Tanner's Scheme

The shock of it might hit him later, but as he lifted Scheme in his arms and moved down the stairs, he didn’t let it bother him now. Savage, protective, the animal instincts were imperative. Her life was in danger and nothing mattered past getting her to safety. Complete safety.



SANDY HOOK, KENTUCKY



There was no one to notice the black SUV that drove quietly along the mountain roads that night. The flare of headlights bounced off houses that now sat on once-thriving farmland, pierced curtained windows, then curved and gleamed along immaculate lawns before moving on. Mobile homes, red-bricked stately residences and modest farmhouses shared the same narrow roads as Tanner Reynolds drove steadily, heading for the turnoff that would lead him home.



The GPS for the vehicle wasn’t just disengaged, it was dismantled and floating in a river somewhere. There were no eyes to see him, no ears to hear him as he headed for the last true sanctuary he knew.



He knew where he was going, but only he knew his impatience to be there. Only he was aware of the primal determination to find the hidden caves he and his family had discovered years before and to hide.



He checked his rearview mirror. There were no lights behind him or in the distance. The stretch of road was dark and rarely traveled this late at night.



The soldiers sent from the Council to find the small Breed pride Callan raised during the years they had lived in this county had never discovered the caves he was heading for. They weren’t even part of the network of caverns that lay below the house their pride leader had lived in before the world discovered them.



It had been a mistake, Tanner thought now. Revealing themselves to the world hadn’t been the assurance of safety that they had believed it would be. The remaining members of the Genetics Council would never let them live in peace. And those Council members would always fuel and aid the pure blood and supreme race societies that had risen in the wake of the Breeds’ revelation to the world.



Tallant and his supposedly spoiled, well-loved daughter were rumored to be head of those organizations.



Tanner inhaled roughly, drawing in the scent of her, letting it permeate his senses. And God, she smelled good. She didn’t smell like the gutter slime he’d once believed her to be; she smelled like fucking summer. Like roses on a desert wind. Like goddamned nirvana, and he was waxing poetic about what could still be a murderous bitch. Forget the fact that animal instincts he had relied on all his life roared in denial.



Who the hell was Scheme Tallant? She sure as hell wasn’t the spoiled little bitch he had believed her to be. Not after what he’d heard in that fucking hotel room.



Her father had sent an assassin after her.



And instead of just killing the assassin and turning her over to Sanctuary, he was running with her.



He had lost his mind. That was all there was to it. The animal was clashing with the man in a battle Tanner knew he was going to lose. Something, some inborn sense he couldn’t escape, wouldn’t let him release her.



Tightening his hands on the steering wheel, Tanner felt his lips curl back from his teeth in a primal snarl. He had to physically restrain a growl. His hold on the animalistic side of his nature was tenuous at best at this point. The more he immersed himself in her scent, the less he fought it.



And the thought of that terrified him. This weakness worried him. He couldn’t countenance it. For years, more years than he wanted to consider, he had made certain he had no weakness. No lovers that meant more than the good times they shared. No friends except those he considered family. No associates that could be used against him.



But this woman weakened him. She made the animal inside him stronger.



Growling at the stupidity of saving her bubble ass, he flipped off the lights on the SUV and made the turn on the graveled road that led into the cliffs below.



He needed to get her to shelter. She had awakened only once during the drive from D.C. to eastern Kentucky, enough to assure him that she wasn’t in any real danger from the tranquilizer he had pumped into her.



Getting her into the hidden caverns was imperative. He had everything he needed to protect her there. And there he would get the answers he needed. She would know who the spy was in Sanctuary; no doubt this was how General Tallant was aware of every move made at the Breed base. That meant Scheme must know the spy as well.



Damn, her daddy had named her right. If reports could be believed, and Tanner was beginning to doubt those reports, then Scheme was personally responsible for several of the attacks made against Sanctuary.



She plotted. She planned. She schemed. She was the Schemer. Except he was starting to suspect that rather than scheming for her father, she may well have been scheming against him.



CHAPTER 4



She wasn’t dead. It was the first thing Scheme could think with any certainty. She was breathing. For now anyway.



There was no confusion, despite the grogginess. She knew exactly what had happened right until the moment Tanner’s arm had gone around her neck and darkness had washed over her.



Funny, she had been certain he was going to kill her. She had seen death in his hard, suddenly brutal gold eyes, and felt it pulsing in the air around her as he moved from the bathroom.



Her hand moved to her neck, feeling the slight soreness where something had pinched her. She had a feeling she was royally fucked in a way she didn’t want to be. But what didn’t kill you made you stronger, right?



Bullshit.



Well, at least she wasn’t buried. She could feel the sense of space around her, a blanket lying over her, clear, clean air moving into her lungs rather than the feeling of dwindling oxygen. That would have sucked.



“You can open your eyes. I know you’re awake.”



Her eyes flew open, and it took every ounce of control she possessed to stare back at Tanner with even a modicum of control.



Yep, she was screwed. Not in a good way. Not even in a decent way. She was royally FUBAR, as her father’s second in command like to say. Fucked Up Beyond All Repair.



