Nauti Seductress Read online

  “You would know that better than I do. What could the Mackays be involved in that framing Zoey for the murder of a friend, would profit someone?” he asked.

  “Murder?” the detective snapped. “I just talked to him by text.”

  “But Zoey believes she killed him. Harley said he was hunting,” Doogan agreed. “Harley doesn’t hunt four-legged prey, Sam. Despite his age, Harley’s the best damned human tracker I’ve ever heard of. He came to me when he tracked a killer to Somerset. That’s why he’s here, tracking a monster no one has been able to catch.”

  Should he have anticipated this, Doogan asked himself?

  But how could he have? Neither he nor Harley were connected to Somerset. His agents were based here, but Harley hadn’t known the Mackays before following his target into the area. As for Doogan, he’d seen Zoey only once, five years before. The target he and Harley were chasing couldn’t possibly know she was a weakness to Doogan?

  “Who?”

  Doogan let a grin touch his lips. “That’s why he’s good, Sam. Harley doesn’t know what his suspect looks like, he just knows the human ‘tracks’ his suspect leaves. He’s been trying to identify him for over a year now. But framing Zoey for his murder wouldn’t serve any purpose.”

  “He and Natches are friends,” Sam pointed out. “Zoey’s Natches’s cousin and he’d never believe she killed him. Besides, she has an instant defense in her belief he was trying to rape her.”

  “Makes no sense.” Doogan shook his head, one hand reaching back to rub at the back of his neck, irritation beginning to slip past his normally cool façade.

  “There has to be a reason. Something we’re not seeing,” he muttered.

  “Damn, Dawg will lock her in a hole so deep and filled with Mackay brotherly love she’ll smother to death.” Sam grimaced. “Hell of a way to die. So you can forget figuring out why anyone targeted her.”

  It was a running joke that the Mackay cousins, once the scourge of Pulaski County and surrounding areas for their sexual hijinks and penchants for troublemaking, made certain Dawg’s sisters lived totally different lives. Completely innocent, virginal lives.

  “Dawg can’t know about this, Sam.”

  She froze for long seconds, simply staring at him.

  “Are you kidding me?” she almost wheezed with wide-eyed disbelief. “Dawg finds out we held this from him, Doogan, and he’ll kill both of us. And he will find out. Trust me.”

  It amazed him how terrified everyone was of Dawg Mackay and his cousins. They were formidable enemies, agreeably, and no doubt, they’d be enraged when they learned Zoey had been in danger. But they’d never kill a woman.

  “And when she dies of brotherly love and overprotection? Or whoever did this to her tonight finds a way to get to her again and ‘suggests’ she kill herself? Herself and her family? Her nieces? Is that a risk you’re willing to take?” he asked, barely managing to keep the cool, uncaring appearance he’d adopted over the past hellish year.

  Could he bear seeing anything or anyone harming this innocent young woman? After all he’d lost, the thought of losing more threatened the hard-won control he’d managed to salvage in the past months.

  Sam’s nostrils flared and she glared at him in silent fury and denial. It was evident she had no desire to risk their wrath in any way.

  “Hate me all you want to,” he suggested, icy determination reflecting in his tone. “But before you go to Dawg, remember this. They got to her tonight. She’s in her pajamas, so she was obviously in her room, asleep. Right beneath Timothy’s nose they took her, Sam. They drugged her and tried to convince her she killed Harley Perdue. And if they convinced her, then she’ll confess to it. She’s a Mackay.” Swiping his fingers through his hair, he knew no matter what he said, Sam would still go with her gut. “It’s in their fucking blood or some shit.”

  And he had no doubt the little Mackay now sleeping in Sam’s bed was a Mackay all the way to her soul.

  He gave a short, approving nod when she said nothing more.

  “Now, we have to get her back to her bed without anyone being the wiser. Especially her brother. Otherwise, she’ll never believe this was all a dream.”

  Sam shook her head, one hand slapping to her forehead in a gesture of utter amazement before glaring at him, the disbelief growing.

