Oh, God, Scarecrow, his mouth.

Scarlett just gave herself up to it, to the taste and the heat of it. He was rock solid up against her, the muscles in his arms flexing around her, the gentle strength of his hand on the back of her neck. The sensual thrill of having his tongue pushing into her mouth again and again, the erotic rhythm of it, melted her brain. He was insistent and tender at the same time, turning her on with every move of his lips over hers, with every thrust into her mouth, making her want to give him more.

And she never gave anyone anything.

And she wasn’t fooling herself. This didn’t have anything to do with being alone or about how she’d already dropped her guard too many times in this damn little town.

This was all about Porter, Scarecrow, “Crow” to the guys with their boots on the ground, or sometimes Arlo, to those who were closer to him, she guessed. She’d delved into him unabashedly using her access to MI-6 to check out every classified thing about him. He was a formidable, decorated warrior, just recently involved in taking down MBFF with her intel. The shock of him being on that mission was only compounded by the account that he had jumped on a grenade to protect one of his guys and two British commandos.

The description was chilling in the short few lines. …he never hesitated…he saved us from certain death at the risk of his own life.

God, she believed it. It was there in every breath he took, in every line of his hard body, in that damn strong jaw. He was brave as hell. And so help her, she wanted to find out, to get him out of his clothes and just get so damn close to him.

She slid her fingers up into his hair and kissed him like her life depended on it, slow and deep, teasing him with her tongue, breathing him in and tasting him—and it was all so impossibly good, so impossible.

A grenade. How many men would have done that?

She sighed and moved against him, pressing herself against his chest. God, he was built like a slab of granite, and she loved it. And yes, she knew what kind of guy threw himself on top of a grenade. The kind of guy who’d earned his warrior name, working with the kind of guys who’d been shipping out with him to deploy all over the world from Afghanistan to Knoydart.

She’d had to dig deep for that information, for the story of the ambush, of the overwhelming enemy forces and the rescue of Blue. All the deeds that had brought him, Blue, and the team home.

He was a legend when it came to pinpointing air strikes, for doing the tough jobs, one of the best on the teams, so decorated, the list went on.

She worked with these kind of men on a daily basis, but she’d never felt so…attracted to a man in her life.

His kiss… This kiss, like the one last night, was crazy and had no place to go.

No place, she told herself.

Off in the distance, the sound of his name echoed through the house. His mum, coming to her rescue against Arlo Porter.

Somebody needed to show an ounce of sense, and considering the way his hand was sliding up her side and heading toward her breasts, she figured if there was going to be any sense on this front porch, it was going to have to come from her.

Damn.

With a monumental effort, because he tasted and felt so good and because it had been so long since she’d been kissed, she broke away from him—and there they stood, still wrapped up so close, their noses touching, his breath soft on her skin, the temperature only adding to her still absolutely melting inside.

“Hey,” he said, his voice rough.

Yeah, that was about all she had left, too.

“Hey.” She needed her head examined, and they were still so damn close, one of his hands still in her hair, rubbing the back of her neck, the other no more than an inch away from her breast, their foreheads still touching.

Behind them, the sound of his mum’s voice came again.

“We need to…”

“Yeah.” The quicker the better, and still she didn’t move away from him.

Who the hell was he to affect her this way? Some guy who’d walked into her life through an airport terminal and looked too good to be true. Some guy who’d given her one hell of a bad time with his innate intuition that was spot on. She was up to something, but it was personal. Then he smiled at her, that mischievous curve of his mouth that told her that he knew all about her, everything—and for a moment, she’d believed that he had.

But he didn’t. No one did. There was no one left who remembered except for The Butcher and his minions. A massacre, it had been termed, and rightly so, a violent willful massacre lost in the tides of war. The echoes of her ghosts were never heard.

The Butcher of Timavir had terrorized all of her homeland with the lives of her family wiped off the face of the earth, all but forgotten.

Nearly, but not quite.

Scarlett would never forget. She couldn’t, no matter how many years passed.

She pulled away from him and was so disappointed by the effort it took. She was usually smarter. He was an unnecessary complication, the guy to fool, not the guy to be kissing.

