“Like this?” She asked instead.
“Yes. Now, when you kick, imagine moving your leg through your opponent. Not popping him like a limp rubber band like you were. Extend your leg the second after impact. Your knee should still be bent when you make the initial contact.” She felt his breath on the back of her neck. Her pulse picked up.
“Got it?” He asked.
She nodded, and he stepped away.
“Do it.”
She glanced back at him, with his arms crossed over his chest and a stern look on his face.
Okay, then.
She turned back, inhaled, and—whack!
The Reap tipped back, then rocked back and forth.
“Better. Again.”
She gave a quick nod, bounced back and forth on her toes, and did it again.
He shook his head and walked up. “No. You’re still not angling correctly.” He stepped behind her, grabbed her hips again, this time yanking them into position. Her sexual awareness peaked. He was all male—strong, alpha, aggressive, confident, sexy.
“If you can’t do it right, don’t do it at all.” He said sternly. “You’re only opening yourself up for a solid hit, and expending your energy, and really, just pissing him off even more. Roundhouses are only effective if you do them correctly. Now, shift your weight, and go.”
She gritted her teeth and kicked as Noah stepped away. At his silence—approval, she assumed—she backed up and tried again, and again.
And again.
She felt his eyes boring into her as she implemented his tactics. Over and over again. Knowing that Special Agent Noah Fox was staring at her gave her renewed energy, along with a surprising need to impress him and make him proud.
Again, her leg slammed into The Reap. And again.
“Good,” he finally said behind her. “You’re getting better.”
She stopped, her heart feeling like it was about to explode through her chest.
“Thanks.” She wiped the sweat from her brow, turned and met his gaze.
Her stomach erupted with butterflies.
His gaze on her was so intense, it stunned her. They locked eyes for what seemed like an eternity.
“Now.” He said, his voice low. Hungry. “Do me.”
Her eyebrow slowly tipped up.
He dropped his arms, widened his stance, cocked his head and said, “Let’s go.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You want to fight?”
“Practice makes perfect.” He slid a glance to The Reap. “He can’t fight back.”
She cocked her eyebrow and grinned. “Challenge accepted, Agent Fox.”
The corner of his lip curled, verifying the sexual tension shooting like electricity between them.
“Don’t take it easy on me because I’m a girl.”
“Don’t act like one, then.”
She smirked, shook her head. “I hope you’ve got insurance,” she muttered as she tightened the straps around her wrists.
“I hope you don’t mind being on your back.”
With that, she charged, lunging forward and swung a right hook.
He dodged, swooped, and delivered back, missing her jaw by a quarter-inch. She immediately swung her left fist. He caught it mid-air, twisted. Pain shot up her arm. Instead of giving in, she shifted her weight, turned her hips and—whack! Her leg connected with his torso, and he stumbled back as a grin spread across his face. Her eyes widened with shock, but before she could react, he crouched and rammed into her, throwing her over his shoulder and dropping her onto the mat. The breath knocked from her lungs as he pinned her, his heavy body on top of hers.
She blinked, dazed, and focused on the dark eyes boring into her.
Their chests heaved as they stared at each other, pulse thrumming through veins.
His gaze slid down to her lips.
Her heart stopped.
And then he kissed her. Ravenously, in a way that exploded fireworks in her head.
Suddenly, voices echoed down the hall. He yanked away and was off of her in seconds-flat.
A group of trainees entered the room, and as Noah casually extended his hand to help her off the mat, her gaze locked on the wedding ring twinkling on his left hand.
CHAPTER 5
Noah shifted his gaze to the rearview mirror and narrowed his eyes.
He was not in the fucking mood.
The sunlight had slid behind the mountains, leaving just enough light to make out the dark silhouette humped over the steering wheel of the jacked-up dually that had just driven up on his ass.
Literally, on his ass. He guessed the truck was less than eight inches from his bumper.