The man standing at the end of her bed wasn’t the suave, charming, sophisticated public relations liaison to the Breeds. Oh no. This was the animal the Council had created. Savage, intense, dangerous.



And she was now at his mercy.



Lucky her.



Her gaze shifted from the dark fury in his eyes. She couldn’t bear to hold it, to see the accusation in his gaze, the judgment. Not that she could ever expect anything else. She’d worked hard over the years to gain the Breeds’ total hatred, and she had succeeded. It made her job easier. Her life less complicated. It was just harder to see the truth in his eyes now, rather than the playful desire.



Her gaze touched on stone walls, stone floors. The bed she lay in was made of heavy wood with thick posters. Above, heavy material spanned the connected posters before draping to the floor. It was old-fashioned, almost medieval in design. Wildly romantic. There wasn’t a chance in hell the man staring at her from the end of it had had anything to do with its design.



There was a large overstuffed couch and several chairs at the other end of what appeared to be a large cave. An old-fashioned cast-iron stove sat not far from the sitting area, along with a circular table and four chairs. Cabinets were overhead and along the stone walls. Several metal pipes ran along the ceiling before disappearing into the stone walls, conduits of some sort. There was a television, stereo system, a small shelf of books, CDs and DVDs. All the comforts of home. Surrounded by stone.



“Where am I?” She had a feeling she really didn’t want to know the answer.



“Safe. For the moment.” Powerful arms crossed over his chest as he stared back at her, his eyes cold.



“For the moment?”



A heavy black brow quirked mockingly.



Scheme resisted the urge to swallow against the fear that tightened her throat. She could do this, she assured herself. He might be a rogue Breed for the moment, but eventually he would have to check in, right?



“May I have some water?” She licked her dry lips, fighting the fear and nausea as she had so many other times in the past. She faked it.



“For a price.”



“It would appear I’m most likely rather penniless at the moment.” She sighed. “Father has a habit of canceling credit cards and bank accounts on those he has assassinated.”



He had really done it. Cyrus had really grown tired of the game and decided to have her killed. It was like throwing out the trash, he had once told her. You had to get rid of the filth in your own organization sometimes. It seemed she had become part of the filth. Tanner’s head tilted to the side, his eyes, unique even among the Breeds, glittered with ice as a satirical smile shaped his sensually full lips. Thick, ropy muscles flexed in his arms as his head straightened and he continued to stare down his nose at her.



“What’s the price for a drink of water?” That look went hand in hand with the art of negotiation.



Amusement lit his gaze then. Just his eyes. A glimmer of it, nothing more before his gaze dropped to the blankets covering her.



“Whatever possessed you to sleep with an assassin?” he finally asked.



“A question is the price?” Negotiation was never that easy.



His lips quirked. “I told you, sweetheart, I have every intention of getting my piece of that tight little body. I was just wondering why your taste in men is so damned lousy.”



Years of control stilled the flinch that a whiplash of pain brought.



“I’m not that thirsty yet,” she said calmly.



“I’m not that horny yet, but I could get there fast,” he assured her, his smile turning cold once again. “Maybe you’ll be thirsty by the time I’m ready.”



Her gaze dropped to his hips then jerked back to his face. Okay, he looked pretty damned ready right now. It was almost amusing. Tanner Reynolds was reported to be one of the most docile Breeds ever created. Created approximately thirty-five years before, escaped with pride leader Callan Lyons at the age of fifteen and raised in Sandy Hook, Kentucky, until Lyons revealed their existence ten years before.



The New Mexico lab he had escaped from had been considered one of the most severe. The members of the Genetics Council, as well as the scientists and soldiers who oversaw the Breeds, had known no mercy. Mercy was said to breed weakness, and the Council refused to allow any of its creations to be weak.



All but one. Her mother. Twenty years ago, the only person willing to help the Breeds had been on temporary assignment in New Mexico to run a series of tests on a Breed known as Sherra. The only Breed to have conceived at that point, only to miscarry.



Scheme knew that much for a certainty. Her father had on several occasions pointed out how her mother had paid for her decision to aid the Breeds. She reportedly died of a massive stroke days later. But Scheme knew her father had had her killed. Just as he was willing to have his daughter killed now.



Tanner wasn’t the pleasure-seeking, laugh-a-minute American boy he was made out to be. It was there in his eyes, in the hard curve of his lips. He could fool others, but Scheme had spent her life traversing the dangerous waters of the Council. She knew exactly what she had managed to somehow get herself into here.



She was imprisoned with one of the most merciless, conniving Breeds ever created. As well as one of the most curious. And that was dangerous for her. Extremely dangerous.



“No compromise?” she asked, aware that her voice was weakening.



God, she was tired. And thirsty, the need for water almost torturous. And she needed a restroom. That one was becoming overriding.



“Breeds weren’t trained to compromise,” he reminded her. “I believe that was one of your father’s predecessor’s first orders when he began the training of the Breeds.”



Yes. Good ole Grandfather Cyrus Tallant Sr. The bastard.



“Is the price lower for a trip to the restroom?” She sighed wearily. There should be a rule that negotiations could only be conducted when both parties were at their best. Or their weakest. The playing field really should be even.



Whatever the hell he had done to her had her head fuzzy as hell.