Primal Instincts Read online

  He couldn’t ignore her. He couldn’t go to her.

  “Go away!” he shouted.

  “No!” she shouted back. “Just . . . do . . . whatever, Mr. Demolition Man.”

  He laughed. The sound was muffled by the shield protecting his face. “You are such a—”

  “Bitch. I know.”

  “I was going to say nag.”

  On the other hand, he was steadied by the knowledge that she was nearby. She was waiting for him. She was depending on him to get them out alive. And would be totally pissed off if he didn’t manage it. He liked that about her.

  He could not disappoint the lady.

  His lady.

  Was going to have to get over her objections to his profession.

  All he could think to do was to drop every bit of mental shielding and let her in.

  Watch this, Tobias thought. And keep out of my way.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Francesca held her hands up, staring hard to see through the fading images of the bomb being dismantled. These were her hands. Long fingered, graceful, elegant, soft skinned, the nails beautifully manicured. She recognized them, but they were not large, competent, and sure. There was no purpose in these hands. No strength. These hands didn’t hold the memories of scars healed and lovers caressed.

  Lovers—

  “Goddess damn him!”

  Fury brought Francesca surging to her feet. Just as the door behind her opened.

  She stumbled backward. Strahan fell forward.

  She found herself tangled up with him on the floor once more. This time she was on top. She grabbed his shirt front. She would have shaken him, but how do you shake a mountain?

  “What the hell was that all about?” she demanded. “What the hell did you do to me?”

  Strahan was totally unfazed. “Was it good for you too?” he asked.

  “That wasn’t funny! It was—”

  The question is whether to take it slow and careful or go for speed. Caress it or take it hard and fast . . .

  The thought had come while her/his hands hovered over the leather case. At the time it had seemed perfectly normal, but now Francesca marveled at how close those big, sensitive hands had been to the case without actually touching it. She/he had been exquisitely aware of the softness and suppleness of the leather, almost sensing the molecules of the oblong packet of explosives beneath the thin surface of the material.

  “It’s a tactile awareness,” Strahan said now. He gave a cocky grin. “It comes in handy making love too.”

  Hard and fast.

  What Francesca had then experienced through Strahan’s senses had been accomplished in a blur of speed faster than even a Prime should have been able to manage.

  “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

  The explosive was removed and slathered in a cool chemical goo before the wiring even knew it was missing.

  She’d been there—felt and seen it all. It was over, and she was still scared—with him, for him. Reaction burned through her.

  She pounded a fist on his chest. “Damn you, Strahan! How dare you mess with my head like that?”

  He blinked. Opened his mouth to say something—

  Her mouth came down hard and hungry on his, tasting that he was alive and burning just as fiercely as she was.

  And, oh, those hands were indeed skilled! He had her sweater and jeans off her almost as fast as he’d snatched the bomb out of its case. She was naked on the cool tiles, but she was anything but cold.

  His lips and tongue moved down her breasts and belly and between her legs. She clawed at him, ripping through his shirt, scoring his shoulders.

  Should have left on the Kevlar, he thought.

  She needed blood and came as soon as she caught the scent of it. And laughed at his thought. The amusement only increased her pleasure.

  What are you doing to me, Strahan?

  This.

  His fangs sank into the soft flesh of her inner thigh.

  Her world went white hot with pleasure.

  Banshee.

  What? Francesca responded to the thought that brought her back from overwhelming sensation.

  You’re screaming like a banshee. The shape of Strahan’s thought was laced through with smug satisfaction.

  I suppose you know a banshee?

  Several. But I’ve never bedded one before.

  She heard a maddened howl and knew the sound was her own primal response. As if she’d never been bitten by a vampire before.

  In fact, she hadn’t.

  You’re a blood virgin? Strahan projected absolute male pride and delight at this revelation. She’d never been anyone else’s but his! His being was aglow.

  She should have been repulsed. She was pleased instead.

  But I bit you first! she thought, teasing him.

  But I bit you more, he responded, teasing back.

  Even more would be better.

  But his fangs were no longer piercing her skin. Pleasure still pulsed out from the spot where he’d tasted her, feeding into her growing desire to share herself with him in every way possible.

  Strahan moved to cover her mouth with his. She tasted the tang of her lust and blood. Their tongues played around each other’s fangs, teasing, stimulating.

  Woman, you taste of moonshine.

  “White lightning becomes you,” he whispered in her ear. Then he bit her earlobe and sent another fiery orgasm shooting through her. She bucked beneath him.

  And one of his many communication devices sounded.

  “Damn!” they swore as one.

  “Is it too much for you to turn those off?” she demanded.

  “Don’t nag me, woman!” he shouted back.

  Then he thrust hard into her. His hips ground hard and fast and deep. Francesca met each rough thrust with joy. And if she continued to scream like a banshee into his ear—well, maybe that was partly in revenge for being called a nag. And partly to drown out the sound of his phone calling him back to duty.

