by Misty Evans
“Hmm.”
She waited for him to go on. He didn’t. “What does that mean?”
He turned toward the sink and rinsed his glass. “Nothing.”
“Hmm does not mean nothing with you. You’re thinking something. Tell me what.”
He leaned on the sink and crossed his arms over his chest. “Ranger’s a natural protector and he’s trained to be suspicious and watchful. He might be overly vigilant with you.”
That’s it? No, there was more, she could see it in the tight lines of his face. “What else?”
He sighed, seeming to debate with himself. “Two years is a long time without female companionship.”
Companionship. That seemed a better term than friendship, or even partnership. But she had the feeling Trace was referring to something more intimate.
Ah. “Well, sure. I get that, but it’s not like…”
Not like what? Mick was sexy and dangerous. A part of her felt a little thrill that he wanted to sleep with her.
Trace didn’t say anything, waiting for her to go on.
“I’m not his type.”
There was a teasing note in Trace’s voice. “How do you know?”
A brainiac like her? Definitely not Mick’s type. “Okay, I’ll concede that point. Technically, I don’t know his preferences, and I’m sure he’s not picky after a couple years in jail, but if he only wanted to sleep with me for the sake of sex and nothing more, he wouldn’t be jealous of another man innocently flirting with me while we’re undercover, would he?”
“No.”
Which meant what?
“You think I was leading Seymour on? That I’ve been doing the same with Mick?”
“Never said that.”
Yet, it still seemed implied. “Just so we're clear, flirting with a man at a bar is not something I do, ever. I haven’t even had a boyfriend since…well, never mind.” He didn’t need to know her love life history. “Seymour flirted with me and the only reason I allowed it was because Mick was there to make sure he stayed in line. I felt safe. Also, I don't lead guys on—hell, I don't even know how to, and if you tell anyone that, I will be horribly embarrassed and find a way to cause you great pain in some legal manner. Which leads me to the logical conclusion that I have not intentionally--or unintentionally--given Mick the wrong idea about us.” She drew a deep breath. “Have I?”
Trace laughed. “I'm sworn to secrecy about your lack of flirting skills, but I'm not going to beat around the bush. You and Mick have chemistry, even I can see that, and two years without a woman? He's horny as a pubescent teenager. You don't need to flirt with another man to trigger his natural instincts.”
In Mick’s case, he’d been the one flirting with her. “Mick and I have to work together, so it’s important we can rely on and respect each other. He has a hero complex, for good reason, so I’m sure he feels responsible for me, but there’s nothing more than that. No reason for him to be jealous, so it must be the headache. I’ll take him some pain meds.”
“I’d leave him alone tonight. He’s fighting some demons, and you could be right—it might be nothing more than the crowd and mission giving him a headache. He’s been in a dark place for a long time, but he’s a soldier. He’ll fight his way back. I'll make sure of it.”
Trace had been in similar circumstances not long ago, so he knew. Still, after he left the kitchen, Cassandra found a bottle of aspirin in her medicine cabinet and set it outside Mick’s door with a glass of water.
Back in her room, she shed the dress and put on comfortable clothes before sitting down to write her report. They hadn’t made direct contact with Falana, but they had two more days of the conference to work their magic before the party Friday night.
I can do this.
She tried to sleep, but after a couple hours of tossing and turning, went downstairs, made some popcorn, and flipped through a dozen channels on the large screen TV until she found a sci-fi movie with a post-apocalypse theme. Not her favorite genre, but she liked the lead actor.
Pulling a blanket over her legs, she settled in, hoping the movie might give her overactive brain something to focus on besides the mission and the uncomfortable situation with Mick.
She'd eaten her way through half the bowl when a soft voice startled her out of the fictional story she’d become engrossed in. “Good movie?”
She jumped enough to knock popcorn out of the bowl and found Mick standing a few feet from the sofa. He was shirtless, the flickering light from the television illuminating his face, chest, and abs. Incredible abs, and a chest that was covered in tattoos. Picking popcorn off the blanket, she scowled. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to sneak up on people?”
