Maverick

“That’s Micah.”

Risa heard Morganna’s statement at her ear, but she couldn’t turn away from the black eyes that held her. Eyes as deep, as dark as the night, yet there as something that sparked in with warmth, that kept those eyes from being cold.

His expression was still. There was a hint of hardness, a suggestion of danger carefully leashed. But she couldn’t expect anything less from a friend of four former Navy SEALs.

Still, the very stillness of the expression was comforting. As though he knew himself, his strengths and weaknesses, and had learned to live with his own demons. He wouldn’t wear his heart on his sleeve or his face. He was reserved. She understood reserved.

His entire body reflected his expression. He didn’t move as though he were in a hurry. There was no anticipation, no sense of urgency. His body was coordinated, lean, tough. Fit.

Black slacks conformed to his muscular legs and hips. The white shirt beneath the black jacket was a hint of color in the otherwise dark ocean of still emotions and graceful male confidence. His hair was cut close to the scalp, but still the thick strands would be long enough for a woman to thread her fingers through.

And what made her think of that? she wondered. Why did her fingers suddenly clench on her purse as she wondered what his hair would feel like beneath them.

It was his eyes that held her, though, that called to her. They stroked over her face, always coming back to her eyes, and some softening within them, a hint of male interest, of determination, had her heart racing through her body with a force that left her trembling.

She had expected him to be strong powerful. He was, yet it was a subtle strength and power. His body wasn’t bulky with muscle straining against his clothes. He was lean, corded. Male power shimmered around him, but it wasn’t heavy and wide such as Kell’s was. Kell Krieger was tall, his shoulders like a football player’s, padded with muscle. Even Reno and Clint were like towers of muscle and strength, Micah Sloane was just as tall as they were, but the bulk was absent. Some might suspect that the strength was absent. She had a feeling whoever made that mistake would come to regret it.

“It’s about time you arrived,” Clint drawled from the other side of Morganna as Micah Sloane moved to the vacant chair across from her.

He shook Clint’s hand as the other man rose, repeated the move with Reno, Kell, and Ian. His eyes didn’t leave Risa’s.

“Micah, would you like to meet our friend Risa?” There was a hint of amusement in Morganna’s voice now.

“I believe I just have.” His words didn’t rise above the music. It was as though the music paused for him alone, certain it would regret foiling his wishes if it didn’t.

“Mr.Sloane.”  RIsa nodded, barely able to swallow past the nervousness that rose in her throat.

His hand moved across the table. She had no choice but to loosen her fingers from her purse and allow him to take them. She expected a handshake, firm and determined. She didn’t expect his hand to encase hers, his fingers to stroke against her wrist for one brief second, as though to ease the pulse pounding out of control there.

The warmth of his hand was gone, leaving her to regret the brevity of the contact as he loosened the button on his jacket and took his seat.

He leaned back in the chair and answered some question Kell had asked. His gaze came back to her, though it never gone for long.

He didn’t demand that she stare into his eyes. The caress of his gaze was subtle, slow. It wasn’t enough to draw others’ interest, it was shielded by thick black lashes, but nothing could dim the effect it had on her.  

“Risa Clay, meet Micah Sloane, a SEAL assigned to the Durango team,” Clint introduced them.

Micah never once looked below her chin, but she swore she could feel the warmth of that look flowing over her body. His attention was crude; it wasn’t obtrusive. It was simply there. A stroke along her brow, along her chin. It touched her hair, her ear when she tucked the strands nervously behind it.