by Karen Rock
Wait.
Love?
She grabbed hold of her bedpost, steadying herself as her legs went weak.
Had she really just thought that?
More importantly, had she really meant it?
“Morning, beautiful.” The covers slid off Ryan’s magnificent chest as he sat up, groggy, shoving fingers through his rumpled hair. He looked warm and approachable, his crisp handsomeness tempered by sleepy bedroom eyes and a sexy half-smile.
“Want some tea?”
He frowned. “You’re too far away.”
“How’s this?” She slid onto his lap and hooked one leg over his hip to straddle him.
His eyes rolled back in his head when she wriggled against his rock-hard erection. “Better than tea.”
“Good,” she gasped, as he slid his warm hands beneath her tank top and cupped the undersides of her breasts. Her nipples pebbled beneath the lazy brush of his thumbs.
“You’re still too far away,” he growled, a playful, masculine sound that curled her toes. He pulled her against his chest and wrapped one arm around her waist, his other hand sliding up her arm, over her shoulder and stopping to rest at her neck, holding her so he could look into her eyes. “Better.”
“Yes.” She grinned, loving this unguarded, spontaneous Ryan. “Much better.”
He kissed her lips softly, lingering, as if they had all the time in the world, as if reality didn’t exist beyond them. At last, he was living in the moment and relishing it. Savoring her. Oh, she could get used to this….
Did she dare get used to it? To him? To them?
A buzzing cell phone broke them apart. Swearing under his breath, Ryan reached for it and hit the speaker button. “Arnell.”
In just two syllables, her playful bedroom partner transformed into a sharp, professional intelligence agent. While she mourned the loss of the former, she was just as attracted to the latter. Last night’s revelations had helped her understand that side of him and forgive him for not bucking protocol to support her when she’d sabotaged her career.
“Got the FBI forensics report on the apartment.” Their CIA deputy chief’s voice floated from the speaker.
Erica scooched off Ryan, knelt beside him and leaned in close to listen. Earl leapt on the bed and stalked their way.
“Anything helpful?” Ryan scratched Earl behind his ears.
A coughing fit overtook Terrance. “Damn cold. Excuse me.” The crinkle of what sounded like a wrapper was followed by a sucking sound. “A canine unit located a nearly completed C-4 explosive in a dumpster a couple of blocks away.”
Erica’s gaze flew to Ryan. A muscle feathered in his jaw. Jabhat al-Nusra had used a C-4 explosive to blow up the US Embassy in Amman. “Why’d they leave it?” Ryan’s hand stilled on Earl’s arching back.
“It wasn’t secure enough for fast travel,” Terrance replied, his words a bit muddled, as if he spoke through a mouth of marbles—or lozenges. “Probably thought twice about taking it and ditched it during their escape.”
Ryan’s lips vibrated with the force of his exhale. Relief swept through Erica. The terrorism threat at the consulate party tonight had dropped a notch. Al-Nusra might have been building two bombs, but considering the cost, time, and expertise required, it wasn’t very likely. Now the group had to build another—buying her and Ryan precious time to stop them.
“Erica and I will still attend the consulate party.” Earl butted against Ryan’s still hand, tail flicking, until Ryan resumed petting him. “We can’t eliminate it as a target yet.”
Terrance blew his nose. “A good plan in light of the additional evidence.”
Ryan’s shoulders tensed. “What additional evidence?”
“The forensic team lifted a fingerprint at the apartment. Our system matched it to the print on record for Emir Fahad al Saud’s diplomatic visa.”
In the stunned silence, Earl’s purring raged like a band saw. Fahad? She knew he was involved…yet the Speaker’s words returned to her. What did Fahad have to gain by associating with the terrorists his family spent millions to defeat? If the Speaker of the House died, the al Sauds would lose Hatcher’s influence to gain government approval for their business’s would-be buyer. Unless that was just a ruse…. She rubbed her now aching temples. The problem with overthinking was it took you in circles—the reason she trusted her gut more.