  “Wow, Doogan, that’s a hell of a fucking order,” she snorted, her hands propping on her hips then. “Why don’t we rob Fort Knox next?”

  His brow arched mockingly. She could be a smart-ass, even as a child.

  “I haven’t finished the plan for that one yet. The plan for this one is easy, though. We have about four hours before the sedative I gave her wears off and she wakes up. We’ll slip her into my truck and I’ll get her to the inn, where Eli can help me do the rest.”

  A light brown, heavily mocking brow lifted slowly. “Eli hates you, Doogan. Worse than the rest of us do,” Sam warned him.

  Honest little bitch of late, wasn’t she, he mocked silently.

  “That’s really not true.” He denied the claim, amused. “But Zoey Mackay, he loves like a little sister and he hates what Dawg does to her. He’ll help her, even if he does have a few issues with me. Now, go make that meeting. I’ll take care of our little Mackay.”

  Her lips thinned, her eyes suddenly narrowing in suspicion.

  “How do you just happen to have syringes, sedatives, and everything needed to draw blood samples, Doogan? And you’re just conveniently here?” She held one hand out as her expression tightened with anger.

  “I’m just prepared like that,” he assured her. And he actually was. “Would you like to come see the other supplies I carry in my pickup? You might be amazed.”

  “I might want to shoot you even more than I want to do so now.”

  And that was possible.

  “You have things to do,” he reminded her. “I’ll call Elijah and get him over here. Hopefully, this can be accomplished without too much trouble.”

  —

  It was late morning when Zoey woke in her bed. Terror was a sickening taste in her mouth, the fear of what she would find when she looked around the room dragging a sob from her throat.

  She didn’t want to open her eyes, didn’t want to see the carnage she was terrified awaited her.

  Sitting up in the bed, she forced herself to look, though. Whatever had happened, whatever she’d done, she’d face it.

  But oh God, she didn’t want to . . .

  Biting back a sob, tremors racing through her, she sat up and opened her eyes.

  Then blinked.

  There was no body, there was no blood. No blood on the walls, no blood on her blankets and sheets as she remembered. Her sheets were wrinkled and tangled, the comforter trailing to the floor.

  A whimper left her lips at the pain throbbing in her temples and echoing through her muscles. She hurt so bad. Every bone and muscle in her body screamed in protest as she slid her legs slowly over the bed and forced herself to stand, to check the rest of her suite.

  Stumbling, holding on to the furniture to brace herself against the weakness that made her legs feel like jelly, Zoey forced herself to the bathroom. In that far-too-realistic dream she’d thrown up, more than once. If she had, there would be something in the bathroom. Some proof of it, surely.

  But there was none.

  It was as spotless as it had been the night before. There was nothing out of place; nothing had been moved. The shower door was open as she always left it, her used towel folded in half and hanging on the glass door.

  Backing out of the smaller room, her steps halting, tentative, she pushed through the door to the sitting room.

  It was similarly neat. Her sketch pad lay where she had placed it the night before, the canvas she was working on carefully covered and sitting on the easel. The plastic wrapper that covered a new paintbrush still lay under the coffee table where she’d forgotten to pick it up. It hadn’t been moved.

  Forcing her steps backward again
, Zoey returned to her bedroom and stood in the middle of it, shaking at the knowledge that whatever had happened . . . hadn’t happened?

  Fisting her fingers, she fought back the tears that would have fallen and looked down at her sore wrists. They were unmarred, no bruising, no scratches.

  Covering her lips with one hand, Zoey bit back the scream tightening her throat. A whimper escaped, though. Low, drawn out, the sound was filled with fear.

  Just a nightmare?

  Zoey shook her head.

  “It wasn’t just a nightmare,” she whispered, to assure herself she could speak. Because in those nightmarish memories, or dreams, she’d been unable to scream.

  Something had happened, she just didn’t know what. Or why.

  But she knew to the depths of her soul, something bad had happened.

