by Karen Rock
She leaned close to peer through the peephole, and her fingers tightened around her gun. If the al-Nusra associates had come to play, then game on.
“Erica! Open up.”
She yanked down her booty-skimming tee’s hem, jerked open the door, and collided with all six feet, three inches of Ryan’s muscular body. The cat streaked outside, causing her to lose her balance. Ryan’s fingers landed on her waist. The firm, possessive grip rooted her where she stood. Her toes curled against the floor in response to his heated gaze, a slow caress traveling over her cleavage and everything else—every part of her exposed by her oversized V neck.
Her chest rose and fell out of rhythm. A heaviness settled in her breasts, and heat flowed through her. The shriek of the teakettle broke them from their trance.
“Wait right there!” Erica zoomed to the stove, stowed her Glock in a drawer, and snapped off the flame.
“You’re not inviting me in?”
She jumped at Ryan’s deep voice rumbling in her ear. Whisking the kettle from the burner, she ignored the shiver of awareness from his nearness. Damn. She’d forgotten his legendary stealth. “What are you doing here?”
“We need to coordinate our mission plan.” His gaze sharpened on her. “And is that my Star Trek shirt?”
She tugged the sliding collar back over her shoulder. “Maybe.”
His nostrils flared. “You kept it.”
She closed her eyes, giving a lopsided shrug. “It’s comfortable.” She wasn’t about to tell him the sentiment she attached to it…the way it’d smelled of him for months after they’d parted ways…how every time she’d gone to burn it, memories of him had set her aflame instead. “Plus I—”
He cupped her shoulder, silencing her. Her eyes flew open. The slight touch packed a punch of sensations—hunger, yearning, and need.
“It looks…” His words ended in a ragged inhale. Under the faded blue shirt he wore, his broad shoulders were unnaturally stiff. He gave himself a slight shake and withdrew his hand. “And you’re hiding something.”
“What do I have to hide?” When her gaze flicked to her laptop, his followed.
“Your eyelid just drooped.”
Shit.
“And you’re playing with your hair.”
She yanked down her hand. Double shit. She should never have let her guard down around a highly trained intelligence officer, even if she was one, too. “Okay. Fine… I was—uh—watching porn.”
“Porn?”
Damn him and his raised, sardonic eyebrow. It made her want to drop-kick his ass into next week. “Women watch it, too.” She forced her eyes wide, mentally gluing them in place.
“What’s the title?”
When his eyebrow lifted another quarter inch, she knew there was a good chance she’d kill him and stash his body behind the condo’s dumpster. “Debbie Does Dallas.”
He snorted. “Catchy. Mind if I?” Without waiting for permission, he strode to her laptop.
“No!” She blasted across the space and shoved down the screen. She’d barely managed to finagle her way onto the investigation. If Ryan glimpsed what she had cued up on her laptop, he’d not only give her the boot, he’d report her. Have her arrested. Experience had taught her he wouldn’t hesitate on either count.
“I have seen a porno or two.” His full lips curved into a sexy smirk.
“I know, we watched some together.”
His features tightened for a moment, and then he seemed to let whatever he was remembering go. Amazing how quickly he went from super-hot guy to serious-faced agent. “Then why so shy about this one?”
“I’m not shy!”
“Afraid, then.” He rocked back on the heels of his shoes and cast her a shrewd, assessing look, as if he could see through her lies. He had an uncanny ability to do so. “But of what…?”
“Nothing.”
“Then let me see what’s really on your laptop.”
“Not unless you have a FISA warrant.” She lifted the top, powered down the computer, and met his scowl with a victorious grin. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Coffee if you have it.” He dropped to her futon couch, elbows resting on his knees as he studied her blank screen.
“I don’t. Do you still take your tea with honey?” She practically skipped to the kitchenette. Getting one past Mr. Spy Master had her feeling all kinds of magnanimous.
An affirmative grunt carried from the living area. She hummed under her breath while pulling mugs from her cabinets.
“What’s your cat’s name?” Ryan called.
“Earl Gray.” One side of her mouth lifted as she stowed the box of her favorite tea back in the cupboard. “Earl for short. He’s a stray I adopted.”
“Got it. When did you take him in?”
Steam bathed her face as she poured the liquid into the mugs. “Tomorrow’s our one-month anniversary.”
“Right. Thanks.”
“For?” She twisted off the honey jar’s top.
“Despite being one of the best agents in the field, your inexplicably obvious password choices.”
The plastic jar clattered to the countertop. A dark suspicion shook her hard enough to rattle her teeth. “You—you—”
She raced to her laptop. Too late, Ryan was already peering at its screen, his brow furrowed. “For porn, this is pretty boring. The guy’s wearing khakis, for God’s sake. When’s the hot maid arriving….” A fierce and stormy emotion flickered across his face and then was gone as quickly as it appeared. “That’s Greg Pullman.”
Busted.
“Did you bug his house?”
She forced herself to meet Ryan’s blazing eyes dead on. “Yep.” Her lips popped on the last letter. She’d be lucky if she avoided spending the night in a jail cell…. And forget about going to the weapons traffickers’ party.
