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  He opened his mouth.

  And closed it again. Pissing her off like that, saying something so untrue, would hurt like a bullet to the heart. He couldn’t do it to her.

  “So?” she prompted. Irritation took over her face, a face he could draw with accurate perfection with his eyes closed.

  “So?” he echoed. Maybe if he kept being annoying she’d leave.

  Ha. This is Nikalene. She’s stubborn, remember?

  “So why are you alive when I was led to believe you were dead?”

  Holding her gaze, he shrugged. “Maybe the question you should be asking yourself is how well you really know me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He let out a dry bark of a laugh. “Oh, squirt. You’re in way over your head. Better you scurry off. I’m not what you’re after. Or who you think I am, okay?”

  She shook her head and narrowed her eyes. “No. Fuck that. Fuck you. I’m not buying it. The last time I saw you, you appeared out of nowhere with a goddamn gun in your hand and stopped me from—”

  “Getting seriously hurt.” He moved closer to her with a menacing step. “What the fuck were you thinking being in that hellhole, let alone trying to attack Dutton?”

  “You know what I was doing!” She stomped her foot, her voice cracking. “That creep was selling access to little boys and girls to sick-fuck Australian perverts, and I was going to make him pay!”

  He had known. She’d told him over and over as he’d driven her to the Australian embassy, demanding he let her go, demanding he tell her why he was there. He hadn’t answered. He’d treated her like a stranger, refusing to engage apart from telling her she was a naive girl who needed to grow up.

  He’d handed her over to the Federal police stationed at the embassy with the order not to let her leave unless it was to board a plane back to Australia. That was the last time she’d seen him.

  He’d watched her—from afar—every goddamn hour until she’d boarded that plane.

  And then he and Pete had finished the mission. Dutton had found himself the unfortunate victim of a “mugging by an unknown assailant” the next night and was transferred to Australia for “medical care.”

  A fortnight later, the agency intercepted a plan by a foreign hostile to use Niki as leverage to comprise Lincoln’s loyalty to Australia. How they’d learned about her was anyone’s guess.

  Twenty-four hours after that, Lincoln was “killed.” Nikalene served no purpose to any nefarious organization if he was dead.

  He didn’t like it. But he hated that his work had put her life at risk more.

  A month after “dying,” he told the agency he was out. Setting up a new life as a tattoo artist in Sydney was easy. Not calling Niki every day and telling her he was alive? Hardest thing ever.

  “Why was I told you’d died?” Anger laced her question. Oh yeah, she was pissed. But not enough to walk out. Yet. “Why did everyone I care about let me think you were dead?”

  Anguish and something worse—betrayal—filled Niki’s face. Tears welled in her eyes. Everyone I care about.

  Bebe. She meant Bebe. Damn it, his sister was going to kill him.

  Bebe loved him, had kept his secret—as had his cousin, Ruckus, the only other family he had alive—but she was going to kill him. She was a nurse. She knew how to use a scalpel better than anyone he knew—including himself, and he was an expert.

  “Bebe didn’t want to see you upset. She knew I was tired of you panting after me, anyway.”

  Niki stared at him. Motionless. Chin tilted again. “It wasn’t just me doing all the panting five years ago though, was it.”

  An insidious heat snaked through him. Curling into a tight ball in the pit of his stomach, and lower.

  Five years.

  The night she’d knocked on his door at two a.m. The night she’d told him she had wanted him forever.

  The night his famous self-control shattered.

  Icy calm wrapped around him, an oil slick of clammy resolve suffocating in its need. “I faked my own death, Nikalene. You don’t think I can fake sexual arousal?”

  Her fist smashed into his jaw.

  Probably a good thing she didn’t have a cricket bat handy.

  He rolled his head with the punch, schooling his expression into one of bored amusement, and then arched an eyebrow at her. “This was fun. Now why don’t you get your butt back to Perth, squirt. Find someone your own age to annoy.”