He flopped down on the couch and kicked his feet up onto the large ottoman. “Taking people by surprise is one of my skills.” His hand snaked over and stole popcorn from the bowl. “Who’s in this one? I don't think I've seen it.”
“Are you kidding? It was a huge box office hit a couple years—” She sucked in her lips. “Sorry, I forgot.”
He snuggled closer, stealing more popcorn and tugging on the blanket. His thigh and shoulder brushed hers as he adjusted it to cover both of their laps. “I suppose I have a lot of catching up to do with movies, TV, and books. You'll have to give me a top ten list to start with.”
She glanced at his chest tattoo from the corner of eye, his heat making her begin to sweat.
I'm just curious, she told herself. It had nothing to do with how incredibly fit he was. A little on the lean side, but how had he maintained that physique in prison?
She swallowed hard, ignoring the heat shooting through her limbs. “This is based on a book and a lot of people gave it poor reviews, but I like it. It takes a different spin on the whole zombie thing. I'm not really into them, but the scientific angle behind the disease is fascinating.”
“Sure it's not the lead actor?”
The heat rose up her neck and into her face. God. Why did that always happen? He could probably see her blushing. “I’m not that shallow.”
His fingers grazed hers as they both reached for popcorn. “Why did you pursue a degree in law instead of science or medicine? You seem to like that shit a lot.”
She tried to focus on the conversation instead of the way her fingers shook as she brought a piece to her mouth. “I take it your headache’s gone?”
He shifted, laying his head on the back of the sofa. “Thanks for the aspirin, and I apologize for my earlier rudeness.”
“Wait, let me get my phone and have you say that again so I can record it.”
He snorted and smacked her playfully on the thigh. “Smartass. Ooh…” He grimaced at what was happening on the screen. “That was ugly.”
They watched for several minutes before she answered him. “I chose law because it's more logical to me, cleaner. With medicine, there are equations, parameters, and logic, but there are so many variables. It’s messy, you know?”
“You don’t like messy, I take it.”
She pointed to the screen, depicting chaos and terror. “That would be my worst kind of nightmare. No rules, no law, no logic. People running on pure fear and making horrible decisions on top of a pandemic that takes twelve seconds to turn you from a normal human into a zombie.” She shivered.
As the movie progressed, Mick threw popcorn at the screen on occasion when one of the characters did or said something stupid. If they redeemed themselves, he cheered.
What should have lasted two hours took longer, endless commercials interrupting the flow of the movie. At one point, Cassandra’s eyelids grew heavy, her body relaxing into Mick’s. Her lips formed a smile as he offered the lead character advice on what not to do.
Sometime after that, she fell asleep, waking to find another movie had begun. Mick was asleep on his side, his head in her lap, his body awkwardly stretched out on the couch
She didn’t want to wake him, and yet, staying here, with his head in her lap seemed too…
Intimate.
Like Trace had implied earlier.
The light of the TV turned Mick’s hair silvery. His back showed a large raven tattoo, the wings of the bird spreading over his shoulder blades. She’d seen it the other night when she’d found him face down in bed, but she’d been too nervous to really look at it.
She strained to reach a pillow that had fallen on the floor. Maybe she could slip it under his head and slide out without waking him.
Almost…her fingertips brushed the corner of it, and her breasts nearly smashed into the side of his face. As if sensing the movement, Mick shifted, mumbling in his sleep.
She froze.
He smacked his lips, sighed, and twisted his head. His face lodged in her breasts, and she sucked in a breath.
Now what? All it would take was a slight shift of his face and he’d practically be kissing her nipple. Holy heck, how had she let herself get into such a situation?
Slowly, slowly, slowly, she straightened.
Her nipples stood at attention through the sweatshirt. Please don’t wake up.
He didn’t, but what he did do was shift once more, turning fully toward her and nuzzling his face into her stomach.
