Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
“I told you it would be unpredictable,” Macon argues.
“And I told you to get a satellite phone!”
I hurl a candle, throw Dex’s soccer ball, and pick up the crystal bowl Clay got us for our wedding, but stop and put it back down. It’s pretty.
“Worrying my ass off, wondering if you were shot or strangled or kidnapped or sinking to the bottom of the ocean,” I yell. “And I can’t call the cops!”
He moves in. “Come here.”
“I’m not a fan of you right now!”
“Steel stomach, remember?”
Ugh! I stomp on his foot, and he grunts, clenching his teeth. Grabbing me, he swings me over his shoulder.
I flail, kicking. “Let me go!”
“Go to the bar for a while,” he tells his brothers. “I need to deal with this one.”
And I feel a slap on my ass. I flinch and then growl.
“Might get loud …” Dallas taunts.
“Don’t you spank me in front of them!” I shout.
“Don’t worry, Krisjen.” Trace chuckles, and I hear the door open. “We know you’re the boss of him.”
Laughter fills the air as they drift out of the house, and Macon spins around, carrying me up the stairs.
Tears spring to my eyes. I was so worried. Every second. At any moment, he could’ve been gone forever, and I might never know what happened to him.
“Let me go.” I slap his ass as I dangle there. “You deserve the silent treatment for the next two days after that stunt. Because that’s how long it’s been since I’ve slept!”
We reach the top, and he carries me into our bedroom, closing the door.
“Let me down!” I yell.
His hand grips the back of my thigh, his fingers crawling inward as he kisses against my jeans.
“I thought you were giving me the silent treatment,” he teases. I clamp my mouth shut, pouting and trying to keep from crying out of relief as I hang there.
“We got the containers,” he whispers.
Fine.
“Then they pushed us overboard and tried to sink our boat,” he says.
I suck in a breath. Oh God.
That’s what I’d been afraid of.
I understand that these black-market deals to get lumber, steel, cement, and pipes—which all the local suppliers were either withholding or were overcharging for, thanks to Garrett Ames—could be dangerous, but I always hope Macon’s reputation will precede him.
But every once in while we run into a dealer who would just rather take the money, try to kill them, and sell the items they already sold again. It’s bad business, but when they’re coming from overseas, they don’t care. They’ll never see you again anyway.
“We took their boat instead,” he tells me. “I marooned them on Coral Cay. For now.”
Coral Cay is a small island with about one tree for shade, but otherwise it’s pretty barren. There’s nothing and no one, and if a ship or a Cessna does pass by—which is likely, given that it’s only a few miles off the coast—they’d hide. Anyone Macon sticks there doesn’t want to be caught anyway. There’s food and water, and he’ll go back in a few days once he’s found a cargo ship that he can stash them on to get rid of them.
It could’ve easily turned bad, though. It’s only a matter of time. What would happen to us if Trace had been lost? Or Army? It’s not just Macon I worry about. Losing anyone would devastate him.
He presses his lips into my thigh. “This is all I thought about out there in that black water,” he whispers. “Guns pointing at us … The depths below … I had to get back to you.”
A tear drops to the floor, and I wipe my eye.
“Still not talking to me?” he goads.
He puts me back on my feet, drops to his knee, and unbuttons my jeans, pulling them down below my ass. Yanking my underwear to the side, he sweeps his tongue up my flesh, and I gasp, gripping the dresser at my back. My clit starts to throb.
“Do you think I’m going anywhere?” he asks.
Tears fill my eyes.
He bites and plays with me. “You think that I’m going to widow my young bride and let another man have this?”
He tugs off my clothes, stands up, and then yanks my shirt over my head as well as his.
“Talk,” he growls in a low voice, pressing himself into me.
I press my lips together.
He takes my jaw in one hand, lightly squeezing both sides. “Your husband told you to open your mouth.”
He squeezes and squeezes until I have fish lips, and I’m almost laughing.
But I don’t. I’ve lived with four years of close calls like this. I’m entitled to a little pouting.
“Or maybe you weren’t worried at all.” He releases me. “Maybe you think I was with another woman the whole time.”
My eyes flare. That wasn’t even a thought, but now the image is in my head. Son of a bitch.