by Tess Summers
In his profession, he couldn’t afford to make mistakes.
And certainly not now, when his brother’s life was depending on him keeping his wits about him. He was just going to have to avoid spending time with her. Something she insisted on making difficult.
****
Watching her on his monitors, he knew it’d been a mistake to give her back her bag after he’d checked it for weapons or another cell phone, because there she was in her fucking white and yellow polka dot bikini that barely collectively covered an inch of skin. Her hair was piled high on her head as she rubbed suntan lotion on her body in the same lounger she’d fallen asleep in earlier.
This shit wasn’t fair. At all.
She knew what she was doing to him, too, he was sure of it.
Mason adjusted himself—then, as if his feet had a mind of their own, he was making his way above deck.
This is not avoiding her, dumbass. He hadn’t even made it two hours. Pathetic.
“Hey, you need to be careful. The sun is a lot stronger here in the Pacific than in Fargo.”
“I made sure to put some sunscreen on, but I missed my back. Do you mind?”
She handed him the bottle, their fingers brushing, then turned her back toward him, not allowing him an opportunity to say no.
As his hands glided over her back and shoulders, he briefly closed his eyes. Her skin was like silk, and his large hands seemed even bigger against her tiny body. He felt her skin break out into tiny goosebumps at the same time as his cock began to push against his zipper. When he began rubbing the lotion just above her hips, he paused for a fraction of a second as he fought the urge to move his hands around tiny waist and pull her against him.
“Wow, you’re really good at this. Think I could talk you into giving me a massage sometime?”
She was fucking with him; she had to be, and he didn’t like it one bit. He was hanging on by a thread as it was; she didn’t need to taunt him.
He stood abruptly and told her, “All set,” then tried to subtly adjust his dick before heading toward the stairs, calling over his shoulder, “Don’t stay out all day, and make sure you drink lots of water. The salty air is drier than you realize.”
Mason didn’t give her a second glance and made his way to his office. He’d observe the monitors periodically to make sure she was behaving, but he was done fantasizing about her. It was unprofessional as fuck and would do a lot more harm than good. He needed to check his email to see if Agent Jones had sent the revisions to her plans that he’d suggested. Anything to keep his mind off the red-haired siren in the bikini.
And yet, there he was—watching her. Fantasizing about her. Sexually, sure—but there was more to it, and that’s what had him so discombobulated. Because he was seeing her in a veil, or wearing his shirt when she came down to breakfast, or holding his hand as they walked along the streets of Paris. He was thinking about taking her to all his favorite places and showing her the world.
This was very bad, indeed.
****
Reagan
Could that man be any more hot and cold? The short answer was no. No, he could not.
One minute she thought he was attracted to her; the next he acted like she repulsed him.
Freaking pick one, man.
She preferred him being repulsed by her; when he acted interested he was far too tempting. Giving into temptation with him would be such a slap in the face to Kennedy; there’s no way she’d be able to look at herself in the mirror if she did that to her sister. She didn’t care how sexy his muscles were or adorable his dimple was. Or that when he rubbed suntan lotion on her back, she wanted to crawl into his lap and purr like a cat while begging him to touch her all over.
Damn, she really needed to find a man once she got back to Fargo. She hadn’t been touched all over in—well, forever.
Pulling the Renee Rose and Lee Savino book from her bag, she became lost in the sexy world of bad-boy alphas. Forget Mason Hughes; she had werewolf shifters to fantasize about. Maybe they’d come to her rescue.
She dozed off under the afternoon sun, dreaming of the CIA Agent. They’d had amazing sex in her dream—although it wasn’t detailed; it was one of those things she just knew—and now they were dressed for a cocktail party that they were late to, but they were in a rowboat in the middle of Pelican Lake with no oars.
The Fargo version of up a creek without a paddle?
She opened her eyes to a big shadow blocking the sunlight.
“You’ve had enough sun today, Reagan. Get dressed and make yourself some lunch.”
She leisurely extended her limbs out in a full-body stretch, moaning out loud as she did, then slowly sat up with a welcoming smile. This hostage gig wasn’t so bad so far. Mason frowned back at her, shoving the cover-up he was holding in his hand at her.
“Put this on. You’re going to get sunburned.”
“I used plenty of sunblock; I think I’m okay.”
Reagan gathered her things and stood. She took the terrycloth garment from him, but instead of putting it on, she stuffed it in her bag, then followed him below deck.
“Can I make you something, too?” she asked, glancing backward at him as she opened the pantry, holding the doors wide with both hands while she contemplated the selection.
“No,” he replied curtly. “I have work I need to do; I’ll eat later.”
Without another word he was gone.
She shrugged, looking back at the contents while trying not to take his aloofness personally.
“Whatever, dude,” she mumbled out loud, and pulled a blue box of Kraft Mac n’ Cheese from the shelf.
