The information they had on the female within the group of thieves that had stolen that arms shipment en route to the U.S. Army garrison in Fort Knox was too similar to Crista’s description. There were no photographs yet, no one had managed to identify her, and Dawg was going to make damned sure that Crista didn’t get identified in the criminal’s stead.

He didn’t like the pinch in his gut that warned him that some bad shit was coming down the road.

He could feel it, like a premonition. An instinctual warning that danger was moving in on his position like a bird of prey gliding over the valley searching for food. And Crista was sitting smack-dab in the middle of that valley, a tasty little morsel just waiting to be plucked into the jaws of whoever or whatever was moving in.

It had to do with these missiles; he could feel it. It wasn’t a coincidence that she had been there, but he couldn’t convince himself she was involved, either. He had found something else in the small house her parents had left her and Alex, though.

The freshly swept carpet had shown signs of traffic. He knew Crista; like most women she did things in a certain way, and he remembered Alex bitching years ago about how she always swept the floors before they left the house. She would sweep back to the front door, storing the sweeper in the hall closet before they left and leaving the carpet pristine and devoid of tracks.

Crista’s carpet had tracks in it. Tracks just slightly too large to be hers. Or so he tried to convince himself. They were subtle; he gave credit to whoever had made them, someone had tried to wipe them out, but they hadn’t completely managed it.

The tracks had started in the living room, just off the small foyer. They had walked through the living room, gone up the steps, and moved into her bedroom to her dresser, then to her closet. While there, Dawg had found the address to the warehouse tucked into a dark bronze blazer that had been hung haphazardly in the closet. There had been nothing else. Not a scrap of paper, not a stash of money, nothing to tie her to the theft of the weapons, other than that address. There had been just enough of a disturbance to allay his conscience in lying to his superiors.

Not that he needed to excuse that very often. He had a very high respect for the chain of command, there was no doubt; he was, after all, a Marine. But he knew that sometimes, some things needed a little closer investigation before he reported them. Crista was one of those instances.

Soft, warm, hotter than hell, and fighting him tooth and nail. But she was back in his bed and sleeping next to him.

How many times had he awakened over the years, certain he would find her next to him, knowing that the dream that had haunted his sleep had to be more than a dream. And each time he had awakened alone, until now.

Hell no, he wasn’t letting her out of this one. He would blackmail her a thousand times over if that was what it took to get her into his bed and to keep her there.

He watched her carefully, reaching out with his hand, his fingertips only touching the silky flesh of her thigh.

Damn, she was soft. Like the finest silk. The most expensive satin. Warm and sweet.

She shifted again, a muttered little moan slipping past her lips as he let more of his fingers experience that heated sensation, caressing the rounded flesh gently.

She whispered a sigh, her thighs falling farther apart, giving him a clear view of the sweet flesh covered in cotton.

Was she wet?

His fingers paused on her thigh, only inches from what was paradise.

“Does this deal include molesting me in my sleep?” Her half-drowsy exclamation of contempt was punctuated by a quick jerk at the sheet to draw it back over her thighs.

He grinned. Damn, she was going to be a challenge, maybe more than he anticipated.

“I think I should start a list,” he murmured lazily, drawing the sheet back toward him. “Keeping your little butt off the firing line could get complicated. I’ll need compensation.

She didn’t let go of the covering. Her fingers tightened on it, her chocolate eyes glared back at him.

“Now, Crista,” he chided her gently, though his gaze was anything but gentle as it met hers. “Let go of the sheet. Let me see what I’m lying for today.”

“You wouldn’t turn me in.”

He could see the bravado in her gaze now. She was well-rested and feeling more confident, better able to handle him. Let’s see if she could.

He pushed back desire, need, temptation, and gave her the steely eyed look he had perfected in the Marines. The one that assured those both above and lower in rank that he was someone to be reckoned with.

Her eyes flickered with indecision.

“It’s like this, fancy-face.” He smirked. “When Alex returns, he won’t be able to do a damned thing about what’s happened here, right now. If my superiors connect you to this case, then you’re gone.”

“Over drugs?” She snorted. “I don’t think so, Dawg. Drug dealers are not terrorists.”

“Unless terrorists are dealing in drugs.” He shrugged, omitting the fact that his case didn’t have a damned thing to do with drugs.

She blinked back at him silently again. Damn, that little mind was quick. He could see it working in her expression, the play of emotions that crossed her face finally settling into lines of resentment and anger.

“Stop doing this,” she finally pushed out between clenched teeth.

“Why?” If she had a good reason, he might relent. For this morning.

“Because I don’t want it.” He could feel her tensing as he drew the sheet fully away, his gaze going to the mounds of her breasts beneath her shirt.

Didn’t want it, his ass. He restrained a knowing smile. He knew women, and he knew body language, and if he wasn’t totally wrong, she wanted it just as bad, maybe worse, than he did. Though he couldn’t imagine her wanting it worse. He swore his cock would rupture with the need to burrow into the tight, heated confines of her pussy.

“Your nipples are hard.” And he was going to taste them soon. “Is your pussy wet? Sorry, baby, but if you didn’t want it, then you did a damned good imitation of it on my couch yesterday.”

