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  STORM

  (Sex and Bullets #1)

  By Jo Raven

  Blurb:

  Raylin is on the run.

  Her father’s associates will stop at nothing to claim the money he owes them—including killing her. A last ditch ticket to Florida, a temporary house to hide in and no future to look forward to.

  That is, until she meets Storm, a tattooed bad boy who is housesitting down the beach and doing repairs for the summer.

  A perfect place, a perfect pair of strong arms, a spot of calm in which to hide for a while—or is it?

  Drop-dead gorgeous, kind, and hot in bed, Storm may not be what he seems.

  Who is the real Storm, and what is he hiding?

  Raylin had better find out before the bullets begin to fly.

  *** This is a New Adult Romantic Suspense standalone novel ***

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  STORM (Sex and Bullets, #1)

  Jo Raven

  Copyright Jo Raven 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover model: Craig Gierish (http://www.risetoalpha.com/)

  Photographer: FuriousFotog (http://www.onefuriousfotog.com/)

  Cover art: Jo Raven

  PROLOGUE

  The house on the beach feels like it hasn’t been visited in years. Dust has moved in, burying the furniture—you’d think the contractor coming in every month would have noticed—and the garden is a damn mess.

  I spent hours cleaning the pool, and now I’ve moved to the fence, beach-side. A couple of planks are loose and I’m nailing them back on, considering a coat of paint for later on, when I get this itch between my shoulder blades.

  Someone’s watching me.

  Shit. Pulling my cap lower over my face, I bend to grab another nail from the toolbox, and sure enough, I see her from the corner of my eye.

  I freeze for a long moment, caught in a spell. Man, she’s damn pretty with her long hair, the heart-shaped face, and that sweet, tight body. I hammer the nail into the plank, securing it, so fucking aware of her it’s crazy. Chills run over my skin. Heat pools in my gut, in my balls and dick, and just like that, from one look, I’m hard and aching.

  What the fuck.

  I want to grab her and press her to this goddamn fence and taste her rosy mouth, feel her tits pressed to my chest, taste her arousal as I fuck her mouth with my tongue. I’d rip that no-nonsense little blouse off her to lick her skin, lick her nipples, suck and bite until she begs me to fuck her.

  And then I’d tear off her shorts, rip her panties and thrust into her hot pussy until she scratches her nails down my back and screams, until she comes so hard she can’t ever forget me.

  PART I: SEX

  Chapter One

  RAYLIN

  A day earlier

  Bang.

  Bang.

  The stones I throw hit the coconuts I’ve lined up on the beach one after another. Haven’t lost my touch yet, and hey, not much to do around here.

  Wish I had my gun.

  Wish I wasn’t on the run.

  But wishing never got me anywhere, so I wipe my hands on my shorts and survey my new domain. The sand is gritty between my bare toes, and the seagulls wheel overhead, their cries too loud. The sun is too bright, the air too warm and humid, the beach too open and exposed for a fugitive like me.

  Still, I don’t move. Truth is, I can’t run any longer. After hitching rides with potential axe-murderers, hopping from one Greyhound to the next, walking in the sun and rain, all the way to Boca Raton, Florida, I’m done. I’ve done it all. I’ve been traveling for weeks, and I’m exhausted.

  I’ve moved far enough, I figure, to make them lose my tracks and have some peace, temporary as it may be. No matter. I need a break.

  Been running for years, and I’m sick and tired of looking over my shoulder day and night.

  Instead I’d rather look at… a man jogging down the beach?

  I squint against the setting sun, shade my eyes with my hand. Yes, most definitely a man. He’s jogging by the surf, his long, tanned legs eating up the distance, the sun glinting on his short hair. He’s also bare-chested, and even from where I’m standing I can tell it’s an impressive chest, lean and muscular, set off by a set of spectacular shoulders.

  Whoa.

  Okay, I’ve made up my mind. I’m staying here until I decide where to move to next. At least the view is good. Given the guy lives nearby, that is. Lots of mansions on the beach, huge and impressive, like the one right behind me.

