KICK ASS: A Boxed Set (3 Powerful Heroines, 2 Complete Novels + Bonus Novella)

by Julie Leto

  Flavors exploded on her tongue—bold and piquant. Coupled with the texture of his taut flesh over hard muscle, Marisela nearly devoured him. He’d tangled his fingers in her hair and begged her to never, ever stop.

  But she had to. Her lungs screamed for unhampered air and she pulled away, her eyes nearly blinded by the light she hadn’t realized until now surrounded them. Windows banked the wall on either side and despite the tinting, she suspected the crew on deck might have witnessed them getting it on.

  The thought gave her pause, but Frankie instantly pushed her into fast forward the moment she realized he was ready to finish what they’d so frantically started. She struggled for words, but Frankie took a moment’s pity on her and covered her month with two gentle fingers while he guided her onto the mat and kissed her until she forgot everything except reaching the end of this crazy, wild ride.

  The minute he slid inside her, Marisela’s brain burst into a million shards of light. Hard and thick, his sex melded with hers in one fluid glide, followed by a series of strokes that pushed both of them over the precipice. They collapsed onto the ground, panting more than either of them had during the height of their workout. Marisela found herself spent and exhausted—and oddly clearheaded.

  She’d just screwed her ex-boyfriend, with the expressed purpose of putting to rest the big question—would sex still be as good with Frankie as it once had been?

  Well, damn. She finally had her answer. Making love to him now had been a hell of a lot better.

  * * *

  “Not a wise choice, Ms. Morales.”

  Marisela jumped so high at the sound of Ian Blake’s voice coming from her bed, she nearly dropped her towel. She’d just emerged from a long, hot, luxurious shower after a short, hot, and equally luxurious workout with Frankie. The last thing she expected was her boss perched against her pillows, his John Lobb of London loafers inches from crushing the blouse she’d picked out to wear for dinner.

  She snagged the blouse with her left hand, since her right one was holding tight to the knot over her breast. After several days, she finally had her sea legs, but the gulf must have grown rougher. She had to brace her calf against the bed frame for balance.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “You need to get the hell out while I dress.”

  He gazed at her with a practiced, bored expression, but while Marisela may have been distracted, she wasn’t a fool. He was as blasé about her nudity beneath her towel as she was thrilled that he’d come into her room without permission.

  With a contained grunt, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves and then shrugged into the jacket he’d casually draped over the wingback chair that stood beside her window.

  Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the towel, but not because she was afraid to reveal her naked body to Blake. She didn’t give a damn what he saw—in fact, served him right to catch a glimpse of what he’d never have. But dammit, just because he authorized her generous funds transfer didn’t give him the right to invade her space—even if he owned that space from the woven carpets to the crystal light fixtures.

  “I’m distressed with regard to your behavior this afternoon.” His voice was checked, like a seething school principal determined to appear professional in front of the misbehaving kiddies.

  Uh-oh. Had someone caught her and Frankie’s action in the workout room? What did she care if they did? Celibacy was not a condition of her Titan contract.

  She slicked back her dripping wet hair. “You don’t expect me to care what you think, do you? What I do on my own time is my own business.”

  He stalked toward her slowly, casually. “And what time is that? I believe I made myself very clear, Ms. Morales. This entire trip, from start to finish, is about training for your assignment. There is no free time or play time.”

  “Shit, really? Does that mean I can’t even go pee without messing up your carefully coordinated plan?”

  He bristled at her crude reference, which was exactly why she’d said it. Ian Blake seemed a difficult man to ruffle, but she’d done pretty well so far. But the truth remained—he did own her for the time being. They were hundreds of miles out to sea and for the most part, out of contact.

  For the most part. Only half an hour ago, she’d used the ship-to-shore system in the communications center to call Lia and fill her in on her afternoon delight with Frankie. Could that be what had Blake’s boxers in a bunch?

  “Taking care of private, physical needs is workable within the schedule,” Ian verified. “Making phone calls to your civilian friends with our highly classified system is not.”

  Marisela leaned into the bathroom and grabbed a second towel, which she rubbed with brisk strokes on her hair. “I thought we were civilians.”

  His mouth tilted up on one side, but no one in their right mind would call the expression a grin. “Word play aside, Ms. Morales, please refrain from calling Ms. Santorini again until the mission is over. We have too much to lose if your cover is blown once you are in the theater of operation.”

  “Is that really what this is about? My phone call?” Maybe for once, she and Frankie had lucked out and no one had spied their carnal action?

