Collision Point
(Brute Force
#1)
by Lora Leigh
From
#1 bestselling author Lora Leigh comes Collision
Point, part of the thrilling Brute Force
series—packed with powerful men, steely women, and explosive passion.
SHE’S NOTHING BUT
TROUBLE
Riordan Malone is more
than a bodyguard. As an Elite Ops agent, he’s ripped, raged, and ready to
rumble—a true warrior, inside and out. But no war zone can compare to the
battle in Rory’s heart when he lays eyes on the only woman he’s ever loved—and
thought he had lost forever. . .
HE’S EVERYTHING SHE
NEEDS
As the daughter of a
crime lord, Amara Resnova has endured the cruelty of her father’s enemies—and
has tried to escape that world ever since. Now, she must reach out to the one
man who saved her life, even if she’s never forgiven him for breaking her
heart. But Amara is tougher today than she was then. She’s also more desirable
to Rory—and dangerous to love. Can he protect her from her father’s enemies
without surrendering to his own passions…or will love seal their fate for good?
Chapter
one
Six months later
She’d been told that West Texas in the spring wasn’t much different from West Texas in the fall, but as Amara
Resnova pulled in the driveway of the small house outside Alpin, she felt she
had to disagree with that summation.
Stretched out in front of the house with its wraparound
porch was a lush green valley fed by a lazily running stream winding through
it. Sunlight speared from the cloudless blue sky, bright and warm, spreading
its heat in a comforting embrace.
And the charming little house sat just beneath the
warming sunlight. Spreading out in front of it was the picturesque valley;
behind it, the normal West Texas part-grass, part-scrub, potential-desert
landscape that never failed to amaze her.
On a rising knoll stood a lone tree, thickly branched
and heavily leafed, shading what appeared to be a small cemetery. Rather than
looking desolate and lonely, that little plot of land with its surrounding
black iron fence, appeared instead to keep watch over the land below it. As
though those buried there kept a gentle eye on those who came after them.
As isolated as the property was, it should have
appeared stark. Instead, an air of contentment and peace lay over it. As though
the land, the house, the vibrant green of the valley, and the cemetery that
overlooked it all, knew all there was about life and love and had locked all
those secrets within it to sustain it.
Drawing in a deep breath to steady herself against the
fears she hadn’t been able to push behind her even in such a lovely setting,
Amara turned off the engine, forced her hands not to shake, and opened the door
before stepping into the warmth that filled the valley.
It wasn’t a blazing heat, but rather a gentle wave that
filled the air and wafted around her. And in it there was a strange sense of
familiarity. A “been there before” feeling that had her heart racing, her mouth
drying as she stared around and drew in the sights and whispered sounds of a
land as yet untouched by civilized life.
Here, a person could see the stars at night rather than
the city lights. The sound of the lonely coyote rather than the rush of
traffic. Peace rather than a hectic race.
Here, perhaps, she could find some answers. And maybe
there was a chance to find everything she’d lost.
Tugging the hem of her tank, she straightened it over
the band of her jeans beneath the light denim jacket she wore as she walked
slowly from the car to the stone path that led to the porch. The thick carpet
of grass stretched from the valley to surround the house, but she’d noticed as
she parked that it became sparser at the back. As though that carpet of green
with its lazy stream could only struggle so far to embrace the weathered home.
The dark blue pickup parked at the side of the house
attested that someone lived there. And she knew the vehicle belonged to the man
those in town called Grandpops Malone.
Riordan Malone Sr. was grandfather to Riordan Malone
the younger, she’d been told, when she stopped at the gas station and auto
repair garage outside town that bore the name MALONE AND BLAKE—SERVICE AND
REPAIR. There, she’d learned Riordan the younger was part owner but currently
out at his “grandpops’” place.
Riordan.
That name haunted her dreams, her fantasies. Though the
man in those dreams wasn’t an old man. The one who came to her in those nightly
images was tall, strong, impossibly sexy.
As Amara forced herself to walk to the porch, she
looked around, searching for the face, listening for the voice of a man she
knew only in those dreams. The man she’d escaped her father’s protection to go
search for.
Was he friend or foe?
Even she couldn’t answer that question, not fully. But
for some reason, she couldn’t seem to help the need to learn which he would be.