“That was a second mistake,” she said. Unacceptable. Dangerous territory. This time she didn’t have the excuse of being drunk off her ass.

“Yeah.”

She had a job to do. She had unfinished business, and she couldn’t afford to fail, not in the quest, and never where her family was involved. It was the “almost” that kept her going. The “almost” she hadn’t forgiven herself for. The last thing she needed was more guilt on her soul, but it was there written on her heart and etched into her brain.

Damn, sometimes she wondered if she was going to live long enough to heal fully and wash away her guilt.

Back at her house with the feel of Scarecrow’s hands on her, she booted up her computer and pulled up her research. There were pictures of the Butcher, but they were faded and not of the best quality. She’d stumbled across them in the MI-6 database after much searching, archived and forgotten. She didn’t have access to this classified information, but she had already burned her bridges with MI-6. There was no going back there.

Not that she wanted to. They had served their purpose, and she had gained not only the training she needed, but the access that she had built during her time as one of their agents. Even as she completed her missions, she was always searching for any information about The Butcher.

She had narrowed it down to the US and to the South, but the letter she’d received had pinpointed this small town. He was here, and she would find him.

And when she did, she would have her justice.

Sweat slid between Scarlett’s breasts as she knelt in the field. It beaded on her forehead, and several drops rolled down her temples. She reached up with a dirty gloved hand and wiped it away, leaving a smear of mud.

No one would have tagged her for an elite secret agent which, of course, was the idea. She wanted to lose herself in the mindless manual labor, thinking of nothing but physical tasks like weeding and harvesting, even as her mouth tingled and ached from the memory of his kiss. She suspected she would appear to have rolled around in dirt by the time she finished her work in the fields. There were way uglier things to get immersed in.

She pulled another chili from the bush and it came off easily. Most of her harvest was promised already to several farmers markets she’d already negotiated with. Her brand logo, Puckerbottom Peppers, and the packaging were all ready to go. This would be her first harvest and maintaining her cover had been…enjoyable. She placed the pepper in her basket.

She’d researched every part of the role, including the botany behind peppers so that she would be knowledgeable. She’d used the right kind of fertilizer, and the soil was perfect for the peppers. She had patches of mild, medium, and hot.

Hot.

That kiss.

No. She couldn’t go there. She was getting way too involved with Scarecrow and his mum. That wouldn’t do. She had to stay detached. With considerable force of will, she shut the door on the topic and focused on other things. Her hands moved methodically as she crab walked down the rows of peppers taking only the ones that were ready. The scents of ripe compost and green growth filled her nostrils. Across the field, bees were buzzing lazily over a wild tangle of rambling roses and wisteria that clung to the fence. The rich sound of Mozart drifted from her phone.

“I have to admit. You do look like a lady planter slash chili farmer.”

She looked over her shoulder to find Scarecrow leaning indolently against the end of the truck that was almost full of chilis, his hands in the pockets of his worn jeans, one leg cocked. He looked tough and sexy in a blue T-shirt stenciled with a white “NAVY” lettered across his broad chest.

Even with his deceptively relaxed stance, he had an aura of danger in every line of his body.

She shrugged her shoulders, not taking the bait. “You may be on leave, but I am a working woman. I don’t have time for fishing expeditions.”

Scarecrow grinned at her response. “I like fishing. All that stillness. Waiting.”

She felt a shiver down her spine at both the underlying threat and seduction in that bedroom voice.

He pushed off the truck and walked over, throwing a looming shadow over her. She reached up and snagged his wrist. “Why don’t you take all that…energy and put it to use.” She realized that if he hadn’t wanted to kneel beside her, he would have been like a marble statue and there would have been no way she could have moved him.

“You know what your problem is, sugar?” he murmured, as he watched her slender hands snap chilis from the bush in a way that made him ache for her touch. The fire and the sass in her eyes only made him smile.

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.” She held his eyes, and he studied her expression for a while, reading her need to keep her guard up. Was she afraid of him? Or was it something deeper, more fundamental? Fear of intimacy, maybe? Fear that she might care about something or someone?

“You keep underestimating me.”