  A tear fell from her eye, just one, but Christ, it tore him apart. “I don’t know what I was thinking, refusing to believe you were dead. And I sure as shit don’t know what I was thinking flying across the country for you. I really wish you were dead.”

  She spun on her heel and stormed to the door, leaving in her wake the subtle scent of her perfume—jasmine and musk. The same scent she’d worn the night he’d been unable to fight how he felt about her any longer. The night she’d skimmed her hands up his chest and licked his—

  “Niki?”

  Her name tore from his throat, hoarse and cracked.

  Why? Why was he stopping her? He wanted her to leave, and she was.

  “Why didn’t you believe I was dead?”

  Wrapping her fingers around the doorknob, she lifted her shoulders in a small shrug without looking back at him, and then pulled the door open and left.

  Don’t go after her. Don’t you fucking go after her.

  He went after her.

  And stopped, heart smashing in his chest like a cannon, as she climbed behind the wheel of a white Hyundai—clearly a rental—slammed the door shut, and started the engine.

  For a still moment, their eyes met. A lifetime, an eternity.

  He took a step closer to the car, and then stopped when she turned back to the road, slipped mirrored sunglasses onto her face, and pulled out into the early evening traffic.

  Damn it.

  *

  “Oh God, oh God. Breathe, Niki.” Niki strangled the steering wheel, her pulse exploding in her ears, her temples, behind her eyes. “Just breathe.”

  Alive. He was alive. And as sexy and magnetic and scary and…and…infuriating as ever.

  “Bastard,” she whispered, driving. Who knew where. She wasn’t from this side of Australia. Sydney may as well be London for all she knew about driving around the east coast’s biggest city. She’d gotten off the plane, purchased a rental with GPS, typed in the address she’d found on Google a week ago—the day Bebe had inadvertently slipped up, confirming every suspicion Niki had about Lincoln was true—and driven to said address.

  Then she’d sat outside the tattoo studio, engine running, gripping the wheel, staring at the tinted windows, wondering if she was insane, deranged, and/or unhinged. Until a teenage girl came flouncing out wearing barely nothing—and she finally got a glimpse of the man she’d been in love with since she was sixteen.

  Six foot two and as muscular as the last time she’d seen him, his shaggy blond hair a little longer than it had been back then, but his clean-shaven jaw just as square, and his shoulders as broad and impressive.

  Lincoln Wells.

  Bastard.

  She’d called, just to be sure it was him. And when he’d lied to her over the phone…

  “Oh boy,” she breathed.

  For almost a year, she’d tried to convince herself he was actually dead. If he wasn’t, he’d let her know. Almost a year. And then one night she woke, covered in sweat, heart racing, and knew, just knew, that he wasn’t dead.

  Of course, Bebe told her she was being silly. Gently. But Niki’s gut refused to believe it. Her gut told her Lincoln wasn’t dead. Her heart told her. And now, here she was.

  Although, she currently had no clue where here actually was. Nothing outside the car looked familiar from her drive to his studio.

  “Goddamn it,” she muttered, hating Lincoln all over again for putting her in this situation.

  Yeah, as if you could ever hate Lincoln. Just seeing him for those brief moments made you go all—


  A car horn blared at her. “Shit.” She swerved into the lane beside her, vision blurry. Tears. Tears! She was in freaking tears. “Shit!”

  Pull over. Find somewhere to pull over. Get a grip. And then get back to Perth.

  Back to Perth—and the creepy, unknown jerk who just under a year ago started sending her roses every day. Who kept turning up everywhere she did, sitting in his car, watching her through the window. Who kept leaving her messages on her phone, saying he wanted to make her feel good, keep her safe.

  The creepy jerk who had started to leave gifts at the door of her freaking home—necklaces, chocolates, lingerie. The creepy jerk the cops couldn’t do anything about because she had no idea who he was, or where he was when he wasn’t stalking her.

  The creepy jerk who hadn’t touched her, but scared the crap out of her all the same.