As her foot lifted to the first step, the front door
creaked, causing her to pause, to wait with bated breath as it slowly opened to
reveal an aged, gray-haired gentleman she suspected was Riordan Sr., Grandpops.
In his worn loose jeans, well-washed white shirt with
sleeves folded neatly back below his elbows, scuffed leather boots, and with
that serene expression, the man looked as old and wise as the mountains
themselves. And there was no doubt he was just as damn stubborn.
“Well, hello there.” The smile that lifted the corners
of his mouth was reflected in his dark blue eyes. “Can I help ya, young lady?”
There was a whisper of a lyrical accent. Irish. Just a
whisper though, not the full, male lilt she sometimes heard in memories that
never fully revealed themselves.
“I’m looking…” She swallowed nervously. “I’m looking
for Riordan Malone.”
His head tilted to the side, his thick graying hair
neatly trimmed but giving a hint of the rogue he must have been in his youth.
“I’d say you’re looking for my grandson rather than
myself,” he said gently. “He should be along in a bit. His da just called to
say he’s done stole that wild pony again and headed this way.” A chuckle filled
the air. “Come along up to the porch and sit with me till he arrives. That wild
beast always gives a show when he comes barreling through the valley.”
Moving gingerly up the steps to the porch, she followed
him to the comfortable-looking cushioned rockers that faced the valley.
“Does he steal ponies often?” She frowned as she sat
down, feeling more off balance than she’d felt in her life—which was saying
something considering the past six months.
“Just that wild-assed black son of a satan that took a
liking to him.” He grinned back at her, his gnarled hands gripping the arms of
the rocker loosely. “His da threatens to kill the beast every time Riordan
takes it out. He swears it’s gonna kill the boy.”
Boy.
That didn’t sound like the man she was searching for.
But, everything she learned assured her this was the one place she was certain
to find him.
“Ahh, here he comes now.” Fondness filled the old man’s
tone as he motioned to the valley.
He appeared at first as no more than a storm of dust
rising beyond the verdant green of the valley.
Amara watched, her heart racing as that trail of dust
grew steadily closer.
It was an imposing sight, she had to admit.
A sensual, exhilarating sight.
The horse, black as midnight, neck extended, flying
across the deserted landscape, was enough to hold the eye. But the sight of the
man, bent low to the horse’s neck, black hair flying back from his face, riding
without a saddle, was a bit more than simply imposing.
It was exhilarating.
Imposing and savage and wildly erotic.
Amara could feel her body responding to the sight,
weakening, filling with a sensual lassitude she couldn’t combat.
“Be watching this now. That horse loves ta take him on
a wild ride he does,” Grandpops said softly.
The horse flew over a gully as though he had wings,
before jumping the stream, neck and legs extended as it went airborne for
precious seconds. The animal then took a series of fences as though they were
nothing, and as she stared, she felt she knew how those women felt from
centuries past as they watched a conquering warrior bearing down on them.
When the horse flew over the fence that enclosed the
house yard, Amara was certain there was no way it could pull up before slamming
headfirst into the porch itself.
With no more than a few yards to spare, the beast came
up on his hind legs, a triumphant equine scream filling the air before landing
again and prancing about with pure high-spirited joy before finally settling.
And Riordan sat firm on the animal’s back the whole
time, holding onto the horse’s mane rather than a bridle, thighs gripping the
animal’s heaving sides as he stared at her with blazing, furious blue eyes
before turning them on his grandfather.
The younger Riordan dismounted smoothly, the soles of
his moccasined feet hitting the ground as he slapped the beast on the rump. It
came up on its hind legs once more in another display of savage beauty as it
reared up, pawed the air, then shot off back the way it came the second it
landed.
Flying like the wind, strong legs launching it over the
fence, the gully, then the stream before a trail of dust followed it around the
bend of the mountain.
So much beauty, she thought. A display of savage male
temper and strength, and no less showed in Riordan’s expression as he propped
his hands on his lean waist and glared up at her where she sat next to his
grandfather on the porch.
Well-worn denim encased his hips and legs, and the
moccasins that covered his feet weren’t fringed or fancy, just well made. A
black T-shirt stretched across a broad chest, emphasizing his muscular abs and
making her fingers itch to remove it.