Chapter Seven
Mason
She didn’t even have the courtesy to put a damn cover-up on when she entered the kitchen. No, she had to stand there looking sexy as fuck with her freckled, sun-kissed skin, and that body that was made for him to do all sorts of naughty things to. Right down to her goddamn adorable pink toes. Her tits in that halter bikini top had his fingers itching to oops! untie it and let them spill into his waiting palms. Then she had to turn around at the pantry and show him her luscious ass…
He’d had to get the hell out of the kitchen before he stripped her naked and fucked her senseless on the granite island counter.
His cock was screaming, Go back!—along with his heart—but his head was commending him. Just two and half more days and they’d be in Colombia; he’d rescue his brother and then send her on her way with her big sister. He’d never have to see her again.
That thought shouldn’t make his chest ache, but it did—to the point that he was physically rubbing it when she knocked quietly on his open door, then walked in with a bowl of macaroni and cheese and a turkey sandwich on a wooden tray. She’d had enough consideration for him to put on a pair of shorts, but she was still killing him softly in that yellow bikini top with white polka dots.
“Hey, I brought you some lunch.”
When he didn’t respond right away, she teased, “I promise I didn’t drug it or even spit in it. See?” then made a show of taking a bite of the macaroni. Her lips wrapped around the fork only added to his torture.
Looking away quickly before he sprouted full wood, he grunted, “Thanks,” then resumed looking at the documents Kennedy sent him, pretending to be completely absorbed in them instead of noticing her scent filling his office.
Mason expected her to take the hint and leave; he should have known better. He hadn’t nicknamed her ‘sassy pants’ for nothing.
“So, what are you working on?” she asked, invading his personal space and leaning over him to try and catch a glimpse at his computer screen. All he had to do was turn his head and his mouth would be on her tits.
“Just looking at your sister’s plan,” he said, switching off the monitor and spinning around in his chair in the opposite direction with his arms crossed, forcing her to step back to avoid the corner of his chair hitting her knees when he came the full one hundred eighty degrees. “Do you nee
d something?”
“Oh, um, no. I just brought you lunch.”
“I know. You told me that.”
“Well, um, aren’t you going to eat it?”
Now he was suspicious, and he narrowed his eyes at her.
“Why? I thought you said you didn’t drug it. Did you poison it instead?”
It was her turn to narrow her eyes.
“What? No, of course not!”
“So what’s so important that I try it?”
“Because I wanted to know if you liked it, asshole,” she said with disdain, then stormed out of the room.
Now he felt like the asshole she just accused him of being.
Following her out the door, he yelled after her, “Reagan, wait.”
Of course she ignored him, as he had expected. He followed her through the yacht toward the kitchen and found her with her back to him at the kitchen sink, plugging it and adding dish soap when he walked in.
“Hey, Reagan. I’m sorry. Thanks for bringing me lunch. That was really thoughtful of you. I’m sorry if I was a jerk.”
She shrugged but didn’t say anything, just began washing dishes.
Mason wanted to pin her against the sink, take that damn top off her, and kiss her neck as he pleaded for forgiveness. Caress her curves, whisper in her ear, press his stiff cock against her ass so she knew how much he wanted her.
Bad idea, dude. She’s your fucking hostage.
Although hostage didn’t feel like an accurate descriptor of the situation anymore. She was more like a guest against her will.
Still, he needed to turn the fuck around, or he was going to do something he’d regret.
“I am sorry. Thank you again,” he said quietly, then retreated back to his office.
****
Reagan
What a jerk.
She didn’t know why she’d tried to do anything nice for him. It wasn’t like it was even a big deal—it was a turkey sandwich and macaroni and cheese, for Chrissake—but she was trying to offer a gesture of goodwill, and he was rude. She was blaming the dream for her wanting him to like her. And her time on the yacht had been much more pleasant when he’d been kind to her. His being cold really bothered her, which was stupid. Who cared if he didn’t want to be around her? Not her.
This was a good thing. No more conflicted or guilty feelings about being attracted to him. He had solved that.
Reagan finished cleaning up and went to the living room, where she’d seen an entertainment system with a big screen television and Blu-ray player. Maybe there were movies she could watch.
She was curled up under a tan cashmere throw watching This Means War, a rom-com starring Reese Witherspoon, yummy Tom Hardy, and Chris Pine about two CIA agents who were best friends and discovered that they were dating the same woman. About a quarter way through the movie, Mason set down a bowl of chips on the coffee table, as well as boxes of movie theater candy and sodas, then sat on the end of other end of the couch and silently began to watch with her, laughing in the appropriate places and taking handfuls of chips to munch on.
He had a nice laugh, deep and contagious, and she found herself laughing in parts that would have normally elicited only a smile, simply because Mason was laughing. At one point, she shifted, and he tugged on her feet until they were in his lap, rearranging the blanket so it was once again covering her. Then he began to knead her ankles and the balls of her feet, and Reagan had to fight to keep from moaning audibly.
“That feels really good. My massage therapist doesn’t even do that good of a job,” she praised him, then instantly regretted speaking out loud, afraid to break whatever spell was between them. To her relief, he continued massaging, not replying other than to glance at her with a knowing smile, then resumed watching the movie.
Reagan kept stealing glances at his profile. If circumstances were different, she could definitely see herself getting serious with him. Or rather, someone like him. Not him. Definitely not him.