  He’s approaching, his trajectory throwing him closer to me, and I fan myself with my hand as he pounds by, his jogging shoes sinking in the wet sand, the powerful muscles in his legs rippling. His gaze is focused right ahead, and he doesn’t seem to notice me where I’m standing in my old shorts and blouse, still stained from my long journey.

  I gaze after him as he moves away from me again—like everything in my life lately. Helplessly I watch as the distance swallows him.

  Hm… Great ass, a great back, broad and strong. Check and check.

  Now wait a minute. That’s not what you need to be checking out, Raylin, girl. You should worry more about what you’ve just done, about breaking and entering and actually contemplating living in another person’s house. About sinking deeper into the mire you’ve been trying to get out of.

  As if there ever was a chance of that. When you’re born in the mud, you can’t ever get clean, no matter how hard you try.

  Reluctantly I tear my gaze off the man and turn back toward said house. White, tall, imposing. It was the poorest-looking in the area, which is why I chose it. The least conspicuous. I mean, it only has four bedrooms and five bathrooms, two kitchens, a Jacuzzi and a swimming pool, and a pool bar. Its owners are practically destitute compared to their neighbors.

  It’s not a big deal, living here for a while. The people who own it have cartloads of money. A few more dollars in electricity won’t make a dent in their accounts, and I won’t be stealing anything. Hell, I’m not a thief, but I’m at my wits’ end here. Can’t run forever, and my wallet is dry.

  Yeah, who am I kidding? What I’m doing is illegal, and I shouldn’t linger. I know that. But considering who I’m running from, this barely counts. I could stay two-three days, eat and rest. Make a plan. My plans are what’s kept me alive for so long in the mess that is my life.

  And if that hottie plans on jogging every evening down this beach, well, I sure as hell don’t mind the bonus.

  ***

  To be honest, I didn’t choose this mansion because it was smaller than the others I saw. It just seemed kind of abandoned—with plastic-wrapped magazines in the driveway and the mailbox overflowing, leaves littering the doorstep and the hedge overgrown.

  Breaking into the house wasn’t that hard, either. Not for someone trained by my dad and brother. I disabled the surveillance cameras, then used my bump key to open the back door. Why is it that people think of putting electronic keypads and security locks on their front doors, but ignore other entrances?

  Grabbing a pair of clean black shorts and a pale green blouse from my duffel bag, I showered and changed. That was this morning. Last night, after ogling the handsome runner on the beach, I’d fallen face-first on the first bed I found and slept for fourteen hours straight.

  Okay, I did wake up every couple of hours, my heart pou
nding, thinking I’d heard something, fear clogging my throat, but I fell asleep quickly every time, my endurance having reached its breaking point.

  And now it’s morning time.

  No, that’s a lie, it’s past midday, but who the hell cares? It’s a brand new day. I’m rested, I’m alive, and I can think straight again.

  Which is a problem. Last night I was too exhausted to care. More precisely, too exhausted to be scared—of everything. Of the men coming after me, of the trouble I’m in, of leaving behind everything I’ve ever known again and of having no money left to escape a second time.

  Because I’m not going to rob this house. I won’t. Funny how breaking in doesn’t seem like that much of a huge deal if I don’t steal. Like it’s not a crime anymore.

  I doubt a judge would be amused by my special brand of ethics. Or by any other aspect of my life, for that matter.

  Shivering, I descend into the kitchen, intent on raiding the cupboards for something to eat. It’s all metal and glass in there, and although clean, the counters and sink are covered in a fine layer of dust. A long mahogany table and tall-backed chairs are covered in dead moths.

  Nobody has been in here for weeks or months, and I can’t decide if that’s good or bad news. Because it doesn’t tell me whether the owners are about to return any moment now, or not. Best would be if they’d just left. Then I’d be more relaxed.

  Wishful thinking. You gotta sleep in the bed you made, Raylin, and all that jazz.

  And if I’d really made my own bed, if I’d brought this mess on my head, then that would be fair, I guess, but it’s not like that.