She moved to the next plant, and he crouched down across from her, reached out and began to pull chilis. The smell of the earth was so familiar that he breathed deep as if he could balance himself, ground himself. He closed his eyes, hitting him out of nowhere, the memory of being in the field with his father. He could see his dad’s strong hands bringing in the yield, smell the ground as it was disturbed.

Humidity hung in the air like steam, thick and hard to breathe, intensifying the rich loam and the spicy scent of peppers.

He opened his eyes, saw the house, the sweeping emerald green, the lush semitropical growth of the cypress swamp beyond, the lazy flow of the river. He remembered that dream he’d had where the house was on fire. Regardless of the haziness of the dream, there was a message there. He looked toward the house. Home to generations of Porters. Generations that would end with him.

He'd be the one to touch the torch to the tinder and set it ablaze.

When he focused on her again, she had followed his gaze. “What is making you look so sad?”

He clenched his jaw, then said softly, “Everything here has been in my family for generations. My parents… They were older when they had me. They wanted more children but weren’t blessed with them.”

She looked like she wanted to retreat, like this topic was something she wished he hadn’t brought up.

“What about your family?”

She looked like he’d slapped her in the face. Her delicate features closed down. “My family isn’t part of my life,” she said firmly.

He didn’t know what that meant, but the way she looked drove home to him that she was alone in the world. Something he’d sensed without really wanting to be affected by it. But losing his dad and the frailty of his mom drove home to him how important it was to have that support.

“When I went off to war, I was young, naïve. I knew the world was evil, but I didn’t know how bad it would be.”

Her expression melted, and she looked away. “You’re never prepared for that,” she murmured.

But as he looked around, he realized how beautiful it was here. The many places he’d been, he’d always found something beautiful in it whether it was the jade green of the trees, the crisp, clear cold, or the way so many tiny grains made up so much sand.

Then he looked at Scarlett. There was beauty here. Beauty even in the red of the chili she was setting into her basket.

“Want to know what your problem is?”

He laughed, setting more chilis in the basket. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

Her provocative mouth hiked up, her eyes glinting. “You see an enemy around every corner.”

He leaned across the rows and said softly, “There are enemies around every corner.”

“Not everyone is out to get you.”

“Until they are.”

“Are you paranoid or just cautious?”

“I’m neither. I’m watchful.”

“Ah, right then. Scarecrow surveying the field, scaring off the crows. It’s what you are.”

He shook his head. “It’s what I do, and I’m not alone.”

“Yes, the mates, then?”

“Teammates. We work as a team.”

“I work alone.”

“What kind of work was that?”

She rose abruptly and picked up the basket. “It was all about justice,” she said. Then she headed for the truck.

Despite the intimacy they’d shared, he had no idea who she really was. Her background was veiled. She was sharp, smart, fearless. Which was both impressive and, as he’d seen firsthand, intimidating when she wanted to be. But those were the parts she showed him, the guarded, easy parts. What he wanted to know—was suddenly dying to know—was who she was, and what she’d be like if they didn’t have this cat and mouse game going.

He snagged her arm and she whirled around. “Justice? I didn’t have to go far to learn that, sugar. I got all the teaching in my own backyard.”

She met his gaze, hers unflinching. It was knowing and reluctant. “I can see that. Do you know that your mum is afraid of your cousin?”

“Yes, I do. What else do you know?”

“Nothing, really. I can see it when they’re together. Her body language. I have noticed that she has had a quick decline since your dad died. That also interestingly coincides with the more frequent visits from dear ol’ friendly Hank.”

The worry over his mom’s condition spiked. “I was thinking about taking her to the doctor, getting her checked out.”

“But Hank said he’d already taken her.”

“Yeah, that’s what he said.”

“It’s also what he told me.” She pulled away and put the basket into the back of the truck, then walked to the door. “If I were you, I would take her. Hank is dodgy, and I don’t trust him.” She pulled the door open. “I’ve got to go.”

“Where?”

“To prepare these to go to the farmers markets.”

“I can help,” he said.

She sighed. “Get in the truck.”

At her sorting shed, she pulled the door open and Scarecrow followed. It was dim inside, even with the overhead lights. Dust filtered down from the ceiling like little motes of brightness, drifting in and out of the light. She was carrying the basket she had set in the truck, and as they began to pull small baskets with her logo on them, he was beginning to wonder if he was mistaken about her. This seemed like a legitimate setup, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was here for something completely different.

