The Fury (37 page)

Pressing her eyes shut, she took a deep breath and began. “I was tapped for the Madjin when I was a little girl. My mother and father were part of the Circle, my grandparents before them, and on back up the line.”

“A family inheritance,” Daniels noted thoughtfully.

She couldn’t help but smile with pride. “Always.”

One of the under-lieutenants transcribed the interview into his handheld, working feverishly to capture her answers.

“How old, Lieutenant?” Nevin reviewed some notes on his own handheld. “I am told that six is the first age for a Madjin to enter the service?”

“It varies, sir—but we are given the brand at twelve.”

“The brand?” His left eyebrow lifted a millimeter.

“Right here.” She tapped the inside of her wrist. “It’s an energized tattoo.”

“Hidden?” His voice assumed a slightly husky sound, as if her invisible Madjin emblem were something dangerous and sexy. As if the very thought of her revealing it to him were an automatic turn-on.

Yet when she looked up, he seemed perfectly composed.

I’d just love to get this guy to fall apart at my hands. To make him scream my name and show me what he’s really made of
. A flush crept down her cheeks and into her neck.

For a split second, Nevin’s black eyebrows quirked together. “Are you all right, Lieutenant Draekus?”

Gods, he must be able to see how I’m blushing.
She swallowed, suppressing a smile. “More than fine, sir.”

“Very well, may I see this mark of the Madjin, then?”

Her blush intensified. “See my mark?” she almost squeaked, glancing anxiously at the roomful of advisors and officers. Nevin tracked with her, noting the eight others sitting around him.

He leaned back into his chair, appraising her. His gaze lingered for a long moment on her flushed face. “That is what would be expected, would it not?”

With one more sweep about the room, she bowed her head. “It’s…personal. Deeply personal.”

“But if it cannot verify your claim, then what is the point of the mark?”

She chewed on her lip, staring at the polished hardwood flooring between them. “I will show my king, but no one else.”

“You aren’t willing to reveal it to me.” It was a statement of fact, edged with the slightest hint of anger. But then he lifted a hand, issued several quiet commands, and the other lieutenants and advisors at the table stood, preparing to make their exit. Nevin nodded to several of the departing officers, and only once the door had closed quietly on the two of them, did he return his gaze to hers.

“Now you will show this mark of the Madjin to me.”

She hesitated a moment, then stepped closer, placed both hands on the edge of the table that separated them, and leaned toward him. “It’s my energy, sir. It’s more than just a mark…it’s my
energy.
Surely you understand how personal that is.”

Without meaning to, she made a small cry of frustration and embarrassment, and Daniels jolted visibly at the quiet sound. This time, the advisor’s own dark cheeks reddened slightly, and he shifted in his chair. He gave a stern, considering nod. “Very well. We will arrange for a meeting with the commander.”

“Thank you, sir.” She exhaled in relief, and for a split-second their gazes locked, and she swore—damn it, it had to be—that the unflappable, stoic lieutenant smiled suggestively at her. Just a hint of the way his mouth tilted sideways, something about how his thick-lashed eyes lowered almost imperceptibly.

“One’s energy can, of course, be quite personal,” he agreed, “although it depends on the individual.” His keen black eyes narrowed, danger glittering in their depths. “You strike me as a woman with a very powerful, intense…amount of it.”

Anna’s mouth fell slack, the burning in her face spread to every extremity, and she stumbled a step backward. Why would Daniels have chosen this particular instance to dismantle every bit of her self-composure and pride when it came to interacting with him? Was it some sort of strategy or maneuver intended to fluster her and thereby learn Madjin secrets?

“You strike me the same way, sir,” she fired off without thinking—and only when the words were out of her mouth did she realize that she’d just flirted with her commanding officer. “I mean, I’m just saying, that…well, you have so much power. Personal power. Energy—”

“Anna, I understand.” Nevin shocked her by laughing softly, a slow rumbling sound that began deep within his chest. She had never—not once in the past six years of living in the compound with the lieutenant—heard him laugh. “I understand, and you certainly flatter a man like me, so obviously in his maturity.”

All Refarian males entered their maturity by their mid-forties, some quite a bit earlier. It was the time when they could no longer sire children—a transformation that came for the
male
Refarians, not the females—and was said to be marked by intense sexual compulsions and drives.

“Sir, you may have matured, but”—she hesitated, grasping for the right words—“you still seem perfectly virile to me.”

“Virile.” His eyes sparkled mischievously. “For a mature man, that’s quite the way to put it.”

“You’re still very young. Not even forty, right?”

He shot her a cocky glance. “Thirty-eight next month.”

“Then virile should be the perfect word.”

He laughed faintly. “Except, as it seems, when it comes to siring children.”

“But the rumors, sir…they all indicate that mature men are—”

He raised a confident hand, silencing her. “Please, Lieutenant Draekus.”

Oh, gods above
, she swore inwardly,
what was I thinking?
To have discussed her commanding officer’s sexuality—his life change—even his potential prowess in bed? And at a moment when she should have been showing more respect than usual? Damn, she was losing it for real.

Draping his arm over the chair beside him, he regarded her for a long moment. She noticed that his breathing seemed to have increased slightly, and felt her own pulse skitter to a crazy hyper-drive tempo. “I like a soldier who speaks her mind plainly.” His moody eyes narrowed. “I have always admired this about you, Anna Draekus.”

She inclined her head. “Thank you, sir. I’m sorry, sir, if I offended you in any way. I don’t know what got into me; please just forgive me for any disrespect—”

“Look at me, Anna,” he half-whispered, and she managed—somehow—to meet his gaze.