  God, she didn’t want to go back to Perth. Didn’t want to go back to any of that. She just wanted to walk up to Lincoln, ask him to hold her, hug her, make her feel safe and loved.

  Wanted to, but wouldn’t.

  “Bastard,” she whispered. No way she would go back into Lincoln’s studio. She was done with him.

  Done.

  Her vision blurred again, hot tears stinging her eyes.

  Pull over. Now.

  She turned the corner, looking for a space to park the rental so she could enter the airport’s address into the GPS. Was Sydney always this busy?

  Another corner.

  Another.

  “Ah, finally. There’s—What the—? Seriously?”

  Of course, the only available place to park her car was the empty spot she’d created herself directly in front of Lincoln’s tattoo studio.

  “Are you freaking kid—”

  Her phone burst into life, and she squealed. An honest-to-goodness squeal. A car horn blasted at her again, and she realised she’d stopped in the middle of the road. Oh God, she was a freaking mess.

  Slamming on the indicator, she parked the rental and, stare locked on the closed door to Lincoln’s studio, pulled her phone from her handbag. If she was lucky, he’d have left by now and wouldn’t know she was there. “Hello?”

  “Have you seen him yet?” Bebe asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well shite.” Guilt and resigned acceptance threaded through Bebe’s voice.

  “Well shite, indeed. When I get back to Perth, you and I are having a long chat.”

  “I was only doing what Linc asked, Nik. It was for your own safety.”

  “Another thing we’re going to chat about.” There didn’t seem to be any movement in the studio. Phew, that was a relief. “Clearly your brother isn’t just a tattoo artist, and never has been, right?”

  “I can’t…I wish I could have…”

  Niki shook her head. Being angry at her best friend wasn’t going to solve anything. “It’s okay, Bebe. Just explain it to me when I get home, okay?”

  “Okay.” A pause. “When will that be? Have you talked to him? What did he say?”

  Lincoln opened the door of his studio and stepped out onto the footpath, his gaze locked on her through the Hyundai’s side window, and Niki forgot how to breathe.

  How did he do that? Look straight into her soul? She’d never really believed he was only a tattoo artist, even before he’d suddenly appeared out of nowhere and stopped her from doing something that was—upon reflection—insanely stupid with a cricket bat. She believed it even less now.

  “I gotta go,” she murmured into her phone.

  Lincoln crossed the footpath.

  “What do you mean, go?” Confusion and worry filled Bebe’s question. “Where are you? Are you with—”

  The passenger-side door opened and Lincoln slid into the seat. “Think we need to talk, squirt.”

  If she didn’t love him so much, she’d punch him on his freaking jaw again.

  Chapter 2

  He directed her where to drive. She couldn’t help continually glancing at him, even as the Sydney traffic flowed and rushed and weaved around her. She had no real choice. Words had failed her the second he’d dropped into the seat. The only thing she had right now was the ability to stare. Or touch him, but there wasn’t a hope in hell she had the strength to do that. Not without crashing.

  Touching Lincoln wasn’t something she was physically or mentally or emotionally prepared for. She hadn’t been prepared for it five years ago, despite what she’d thought back then.

  So no words, no touching. Just looking. And listening to his deep voice tell her to turn here, turn there, take that right, the next left…

  God, his voice still had the ability to make her hornier than a simple voice should. Bastard.

  Bastard who’d let her think he was dead for a year.

  Double bastard.

  Damn it, why was she here again?

  She flicked him another look.

  He hadn’t changed much. His hair was a little longer at the front, but his standard uniform of trendy vintage chic was back in play, the dark jeans, collared shirt and braces emphasizing just how freaking sculpted and built he was. He wore his sleeves rolled a little, and she caught a glimpse of the stunning dragon tattoo that wrapped around his right arm, from his shoulder to his wrist.

  She’d traced that dragon with her fingertips five years ago. That had been the very first time she’d actually made physical, skin-to-skin contact with him. He’d answered the door shirtless, and she’d stepped across the threshold into his home, placed her fingers on his arm and traced the dragon’s outline up to his shoulder…and then down his chest to his right nipple.