The truck swerved, positioning itself directly in Noah’s side mirror. An overplayed dick move, wanting to make sure Noah knew the driver wanted to get past him.
Yeah, fucker, I see you.
The narrow, windy mountain roads of Devil’s Den were less than ideal for road rage. He couldn’t see beyond the sharp corner ahead of him. A jagged cliff hugged the passenger side of his car, a drop off on the other. The roads were still wet in spots from the rain earlier. No, definitely not an ideal scenario for driving erratically, which confirmed what he already knew. Whoever was behind him was an ignorant jackass. The overly dramatic swerve the driver had just done could have cost someone their life coming from the other direction.
The truck swerved again, inching closer to his bumper.
Noah ground his teeth, and little warning bells went off in his head. Whispered warnings from his mother, his boss—every boss he’d ever had—and his comrades.
Pick your battles, Noah. Pick your battles.
He’d learned over the years, thanks to the maturity that came with age, that he couldn’t kick everyone’s ass. Not because he couldn’t, but because his temper would cost him everything he wanted in his life.
Pick your battles.
What he’d give to have his brand-new F-150 right now instead of the dented blue sedan he’d rented from the airport. The damn thing wasn’t even a masculine blue, more like a powder-puff blue. The perfect car for a retired couple on their way to their weekly game of bridge at the local senior’s center. The blueberry on wheels was not the ideal car to intimidate an idiot driver.
His nostrils flared with anger as his pulse began to pick up, and that very, very familiar lust for blood crept up. God, he loved to fight. Bare-knuckled if he could, knife a close second, but these days guns were a more acceptable choice. What happened to the good ol’ days when a man’s strength was determined by the weight of his fist and the grit in his stomach? Not the number of bullets in his belt? Oh, what he’d do to live back in those days. Terrorist cowards, racists, school-shooting demons wouldn’t stand a chance.
Not a fucking chance.
His fingers started to tingle as he glanced in the rearview mirror again. He guessed whoever was behind him had at least twenty pounds on him, if not more. And based on the driver’s orange hat, the condition of his truck, and the rifle sitting securely on the back glass, he’d been out hunting all day. More than likely drunk, and more than likely with a touch of bloodlust, too.
A small smirk crossed Noah’s face. Maybe it would be a good fight. The beefed-up redneck hunter might give him a run for his money. And, to Noah, that sounded like a damn good ending to a very, very shit day.
The image of Fiona’s face flashed in his head.
Fiona Monreau. One of his many mistakes. One of his many poor snap-judgment decisions.
One of the hottest FBI recruits to ever set foot in Quantico.
It had been ten years since that stupid, erratic, impromptu kiss. He’d just come off a case hunting a sex-trafficking pedophile that turned into a bloodbath the moment they’d breached the house filled with seven gang members and enough guns to start world war three. He’d caught the bastard though, after dismantling the AK47 in his tattooed hands and knocking three of his teeth out and breaking his nose, but not before a solid two minute fist fight. Turned out the gu
y had taken enough meth to make a sloth lethal. Son of a bitch had given him a black eye. It had been an exhausting case and by the time it ended, Noah was primed to make some bad decisions. Bad decisions that involved the sexiest woman he’d ever seen in his life. The long, silky brown hair, sultry eyes, plump lips, and toned body with curves in all the right places had caught every warm-blooded man’s attention, including his.
From the moment she’d walked into his class for the first time, she stirred something in him. Not just in his pants, there was something else that made him do a double-take, and he’d spent his break between classes that day researching her. There was just something about her.
Ten years since the kiss, and he could still taste the sweetness of her lips, feel the heat radiating off her sweat-soaked skin underneath him, and he could still remember the sparkle in her deep blue eyes as she’d stared back at him moments before he’d let go. Lost himself in her. There was no thinking, no considering, no wondering if it would be okay, he’d just leaned down and kissed her. Like a magnet, pulling him to those lush, pink lips.
Like another bad decision.