  ONE

  One year later

  Music pulsed in a hard, throbbing beat, filling the exercise room on the ground floor of the small converted warehouse Zoey rented. The ground floor hid a twelve-foot-deep garage at the back that ran the width of the warehouse. A storage area hid the back garage, and then the gym was in front of it with its wall of mirrors, exercise machines, punching bag, and huge matted area she used for sparring with Eli, practicing the martial arts moves he was teaching her, or dancing to the oldies to tighten whatever.

  She didn’t get to dance to the oldies much, but the sparring and martial arts practice she managed to get in pretty often.

  In front of the gym was the front garage, an area large enough for four full-sized vehicles, though only one was kept there. Her bicycle, moped, and small work area were walled off. The rest of the lower floor, about the full length of the other half of the building, sat empty and closed off from the areas in use. Zoey was still considering the best way to utilize it if the owner ever decided to sell the building to her.

  The second-floor apartment with its huge living area, master bedroom, and three guest rooms, all with their private baths, boasted floor-to-ceiling windows spaced perfectly along the walls to let in maximum sunlight. When combined with the unique custom-made clear acrylic skylights set abundantly in the roof, it was like being outside.

  Or, with the press of an icon on the computer-controlled program, she could darken every window, or just one. It was the windows and skylights she loved. She could open a whole wall in the room she used for her canvases, and the ceiling as well, and flood it with heat and light. She loved the feeling of painting outdoors while protected by the fact that she was actually indoors.

  She wasn’t painting now, though. She hadn’t painted much, period in the past year. She’d been too busy dealing with damned nightmares and fantasies and getting them all mixed up in her head to the point that she felt tortured by both. The best Zoey had managed were several dozen dark, blood-soaked nightmares cloaked as fantasy images of death and betrayal.

  They were selling, though. They were selling too well, considering they were born from the terrifying images that stole her voice and her strength in her nightmares.

  Slamming her fist into the punching bag, she danced around with slow, rhythmic steps, ignoring the fact that she could no longer feel the jolting pain in her muscles and joints that she felt when she first began. She wasn’t as weak or as vulnerable as she had been a year ago. She still had a long way to go, but she was learning.

  She had learned to shoot and managed to purchase two Baby Glocks of her own. She was still learning to throw knives, but the expert at that was her cousin Natches’s wife, Chaya. And Natches was so damned suspicious of everything that she rarely had a chance to convince her cousin-in-law to teach her more.

  Thankfully, Chaya and Natches’s daughter was becoming very interested in it, and Natches’s objections had been swiftly vetoed by his wife. So hopefully, soon, there would be regular lessons.

  She was learning martial arts, learning how to fight, and toning her muscles to enable her to protect herself in most situations.

  Sweat poured down her face, dripped from the side of her neck, and dampened the long, jet-black hair pulled into an intricate braid along the top of her head before twisting into the heavy rope that fell past her shoulders.

  Her brief sports bra was soaked, her skin damp with moisture, while the black shorts she wore clung to her skin. Still, her heartbeat wasn’t up as it should have been, her pulse remained steadier than it had in past months, and her muscles weren’t burning yet.

  She couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop until her body was ready to collapse from weariness and exhaustion. She couldn’t. If she did, then she had to think, she had to remember the nightmares, and that she didn’t want to do.

  She slammed her wrapped fist harder into the heavy bag, her teeth gritting, desperation lancing through her senses as she began pounding at the punching bag. She didn’t want to remember . . .

  “It was a dream,” the dark voice commanded, barely loud enough to hear but pulsing with the demand.

  The shadowy image stepped into her dreams, his warmth wrapping around her, sinking inside her. She could feel him, and it made her ache to feel him closer. To feel him without the barrier of clothes, hot and naked against him while his powerful hands touched her.

  “You’re safe, Zoey. You’re safe. Harley’s safe. It was a terrible, terrible nightmare.”

  A nightmare.

  A terrible dream.

  So why hadn’t anyone seen Harley since that night? He didn’t answer his phone or his texts, nor had he returned to the apartment he’d rented. Several witnesses saw him that night at an all-night convenience store, after an obvious fight, gassing his truck. He’d even told the young woman he was seeing that he was leaving town and didn’t know when he’d be back. But surely he would have answered calls to his cell phone, the texts or desperate emails she’d sent since that night.