  Not exactly. Not like I had much of a choice.

  Heat rises in my face and I bang the stupid cupboards. I lean back against a counter and shake my head. Who cares now anyway? Too late for angry tears and what ifs. This is my life, and if I can’t seem to outrun my pursuers, well then…

  Then I’ll live for now and not care if tomorrow never comes.

  That of course makes for a pitiful start to the day, but I’m way too hungry to lose my appetite over this dark thought. There’s not much to eat in this abandoned kitchen, but a thorough investigation coughs up a few things I can munch on.

  Gathering up my provisions, I go to sit out on the terrace overlooking the sea and have my brunch. Crackers, a jar of peanut butter and grape jelly, a can of party sausages and three bags of wasabi peanuts. Random, but hey, it’s food, and right now it feels as if my stomach is trying to consume itself from hunger.

  Three wide steps lead from the terracotta paved terrace down to the beach, and I sit on the top one, spreading the pots and cans next to me. Having thought of a plate and a knife—go, Raylin!—I stuff myself silly.

  As silly as one can stuff oneself with crackers, peanut butter and cocktail sausages.

  The day is too hot, clouds darkening overhead, a storm brewing, so I don’t last long on the steps. Not used to this heat. I retreat to the cool shade of the house, where I spend my time hunting through the rooms, trying to imagine who lives there, what sort of life they lead, what makes their world go round.

  Not much to see inside the bedrooms. It’s as if nobody has lived in them—no posters, no funny bedspreads, nothing on the bedside tables, dressers and shelves. Maybe the owners want to sell the house. Or rent it.

  Unsettled, and somehow relieved at the lack of evidence of the owners, I explore the bathrooms—where I score a few open bottles of shampoo and shower gel, then a pantry where I find some more cans and crackers and noodles, and finally an empty office, the dark mahogany desk bare and dusty. Paintings or framed certifications must have hung on its walls in the past because they’ve left their ghostly shape on the wallpaper.

  The basement boasts a billiard room, its table ruined with stains and cigarette burns, and what probably was a TV room, the TV missing from its stand.

  So odd. But there’s no “for sale” sign outside. What gives? Maybe they were going to redecorate? Rich people like to do that at least once a year, don’t they?

  Jesus Christ.

  ***

  I decide to take a walk on the beach. It’s been ages since I’ve done that—probably since those faded memories of childhood I can’t seem to let go. Those were happy, innocent times, when I thought Mom would live forever and Dad was a good guy who loved us more than his own life. And Ben… Yeah, I thought my brother loved me, too.

  Yeah.

  The houses lined up on my right are the stock of architecture magazines and millionaire gossip press. Colonnades, palm trees, enormous French windows, white filigree balconies with view to the ocean. The waves roll up the white sand, leaving white embroideries of foam behind as they retreat, wetting my feet. Ghost crabs run up and down, waving their claws. A fish jumps in the water, glistening silver in the sun.

  God, it’s warm here. I’m used to the north with its biting wind. I miss the wind, miss its force. But there’s an ex-con waiting for me up north, set on my trail like a hound, and I’m not going back. Not willingly, anyway. There’s nothing for me there but pain and probably death.

  I’m safe here. Must be. A place I’d never have chosen to hide in. Too far from my usual haunts. Seeing this in broad daylight, after a good night’s sleep and with food in my stomach, it doesn’t look so bad. I could stay here for a while, lick my wounds and catch my breath. And truth is, this is the best place I’ve been so far in my life. No roaches—at least that I saw—in the rooms, nice bathrooms, space and quiet, and the beach.

  I’d forgotten how much I love the sea. Its color. Its scent. Its vastness. Its power.

  Movement from my right catches my eye from time to time. An old, grizzled man is trimming a hedge outside a frosty pink mansion. A woman in a white bikini and huge straw hat, her skin the color of burnt caramel, walks around a waterfall swimming pool and stretches out on a chaise lounge. A worker is kneeling in the sand, repairing a wooden fence in front of a two-story colonial-style mansion, his back bare.