She sucked in a breath. Her belly quivered, her legs turning to liquid. Immobile, afraid to move, she gave up. Maybe she could stay a little longer.
Her fingers moved on their own accord, tracing like a whisper through the ends of Mick’s hair. Now that she could examine him without embarrassment, her eyes roamed over his skin, noting every scar—some fresh, others older—and several fading bruises.
He’d lived through real trauma and chaos, and could still hold a civil conversation, go undercover to stop a psychotic woman bent on revenge, and make everyone laugh.
Hero. The word filled her head, beating like a drum along with her pulse. Mick Ranger was a real-life hero. She’d known it before she’d even met him.
His closeness made her want to snuggle with him and go back to sleep. It was good to offer him comfort, but that would be going too far. He might read something into it.
Maybe I want him to.
The thought made her brain reel, but the heat flashed hot between her legs. Was Trace right? Had she unknowingly been leading Mick on?
Good thing he was asleep, because otherwise, he’d see her blushing so hard she was lighting up the room. Lord Almighty, he was turning her into a horny wanton without doing anything but sleeping.
As she toyed with a strand of his hair, that weight from earlier took hold in her chest. There was something about him, about those scars and the hell she could only imagine he’d survived that made her want to lash out at someone.
In sleep, he was almost innocent looking. Not quite, but close. He still had an innate air of danger to him. A stillness that suggested he could go from deep sleep to killing you in two seconds flat.
But there was something equally as honorable and principled. A fragile thing missing in most of the world today.
She wanted to protect that honor, his principles.
She wanted to protect him.
How crazy was that?
Maybe that’s what he’d felt at the bar. Not necessarily romantic jealousy, but a protectiveness like she now experienced regarding him. Why he would feel that way about her, she didn’t know.
One way or another, she would look into what kind of legal action he could take against his captors, maybe even the United States of America for leaving him in that hellhole for so long.
Relaxing, Cassandra closed her eyes and smiled. She would hold his head, or any other part of him, forever, if it helped.
* * *
Avoid no-go areas
* * *
In the dream, Mick was on a beach, the sound of the waves soothing in his ear. He was spooning with a warm female body, her breasts filling his hands to overflowing. His erection strained against the fabric of his pants, pressing into her ass.
Birds called, the sun warmed his back. Something nudged against his semi-consciousness, trying to wake him.
He fought back.
Not yet. He wanted to stay in this dream forever.
His lover smelled of jasmine and honeysuckle, and he breathed deeply into hair that tickled his nose, nuzzling her neck, massaging her breasts.
Feels so damn good.
She moaned, hips pressing back against his cock, but again, something nudged his mind, trying to wake him.
Jasmine and honeysuckle…
Stay asleep. That’s an order.
She turned in his arms, facing him, murmuring his name. His mouth found hers, silencing her, his tongue parting her lips. She sucked in a breath, teeth nipping his bottom lip, and the fire down below went crazy.
He cupped one of her ass cheeks, holding her in place, his erection searching for that perfect little sweet spot…
“Mick?”
That voice. Soft, ragged, sexy as hell.
Jasmine and…
His eyes flew open.
Shit.
Staring back at him were two beautiful light blue eyes, half lidded and searching his.
Cassandra's hair lay tousled over the couch pillow, her face bare of makeup and still so damn beautiful in the morning light, it made his chest squeeze. Her lips were parted, her breathing heavy, full breasts pushing against his chest.
Her hands were on his shoulders, and they couldn't seem to make up their mind whether they wanted to push him away or pull him closer.
The dream had been a trick—knew I should’ve stayed asleep—but he wasn't about to let this moment go, let her go. She was the first woman he’d held in so, so long.
He grinned. “Morning, beautiful.”
“Good morning.” A shy smile traced across her lips. “I mean, sorry. Guess I fell asleep on the couch with you and I…”
“Nothing to be sorry about.” He swept back some of that crazy hair from her cheek. His erection pressed into her pelvis so hard it hurt. Definitely not giving up this opportunity without a fight. “Seems as if our bodies like each other. A lot. Would be a shame to deny them their fun, don't you think?”