  “What else would I be here about?”

  She yanked a stick of gum from her bag. She offered him one, which he predictably declined.

  “Maybe you just wanted to sneak a peek at me in the shower.”

  That suggestion invoked the first real smile she’d seen on him in days. The expression did wonders for his face, which was so handsome, Marisela figured some women might find him hard to look at without staring. But despite his smooth, cultured voice, piercing blue eyes, sigh-inducing dimple, and tailored perfection that applied to everything from his clothes to his physique, Marisela couldn’t shake the wariness that over came her whenever he was near. As if he possessed a brand of danger she had no defense for—no strategy for survival.

  “Who said I didn’t peek?” he teased.

  Marisela dropped the towel she was using on her hair and combed through the wet tangle with her fingers, drawing the strands over her shoulder. The man watching her with such lazy expectation was shameless and presumptuous. Scrumptious, too, but she wasn’t in the mood to bestow any compliments. He clearly believed she didn’t have the capacity to resist such a sexy and powerful man as he. Ian Blake needed a lesson in humility.

  But then what fun would he be?

  She eased up to him, breaking into his personal space with slow, deliberate steps. She might not break him, but she could always enjoy getting under his skin. “Nah, you’re not the type to watch on the sly.”

  He countered by leaning closer, as if he’d welcomed her challenge. “What type am I?”

  She grinned. “Oh, you know. The kind of guy who can make a woman think it was her idea to break in to your bedroom late at night and crawl into your bed wearing nothing but a smile.”

  Tentatively, she reached out and slid her finger up his lapel. The fabric was rich and expertly woven, without a single flaw. Just like the man who wore the suit—or at least, just like he wanted everyone to believe.

  He watched her hand, then captured her stare with his. “I’m flattered that you’ve considered that scenario, but I assure you, the security around my bedroom is formidable. Should you attempt to turn your little fantasy into reality, I suggest you wait until Max isn’t on duty. He’s more dangerous than he appears.”

  She laughed, slapping him on the shoulder before pushing away. “You’d like to think I’m turned on by you, wouldn’t you?”

  “Your sexual preferences, Ms. Morales, are not my concern. However, your inexperience and cockiness are. I consider myself responsible for your actions and if you ruin this operation by blowing your cover, the fault will be mine. And I don’t like to make mistakes. Ever.”

  He’d lost a measure of control; his voice was threaded with steel. Marisel
a caught sight of a vein bulging on the side of his neck. If he ever lost control completely, she figured Ian Blake would be one seriously unpredictable man.

  But his potential danger wasn’t her problem—staying on equal ground with him was. In her experience, a man like him would only respect her if she matched his intellect and strength—or at the very least, managed to put him in his place.

  “If you wanted someone experienced, you should have hired someone experienced. You came looking for me, remember? I may not speak English with all the proper inflections, but I know when I can risk a chat with my best friend and when I can’t. As for my cockiness, it will keep me alive. Has so far. Besides, my attitude is what most people love about me.”

  She smiled broadly, but he merely nodded and turned toward the door. He was a puzzle, Marisela decided. A man who liked to play games, though he’d never admit his preference, not even under extreme torture.

  “I’ll see you in thirty minutes,” he said. “We have a special guest for dinner tonight.” He glanced at the blouse she still held in her hand. “You might want to select something a bit dressier.”

  “Is the President here?”

  “No.”

  “The Pope?”

  “Not likely.”

  She held up the filmy red blouse she’d found in the collection of clothes that had been provided for her. She still hadn’t been briefed on exactly whose identity she’d assume once they arrived—some hired gun or Cuban spygirl—but the clothes rocked. When she paired the shirt with the slim black slacks and spiky black sandals she’d also discovered in the generous trousseau, she’d look like one hot mamacita. “Then this will do.”

  Ten

  The minute she strolled into Blake’s private dining room, sliding past Max before she’d even realized he was standing stiffly in the shadows by the door, she caught sight of a cool, slender blonde dressed to the height of yachting chic from the tips of her needle-thin pumps to the luxurious cream crepe pants and coordinating silk blouse. Even the pearls dangling from her ears and draping her slim column of a neck coordinated with the setting. Light, breezy, and expensive.

  Except her eyes. Although as blue as the gulf water churning in the white, frothy splash against the hull of the ship, even from a distance, her irises lacked any warmth, even after she caught sight of Marisela and with clear deliberateness, turned up the wattage on her smile.