He disrupted her thoughts when he stood and offered her his hand, his expression sober.
“I’m sorry to have to do this, Reagan.”
She gulped and tried to withdraw her hand from his grasp.
“Do what? Are you going to kill me?”
“What? No—of course not.”
She quickly glanced around, looking for something to use as a weapon or a way to escape.
“Oh, because you’d tell me if you were going to kill me, right?” Her voice sounded shaky, even to her own ears.
He pulled her closer to him, wrapping his arm around her waist and whispering in her ear, “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”
She felt his hard cock under his jeans against her bare stomach, and her nipples became equally as stiff. Her body was a fucking traitor.
“But I have to tie you up and gag you before I call your sister. It seems she needs to be reminded that I mean business.”
“You just said you wouldn’t hurt me.”
He winked at her.
“She doesn’t need to know that, now does she?”
It wasn’t like Reagan was a willing participant in deceiving Kennedy, but it didn’t matter—it still felt like it. Maybe she should have put up more of a fight when he tied her arms behind her back, her boobs thrust forward on display in her bikini top. Or kicked at him as he tied her feet together, or moved her head side to side when he put the rag around her mouth. But no, she just complacently let him bind and gag her.
Tears of guilt began to stream down her cheeks when Kennedy’s beautiful face appeared on the phone screen.
“Oh, baby sister, I’m so sorry.” Keni’s voice was calm but Reagan knew by her tone she was in distress.
Mason turned the screen to face him. “Good evening, Agent Jones. I just wanted to remind you what’s at stake.”
“You harm a hair on her head—” Kennedy started, and Mason began to demonstratively caress Reagan’s shoulders, trailing down between her breasts. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to melt into his touch. What this man was doing to her wasn’t fair.
“I’m not planning on hurting her. Not yet, anyway.” Mason’s chuckle was sinister. “Not when there’s so many other things I’d rather do.”
“Reagan. Listen to me. I promise, I will get you out of there.”
“It’ll be easy to do, Agent Jones. Just pretend your sister’s well-being is dependent on my brother’s well-being.”
“Fine, Mason. You’ve made your point. I’ll be in Colombia in the morning. Dante will be flying down with me in the event that we can use his contacts.”
The memory of how her sister met Dante came to the forefront. She’d been on assignment—with Dante being part of the assignment. Then Kennedy fell in love with him and threw everything off kilter. Some of the guilt Reagan was feeling because of her attraction to Mason dissipated. Besides, she needed to keep Mason attracted to her, right? He’d be less apt to really hurt her that way.
He removed his hands from Reagan’s chest, and she instantly wished he hadn’t.
“I’m glad you see things my way. I’ll be in touch. Don’t worry—your sister is safe, for now. I won’t touch her again, unless you give me a reason to.”
How fucked up was it that part of her was willing her sister to do just that?
“I love you, Reagan. Just hang in there, baby sister.”
She wanted to alleviate her sister’s worry, and the only thing she could think to do in her predicament was wink at her.
A slow smile formed on Kennedy’s lips.
“Talk to you tomorrow, Agent Hughes.”
Chapter Eight
Mason
After he untied her, he set her on her feet and assured her again, “I would never touch you, Reagan. That was just for show.”
You could have knocked him over with a feather when she squeaked out, “Why not? What’s wrong with me?”
He held her by the shoulders and looked down at into her green eyes.
“Not a damn
thing, sweetheart. You’re perfect.”
“Then why do you act like touching me would be catastrophic?”
The corners of his mouth turned up in a slight smile.
“Because you’re way too good for me, sassy pants.”
“It’s because you think of me as boring ol’ vanilla, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “Yeah, you are vanilla. But I told you before, vanilla happens to be my favorite flavor.”
“So, why?”
Was she really asking why he wasn’t making a move on her?
He sat down on the bed, and tugged her onto his lap. Bad fucking idea. She fit perfectly against his chest, he couldn’t help but imagine how she’d fit underneath him—naked.
“Oh, my tiny little sprite…” He let out a deep sigh. “You are my dream woman. If I had you in my bed, I don’t think I’d be willing or able to let you go.”
She appeared to bite back a smile and looked down. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
He tipped her chin with his knuckle so she was looking at him.
“Do you know how hard it’s been these last thirty-six hours to keep my hands to myself? Especially with you wearing this fucking bikini?”
She reached behind her and untied the strings, exposing her firm tits.
“Is that better?”
Dear God, she was even more beautiful than he’d imagined.
“Reagan…” he growled in warning, gripping her hip to keep himself from touching her breasts. Fuuuuck, how he wanted to dip his head and suck on her pink nipples.
She reached between them and began to stroke his hard cock over his pants.
“Yes?” she asked innocently.
He pulled her hand away from his crotch.
“This is a bad idea, sweetheart.”
Her face fell and, just like earlier, Mason felt like an asshole.
Now he was smack dab in a dilemma. She was obviously willing, and his dick was more than ready to take things further, but his head was telling him absolutely not, while his heart was saying, maybe things could work out.
But he knew damn well things could never work out between them.