  And mostly because she’d never felt anything as wonderful as his rough-and-tumble way of making love to her before.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  As you know, we can trace ancestry from your mother’s side through mitochondrial DNA. But what I want you to take a look at on your individual results screens are those lines that look like bar codes. Those are called bonding patterns, and that’s what was used to trace your paternal descent . . .”

  Saffie’s biology teacher went on talking about variable-number tandem repeats and other stuff she might normally have found fascinating, but Saffie’s attention was riveted on the blotchy black dash patterns on her laptop screen that told her who her father was.

  Or maybe what.

  She’d had a bad feeling coming into this, and if there was one thing she’d learned from her adoptive father, it was to trust her feelings. To double-check her feelings, she tilted her laptop so the girl seated on her left could see it. She got a look at the other girl’s DNA information in turn. This got a giggle from Pattie, who was on her right, so she and Pattie exchanged views as well. Saffie was so not reassured by what she saw.

  Students weren’t supposed to access the classroom’s Wi-Fi without getting permission and a password from the teacher, but a Dark Angel wasn’t going to let minor details get in her way.

  Saffie was still careful to slowly tap out her message when she sent an e-mail and a couple of sips, so the soft clatter of keys and hand movements wouldn’t give away what she was doing. Frustration at being stuck in the mortals’ world boiled in her while she surreptitiously tried to make contact with her own.

  Holiday vacation was coming up very soon, but not nearly fast enough for her. She had to get away from this place, these people. Maybe the DNA evidence, whatever it meant, would be enough to convince her father of what she’d been telling him all along. She didn’t belong there.

  Saffie got no immediate replies from the messages she sent, so she was forced to wait for the end of biolo
gy class to make a phone call. She hated bothering Tobias or Dee while they were on an op, but this was important!

  She’d known going into it that it was important, but had they listened to her? Why did they still treat her like a mortal kid with no psychic gifts of her own? Well—not completely. At least Dee agreed she had a talent for magic, which kept her from being a complete washout for the Crew.

  Magic.

  A smile spread across Saffie’s face, and her worry eased a little. Maybe that was what was wrong with her paternal DNA profile. Maybe she’d inherited some sort of magic-enhancing mutation from her biological father. He was a great and terrible wizard and that was the cause of the conclusion at the bottom that read:

  Sample not consistent with human DNA.

  Saffie held on to this reassurance until class ended.

  Before she could leave, the teacher stopped her with, “A word, Ms. Strahan.”

  Having spent her life around soldiers, many colorful and profane responses came to Saffie, but she managed a meek, “Yes, sir.” While she slowly made her way to the teacher’s desk her mind raced, trying to find plausible excuses for what she knew she was going to be asked.

  “Your reputation as a troublemaker has reached a new height,” the teacher told her. “I don’t know how you tampered with your saliva, but this example of your witchcraft isn’t funny.”

  “Sir?”

  “I really believed you were interested in the genetics project.”

  Saffie managed not to point out that she was interested. It looked like she was about to be given an out. She’d been afraid she was going to be told she was being sent to specialists for medical testing, but if her teacher thought this was a prank, it was better to let him think so.

  “How did you manage to fake these results?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she answered, trying not to sound convincing. Oh, if only she had a vampire’s talent for altering thoughts. She had to rely on cleverness and acting talent, and she wasn’t sure how much she had of either.

  “You’re going to make me prove that you’re pulling a practical joke on me, Saffron?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer but took a fresh gene-testing kit off his desk and handed her a cotton swab. “Give me some spit.”

  She wondered if she should protest that this was an invasion of privacy but decided not to argue about it. Being retested would buy her time to come up with a plan.

  The teacher watched her carefully as she rubbed the swab around the inside of her mouth. “You can go now,” he told her when she handed it back.

  Oh, I’ll go, all right. She’d come up with the only plan that was really viable: she was getting out of there and going back where she belonged.

  How hard could it be to run away from a fancy high school?

  “I’ve traced the sips sent by this Saffron kid to a private high school in upstate New York,” the male hacker told Gregor.

  “I so do not care,” Gregor said.

  “But the Master said—”

  “I know I need the information, but the whereabouts of teenage girls doesn’t interest me.”

  “He prefers real women?” the female slave muttered under her breath.

  “If by real you mean mortal females, the answer is no.” He hadn’t fought his way high enough in the Tribe hierarchy to win a vampire female, but it was well known that was in his plans. “I don’t settle.”

  Gregor saw the male looking jealously at the female. Perhaps the male thought his fellow slave was interested in Gregor when he wanted her for himself. Gregor knew the female to be more willing to stand up to her vampire overseer but sensed no attraction from her. He noted the mortals’ interaction but would interfere with them only if their behavior jeopardized his own agenda.

  These thoughts were useless and unproductive and Gregor realized he was only trying to put off concentrating on yet another assignment he didn’t want. Doing the Master’s bidding was the name of the game, the only way to get where he needed to be, at the top tier of the Tribe hierarchy.

