The year is 2095. The Americas Revolution has ended. And Cyan Sebastian—the last blue-eyed, Caucasian woman known to exist in the Western hemisphere—is on the run. Her safe and sequestered life ripped apart, she is running with a man who has sworn to protect her. A man who once hunted her for the bounty she would fetch. The man whom days before, killed her father.
Devin McCrae is that man. Having tracked Cyan and her family for years, Devin never dreams her father will one day drop her in his lap, with a proposition he cannot refuse. He never imagines that instead of hunting Cyan for the bounty on her head, he will become her protector to the end, and safeguard her from all the others.
Most of all, he never expects he will fall for her. If ever there was a woman who is hands off—Cyan Sebastian is that woman. Turns out though, keeping her hands off him, is the bigger problem. And it’s a deadly one, at that.
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She woke later
with a warped heaviness hanging over her, one that she couldn’t quite grasp.
Sleep. Deep sleep had come in the night. Blessed sleep. And she was ever so
grateful.
But the heaviness
that encircled her came from something more than a sleep-of-the-dead night. It
came from something warm and secure and safe, all-encompassing.
All consuming.
And it smelled
like a man.
Cyan fluttered her
crusty eyes, focusing her gaze across the way. Yes. Still in the cave. Facing
the opening. But she was tucked back into a cranny, shielded from view.
She could only see
the top half of the opening, and knew it was daylight. Bright sun pierced the
depths of the cavern for about five feet inward. Beyond that, it was dark. Dark
around her. Dark around them.
Them.
For what shielded
her from view was McCrae’s arm lying protectively across her face.
Her father used to
do the same, lay beside her—her and her mother—his arm draped over them,
protecting….
Tears stung the
backs of her eyelids. Her parents. Both gone.
What would she do
now?
She lay on her
side, half on her stomach, her right cheek resting against the cave’s dirt
floor. McCrae was nearly on top of her, his bare arm draped snug over her from
behind. His body wrapped protectively around hers. His weapon in his hand.
Poised. Pointed
outward.
Nothing was
getting to her unless it got to him first.
Drawn to his dark
skin—much darker than hers—she almost lifted a finger to smooth over his
forearm. Touch him. Run the pads of her fingertips over the dark, fine hairs of
his arm.
But no. Not a good
idea.
She had no doubt
that should the smallest movement, the slightest sound alert McCrae, awaken
him, he would be up and shooting within a millisecond. She wouldn’t risk
touching him. Even though she was intrigued, fascinated by the tone, texture,
and color of his skin. He was Mulatto. A novelty for her, in some respects, as
much as she was a novelty for him.
Something to
explore another time.
Mulatto.
The term, she’d read and heard from her parents, was once derogatory to Blacks
of African Heritage, and others in the United States of the Americas. Her
father, a scientist, and her mother, a forensic empath, had home-schooled her
well as they tripped from hiding place, to hiding place, across the globe.
Although considered resident citizens of the United States, they called
whatever country they’d landed in—temporarily or semi-permanently—their home.
In some cultures,
she’d learned, the use of the term Mulatto was accepted—in the old United
States, not so much. But now, on the cusp of the 22nd century, in the true
melting pot that was the United States of the Americas, it was a common term
worldwide.
Mulatto. It
was the norm, rather than the exception.
She was the
exception, rather than the norm. Caucasian.
But for now, he
slept. And she would let him.
He needed to rest
for whatever came next.
They needed
rest.
It was okay. Her pursuers
were far away. Off track. Off course. Frustrated.
She knew it.
Sensed it. Her sight became clearer when she was rested, calm, safe… And she
trusted her sight, her gift, more than anything.
Had to.
McCrae’s head lay
lax against the side of her cheek. The heaviness comforted her, in a strange
way. The steadiness of his inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale calmed her. The
stubble of his whiskers raked against her temple. The pound of his heart beat
against her back in a steady staccato rhythm. She could feel it. Somehow the
murmur of it all reassured her.
He’d protect her.
To the end. She was sure of it.
A slight snore
escaped his lips. His breath sifted soft and moist across her cheek. Warm.
Hot.
Lying so damned
protectively across her.
Dammit.
Something stirred
in her gut. Zinged throughout her body. Her chest.
No. Not
him.
Not now.
Trust him.
No, dammit. Not in
that way. Not with her heart, anyway. But her father bade her to trust him.
Trust this Devin McCrae. Those were his last words. His last action. She wondered
if he realized how difficult a task that would be?
Trust him? Yes.
Give her heart?
No.
Never.
She wasn’t even
sure she had a heart to give. With her body? Maybe. That might solve at least
one immediate problem. Although it was more than forbidden. Giving over her
body to a man could mean certain death.
And likely death
to whomever she gave it to.
****
There were days
Devon McCrae pondered how his life had ended up as it had. After all, he was
just a poor kid who grew up in a rough neighborhood in El Paso. He didn’t
really know his father—just what his mother chose to tell him—and he figured
what she hadn’t told him he was better off not knowing. He knew there was a
jail term because he’d overheard his mother talking to their priest about it on
occasion.
At least his
mother had insisted upon his religious upbringing. For all the good it did him
now. If there was a God, he had surely offended him and then some over the
years.
His sins were
many. He doubted atonement would come in his lifetime. Or afterlife. If there
was such a thing.
He didn’t possess
a college education but had earned a degree in hard knocks—not to mention
natural street smarts. A few tours in the Middle East running special ops added
to his education. Enlisting was the best thing he’d ever done for himself,
until the Army turned him to the other side. At least he’d learned how to
shoot.
Sniper.
Assassin.
Hired gun.
Bounty hunter.
Whatever you
wanted to call him. Whatever he needed to be. Didn’t matter. All the same. A
way to make a living. Survive.
This time,
however, the tables were turned. Unexpectedly. Edward Sebastian had been the
unlikely turner of the events.
As he lay still in
the cave, his gaze trained on the entrance, the leaf-filtered morning light
creeping in, and the floral scent of Blue’s hair tickling his nostrils—he
decided he couldn’t ponder this turn of events any longer.
Block it.
Not a killer now.
Protector.
He’d made a deal.
A life-altering deal. In the process, he’d likely sealed that deal on his own
life. Rather than the hunter now, he was the hunted.
Tables turned.
Maybe my soul
has a chance now. Although he doubted that one act of good would erase the
years of killing.
Edward Sebastian
had gotten to him. Blue had gotten to him.
Tables turned.
Block everything else
out. Mission at hand. Get them to Betatakin.
Get her to her
safe place. Deliver her. Only then he could ponder the blunders of his own
life.
Blue stirred in
his arms. She would wake soon. He needed a game plan.
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