She said, “What? Don't be ridiculous.” But it came out breathy, sultry even, and those hands on his shoulders pulled him closer instead of pushing him away.
“Come on, Cassie. We've been under a lot of stress. Would do us both some good.”
Those blue eyes searched his face, but she shook her head. “That would be…totally unprofession—”
“What the…?”
The deep male voice startled them, Cassandra bolting up and dumping Mick off the couch.
He landed hard on his ass with a loud, “fuck.”
The guy called Henley stood over Mick, a knowing grin on his face and a cup in hand. “Sorry to interrupt, mates,” he said, his voice carrying a slight British accent. “The boss wants to speak to you.”
Cassandra jumped to her feet, adjusting her sweatshirt, askew from Mick having his hands under it. She combed fingers through her hair, trying to calm the crazy mess, her eyes darting between Mick on the floor and Henley standing over him. “Oh dear. Sorry”—she reached a hand out to Mick to help him stand—”I, uh, let me run upstairs and fix my face. I'll be right back.”
Erection deflated, Mick accepted her help to stand and glared at Henley. She took off nearly at a run and Mick considered punching the smirking man in the face. “Don't ever do that again, or I'll have to kill you.”
“Sorry for the blue balls, mate.” He handed the cup of steaming coffee to Mick. “I told Jett I didn't want to interrupt, but she insisted.”
From what Mick had been able to piece together, Parker and Henley were a thing. “Two years, twenty some days. You ever gone that long?” he growled.
The man knew what he was talking about without him having to say it. “Hell no. Must be miserable.”
There was sincerity in his voice, even though he was still smirking.
“I want to kill you right now.”
“I would want to kill me too, but you still got a co
uple days left on the mission to get in her pants, and blood is so hard to get out of these Persian rugs.” He tapped a booted foot on the rug underneath their feet. “You best not punch me.”
If Mick didn't want to kill him so bad, he might actually like the guy. “What does your girlfriend want?”
“My girlfriend?”
“Parker. What's so almighty important at”—he checked the clock on the wall—“0630 hours?”
The smirk grew and Henley started for the kitchen. “It ain't Jett who wants to talk to you and Cass.”
Mick followed, stealing a sip of coffee. He was still getting used to how good it was to have simple things like coffee in the morning. “But you just said—”
“The big boss—Beatrice. That's who wants to speak to you, mate. Jett and I are just the messengers.”
Mick stopped, downed the coffee, and considered the fact he might also need to run a comb through his hair and splash water on his face. Probably should at least grab a shirt, but, what the hell, if Beatrice woke him up at this time of the god-blessed morning, interrupting potential sex with Cassandra, she was going to get him exactly the way he was, blue balls and all. “Great. Happy to talk to her.”
The laptop was open on the breakfast bar, Hunter on a video call in progress with another blond bombshell who could’ve been Cassandra’s older sister. This woman—Beatrice, he assumed—exuded power and serious intelligence. Unlike Cassandra, there was nothing soft or inviting about her face. The Queen B was beautiful in a cool, female warrior way.
Mick refilled his cup and ran a hand through his hair before joining Hunter.
Hunter continued his conversation with Beatrice for another minute, then she turned her attention to Mick. “Lt. Ranger, Coldplay tells me you are doing well, all things considered.”
No formal introductions, fine by him. “Nice to put a face to the name. I've heard a lot about you.” He scratched at his shortened beard. “What can I do for you this morning?”
Her blue eyes—darker than Cassandra’s—scanned the area behind him. “Is Themis joining us anytime soon?”
As if on cue, Cassandra rushed into the room, tucking a white shirt into a navy blue skirt. Gone was the sexy minx he’d woken up next to, and in its place was the old Cassandra, hair combed into a bun and the heavy black framed glasses resting on her nose. “Sorry I'm late.”