Ryan recovered first. “Does he have a logical explanation for being there?”
“Haven’t been able to reach him, and Homeland Security says he hasn’t left the country.” The deputy coughed. “Of course, given his reputation, it’s possible he’s holed up somewhere on a bender….”
“We need a FISA warrant. Doesn’t his family own an estate in Preston Hollow?” Ryan asked, naming an exclusive Dallas suburb.
“Yes….” The sound of rustling papers came through the phone. “But no dice on the warrant. At least not today. Most likely Fahad will show up at the party, since he never misses a chance to drink champagne with influential people. Find a way to talk to him there while I work back channels. This needs to be handled with discretion and sensitivity.”
Erica nearly groaned. Great. Just freaking awesome. Discretion and sensitivity. Her two least-favorite words.
“We don’t want to upset the al Sauds with an allegation until we can prove it,” the deputy added.
Erica opened her mouth to object to any delay, to demand they storm the al Saud compound immediately before losing an important witness or possible co-conspirator, then snapped it shut. The picture of the Speaker of the House posing with the al Saud family flashed in her mind’s eye. She’d caused one diplomatic dustup in Amman and ruined her life. This time, she’d do things differently. No flying off the handle and losing her second chance to capture Jabhat al-Nusra and…maybe…Ryan’s heart.
“Any word on the Pedar Oil LLC?” Ryan asked, referring to the company seeking to purchase part of the al Sauds’ business holdings.
“It’s anonymous.” The deputy sighed. “A shell company formed in Delaware a couple of years ago. Money’s parked in an offshore account.”
Erica raked her fingers through her hair. Some states, like Delaware, didn’t require LLCs to disclose names when filing. It was the perfect way to hide slimy business deals. What was Pedar Oil up to? Who had created it? And why were they so interested in securing access to American ports? The sense that she was missing something fluttered beneath her rib cage.
Ryan ended the call and stared at his blank cell screen for several minutes, his brow furrowed. She imagined him shuffling the case’s evidence across a mental chess board as he planned their next move. At last, his gaze rose and met hers. “Ready for some recon?”
“Where?”
“Preston Hollow?”
She stared at him. “But we don’t have a warrant.”
Ryan shrugged. “Who needs one when we have you and that red scarf outfit?”
Her mouth fell open. “Who are you and what have you done with stick-up-his-ass Agent Ryan Arnell?”
Ryan chuckled, then sobered. “The sooner we locate Fahad the better. If he’s an innocent bystander, lured to the apartment without knowing the weapons traffickers’ true purpose, he’ll thank us for the warning. And if he’s not…”
Erica grinned. “We’ll bust his ass.”
“I like your style, Keely.”
“Kind of a fan of yours too, Arnell.”
He caught her around the waist and kissed her hard, then, with a groan, tore himself away and stalked into her bathroom. A moment later the shower flicked on and his muffled hum of “Let It Be” wafted from the room.
Let it be…. Words to live by. For a gal who lived in the moment, not knowing the future was bugging her far more than it should. Especially when it came to her and Ryan. At least the recon would buy her time to let her new feelings and reve
lations about him settle inside.
She needed time to think…. Her lips twitched. A first. Part of a bigger pattern? She hoped so, because while she liked being unafraid, some things should be feared—like losing the man who now carried her heart.
Chapter 13
An hour later, Erica stood in the al Sauds’ grand foyer, chomping on a jaw-aching wad of gum, rubbernecking. She didn’t have to feign awe as she took in the domed glass ceiling and the frescoed walls. Exotic birds called from an open-air space down the hall where an elaborate tiled fountain steadily trickled water.
“I’m afraid we don’t have you on our guest list, ma’am,” intoned the household’s butler, a British ex-pat wearing a full suit despite the stifling temperature.
“I can’t leave without my money.” Erica jutted out her lower lip then let it quiver, her eyes filling up. Right now, she was a down-on-her-luck dancer desperate to pay her bills. “There’s some sort of mix-up. The emir promised—”
“Emir Fahad is not in residence.” The butler stared down the length of his pinched nose.
