervousness around him had to be she was attracted, albeit reluctantly.

One step at a time, Walsh. Stick with the slow-and-easy-wins-the-race approach.

“Hi, Ren. Nice to finally meet you outside of cyberspace.” She shook Ren’s hand several times. “To answer your question, I studied all the maps of this area I could get my hands on—and memorized all the places of interest and topographical oddities.”

DJ walked around the helicopter, checking caps, intakes, and hose lines. Tweeter approved, and he could tell Ren did also.

“Those cabins are about a mile from that particular fire tower,” DJ said. “As the crow flies, the location is northwest of our current position. Elevation is around eight thousand feet.”

Ren whistled. “Dev and Andy told me you were detail-oriented. Glad to know they hadn’t exaggerated. Welcome to the team.”

“Thanks.” DJ’s cheeks flushed a darker rose as if she were embarrassed by the compliment. She looked down and kicked at some snow that had accumulated on the wheels.

Third key to DJ: Praising her for her skills and work ethic.

“Well, then,” Ren angled his head at the chopper, “get in the Hawk and get situated. Tweeter’s already volunteered to be co-pilot.” He turned to yell at Dan Morgan who was checking over the merc at the back corner of the gas station. “Yo, Dan, you okay with taking over the prisoners?”

Dan jogged over. “Yeah.” He scowled at Keely who’d come to join them at the helicopter. “All this carnage your work?”

His little sister scrunched her nose. “Um, Callie got the one in front. I helped DJ with the guy in back. Those two,” Keely pointed to the men by the truck, “are all DJ’s handiwork. Give us credit, Dan. They’re still alive.”

Dan snorted, then asked, “Who the fuck is DJ?” He looked around with a perplexed look on his face and finally focused on DJ as she was about to enter the chopper’s cockpit. Her bulky jacket rode up her back and displayed her top-notch ass covered by the practically painted on jeans as she stepped inside. The all-too-single cop, and Tweeter and Price’s frequent drinking and trolling buddy, smiled and looked DJ up and down, taking in all her feminine attributes. His gaze lingered on her firm, heart-shaped bottom for several seconds. The gleam in Dan’s eyes had Tweeter clenching and unclenching his fists.

This was exactly what he’d feared would happen. Tweeter growled low in his throat. Keely smothered a giggle and Ren threw him a “what the fuck” look.

Tweeter ignored them both and kept his eye on Dan. No fucking way was Dan—or any other man—making a move on DJ.