Yes, this was him. The savage who invaded her dreams,
the fury who slashed at her nightmares. Vivid sapphire eyes, daunting features,
proud, imposing. A man who knew his own demons as well as those that inhabited
other men. Or women.
She rose slowly to her feet, aware of Riordan’s
“grandpops” as he sat comfortably in his rocker, watching in interest.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” the words that
passed from his lips caused her to flinch; their icy tone caused her heart to
sink.
The tender tone, the edge of lust and hunger she’d
dreamed of, was nowhere in sight.
His gaze raked over her and there was none of the
sensual promise she’s seen in his eyes when he’d invaded her dreams, none of
the dominant sensualist who tormented her with his touch in her fantasies.
She hadn’t expected this. This wild fury and enraged
demand. He didn’t seem the least bit glad to see her, she had to admit. What
made her think he would be? she wondered.
Was she wrong? Did she not know him?
She was certain she had to have known him, certain that
somehow, someway, they must have meant something to each other. Could she have
been so wrong?
“Riordan!” Grandpops’ surprised tone had a grimace
contorting Riordan’s face.
Evidently the grandfather thought little of the
grandson’s language.
“Grandpops, perhaps you should go back to Grant’s.” He
turned to his grandfather, his voice firm. “Noah, Sabella, and the babies will
be there in a bit.”
Grandpops continued to glower at him.
“I’m certain I can handle whatever language he wants to
use, Mr. Malone,” she assured the older man. “I’m not exactly a stranger to it
these days.”
Her father cursed more often, brooded more often, and
Amara knew the situation she’d found herself in was weighing on him. If she
didn’t do something, didn’t fix things, then she was terrified of what may
happen. Of what her father would do to fix things himself.
“But can his grandmother?” The old man sounded
disappointed rather than angry. “Remember whose home your using that language
in, boy.”
Rising from his chair, Grandpops moved to the steps
stiffly and made his way down, casting his grandson yet another warning glare.
“Drive carefully, Grandpops. No more racing with those
Brickford boys,” Riordan stated as his grandfather passed by.
And Amara could have sworn she saw a gleeful grin tease
at the older man’s lips. But he merely grunted as he passed.
A few moments later the truck started, and they watched
Grandpops ease around the circular drive and onto the road that led to the
small valley.
The silence that stretched between them was heavy—with
his anger and her uncertainty.
As the truck took the curve around the rising hill, she
turned back to Riordan and tucked her hands into the pockets of her light
jacket, her fingers curling into fists.
She’d faked the last six months with friends and most
of her family. Taking cues from her father and his assistant Nikolai, she’d
smiled and faked her way through every damn meeting and gathering she’d been
forced to attend until she slipped silently from her father’s estate the week
before and, in essence, ran away from home.
Not that he was letting her run without giving chase.
He and his men weren’t far behind her and she knew it. They’d almost caught up
with her the night before, outside Houston. If she didn’t do something, if she
didn’t find a way to eliminate the threat shadowing her, then her poppa could do
something she may not be able to live with. And it was that decision that sent
her running to Alpine and the man who shadowed her dreams.
She was here now. She’d found the man she’d gone
searching for, and she knew the days of lying and pretending to be who she’d
been six months before were over.
She lifted her head, straightened her shoulders, and
stared up at him in determination.
“Whatever I did to you, I’m sorry,” she told him,
miserably aware that if she’d offended him in the past, angered him, then there
was the possibility it couldn’t be fixed with an apology. She hadn’t been the
nicest person she could have been in the past.
His eyes narrowed on her before once again moving to
sweep over the landscape. There was a tension that surrounded him, a steady
watchfulness she’d noticed her father and Ilya always carried as well. That
prepared and ready-for-action thing strong men always seemed to carry with
them.
“Go home, Amara,” he told her when those brilliant eyes
turned back to her. “Go back to daddy. This is no place for you.”
He knew her. He was angry, but for a second, she swore
she saw something more in that flash of heat in his expression.
“No. Riordan, please.” He couldn’t make her leave. Not
yet, not until he knew what was coming, because what was coming didn’t affect
just her. She could sense it, her dreams assured her of it.
Turning, Riordan dismissed her just that easily and
strode up the steps to the porch, leaving her to stand alone as the storm door
slammed behind his retreating back.
