Solitary Soldier. Debra Webb

      She glanced around the spacious room she and Josh were to share. She thought of the property’s elaborate security system, and then of Sloan himself. Despite her enigmatic protector’s personality, or lack thereof, Rachel felt safe for the first time in nearly five years.

      SLOAN STARED AT the bottle of tequila on the table before him. He knew there would be no sleep for him tonight, no matter how much he drank. His mind was reeling with bits of information he didn’t want to remember. Faces he didn’t want to see. Voices he didn’t want to hear. But there were certain points he had to allow himself to recall. He had waited too long, planned too often for this very moment, yet feared it would never come. Not once since pulling himself from the gutter pain and depression had hurled him into had he allowed a glimmer of real hope. Anticipation was one thing, but hope entirely another. He’d learned the hard way that hope was only for those too weak to acknowledge defeat when it had them by the throat.

      Sloan had faced defeat, but he hadn’t wallowed in it, at least not for long. He couldn’t change history, but he sure as hell had some say in the future. And he would make Angel pay. Very soon.

      To Sloan’s supreme irritation the vivid mental image of Rachel Larson suddenly loomed large in his mind. He could still hear the fear and panic in her voice when she called out for Josh. That same desperation had haunted his own voice seven years ago. The euphoria still lingered from the profound relief he had felt this evening when Josh was in his mother’s arms once more. The relief he had been denied seven years ago. Then the realization that Angel might be close by.

      Too close.

      Sloan shook off the feelings nagging him, but he couldn’t completely shake the picture of Rachel. The fear in those big brown eyes, the way her lips quivered with uncertainty. If anyone he had met in this business had ever needed protecting, she sure as hell did. But Sloan wanted to do more than protect her, he wanted to know her as a woman. That simple touch this evening in her room had sent fire raging through his veins. For the first time in more years than he cared to admit, Sloan yearned for more than mere physical release.

      Ire burned in his gut. He couldn’t feel this way.

      It was nothing more than his exaggerated instinct to protect. That’s all, he assured himself.

      Angel flickered amid the other tangle of images and thoughts involving Rachel Larson. Sloan swore. His attraction to a woman who had once been involved with Angel made Sloan’s gut clench. Those feelings were a betrayal to the memory of his wife and son. He must be losing his mind to entertain such a fantasy. Hell, he had already lost his mind. He had brought Angel’s son into his own home.

      Sloan swore repeatedly.

      He hated himself for what he was doing. But it was the ultimate goal that made it all worthwhile. Angel would come for his son. It was the basic concept of possession. The kid belonged to him. Angel would want him back, so he had to come. When he did, Sloan would be ready.

      And Angel would die.

      Then Rachel and Josh would be safe.

      That wasn’t supposed to be what counted to Sloan…but somehow it was. Somehow their welfare already meant entirely too much to him. And that didn’t sit well with him. But he would not let either of them any closer. He would stay in control—no matter what it took. All these jumbled feelings were nothing more than his deeply entrenched need to protect those weaker than him.

      The way he couldn’t protect his own wife and son.

      “Excuse me.”

      Sloan’s head shot up at the softly uttered greeting. Rachel Larson hovered near the door. Hesitantly she stepped out onto the patio and approached him, her bare feet soundless on the cool tile. His gaze followed her movements, his body automatically responding and he silently cursed himself again. He was a fool. Sloan leaned back in his chair and leveled an impatient gaze in her direction.

      “I prefer drinking alone, Miss Larson,” Sloan said tersely. “So if you’re looking for company, you’ll find Pablo’s more to your liking.”

      Rachel hesitated a few feet away from the table. “I…I just wanted to thank you for helping us. I realized after I put Josh to bed that I hadn’t properly thanked you for allowing us refuge in your home.”

      Sloan tossed back the tequila in his shot glass and set the empty glass down next to the bottle. The last thing he needed was her gratitude distorting the already fuzzy scenario taking shape in his head. “Don’t thank me, Miss Larson, I’m not doing it for you.” He poured himself another shot. “I’m doing it for me.”

      Rachel nodded mutely. “Of course,” she murmured. “Well, good night then.”

      Before she could turn away, and to Sloan’s royal irritation, he stopped her. “There is one thing you can do for me,” he said, his words dripping contempt, his senses already piqued in anticipation of her response. “You can tell me how you managed to get yourself intimately involved with a lowlife scum bag like Angel.”

      Rachel visibly faltered. She seemed to struggle with her answer for so long that Sloan felt certain she didn’t plan to tell him. She shoved a handful of that thick dark hair behind her ear and drew in a deep breath. When her gaze finally connected with his again, her eyes were suspiciously bright. His gut clenched. Sloan swore another silent oath.

      “I was very young, just nineteen,” she began slowly. “He tricked me into believing he was someone he wasn’t.” She swallowed, the effort required displayed along the delicate column of her pale throat. “My father died because of what I allowed to happen. If I hadn’t…” She fell silent, her eyes downcast.

      Sloan’s chair scraped across the tile as he pushed back from the table and stood. Her head snapped up and she shivered as he walked deliberately toward her. When he stopped, he stood only inches from her. She tensed, and her breath caught with a little hitch. Damn him, he wanted to touch her. Anger swirled around him, inside him. He didn’t need this.

      “You allowed yourself to be seduced by the bastard while he was plotting to kill your own father?” Sloan hurled the words at her like missiles intended to wound, intended to push her away. Hadn’t he done the same damned thing? Seduced by the challenge of the hunt, he had dogged Angel’s every step until the animal retaliated. Years of pent-up rage unleashed inside Sloan at the thought.

      He leaned closer to Rachel, directing that unforgiving energy at her, widening the emotional gap between them. “I guess that makes us both pretty stupid, huh? Neither one of us were smart enough to know what we were up against until it was too late.”

      She trembled, but held her ground. “He tricked me. I didn’t know—”

      “Yeah, well that was a tough break for your old man, wasn’t it?”

      Her anger flared finally, however faintly. “I don’t want to discuss this any more.” She pivoted and started toward the door.

      Sloan snagged her by the arm and swung her around to face him. He ignored the electricity that crackled where his hand closed around her bare skin. “You screwed up, just like I did.” He pulled her closer, his body’s response to hers only fueling his building anger. She glared up at him, her own anger taking belated shape. “You’ve come all this way looking for a miracle. And what do you know? I’m fresh out. Maybe you’d better rethink your strategy.”

      “You’re our only hope.” Her sweet, desperate breath fanned his lips.

      Sloan clenched his teeth and shook his head, every muscle in his body growing harder by the moment. “Maybe you think coming here is the answer to your prayers, but you’re wrong. I’m just a man, Rachel Larson. I’ll take Angel down, but that won’t change what he took from you or me. I’m no superhero, and I’m sure as hell no saint. But if you hang around long enough the one thing I can guarantee you is that you’ll end up in my bed.”

      Sloan saw it coming, but he didn’t try to stop her. Her right palm connected with his jaw. He took the blow, because he deserved it. The pain was somehow