  And he’d let out a raw groan, removed her hand from his body and—

  Nope. Stop.

  She couldn’t let herself think about that night. Not while she was driving, at least. The last thing she needed to do was wrap the rental around a pole because she got all giddy thanks to a memory. She couldn’t afford the premiums.

  “Left here.”

  Turning where he told her, she forced herself to concentrate on the road.

  The very last time she’d seen him, he hadn’t looked so neat and hipster chic. He’d looked scary and menacing and dangerous.

  A tight heat curled deep in the junction of her thighs, and she bit back a soft moan.

  Hell, she’d promised herself she was done getting turned on by whatever version of Lincoln had stopped her from smashing her cricket bat into the head of the disgusting Australian diplomat.

  “Stop.”

  She startled at his soft command.

  “We’re here.”

  “Where’s here?” Nerves took great bites out of her as she studied the building he’d brought her to. It looked like a disused warehouse, although the fence and high-tech security gear discretely mounted on the building and fence posts suggested otherwise.

  “My home.”

  She frowned. “O-okay.”

  He ran a slow gaze over her face, his ice-blue eyes unreadable, and then climbed out of the Hyundai.

  Try as she might, she couldn’t stop herself from checking out his arse as he strolled to a panel beside the closed gate.

  God, it was even hotter now. How was that possible?

  Maybe whatever he really does for a living means lots of squats and crunches?

  What he really does for a living? Pretending to be dead for a year?

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she strangled the steering wheel and shook her head. What was she doing?

  “He’s a bastard, remember,” she muttered.

  “Who’s a bastard?”

  She jumped at his question, glared at him and his knowing smirk through the window, and gripped the wheel tighter. “You.”

  He grinned. “There’s a place to park around back.”

  Before she could tell him she was heading back to Perth—screw him and his sexy arse—he rounded the bonnet of the Hyundai, and dropped back into the passenger seat. “Round the back,” he repeated, pointing through the windscreen.


  “Sure.” She narrowed her eyes at him and drove the rental through the gate.

  By the time she pulled to a halt in front of a massive roller-door at the very rear of the warehouse, her heart was doing its best to hammer its way out of her chest. She turned off the engine, her mouth dry, her palms sweaty.

  Lincoln studied her, wordless.

  She fidgeted behind the wheel. There was no way they could be seen from the road, and there didn’t seem to be another living soul anywhere near them.

  Hmm, maybe she should have told Bebe she was with him? How much did her bestie know about her big brother? She knew he was alive, that much was clear now, but she’d spent every day telling Niki he wasn’t. To keep her safe.

  From what? From who?

  Lincoln?

  Just who the hell was he?

  And why had he brought her here?

  “Are you…are you going to kill me?” The question fell from her on a scratchy breath.

  Lincoln’s gaze pinned her motionless in the driver’s seat. “I don’t want to kill you, Niki.”

  “You don’t want to.” She had a major in linguistics. She knew the difference between want and need. “But…?”

  He shifted in the passenger seat. Studied her.

  Her heart smashed against her breast bone.

  “I’m not going to kill you,” he murmured.

  Every fibre of her body tingled, arced and sparked at the heat in his eyes. Her pussy contracted. Her nipples puckered into aching tips.

  Oh boy.

  “Damn it.” The curse left him on a guttural growl. Scrunching up his face, he flung open the passenger door and threw himself from the car.

  “Ummm…” She blinked. Swiped at her lips—tingling from the kiss she ached for—and then scrambled from the Hyundai. “Now just wait a goddamn minute!” She stormed after Lincoln, who was doing his own storming toward a closed brushed-steel door that looked like it belonged on a trendy city mansion instead of a warehouse.

  He didn’t slow down, throw her a look, or even acknowledge she’d yelled at him.

  Bastard.

  “Oi! Crowley!”

  The name he’d first given her on the phone burst from her lips, ripe with sarcasm and frustration.