Page 3 of Atlanta Heat (Tempting SEALs 6)

“Remind me to put your names on my birthday card list.” Emerson Delaney’s voice was soft and sweet, sugar-coated and so gently Southern it sounded ridiculously out of place here in the darkened warehouse. “What was your name again? Mo, Larry or Curly?”

The sound of flesh hitting flesh sent his blood temperature rising. Fine, she was a smartass, but that was no reason to hit her, and some bastard inside that warehouse had hit her. He would kill the bastard who had dared to touch her.

“You, Miss Delaney, are in no position to sneer.” The accented voice was cold, purposeful. “You will pay for your godfather’s crimes.”

“Melodramatics,” she seemed to wheeze. “Pure melodramatics. Is that a French flaw or just your charming personality?”

The bastard hit her again. Macey knew he was going to have to move before the bastard put a bullet in her head.

Blood was going to spill tonight, and it wouldn’t be Emerson’s. He’d already made up his mind that the woman was his; he had only to stake his claim and convince her of it. But first they had to get her out of here. At least he had the element of surprise. The men who had kidnapped her from her bed had no clue that their route to the warehouse had been followed.

He turned to the SEAL with him, meeting the wild blue eyes of the demon stalking behind.

Nineteen months of torture and drug experimentation on Nathan had nearly broken him. It had definitely changed the SEAL for all time, but a year later, he was holding his own. Honed, savage, a creature of rage, but holding his own.

He held up three fingers. There were three guards posted at the entrance to the warehouse. He held up two more and pointed inside the warehouse. He was getting ready to give the command for Nathan to work his way around to the other side of the warehouse when the son of a bitch held up the flat of his hand and shook his head.

Before Macey could argue, Nathan was striding around the warehouse, calm, cool as hell, and crazier than a fucking loon. Son of a bitch. Macey gritted his teeth again, grinding his molars and cursing crazy Irish men to hell and back.

“Hey, dude, I need a light.” Nathan’s voice was ruined, s

lurred as he stumbled against the warehouse.

“Get the fuck out of here,” one of the guards cursed.

Macey peeked around, trained his weapon on the three guards.

Macey saw Nathan’s knife gleam in the darkness a second before he buried it in a smooth, hard upward strike into the heart of the first guard. The guard gasped, gave a shudder, then appeared to stagger with Nathan’s weight, taking him closer to the other two.

Three seconds later blood coated the asphalt and three French nationals, one of whom had embassy clearance, Macey had been informed, were propped up against the wall as Nathan moved into place beside the door, his demon eyes glaring across the distance.

Who needed a whole team of SEALs? He and Nathan were enough SEALs for this job. Nathan might be a tad mentally unstable in Macey’s opinion, but he was a hell of a killer. And that sucked. It used to be that Nathan shed blood only when there was no other alternative. Now, he killed without mercy, with expediency. He gave nothing or no one a chance to strike first.

“Your godfather Admiral Holloran will regret his part in the strike against our leader,” the terrorist was raging, as though Emerson was going to give a damn. “He and that bitch daughter that betrayed her father. Once we have her, you will be executed, your deaths viewed by millions and cheered on by the loyal followers of Sorrell.”

Sorrell, the son of a bitch terrorist and white slaver they had taken down months before was rearing his ugly head again, even after death.

“Wish you luck with that.” Emerson’s voice was weak. “I really wouldn’t expect more than a few dozen loyal hits; the rest will be for entertainment value alone. Kind of like a train wreck.” Her voice was flippant, but Macey could hear the fear in it.

Nathan smiled that demon smile of his. A hard curl of his lips, the flash of strong white teeth and cold hard death. He was a killing machine now, determined to take down the last cells of the terrorist organization that had backed Sorrell. Until it was finished, he couldn’t return to his own life, couldn’t reclaim his wife.

Nathan gestured, signifying that they go in low, catch the two inside off guard, and snatch the girl. Hell, it would be risky. Too fucking risky. He shook his head and began to gesture a less risky move when Nathan crouched, slammed the door open and went in shooting.

“You stupid bastard!” Macey snarled, fury and an edge of fear growing in his gut as the sounds of gunfire exploded through the night.

He threw himself into the room, rolling to the chair Emerson was tied in and tipping it over. He jerked the knife from his boot and sliced the ropes holding her wrists and ankles. The two men with her lay in their own blood as Nathan moved quickly to cover Macey.

“There’s more coming,” Nathan hissed as Macey checked the girl quickly for injuries.

She was glaring at him. Her hazel eyes were pinpoints of fury, the green in them nearly overshadowing the brown, glittering in a rush of anger as she snarled back at him. That was Emerson—fear made her angry. Made her snap and snarl and that was a hell of a lot preferable to tears. Could he handle tears from Emerson?

“We have to run for it,” he warned her.

“You have to drag your heavy ass off me first,” she panted. “Dammit, Macey, you weigh a ton.”

“Move!” Nathan snapped behind him. “Here they come!”

He jerked her to her feet, ignoring her gasp, grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her through the shadowed, cavernous building at a low run.

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