It had been ten years, and it was still the best kiss he’d ever had. No kiss before, or after, had given him that same feeling, a stirring deep in his heart when his lips touched hers. Not even his wife’s.
He hadn’t seen or heard from her after that kiss but the moment he saw her standing in the old, ratted Quantico shirt and baggy sweatpants, his heart gave the same soul-stirring kick.
And that was the last fucking thing he needed in his life right now.
The hunter swerved again, but this time, clicked on his high beams, blinding Noah.
That was it.
Noah gassed it, fishtailing around the corners until he spied a pull over spot carved out of the mountain.
He slammed the gas, cranked the wheel, and pulled the e-brake. The tires squealed on the pavement as the blueberry skidded parallel, blocking the lane. Precision was of the utmost importance, in case someone was barreling down the other lane. Good thing he’d done that maneuver countless times in his career as a special agent.
The truck slammed its brakes, squealing on the pavement behind him, and slid into the pull over spot.
“Hey man, what the—” A voice yelled from the truck.
He barely heard it. His pulse roared as he jumped out of the car. His body tingled with adrenaline as he stalked across the pavement, eyes locked on the man in the truck, now frozen with surprise.
Didn’t expect me to get out and face you, did you?
A gust of wind opened his jacket, the truck’s headlights bouncing off the shiny gold badge on his hip.
Yeah, fucker, your day just got a hell of a lot worse.
He flexed his fingers. To pull the guy out and beat him within an inch of his life, or not?
He fought the internal battle as he neared the truck. Each step beginning to clear the rage coursing his veins.
Pick your battles, Noah. Not now, Noah.
He walked up to the window, assessing the man like a piece of meat. He glanced in the cab—an opened case of Busch on the floorboard, empty cans in the back, and an opened container in the drink holder.
Drunk asshole.
The driver, now less menacing with a fearful, doe-like expression, gawked at Noah, and for the first time, he wished he’d removed his badge before getting out of the car. He wanted to put that look of fear in the guy’s eyes, not the badge.
“I’d ask you where the hell you were going in such a hurry, but the truth is, I don’t give a fuck.” Noah reached into the cab, ripped the keys from the ignition and chucked them over the ravine.
“Hey! What the hell?”
“Now, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to call you a cab, and you’re going to sit your drunk ass right here until they come. After you’ve sobered up, you can spend tomorrow morning searching for your keys thinking about what your life would’ve turned into if you would’ve killed someone tonight.”
God knows he knew about those kinds of sleepless nights.
“And if I ever catch you driving like that again, I swear to God those keys won’t be the only thing I throw over the ravine.”
With that, he turned and walked back to his car, leaving the drunk driver speechless.
He took a deep breath.
This was already turning out to be one hell of a trip.
***
It was four minutes past seven when Fiona parked in the gravel lot at the peak of Summit Mountain. The darkening sky was a muted blue with stars just beginning to twinkle. Below her, miles and miles of dense woods. She ripped the keys from the ignition and tossed them into her purse. She was edgy, pissed, and couldn’t shake the headache she’d had all day. And after the little run-in she’d just had with Noah Fox, she knew only one thing could take the edge off—an ice-cold beer with her co-workers, aka best friends, aka her family, at the Black Crow Tavern.
After Noah had left her steaming, she’d taken a cold shower, downed two more ibuprofen and pulled on what she thought passed for appropriate going-out-into-public clothes—ripped skinny-jeans, a vintage Joan Jett T-shirt, and a thin leather jacket... and flip-flops. The only thing more comfortable than flip-flops were her fuzzy slippers, which she’d actually considered.
A cool breeze swept past her bare toes. Although it was officially Spring in Devil’s Den, the evenings were still chilly. Especially this one.
She pushed through the front door and was welcomed by the soft moan of old country music, and the savory scent of beer and hickory.
“Fi!” Harley waved from across the bar. The entire team was there, seated around a large table in the back corner next to a crackling fire.
Heaven.