His nostrils flared with a heavy exhale. “How?”
“Harry Stubbins.”
A strange look crossed Ryan’s face. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he’d just bitten back a grin. “He does good work.”
“He’s the best. And discreet.”
“Apparently.”
“Look,” she pleaded. “Before you jump to all the wrong conclusions—”
“Suffice it to say, it’s too late for that.”
Resolve built steel around her spine as she refused to blink under his inscrutable stare. “Are you reporting me?”
“Haven’t made up my mind.” He tapped his chin. “If I thought it’d get through your thick head—”
“I needed more information,” she cut in. Talk fast enough, and anyone would lose their train of thought. She needed to derail Ryan, stat. “I’m not waiting when there’s a plot afoot.”
Ryan yanked a folded sheet from his jeans pocket and slapped it on her coffee table. “Neither am I.”
“What’s that?”
“See for yourself.”
She snatched up the document and scanned it twice before its meaning sank in. The sheet shook in her hands. “This is a FISA warrant for Greg Pullman.”
“Surprised you recognized it, seeing it’s legit.”
“You know if this CIA thing doesn’t work out, you should consider a career in stand-up.”
Ryan tipped his head back, chuckling. When he finally settled down, the grin was slow to slip off his face. “Working together again may force me into early retirement. I contacted Stubbins this morning for the job, but he declined. Now I know why.”
Erica dropped onto the couch beside him, slightly dizzy with euphoria. “Why’d you change your mind?”
“Pullman’s wife’s background check revealed some extended family members with suspected al-Nusra ties. Adding the intel to our observation yesterday, I drafted a compelling legal argument.” Ryan stared down at her with those amb
er-colored eyes surrounded by thick, black lashes.
With him so close, a damn poignant ache took hold, seizing up her throat and chest. His light, musky scent was everywhere, sandalwood and crisp cotton; she could practically taste him. She willed herself to look away and zeroed in on the judge’s signature. Barone. The father who owed Ryan for safeguarding his wayward daughter. “You left out the ‘calling in a favor’ part.”
His lashes lowered, and the self-conscious look was almost laughable, except it was incredibly sexy, which she kind of hated him for. “Yeah. That, too.”
“And how you realized you’d be a dumbass not to listen to me.”
“Obviously that.” His eyebrow quirked. “Your arguments became more persuasive in light of the additional information.” He cupped her cheek, and an overwhelming feeling of fondness rose inside her, along with something deeper, more intense, something she had to resist. “We’re not as far apart as you think; we both want the same thing.”
“Do we?” Her heart fluttered, hummingbird fast in her chest. The slightest incline of her head would bring their lips together. No matter what he said, or didn’t say, he hadn’t dismissed her opinion after all. Hadn’t discounted her. And it meant a lot. Too much.
His breath danced over her cheek. “More than we should.”
She blew out a breath and eased away. “Right. Glad everything’s out in the open, then.”
Not everything. Not the part where she wanted to rip off his clothes, shove him down on her futon and give in to the hectic desire that’d ridden her hard since he’d stormed backstage and into her life again. Leaning back, she forced herself to hold his gaze. She would not let him see how much he affected her.
“I spoke with the CIA deputy.” Ryan toyed with the hem of her T-shirt, his warm fingers brushing her inner thigh. “He and the FBI chief agreed we’ll take the lead on this.”
Pressure settled in her chest, the heaviness demanding but pleasing. Should she be more shocked that he was touching her so intimately? It didn’t matter, because every nerve ending in her body was tingling. It was a struggle to speak. “We…uh…have their assets, resources, at our disposal?”
“This isn’t a blank check.” A line appeared between Ryan’s well-shaped brows. “We’ll use them only as a last resort—responsibly and prudently.”
Ugh. She yanked her leg away and crossed it over the other. What good was a sports car if you only ever drove within the speed limits? And when it came to US law enforcement, the FBI were goddamn Testarossas. “You sound like a Quaker.”
“What’s wrong with Quakers?” One side of his mouth lifted, transforming his handsome face to jaw-dropping gorgeous. “They make great oatmeal.”
She reached behind her and swung a small pillow at him, choking back a laugh. “You’re an idiot.”
He swatted it away a second before it smacked him in the face. “An idiot who can imprison you for spying on a private citizen.” He flipped the pillow behind his neck, eying her.
That sobered her up quick, not that she’d let on. “Play out your S&M fantasies on your own time.”
He scooped up a handful of her hair, gently tugging her head back. “What am I going to do with you?”
She could think of a few things—very naughty, indecent downright wicked things—but instead said, “Trust me.”
His gaze met hers. “You bugged a government official’s house without telling me.”
She stiffened and snatched her hair free. “You were going to do it anyway.”
“You didn’t know that. Would you ever have told me?”
“Once I found something interesting.”
“And have you?”
She shook her head. “Just a lot of farting and a preference for wearing his wife’s bathrobe while watching synchronized swimming. She’s away.”
“In Syria?”
She gazed at his high cheekbones and those lips—oh, God, those lips were perfect. “According to a phone conversation they had this morning.”
“Anything interesting?”
“She told him her father trusted him.”
His brow pinched, a common expression whenever he was turning over something in his head. “To do what…?”
“We’ll find out…thanks to my surveillance.” She shot him a triumphant look.
“The one I just made legal.”
“See? We make a good team.”
She took his silence as a reluctant yes. There was that stupid fluttering in her chest again. A team—like they were together.
And, dear Lord, a part of her was doing a very happy dance, which was ridiculous, because a future together was riddled with problems. “You’ll trust me now?”
“That depends.”
She jerked her chin at him, bringing them face-to-face again. “On?”
Though a sardonic grin twisted his lips, his next words were laced with seriousness. “If you conduct yourself professionally tonight.”
“Isn’t the point of attending as an undercover dancer to not behave?”
“I don’t want you going too far.” He spoke to the hands clenched atop his knees, his voice oddly strained.
Ryan was acting jealous, and she didn’t know how to feel about it. Intrigued? Concerned? Amused? Flattered? Smug?
She decided to go with amused. It seemed the safest. “Explain,” she said, keeping her voice light and casual.
“I’m not pimping you out for information.”
She grinned. “Not a bit of jealousy going on there, huh?” Okay, so she’d left amused and moved on to smug.
“This is professional. Stop throwing emotions into it.”
“God forbid. Plus, you’re the one who’s acting green-eyed. Not my problem if you don’t know how to handle it.”
His gaze lifted, snaring hers. There was so much heat and intensity and longing in those golden eyes it erased her amusement and left her feeling…skittish. And aroused.
“Assets use whatever means necessary to gain access.” Her fingers raked through the ends of her hair. “I’m no different.”
“Yes, you are.” His lips pressed into a tight line.
“How?” Something inside her—something stupid that needed to be stabbed to death—opened up like a blossom seeing the sun for the first time. She tried to quash it.
Ryan cleared his throat. “Let’s get a few things straight. No getting intimate to acquire intel.”
“So only over-the-clothes petting?” she teased, desperate to return this conversation to calmer, safer waters.
“Erica,” he growled.
“I’ll take your advice into consideration.”
He tilted his head and studied her. “And that would be a no.”
His scoffing words knifed her. He still didn’t trust her.
“So…any further instructions about the mission?” She changed the subject before she said something she couldn’t take back. Like how easily he still wounded her.
“Depending on the location, I’ll either infiltrate the catering staff or watch the scene on a security monitor.”
She didn’t bother to ask how he’d accomplish either feat. Ryan was the top field agent in the CIA for a damn good reason. A stellar boyfriend…not so much.
“And when I give the signal, you leave.”
“What if I don’t want to go?” she challenged.
“My investigation; my rules,” he stated, authoritative, brushing a lock of red hair off her forehead. “Got it?”
Her nose scrunched. God how she hated playing follow the leader. “What’s the signal?”
He dropped a small earpiece and a velvet choker hiding a tiny microphone in her hand, then curled her fingers around them. “We’ll be in contact the whole time. When I say ‘Let’s go’—”
“We’ll go,” she repeated irritably, chafing at the restric
tions already, knowing in her gut he’d pull her faster then she would.
“Get ready,” Ryan ordered. “I’ll drive you to Dallas Heat.”
“I still have to shower.” She stood. “It could be a while.”
“I don’t mind.” He leaned back against the couch, lazily clasping the back of his neck with his hands. The abdominal muscles under his thin shirt clenched with the movement. Impossibly long legs stretched out beneath the coffee table, leaving her head spinning and her pulse pounding through her body. She didn’t know how to even look at him without every square inch of her body overheating. “I’ve got porn to watch.”
“Exciting stuff.”
“A farting, synchronized swimming fan? That’s must-see TV in my books. At least it’ll keep my mind off you in the shower.”
Her heart twisted a little at the statement, because it meant nothing. Nothing they could act on anyway.
Still, her hips swayed as she sashayed to the bathroom door, stopped, and peered over her shoulder. “You could always just come in and watch.”
Now why the fuck had she said that?
A wicked light transformed his eyes into golden pools before his lids lowered, shuttering them. “Careful what you wish for.”
“Since when have I ever been careful?”
Yet she locked the bathroom door behind her, just the same.
Chapter 6
Be alert, stay calm, notice everything.
Ryan wove through the party’s crowd bearing an appetizer-laden tray, watchful of the men packing the penthouse of one of Dallas’s finest hotels. His damn palms were sweating enough to warrant a swipe against the black dress slacks he’d snagged when he’d talked his way into the catering group earlier. So far, nothing at the staid, thus-far uneventful gathering aroused his suspicions, yet he sensed an undercurrent of electricity.
Black aghal bands encircled the patterned shumaghs covering the attendees’ heads. White, ankle-length tunics fitted over their loose pants, and gold or jeweled cufflinks glinted beneath twinkling crystal light fixtures. Several groups spoke quietly, while other men stood expectantly around a small platform where the dancers performed. When was Erica’s turn? He’d tried not to look but found his gaze straying to the makeshift stage more often than it should.
