coffee as he was to his wife.
“He’ll do it.”
“What makes you think so?” Grant yawned through the question.
Joe stared back at the house, seeing the slender female shadow as it passed by the curtains in the living room before the lights flipped out. He was going to have to mention windows and shadows before some son of a bitch put a bead on her through that window.
“She’s his weakness.” He nodded to the house. “Everywoman he’s had in the last five years resembles her. She’s not going to obey him like a good little girl, no matter how much he wishes she would. She’ll defy him, and then he won’t have a choice.”
Joe understood that kind of weakness; he could even respect it in a pitying sort of way. When a man loved a woman like that, then the betrayal, if and when it came, ripped his soul apart.
“He has a strange way of showing it,” Grant muttered. “And he’s not the smartest good ole boy I ever met, Joe. You don’t piss a woman off like that; she’ll cut your balls off for it. And she’s crazy about him. I swear I heard her heart break when he talked about working with another woman.”
Yeah, Grant, poor sap that he was, had kept his eyes lowered, his expression filled with sympathy, as Clint pushed the girl. Grant had actually muttered an “amen” when she stalked from the apartment.
“She reminded me of Maggie,” Grant sighed. “Full of fire.”
Joe grunted absently, watching the house. Clint Mclntyre was one hard-ass. He was one of the regulars at the upper-scale bondage clubs and well-known for his extreme tastes in sex. Spanking, toys, butt fucking. He was good to the women, but he pushed them, pushed the limits of their sexuality as well as their endurance.
Some of the women he’d had in the last few years said he could fuck for hours without breaking pace and then start again with only a light nap. Hell, Joe hadn’t done that since he was eighteen. Mclntyre’s testosterone level must be off the damned charts. That or he was trying to screw a hunger out of his system that wouldn’t die. Joe understood that one. He understood that one too well.
“So why are we here?” Grant shifted in his seat, working to get more comfortable. “Clint’s in the back watching the house, and I can’t see where we’re needed.”
“That attempted hit bothers me, man,” Joe finally admitted. “Her cover couldn’t have been cracked. No way in hell.”
“There’s never no way in hell,” Grant pointed out wearily. “Anything’s possible.”
Yeah, no shit. It wasn’t something Joe should have forgotten. Hell, he hadn’t forgotten; that was why Grant was here missing out on his wife and bitching over it. Joe didn’t have the same trust in the others.
Joe shook his head. “I have a bad feeling about this one, brother. A bad feeling all the way around.”
“Not good,” Grant muttered.
No, it wasn’t good. Joe lived his life by his gut; he always had. It was one of the reasons he’d left the SEALs, one of the reasons he’d taken command of this task force.
“So why are we here?” Grant asked again. “I could be curled around my Maggie, sleeping peacefully, Joe. McIntyre ain’t stupid. He’ll watch her tonight.”
That was Joe’s intention. Clint needed time to assess the situation, to think about things awhile without interference. If that hit was against Morganna and another came too soon, then he’d jerk her out of the assignment and cart her off gagged and bound. Joe couldn’t afford that. He needed the other man in this assignment fast.
“We’ll help him watch her awhile,” Joe murmured. “You can sleep tomorrow.”
“Man, Maggie ain’t in the bed through the day. You suck, Joe,” Grant griped.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Grant was missing one pitiful night with his wife. So what? Joe was missing every night with his.
“If I were that mean-assed SEAL, I’d cart little Morganna off as hard and fast as possible and tell you to kiss my ass,” Grant