  “Ms. Morales!” The woman headed straight for her as if Marisela had been holding the last Manolo Blahnik at Barney’s in a size seven slim. “How utterly thrilling to finally meet you. Oh, Ian. You didn’t exaggerate. How will Javier ever be able to resist her?”

  Marisela sidestepped, avoiding the woman’s outstretched hand. She was probably acting rudely, but too damned bad.

  “Resist me?”

  A new scenario played in Marisela’s mind with lurid clarity, causing a slash of hot fire to ram up her spine. Nothing in the plans from the past three days included her acting as bait for some gunrunning kingpin. Either this woman knew something Marisela didn’t, or she was off her Chippendale rocker.

  “Well, you know what I mean,” the woman said quickly, as if Marisela knew what the hell she was talking about, which she didn’t. “Javier has an eye for beautiful women, particularly dark and mysterious ones like you One look in your direction and he’ll believe whatever cock-and-bull story Ian has cooked up for you.

  She circled Marisela, eyeing her from head to toe as if she might offer a bid amount at any moment. When she completed her assessing rotation, she pressed her delicately manicured hand to her chest and released a rather soft, but effective sigh. “I feel so much more confident now. You have no idea what I’ve been through thanks to Javier Perez.”

  This time, Marisela didn’t feint when the woman’s hand shot out and grabbed hers. She didn’t buy the intimacy of the move, but she could appreciate the way her body language added to the drama of the moment. She also appreciated the woman’s barely contained expression of horror when she felt the calluses on Marisela’s knuckles, courtesy of the punching bags in the gym.

  “You will find my daughter for me, won’t you? You’ll bring her home to me?”

  Marisela waited for the waterworks to start, but to the woman’s credit, she kept her tears to a slight swelling that never rushed beyond her expertly lined eyelashes.

  Oh, yeah. She was good.

  “I’ll do what I’m paid to do,” Marisela answered. “What I’ve been trained to do.”

  “You see, Elise,” Ian said, skillfully disengaging Elise and leading her out of Marisela’s personal space, “you have nothing to worry about. Marisela and her partner will infiltrate Javier’s compound, locate and extract your daughter. In no time at all, Jessica will be home with you in Boston.”

  With a quick flash of a smile, Elise Barton-Ryce rejoined Ian beside an exquisitely set table gleaming with gold-trimmed china and prismed crystal. A second later, Max appeared beside Marisela, holding a tray with a single drink—a mojito brimming with fresh mint leaves and a slushy service of ice. Marisela eyed the beverage warily.

  “Did you get demoted to bartender?”

  “I’m just bringing you your favorite drink.”

  “My favorite drink is a Cuba Libre. For once, you got something wrong.”

  Max’s colorless eyes narrowed. “You order the Cuba Libre because most of the bars you frequent don’t carry fresh mint. But when you go out somewhere special, you order one of these. Might be your last decent drink for a while.”

  Marisela frowned, unnerved by how much these people knew about her. Even Frankie wouldn’t have known about her preference for the Cuban version of a mint julep. Rum, sugar, mint, and lime had only come to her attention a few years ago during one of her nights out with Lia. Despite her cultural background, no one she knew ever drank them. Lia and Marisela had laughed at the time, likening the experience to the fact that Lia, a born-and-bred Italian-American, had never heard of tiramisu until eating at one of those chain restaurants sometime after high school.

  Marisela took the glass and sipped the icy drink. She smiled. Extra sweet, as she preferred.

  “Max, you are an amazing font of information.”

  He shrugged humbly. “I know what I need to know.”

  “I’m assuming you find out what you need to know by blending into the woodwork. Care to share your secret?”

  “Practice,” he answered.

  “Where’s Frankie?” she asked.

  “On his way.”

  She leaned forward so her whisper wouldn’t be overheard. “So I met the lady with the checkbook. Do I have to stay?”

  “You have to eat.”

  “I can eat in my room.” Marisela didn’t like the petulant sound in her voice, but she saw no reason to stay. She didn’t like Blake. She didn’t like Elise Barton-Ryce. And she wasn’t entirely sure she liked Frankie at the moment, thanks to the way he stubbornly stayed on her mind when making love to him today was supposed to have exorcised her latent attraction to him.

  Max handed the tray to a passing waiter, but otherwise hardly adjusted his rigid stance. “Mrs. Barton-Ryce expressed concern to Mr. Blake about the caliber of the agents assigned to her case. She’s aware that you are entirely untried. