the sense of foreboding that was climbing up his spine, Elliot shouted, “Watch your six!”
“You, too, man,” Max called back over his shoulder, before disappearing around the corner.
Instead of heading straight into the diner, Elliot decided to stay outside for a while, where it was quiet. He propped his back against one of the gray lampposts that ran down the snowplowed street, content to simply have a few moments to himself while he watched what was going on in the place through its massive front windows.
There were three waitresses working the floor, but none of them matched Hewitt’s age or description. Not that they had all that much to go on. He and Max caught a lucky break back in Philly, where the last abduction had taken place. A drug addict, who had been sleeping under some cardboard boxes in an alley behind the club the victim had been taken from, had listened to a group of what he described as “big, badass-looking men” as they’d discussed their next “targets.” The jackass hadn’t done a goddamn thing to help the woman who was dragged into the alley, bound and gagged, and tossed into the back of a white delivery van. But he’d at least been able to tell Elliot and Max fragments of the conversation he’d overheard.
According to the addict, who had never come forward to the police officers who had canvassed the area, the men were meant to drop off the woman they’d taken from the club with their employer, and then head to Charity, where they would track down two young roommates by the names of Skye Hewitt and Vivian Jackson. And while Vivian certainly seemed to be in keeping with the employer’s taste—lean and brunette and exotically beautiful—Skye was the exact opposite. A so-called “wholesome, pudgy blonde.” She sounded more cute than drop-dead, in-your-face gorgeous like the other victims had been. But Elliot didn’t give a crap what she looked like. He just wanted to find her, and protect her, while hopefully getting a lead on where the other women were being held.
With Skye and Vivian’s names, as well as the town they lived in, it’d been easy for Monroe to track down their current address and places of employment. A few carefully worded phone calls, and the Fed had even managed to get the Runners both of the women’s schedules, which was how they knew Skye’s shift would be starting any moment now.
As if he’d managed to make her appear by simply thinking about her, the swinging door that Elliot assumed led to the kitchen was pushed open, and a woman walked through, coming into view. A young woman who looked to be in her early twenties, with thick, lustrous hair falling down past her shoulders, a curvy body and a smile that made him suck in a sharp breath, just before his body jolted like he’d been kicked in the stomach.
Son of a bitch, he thought, pressing his hand against the center of his chest. The sight of her smiling face had just knocked the air out of him so hard that it hurt.
Elliot narrowed his eyes as he stared at the woman, eating up every detail like his wolf with a bone. With his keen eyesight, he could see the letters on her nametag: S-K-Y-E. It was really her, Skye Hewitt, and Jesus, she was...different. But in a good way. In an “I can’t stop staring, would probably kill to get closer to her” kind of way. And, um, yeah...that was unexpected.
As Elliot stood there like a friggin’ statue and watched her, it became easy to see what—beyond her physical beauty—had captured the interest of the man responsible for the kidnappings. She was...soft. Soft and sweet and inviting as hell. Standing outside in the chilly evening air, shrouded by the deepening darkness, the faint flicker of the scattered Christmas lights too weak to reach him, Elliot couldn’t take his damn eyes off her as she started serving the tables in her section. There was an addictive, undeniable warmth in her gaze, and in the bright smile she gave to those around her, even while working her ass off. It was completely out of place in the dingy town, and impossible to resist. A lure...and it was calling to him, making him want, when he hadn’t wanted anyone in what felt like forever.
Not since Marly. And never... Shit, never like this.
When he glanced down at the thick watch on his wrist and saw that nearly an hour and a half had gone by since she’d walked through that swinging door, he cursed under his breath. What the hell? Had she put some kind of spell on him? Then he lifted his head, catching sight of her as she playfully stuck her tongue out at a toddler who was giggling and doing the same, and Elliot found himself giving such a loud bark of laughter that it made the old woman shuffling past him on the sidewalk jump.
“Sorry,” he murmured, when the old lady huffed at him. He gave her an apologetic grin, then glanced back into the diner, and instantly scowled at the sight of some jerk checking out Skye’s ass as she bent over to clear a table. The bastard. Thinking it was time he finally went inside, he pushed off from the lamppost and walked over to the door.
The first thing that hit him when he walked into the diner was the scent of the place. It was strong, especially for someone with his heightened sense of smell. A heavy mixture of greasy food, strong coffee, even stronger perfume and an underlying layer of whatever cleaning products they used. He was trying to search out Skye’s scent in the midst of all those odors when an older woman chewing bubble gum and sporting an actual beehive hairdo popped up from behind the hostess’s station.
“You want a table or a booth, pretty boy?” she asked, coming around the side of the station with a plastic menu in her hand.
“Whatever you have free in Skye’s section.”
The woman gave a low, knowing laugh, and started leading him over to an empty booth. “Skye’s slammed at the moment,” she told him, handing him the menu as he sat down, his long legs barely fitting in the cramped space under the table. “But she’ll be over to take your order in just a few.”
“No problem,” he murmured, barely aware of her setting down a bowl of peanuts, his attention already captured by Skye. She was delivering food to a table only about ten feet from his booth, and he couldn’t look away. The damn building could have caught fire, and he would have still been sitting there, completely mesmerized by her.
She was even more beautiful without the distance between them, though he would have preferred to have her right there with him, in the booth. Or even better, straddling his lap, polyester skirt tugged up around her generous hips, and his hardening cock pressed tight against the warm seam between her legs, while he shoved his hands into all that thick, wavy hair and kissed the hell out of her. She had the figure of a 1940s pinup girl, all lush curves and feminine swells that were making his mouth water. She looked vibrant, even in the ugly pink uniform, her skin all creamy and flushed, and those green eyes flashing with her emotions, constantly shifting from humor to kindness as she talked to her customers. Each feature of her beautiful face intrigued him, from her full, succulent mouth to the cuteness of her nose.
And then were the freckles. Tiny, dark little pinpricks scattered over her nose and cheeks. Christ, he wanted to touch his tongue to each one of them, then strip her beautiful body bare and search for more. Wanted to learn this woman’s taste and scent and the kinds of sounds she made when she came. He didn’t know her, beyond her name and the fact that he was there to protect her from an evil they knew far too little about. But he wanted to.
He wanted to know every goddamn thing there was to know about Skye Hewitt. Including what it would feel like to drive himself deep inside her, and lose himself in her soft, sexy body, until their skin was slick with heat and their throats were raw from the husky, unrestrained sounds they were making.
He wanted to fuck her. And he wanted to fuck her hard.
“You need anything, honey?” The question came from the skinny waitress who’d just stopped beside his table, blocking his view of Skye. The woman’s perfume was so heavy it almost made his eyes water, the hungry way she was