  Slowing down, I take a better look. A tattoo curls up from the small of his back like black smoke. I can’t make out what it is, but holy crap on a cracker, it’s a hell of a back. Muscular, the hips and waist narrow, the shoulders broad. Muscles ripple through it as the man lifts a hand and tugs down the baseball cap he’s wearing, shadowing his face, and reaches for more nails in his toolbox. I stare at the hammer he’s holding in his other hand and shiver, not knowing why.

  He looks big and strong. Wild. Like the sea.

  Yeah, stop drooling and keep moving, Ray. Sure, stay for a few days here. Knock yourself out. No need to interact with the locals, too. You’re taking enough of a risk as it is.

  Remember Megan. My last roommate. Such a nice girl—skin like chocolate with milk, a bright smile, working two jobs and never complaining. Feeding my cat and checking on me. We were on our way to becoming friends, and it felt so good. Moving about as much as I do, always hiding, that’s a luxury I normally can’t afford.

  And I was right. I can’t afford it. When I realized I had been spotted by the men after me, that I was putting her life in danger, I skipped town and left everything behind.

  Left her behind. Left my cat and most of my stuff. Uprooted once again, I drifted away.

  The sunlight fades, a veil sailing over it. I lift my gaze up to the sky. Clouds are gathering, rolling in like a dark tide. A gust of wind whips out of nowhere. The man lifts his gaze, shakes his head and stands up. Tall, definitely tall, with the body of an MMA fighter, lean and tight, but with those shoulders that seem wide enough to support the sky.

  God, Ray. Snap out of it.

  Turning on my heel, I hurry back to my borrowed home.

  ***

  The wind howls outside as I climb onto the roofed beach terrace. Storms fascinate me. I love how they tear everything in their path, that magnificent violence that nothing can stop. That I can’t stop, and it feels good not to try for a second. Not to fight and scratch and bite at fate, trying to change things that can’t be cha
nged.

  The first fat drops of rain hit the roof over my head, and a smile tugs at my lips. The wind brings the scent of the sea, salty and fresh, and with it childhood memories from a trip we did when I was little. Dad, Mom, my brother and I running by the surf, chasing its lacework of foam.

  A gray curtain of rain is moving over the ocean, approaching the shore. In a moment it’s going to be here, lashing the sand. Waves roll over the sea, rising higher and higher, walls of water.

  Fierce.

  I stand there, the wind tearing through me, and pinpricks of rain blown sideways hit my skin. It’s getting cold as the rain drenches me and I shiver.

  That’s when I see someone running. Has to be the guy I saw last night. He’s bare-chested like yesterday, in shorts and running shoes. He comes pounding down the beach, his head down, his fisted hands held at his sides. Controlled. Strong. Beautiful.

  I barely glimpse his back as he passes by—that tattoo curling up from the base of his spine—and recognize him as the worker I saw fixing that fence, and then the rain crashes down, swallowing him in noise and blurry lines. The wind howls as it drives the column of water across the shore.

  He’s spat out of the blurriness again, a solid, gleaming shape—and then the waves crash over him, and I lose him.

  Shit. What the hell just happened?

  My feet start moving, and I’m jumping down the three wide steps and running after him. Why didn’t he move away from the water’s edge? Didn’t he see the waves? Doesn’t he know how easily they can knock you over and drag you into the sea?

  “Hey!” The rain whips at my face, fills my eyes, blinds me. I can’t see him. I keep running, my feet sinking in the wet sand. The shorts hang heavy on my hips, sodden with water, my blouse clinging to my chest and shoulders, tight like a straightjacket. “Guy!”

  My heart is hammering. I stop, turn in a circle. What the hell? Where is he? And why am I in such a panic? This makes no sense—except I’ve been hit by the waves life sent my way, and I’ve lost so much. I’ve lost people, and the moment of calm acceptance is gone. I fight, that’s what I do, that’s what’s kept me alive so far, and there’s no way I’m letting the sea have this stranger.