Shock, arousal, it filled her face as surely as the blush that began to work up along her neck and into her face. And it was damned enchanting. He hadn’t seen a woman blush in years.

But she wasn’t ready for another round yet, and Dawg could sense the uncertainty in her. If he weren’t careful, she could choose prison over him. Crista could be incredibly stubborn as he well knew.

She wasn’t above cutting off her own nose to spite her face.

“No answer, huh?” He let an amused grin quirk his lips.

Hell, Crista was fun. Even with her back up and her mad on, she was fun.

She licked her lips, and his gut clenched. He wanted that tongue on his dick again. If she didn’t decide on his course of action pretty damned soon, then he was going to have to play another very delicate card in the hand he had dealt himself.

Yep, blackmail was a very dirty word, and a man had to have some way of backing up his threat.

“I have to meet with my team this afternoon.” He rolled away from her, stretching lazily as she seemed to freeze beside him. “We have bad guys—and girls—to catch.” He threw her a careless smile as he untangled his legs from the sheet and rose from the bed.

Her eyes were narrowed on him, but her fingers had a death grip on the sheet as she held it over her.

She was thinking, though. He could always tell when she was rolling something around in her head.

He remembered before she left, catching that look on her face and wanting to be so deep inside her that she couldn’t hide anything from him. That need had only grown. Right now, he would give his eyeteeth to be buried so deep inside her that even their cells would bond.

“So what am I supposed to do now that you’ve had me fired from my job?” she snapped back at him irately. “I’m going to assume that during this game you’re playing, I’m not allowed to work.”

Dawg scratched at his chest, feeling a surge of satisfaction as her gaze licked over him. He was naked, aroused, and he would be damned if he was going to try to hide it from her.

“You have a job,” he assured her, turning to the low chest of drawers on the other side of the room and pulling out clean clothes.

“What kind of a job?” The low, wrathful tone had his lips twitching again.

“Fucking me. I’m fairly high maintenance, Crista. You won’t need another job.”

Then he ducked to avoid the alarm clock that came sailing at his head, then to avoid the picture frame that held a picture of his Harley. But he felt a swell of joy rise inside him as he jumped for her, gripping her wrist as she reached for the lamp, pulling her under him and holding her to the mattress as she bucked and writhed and cursed with all the exuberance of a damned sailor.

Crista couldn’t remember ever being so furious. A haze of red distorted her view, and a mix of murderous, adrenaline-crazed fury pumped through her veins.

“You bastard!” She tried to scream past the tightening in her chest, her throat. “Do I have whore written on my forehead? Do I look like one of your sex-starved little bimbos?”

She cringed from his body lying atop hers now, from the heavy, naked thighs pushing between her own and the powerful arms that held his body just far enough above her to allow her to breathe.

She wasn’t unaffected. Arousal pumped side by side with the fury, bringing angry tears to her eyes as she collapsed beneath him, exhausted, panting as she glared up at him.

“I hate you,” she hissed, feeling the first tear fall from her eye and track down her cheek. “I can’t believe what a bastard you’ve turned into.”

His gaze lightened, then became shadowed as he held her wrists in one hand and the other came up to touch the tear on her face.

“You cried then, too.” His voice was soft, brooding. “Didn’t you? When I kissed you, you cried.”

Oh yeah, she was going to answer that one for him. Not. Not in a million years would she ever tell him what he did to her then, and now.

“You told me you dreamed of me.” His jaw tensed as a flash of lust lit up his eyes like lightning.

“I wouldn’t dream of you if you were the last man on earth,” she scoffed, panting at the effort to force him to release her. “Get off me. I don’t want you anywhere near me.”

She didn’t want the blood pumping to her nipples and her clit with a force that had them straining, tight and engorged, against the material of her clothing as he covered her.

She didn’t want her skin so sensitive she could feel the hairs on his chest, even through her shirt.

And she didn’t want the pleasure that was building, burning through her as he held her beneath him, restrained. Helpless.

“I thought of that all night as you slept,” he said guardedly. “Taking you again, having you beneath me. It was better than the dreams, Crista. They didn’t even compare.”

His voice dropped to a guttural whisper as his gaze flared with carnal heat. It was mesmerizing, watching his gaze flare, then lighten with sexual need.

“Get off me, Dawg.” It was all she could do to push the words past her lips. “I won’t let you turn into me a whore for your own amusement.”

“Say that word again, and I’ll make you regret it, Crista.” The order was clipped and filled with menace. “I haven’t called you a whore, and I never believed you were one.”

“Don’t you? Evidently you do, if you think my only job is fucking you.” She strained against him again, only to still as she felt the broad head of his cock butt against the crotch of her thin panties. Too thin, because she could feel the heat of his thick flesh pressing against her.

“Until I figure out what the hell is going on, that’s exactly what your job is. Because, make no mistake, fancy-face, I’m not a very charitable person anymore. Just because you’re not guilty doesn’t mean you don’t look guilty. You need me so you can stay out of jail. And you know the price for my help.”