Alone.
Strange, but this feeling of “alone” didn’t seem nearly
as unfamiliar as it should have.
Inhaling deeply, she followed him rather than doing as
ordered. Not that she often did as she was ordered. That was probably how she
found herself where she was now. Opening the door quietly, she stepped into the
house, her gaze taking in the homey atmosphere of the large living area.
A comfortable leather couch, recliner, and matching
chairs were grouped around a cold fireplace. The mantle held a variety of
family pictures that she would have loved to have time to check out. The wood
floor was smooth, aged with a sheen of time and caring.
There were more family pictures in frames on the wall,
many appeared old and passed down through the years, the frames lovingly polished,
the photos a bit faded from time.
As she stepped into the room, Riordan watched her
silently, leaning against the wide doorframe into the kitchen, his arms crossed
over his broad chest as he simply stared at her, his expression still and
remote.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, that
rumble of his deep voice sending a stroke of sensation up her spine.
What was she doing here?
Trying to survive, to live.
“I need your help.” She had to force herself to say the
words, and still they came out as barely more than a whisper. “Please, Riordan.
I need your help.”
* * *
Six months.
For six bloody months this damn woman had tormented his
dreams while asleep and his thoughts while awake. He’d given his life for her
on a dark, blood-filled night, then again on an operating table, only to be
told she never wanted to see him again when he’d been released. And now, two
months after he’d returned to Texas, here she was.
Son of a bitch. Just when he thought he could get
through a night without being tormented by her, she just showed up out of the
blue. And it was all he could do not to touch her, to jerk her to him and show
her exactly what she was dealing with in coming to him.
But, she’d been his weakness from the moment he’d met
her, hadn’t she? From the second his gaze touched hers, she’d been the one
woman he couldn’t get out his head. And God knew he’d fought it.
Tiny and delicate, she made a man want to wrap her in
cotton and hide her away from the world. Resilient, stubborn, and independent,
she made a man realize fast that she wouldn’t allow him to do so.
Her once-long, straight silky black hair was shorter
now, courtesy of her abductors. At first jagged and close to her scalp, it had
grown a good six inches or so and feathered around her delicate face becomingly.
Piercing gray-blue eyes stared back at him, somberly.
Frightened.
Riordan straightened from the doorframe, his eyes
narrowing on her. That was fear in her eyes, along with the uncertainty and the
heat he always saw there.
“You need my help?” he couldn’t help the mockery that
tinged his voice simply because it flooded every corner of his mind. “Strange,
two months ago you never wanted to see my damn lying ass again. What changed?”
What had changed? For a moment, that question had her
pausing.
God, if only she could tell him. She was damned if she
knew herself what had changed. All she knew was that now, six months after
she’d awakened, she was unable to remember what had happened or who had
abducted her or what they had wanted. The nightmares had grown worse, the sense
of imminent danger and panic that fueled them had become overwhelming. In each
one, this man stood with his hand outstretched, his voice whispering to her,
urging her to find him. To come to him.
She swallowed tightly, uncertain what to say, how to
explain. She didn’t trust him, not by any means. But she didn’t trust anyone
now. She didn’t know who to trust.
“I’m sorry.” But she was damned if she could remember
telling him he wasn’t wanted.
No doubt she’d had a good reason. Savagely hewn, rough
and sexy, and a cowboy to boot. No doubt he had a wandering eye and hands that
had no idea how to be faithful. The one type of man she despised. But personal
fidelity and the ability to protect weren’t always intimately acquainted, she’d
since learned. The man who cheated on his wife and walked away from his
children could also be the very man willing to give his life for that same
woman, or those children.
Men had never made sense to her, even from an early
age. But she didn’t need him to make sense to her, she needed him to fulfill
the promise he made in her dreams and help her figure out who was determined to
see her dead and why she was so certain it was someone she knew and loved.
“You’re sorry?” he snorted, flashing her a look filled
with disgust. “Fine, go home and be sorry there. I don’t have time for it
here.”
The panic was beginning to build inside her chest. It
thundered through her veins and raced to her heart. If he made her leave, if he
threw her out and forced her to run again, she was going to die, and she knew
it.