He leaned forward in his chair, his breathing slightly heavy. Suddenly, the man staring back at her seemed completely at odds with the intense, reserved one she’d been serving underneath for so long. This Nevin Daniels didn’t seem unknowable or cool—he seemed as sensuous and dangerous as she’d just suggested he might be. He opened his mouth, about to say something, but then closed it, glancing away from her.

When he looked at her again, the devouring, seductive look had faded from his voice and expression—vanished like a whisper on the Wyoming wind. “Shall you enlighten us as to your role back on Refaria?” he continued, as if nothing had just transpired between the two of them. Just like that, and the interview resumed. No more flirtatious look, no more half-glimpse of the sun. Only cool, officious Lieutenant Nevin Daniels staring back at her.

And she’d be damned if she wouldn’t find her way behind that rigid self-composure of his once again.

Can love tame a jaguar god?

Treasure Hunting

© 2008 Jenna McDonald

A
Hunting Love
story.

A good tromp through the jungle fending off giant bugs and hunting for long-lost ruins in South America is exactly Meg’s idea of a great vacation. She takes the sudden appearance of a wounded jaguar in stride, thinking it’ll make an interesting story. But when she wakes up to find a man in place of a cat, she wonders who’s going to believe it!

Santiago has learned the hard way that he and human women just don’t mix. When you can change into an animal at will, it tends to upset people. But despite his best intentions, he finds himself falling hard for the little blonde who saved his life.

It’ll take a leap of faith-and of love. Or this treasure will slip through his fingers.

Warning: This work contains graphic m/f sex, bad language, and terrible humor.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Treasure Hunting:

“How far is your camp?” Meg rubbed the back of her skull against the headrest, itching at the sweat trickling across her scalp. Santiago’s eyes were closed, but she knew he wasn’t resting. His muscles were tense, beads of sweat standing out against his chest, along his temples, making his black hair damp. She dragged her eyes back to the road, scolding herself half-heartedly that this really wasn’t the time to ogle him.

But lordy, he had a nice chest. Simply not looking didn’t mean she couldn’t remember it; all angles and planes, hard muscles and very little hair—just enough to emphasize shadows on golden skin. She thought of his purr, and nearly purred herself. She sighed. The weight of a gaze pulled her eyes back around, and she saw Santiago peering at her sidelong, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth as if he knew
exactly
what thoughts ran through her mind.

Clearing her throat, she shifted in her seat, suddenly warm. Okay, she’d been warm before, but now she was downright toasty. “Um. Your camp?”

“It’ll be a while.” His voice was like rough velvet stroking down her flesh. “A few days.”

“Oh.” Well, that was unexpected. Damn. “Maybe we should have lunch,” she suggested, and snuck another look at him. He’d grown quieter as the day crept on, lines of pain slowly etching into strong features.

“Yes,” he rumbled. “That might be good.”

The nice thing about the jungle, despite bugs the size of small airplanes and heat like a volcano, was that you didn’t have to look for parking when you decided you were ready to stop. Meg stopped, stomped on the emergency break, and declared them parked.

“Do you need help?” She glanced over at the man beside her.

Lips pursed, eyes staring straight ahead, he nodded once.

Concern threaded through her. In her experience, men didn’t admit to needing any kind of help. He must have been hurting.

“Hang on.” Unpeeling herself from the vinyl, she slid out of the car. He hadn’t moved by the time she got around to the other side, and she spent a moment wondering if he expected her to lift him out. Things could get awkward in that case. She supposed she’d at least cushion his landing…

Squashed under a hunka hunka burnin’ love. There were worse ways to go.

Then he twisted carefully, a warm hand settling on her shoulder for balance as he climbed from the Jeep. She didn’t move, trying to be as rock-steady as he might need. When his feet landed on the ground and he was no longer swaying, she came eye-to-pectoral with an utterly perfect torso. Sweat inched down the crease between his muscles, sped over the ridge above his abs, and slid helter-skelter down the center of a six-pack. Maybe even a twelve pack. It hit a snag in his belly button, worked its way out, and dropped past a flat abdomen before soaking into the blanket, which sagged low on his hips.

Meg swallowed.

Nope, she still felt utterly incapable of thought.

She licked her lips.

It didn’t help.

She even cleared her throat.

She could still taste what she imagined he’d be like. Oh, God. She could
smell
him, all male and musk and something a little wild.

“Ready?” he asked.

She closed her eyes to break the spell. That worked. A little, anyway. Taking a deep breath she opened her eyes and met his gaze, her gut clenching in expectation. Her last boyfriend had hated it when she’d stared like that. Then she looked up—way, way up—into Santiago’s face.

Full lips curved, black eyes warm, the sharp planes of his face softened by amusement.

Meg grinned and relaxed. “How’s it feel to be a sex god?” she asked before she realized what was in her head. She blanched, then heard her words and knew
someone
was looking out for her. She’d spoken in English.

He lifted a single black eyebrow questioningly.

“Never mind,” she said in Spanish, feeling a blush creep up her neck. “Lunch?” This time, she managed to stop any more sexual remarks before they left her mouth.

He could smell her, sweat and jungle and that indefinable female smell. Even worse, the very definable smell of lust. His shoulder hurt, and he somehow doubted he could do anything
about
the lust-smell, and yet it hovered in the damp air between them like some sort of drug.

On the other hand, at least he knew she was attracted, too.

Santiago sat, uninjured shoulder braced against a tree trunk, and watched her move from the Jeep to the spot they’d chosen. Her clothes brushed against her like a lover’s hands, hiding and revealing with every step. He shifted his legs and tried to think about something less sexual. Trees. Trees were completely and totally nonsexual.