She wound her way through the wooden tables, surrounded by wooden chairs, on top of shiny hardwood floors. The bar had once been a hunting lodge before a former Berry Springs police officer purchased it and turned it into a good ol’ Southern bar complete with antlers on the wall, a custom-made stone bar, an antique jukebox, and a small stage in the back for occasional karaoke.
The place was packed—especially for a weeknight.
As she walked up she counted the empty pitchers. Apparently, she was late to the party. She cocked an eyebrow at the faces grinning back at her, except for Ace. His look was more of a disapproving, protective parent.
“What’s with the looks?” She asked as she looped her purse on the back of a chair and sat down next to Harley.
With her hair pulled back in a bun and a BRI sweatshirt, Harley cocked her head and looked Fiona over. “Nope,” Harley shook her head, addressing the team. “Her hair’s not messy, lipstick’s still on, no red marks on her neck… Either Fi really was asked about that dead FBI dude, or our girl just had the most boring sex of her life.”
Fiona’s gaze snapped to Ace, who leaned back with his arms crossed over his chest. Meeting his icy demeanor, she said, “Alright Ace, I didn’t ask you to sit outside my place and babysit me, okay? I can take care of myself. And you didn’t have to run back and report everything to the entire team, either, did you?”
“What are these red marks on the neck you’re talking about, Harley?” Scar asked with a smirk. “Into a little S&M these days, Har?”
Harley laughed.
“Sex, or no sex,” Dixie addressed Fiona with a grin. “That’s all we want to know.”
“I’m telling you guys, no sex,” Harley said as she sipped her beer. “Or boring, which is the same as none, pretty much.”
Fiona rolled her eyes. “No sex. Sheesh.” She grabbed Raven’s half-drunk beer, chugged, and handed it back.
Raven laughed, promptly grabbed the pitcher and re-filled. “Chuck! Gonna need another pitcher.” She gave Fiona the once-over. “And a tequila shot for our gal here.”
“Make that seven!” Dixie corrected.
“You got it!” This from a laughing Chuck behind the bar.
“Come on, you guys should have seen the look o
n her face when she saw the asshole. Shock and sex.” Ace unraveled his arms and grabbed his beer. “I know that look when I see it.”
“Hell, I don’t doubt that, Ace,” Fiona said, squaring her shoulders. “It’s the same look on all five of your girlfriends’ faces right after you have your way with them, then dump them.”
“Shots fired,” Harley muttered over her rim.
“Jesus,” Ace glanced over his shoulder at the bar. “Someone get her that shot.” He looked back. “I’m just looking out for you. I know you know that, and I’m going to let this little attitude you have right now slide, considering the hell you’ve been through the last twenty-four hours.”
“Alright, guys, that’s enough.” Scar leaned forward, the bells on the bottom of her long braids jingling. She looked at Fiona and winked. “But, I do think an older man would look good on you.”
Apparently, Ace had told them everything, right down to Noah’s height, weight, and age.
Chuck delivered their shots, and she tossed one back. The burn felt good against her throat. Something to focus on beside the pain between her temples.
Ace was right—he was only looking out for her. She should be grateful, and she was… She was just also stressed the hell out. She took a deep breath and looked at the mountain of a man sitting across from her. “Sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”
He winked. “Like I said, you get an attitude pass tonight… and maybe asshole was a bit harsh.”
“No, I’m not sorry about that. I meant about what I said about the five women.” A wicked grin crossed her face. “I meant ten.”
Laughter ran out around the table, and the corner of Ace’s lip curled up. “Touché, Monreau. Touché.”
She winked, and with that, the mood lightened. “Okay, so what’s this meeting about? Krestel?”
Roxy, the worst workaholic of the team, finally glanced up from her cell phone. Catching up on emails, Fiona guessed. The black-haired beauty slid her phone on the table and sent a warning look around the table. “We’re going to figure that out. You don’t need that worry right now.”
Sinister Secrets Page 4