“You promised you’d help me,” she snapped, her tone
more demanding than she would like despite her uncertainty and the fact that
the words tore from her almost involuntarily. “You swore it. You can’t renege
now.”
Had he really promised, or had she just dreamed it? Was
the memory of that dark little hole and the pain that filled her just another
nightmare? Had he really been there, swearing he’d always save her, or had she
just imagined it?
“Did I now?” Softly voiced, the question held that bit
of Irish sexy, lyrical sound that she often heard in those fantasy dreams
filled with pleasure rather than pain. “And when did that happen?”
She shook her head. Memory or nightmare?
“You swore you’d always be there if I needed you.” She
fought to believe it was memory. “All I had to do was reach out to you. Well,
dammit, I’m reaching out. Do you want me to beg too?”
She could see his hand outstretched, his expression
somber, demanding. He wouldn’t come to her, she had to go to him.
Riordan felt as though his world had narrowed, that
nothing existed but this moment, this woman, and the dreams that had haunted
him. Dreams of her cries, her pleas that he come to her. And no matter how
desperately he tried to reach her, she was always but a touch away. No matter
how often he’d urged her to take his hand, to come to him, just reach out to
him, she never did.
The dreams had become so insistent over the months,
he’d actually contacted his former security team members who still worked for
her father to check up on her.
All was well, he’d been told. Princess Resnova was
still the princess, and the czar still protected her like the cherished
daughter she would always be. And still, he dreamed, reached out to her, and
urged her to take his hand.
I’ll always be here for you. Just reach out
to me.
He hadn’t told her that, he’d whispered those words in
a dream.
And son of a bitch if that wasn’t enough to make a man
force himself not to shake in his boots.
“Why?” he demanded. “Why the hell do you need me when
your father has over fifty protection agents, and every damn one of them is on
call in case they’re needed to protect you? What the fuck do you need with me?”
Damn her. She’d waited six months to come to him. She’d
let him lie in a hospital out of the country, half alive for weeks, and hadn’t
once called or reached out him. Why the hell was she short circuiting his brain
now?
“I need you to help me,” she whispered again. “I need
someone I can trust with my life, Riordan, before I die because I don’t know
anymore who’s a friend and who’s the enemy. But you might
know. I need someone I can trust to watch my back while I figure out who the
hell is trying to kill me and why.”
Kill her?
According to every source he had in her father’s
organization, she was safe. The men at the farmhouse where they’d found her
were all killed. The bodyguard they’d identified as being behind the abduction
and her beating was dead as well.
“Your father’s men can protect you.” God help him. If
he even tried, he’d get them both killed—because he wouldn’t be able to stay
out of her bed.
She was shaking her head even as he spoke. “I don’t
trust them. I don’t trust anyone.” Desperation filled her expression now. “You
don’t understand, Riordan. All I have are these crazy dreams of you. Every
nightmare I have you’re at my back, protecting me. That’s all I have because I
don’t remember what happened before my abduction or the abduction itself. I’ve
lost a year of my life and I don’t know why and I damn sure can’t force those
memories back,” she cried out, fury filling her tone. “All I have are the
nightmares and dreams, and the only person I can see, the only person I can
trust in them is you. And by God, I want to know why.”
She faced him, fists clenched, anger flushing her face,
but that was heat in her eyes. It wasn’t just nightmares she had, it wasn’t
simply dreams.
It was this bond he could sense between them even as
she stared back at him, furious, frightened.
And he’d waited long enough.
Taking the steps that separated them, he jerked her
into his arms, his lips stilling her cries, his arms tightening around her,
holding her to him.
Her lips parted in shock, and he took full advantage of
it. He tasted her. Lips and tongue possessed her kiss, and he let his senses
grow drunk on her.
Because somehow, someway, she’d shared not just her
dreams with him, but those incredibly erotic fantasies that filled his head as
well.
And now, he wanted a taste of all that passion, that
feminine hunger and need he hadn’t nearly had enough of before her abduction.
Then they could discuss the rest.
Copyright © 2018 by Lora Leigh in Collision Point and reprinted with permission from St. Martin’s
Paperbacks.
#1 New York Times bestseller Lora
Leigh is the author of the Navy
SEALS, the Breeds, the Elite Ops, the Callahans, the Bound Hearts,
and the Nauti series.