  Who was Dragomir? Why was the Master interested in a high school student? If he was being sent off to fulfill some private vendetta he was going to be very annoyed.

  “I live to serve,” Gregor grumbled. “Tell me about this St. Sebastian’s school.”

  “Secluded place,” the male answered. “Set in a hundred wooded acres on a lake near the town of Cageville. It’s surrounded by a wall with a guarded gate and covered by the latest in electronic security. There are dogs.”

  “Sounds like they’re watching over a lot of rich people’s little darlings.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Won’t be a problem.”

  The male’s fingers flew over his keyboard. “Weather.com says there’s a blizzard blowing in over that area. That ought to help.”

  Gregor had just spent a year in Southern California. He did not see how snow could be anything but a nuisance. He turned to leave the hackers’ cell.

  “Do you want me to download the school’s location for you on Google Maps?” the male called after him.

  Gregor paused long enough to show his iPhone to the slave. “No need. I’ve got an app for that.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Tobias rolled onto his back and wiped hair out of his face. He stared at the ceiling and murmured, “I really didn’t have time for this.”

  “Your romantic words send chills through me,” said the naked female beside him. “Or maybe it’s from lying on this cold floor. Your phone’s ringing again,” she added.

  He was wrecked—he had never felt more alive or satiated—and he really did have to get back to work.

  “Saving the world’s a bitch,” he said as he sat up and looked around for his clothes. “You ripped my shirt off,” he complained as he picked up the ragged cloth and felt around for the pocket holding the chiming BlackBerry.

  If he was a Clan Prime he’d have been helping the lady up now and assuring her how wonderful the experience had been. Maybe he’d already have flowers for her.

  “I have to take this,” he said, and put the phone to his ear.

  Flare didn’t sneer at him but got up and gathered her own shed clothing.

  “Where are you going?” he asked when she turned toward her bedroom. “There’s a bomb in there.”

  “Along with all my possessions,” she told him. “The bomb’s dead and I’m a mess. If you think I’m leaving here without fixing my makeup, you’re crazy.”

  He let her go. He had a lot to do, reports to assess, orders to give. They did need to be on their way. He went about being brisk and efficient.

  But the whole time, despite keeping his attention on business, he marveled at the fact that he was bonding with a female who had to fix her makeup after every crisis. How the hell was he supposed to survive that?

  “What’s this?” Strahan asked.

  Francesca patiently didn’t point out that the black garment she was holding up was obviously a shirt. “I raided Barak’s closet. He’s a big guy,” she said of the bondmate of the Shagal Elder. “This ought to fit you.”

  Strahan didn’t seem to make the connection that he was shirtless and that the garment was for him; his attention was obviously elsewhere. She doubted that this was simply his normal reaction to midmorning sex after disarming a bomb. But then, she hadn’t known him long.

  “Get dressed. Police your gear. Let’s move it.” She tried to sound as firm as any Matri or drill sergeant, which at least got a smile from him.

  He took the shirt. “Yes’m. My mind’s on two calls, a text message and a sip,” he told her as he put on the shirt.

  It was matte black silk and molded to his hard muscled body perfectly. Francesca appreciated the way he looked. Not that it was easy to make a Prime look bad, but he looked damn good.

  She also appreciated Strahan’s explanation, since he didn’t owe her any. She’d assumed he’d be the strong silent secretive type, but he’d turned out to be open and vu
lnerable enough to pique endless curiosity in her.

  She didn’t want to be curious about him, or worried, but she was both. Stick to business, she told herself. Stick to important stuff.

  “Did Ed sniff out any more bombs?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “We’re clear.”

  “Damn!” she complained. “Because that makes me solely responsible should the house have blown up,” she explained at his curious look.

  “You would have gone with it,” was his stoical answer. Which made her laugh. “Save your temper for whoever planted the bomb on you,” he added.

  “I like that thought.”

  He took her hand. “Let’s go tear the clinic apart, shall we?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  The fact that he automatically included her—Clan female and heiress—in his Dark Angel op pleased her more than words could say. She’d been offered every luxury the minds of Primes could think of, but nothing thrilled her heart like this chance to kick some butt at Tobias Strahan’s side.

  She kept quiet on the drive, afraid he’d recall who she was and she’d lose this chance to be of some use in her world. She took out her e-reader and tried to concentrate on a book while rain continued to pour outside. Tried, but she was too physically and psychically aware of Strahan to pay any real attention to words. The Prime took up a lot of space both ways.

  He ought to make me claustrophobic, she thought.

  I’m told I give off comforting vibes.

  This was their only exchange during the entire drive. After this one thought from him, Strahan’s mental shields slammed up and his gaze never once left the road.

  Francesca thought she knew why he was keeping his distance. He was upset because they’d had sex. Not that he was regretting the act—no Prime ever regretted having sex. He hadn’t been completely in control. Not just of her but of the situation and himself. It had definitely been the wrong time and place. She was in complete agreement. She wouldn’t even have blamed Strahan if he was furious with her for initiating the first kiss.