Erica widened her eyes. “What? How? When did he…”
“You’ve just missed him, I’m afraid.”
Ryan’s muffled oath filled her tiny earpiece, and she silently echoed it, picturing him scowling in the car he’d parked around the corner. “Will he be back?”
“He didn’t enlighten me about his plans.” The butler sniffed in disapproval, an indicator that the snub was a frequent occurrence with the hard-partying, womanizing black sheep of the al Saud family. Perhaps the deputy chief was right, and Fahad was simply on a bender.
“Where did he go?”
“I believe we’re finished.” The butler gestured to the door. “Good day.”
Screw that.
Erica plopped down on one of the elaborate, high-backed chairs lining the entranceway and folded her arms over her chest. “I’m not leaving without my payout. Uber cost me thirty bucks, so that’s sixty both ways. I got my hair done, one hundred and twenty, plus these.” She waggled the fake nails she’d wrangled on while driving over. “Not to mention how much it cost for me to wax my—”
The butler held up a hand, his skin slightly green. “I don’t believe I need all of the sordid details.”
“Upkeep’s part of the job.” Erica leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs. “I get two K for a house visit, but seeing as the emir’s not here, I’ll give you a discount. $1,500. Take it or leave it, Jeeves.” She blew an enormous bubble, then popped it for emphasis.
The butler’s lip curled. “Very well. I’ll see what cash we have on hand. Stay here. And don’t—uh—touch anything.”
Like hell.
The moment he turned a corner, Erica bolted from the chair, opened the front door a bit, then padded into a nearby formal living room, scanning for signs of Fahad.
“Is the butler telling the truth?” Ryan whispered in her ear, making her shiver slightly as she recalled the very different, very sexy words he’d whispered last night.
“He reads that way,” she said into the microphone hidden in her velvet choker. “But I’ll scout to make sure.”
“Be careful.”
“You know me.” She ducked into an elaborate, wood-paneled library reeking of cherry-scented cigars and expensive leather.
His deep chuckle tickled her eardrum. “I do…too well.”
Down the hall, the butler called for her. She peeked her head around the doorframe and saw him disappear through the ajar front door.
Perfect.
Seizing the moment, she darted up a grand staircase covered by a thick Persian runner and dodged into the nearest room. An empty bedroom. Through the open window, she heard the butler hollering her name, and she grinned. Good. Let him think she roamed the grounds while she performed her own, unsanctioned search…. One approved—no, ordered by Ryan. If caught, they’d get in a shit-ton of trouble…and he had much more to lose than she did.
Do not mess up.
One by one, she glided through the bedrooms like a ghost, her heart beating itself into a frenzy. Without warning, a burst of muffled gunfire erupted down the hall. She hit the floor and groped for the Glock strapped to her thigh beneath her fluttering scarves.
“You heard something,” Ryan said in her ear.
“How did you…?”
“Your breathing changed.”
She placed a hand over her jumping heart and strove to steady her breath. Another round of shooting was followed by a stream of swearing. “I think someone’s playing a video game in the bedroom at the end of the hall.”
“Is it the master suite?”
Erica shrugged. “Could be.”
“So the butler’s lying.”
“No….” She cocked her head and listened closer. “I hear an American voice.”
“A guest?” Ryan asked.
“Probably. He might know Fahad’s whereabouts, at least.”
A tapping sounded through her earpiece, and she imagined Ryan searching on his phone for the names of Fahad’s usual entourage. “What’s your plan?”
A passing maid, clad in crisp white and black, passed the doorway carrying a stack of folded linens. Erica pressed against the wall out of sight. “Go in with guns blazing?”
“Not funny, Erica.”
“Fine.” Despite the tense situation, a smile teased up the corners of her mouth. “I’m lost, looking for the bathroom, yada yada yada.”
“Sounds good. And be—”
“Careful. Got it.”