  It was just a dream, Zoey.

  That shadowy image of the man who had taken her into his arms for such a brief time, danced with her, then left, haunted her. His voice, reassuring her and his arms holding her.

  It was a nightmare. A terrible dream . . .

  Damn, you were in trouble when your dream man lied to you in your dreams. There had to be some kind of psychosis that went with that. She had no doubt there was one. And it was just her luck to be afflicted by it. Because she knew he was lying to her, she could feel it. And she hated it.

  “Zoey, do you hear me?” he urged her, that demand piercing her soul, pulling at her even now. It was just a dream, nothing more. And she believed it was all a dream. She really did.

  “Don’t ever forget you killed me, Zoey . . .”

  Her fist plowed into the bag as a harsh sob tore from her throat. Did she believe it? She didn’t know what to believe anymore. The nightmare of blood, death and pain, or the fantasy that stroked pleasure through her senses.

  Holding on to the bag, her muscles trembling, Zoey closed her eyes, sinking into the memory of that nightmare, that fantasy, just as it had been before she awoke that morning.

  “I’m scared . . .” She was terrified. Until his voice came.

  Now it was a fear of being alone to face the demons once his voice was gone. The demons that raged and clashed inside her head and fought to convince her that she had indeed killed Harley.

  “Don’t be scared anymore, Zoey.” Warm, callused fingertips eased from her temple to her jaw. “Listen to me, and everything will be okay.”

  She imagined she could make out a hint of his face, his profile perhaps. Strong features, dark eyes. His smiles were sad and filled with a loss of hope.

  “Zoey. You have to listen to me so the pain will go away.”

  And that was all she had to do? Just listen to him? She didn’t believe that. She could sense there was more, something he did that made the fragments of her brain come back together again and the pain fade away.

  What had he done? She could sense it, she could feel the answer, but it drifted away now, before she could capture it.

  “See, I’m
going to make it better, no matter what you do, pretty girl,” he whispered so softly she had to strain to hear him. Hunger filled his voice. Male hunger. The hunger a man feels for a woman, a lover. With no fear of the Mackays, no apprehension of what her brother might do. Just pure, carnal intent.

  That intent filled her with pleasure. It stroked through her senses as his hands began stroking her body. Caressing her, stoking her need that much higher, hotter than ever.

  “Isn’t this part of the dream so much nicer?” His lips brushed over her neck as he laid her back, his naked body coming over her.

  For a moment she tensed. Harley came over her to hurt her. But there was no pain here. The shadowy features of her lover didn’t morph to Harley’s features as Harley’s did into a monster’s.

  “I always like this part of the dream better than I do the part that rips open my skull and leaves me wanting to scream, but I can’t find my voice to scream.”

  He knew what it felt like.

  He knew the pain, the agony, and she hurt for him while she dreamed. Ached for the sense of intuition that assured her he’d suffered in untold ways and still faced the nightmares. “I hate that part of the nightmare too. See how much better this part is? See, that’s how you know it’s just a nightmare, baby. Because before it ends, if you don’t wake up, then I’ll be here with you and if I’m here, then the pain will go away.”

  “Don’t leave me. Hold me.”

  “Just for a little while, baby.” His lips eased over her fingers. “But I’ll be back. If you promise me you’ll know it was just a nightmare.”

  She would promise him anything. “Just a nightmare.”

  “Sleep for me now, Zoey,” he whispered. “Sleep. And know when you wake up that everything’s going to be fine. It was just a nightmare.”

  “But it wasn’t just a nightmare,” she cried out as she pushed away from the heavy bag, her breathing rough and heavy, sweat soaking her skin.

  Tearing off the tape wrapped around her hand, Zoey restrained the urge to kick something. She’d felt the anger burrowing deeper, growing stronger inside her since the night she dreamed she’d murdered Harley Perdue.