She started to fill the basket but paused and took up one of the peppers, a candle-shaped green fruit. She broke it in half and held it to her nose. Taking a whiff, she turned to him.

“Smell that.”

He took a whiff, and with the ripe aroma of the pepper, he could smell the hot, delicate scent of Scarlett, just as earthy and just as delicious as her fresh crop.

She took a taste and her eyes widened, then watered.

“Bugger, that’s got a kick.” She turned toward him and offered him a bite. He leaned forward, his mouth not only covering the fruit, but her fingers as well. He reached up and steadied her shoulder. The heat of the capsicum in the pepper burst on his tongue, burned his lips and lit up his taste buds.

But little did he realize what kind of beauty was possible. There was beauty here and now right in front of him. He was a man who had lived his life with control, courage, honor, loyalty, thinking the world needed him to be out there doing what was right.

He felt none of those things in him. He felt only her hair beneath his hand, a braid turned inside out and loosened. It fascinated him, because it was so soft, because he wanted to release it. He couldn’t move. If he moved, he would plunge his hands into it, spread it and bury his face in it.

And he would take her, plunge into her, spread her, bury himself in her. He would die on his knees, engulfed by that hot, dark flood.

She tilted her head back and he was mesmerized.

He felt the darkness in him, always knew it was there, but it was like looking into a mirror with her. She was like him seeking justice, finding evil.

He lifted his hands, not quite touching her. Her body seemed velvety with secret curves and paths. His own was hard in answer. His blood pulsed with arousal.

He gripped her elbows and firmly set her away from him.

She watched him. He expected…something…pique or indignation that he wouldn’t give in to her enticement. But she leaned against the edge of the table and smiled deliberately at him, stretched her neck like a big tawny cat washed with sunlight, her throat exposed, her hair falling down, lit by the window so that ivory sparkled brightly within alabaster—a sight that exploded inside him, sent force and weakness to his fingertips.

While he stood paralyzed in black lust, she pushed back her hair and set the rest of the chilis in the container.

“Giving in, getting what you want…that’s not a sin, Arlo.”

He heard the conviction in her voice, the wisdom of a woman who had known pain and hardship. Like him. He wanted to push her against the counter, remove enough clothing to bare what needed to be bared, take that smart, sassy mouth, make her laugh, then cry out, her body like warmth and satin smothering him.

He wanted it, was afraid of where it would lead them. Wondering if he could leave behind the pain, the brutality behind and be content with only her smile and her laughter. He was afraid all over again what he would do if he let it have him.

Could he fight? Could he be the man the SEALs needed? Could he be the weapon he’d honed himself to be if he let her into him?

If he let beauty and love into his life, would it destroy the warrior he was?

He looked at her, wondering at her all over again. Wondering if she did this deliberately, reading him as if he were an open book. Wondering if his own paranoia was coloring every interaction with her. Was he seeing darkness masked by the pureness of her brightness or was he falling into a trap he’d made for himself with his own narrow-minded, self-sacrificing idea of how he had to fight evil?

He slid his palms down the length of his jean-clad thighs, trying to wipe away the feel of her. He brushed past her, the scent of her, the heat of her, the fire on his tongue and in his blood.

He needed to think. And it was too hot in here. She was making him look deeper than he had in a long time, even as he knew she was fighting her own battles. He didn’t want anything in common with her if there was something going on. And he felt it in his bones, right at the edge of his vision, like a ghost that darted away the moment he focused on it.

Why did she scare the hell out of his dad?

Why was she here?

Why did he feel that she was the herald of a great downfall? His gut told him something wasn’t adding up.

How was his mom’s decline involved and why was Hank so eager to help when family was the lowest item on his personal checklist?

“Come by for dinner tonight. I’m giving jambalaya a go.”

He didn’t acknowledge her. Wasn’t sure where his head would be tonight.

Consumed, feeling outgunned by this little slip of a woman, he strode toward the door, taking a gulp of the hot, humid air free of her fiery scent, filled with boxwood and growing things.

He filled his lungs with it and was still unable to escape the lingering aromatic spice of her trapped in his lungs.