Erica waited for the maid to vanish into one of the bedrooms, then tiptoed down the hall to the master suite. The tinny, rat-tat-tat-tat grew louder. Taking a deep breath, she flounced into the room and pulled up short. On the end of a mammoth bed sat Greg Pullman, the Speaker of the House’s aide.
Shock momentarily paralyzed her.
Holy crap.
Fahad was hiding Pullman, which meant they were conspirators after all.
The moment Pullman spied Erica, her instincts kicked in. She widened her eyes and rounded her mouth in a way that plumped her lips. Her chest heaved against her beaded bra top.
Pullman’s gaze zoomed to her cleavage.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Pullman,” she gasped. “I didn’t know you were up here.”
“Pullman?” Ryan exclaimed through her earpiece. “Greg Pullman’s there?”
“Do you know me?” Pullman cast wary eyes behind her.
“Yes,” Erica replied, answering Ryan as well. “Haddie mentioned he’d invited you to stay.” She batted her lashes, using the nickname she’d overheard at Fahad’s birthday party.
Pullman’s brow smoothed. “And you are?” His eyeballs practically stuck to her crawling skin as he stood and circled her.
She tossed her hair and forced a giggle. “Blaze.”
A film of perspiration sprang to her brow despite her best efforts to stay cool. Calm. But hey, she was face-to-face, and alone, with a terrorist plotter. Anyone could stroll in. One of the weapons traffickers, maybe. Her tense thighs clamped around the hard, cold metal piece between them.
“You’re the girl from Dallas Heat.” Pullman’s face became dangerously still. Crap. He was about to make her. Ice jammed her veins. Once he remembered her association with Fahad, he’d realize she was the same woman al-Nusra had ordered a hit on for sniffing around their apartment…. The same woman who’d ratted him out to his boss. A CIA agent. “You danced at Fahad’s birthday.”
“Erica, get out of there!” Ryan growled. “Now.”
She stared into Pullman’s eyes, sizing him up. Readying herself. Deep breath in. Slow breath out.
Center yourself.
She wasn’t leaving without her target.
The cords in Pullman’s neck popped as recognition darkened his eyes. His lips drew back from hi
s teeth in a snarl. “That—that means you’re—”
He lunged for a drawer surely containing a weapon, then crashed to his knees, gagging, when Erica punched him hard in the throat. In a flash, she pounced, grabbing his right arm and twisting it up, up, up, only stopping when the faintest beginnings of bone fracturing reached her ears.
“Don’t make a fucking sound,” she hissed in his ear. “Nod if you understand me.”
He jerked his head up and down. The slight moan emerging from his throat snuffed when she tugged his arm higher still.
“Good boy.” She patted him down with her free hand.
“Get out of there!” She winced at Ryan’s roar. “That’s an order.”
“We’re coming,” she muttered once she determined Pullman was unarmed.
A kick to his back sent him sprawling. When he scrambled to his hands and knees, he came face-to-face with her Glock. “On your feet.”
Pale and shaking, Pullman stumbled upright.
She circled him, trailing her gun along his shoulders before stopping before him. “Okay, cupcake. Here’s how it’s going down. You and I are walking out of here, and if anyone says anything, you’ll tell them we’re together. Nod if you understand.”
His head bobbed, and his lips trembled. Good. She liked her terrorists cowed.
“If you give anyone so much as a sideways look, if I so much as hear you breathing the wrong way, you’re dead. Now put your arm around me.”
Erica pressed against Pullman’s side and jabbed the butt of her concealed gun in his ribcage. “Let’s go.”
“There you are!” exclaimed the butler when they stepped off the stairs into the foyer. “What are you doing with our guest?”
Erica dug her gun further into Pullman’s ribs and shot the butler a knowing look. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She stroked Pullman’s cheek with her free hand. “Come on, cupcake. A girl’s gotta eat.”
She winked at the flushed, sputtering butler. “And forget the $1,500. I found another way to make up the difference.”
With that, she and Pullman strolled down the long drive and out the gate.
“Almost to you,” she murmured into her mic.
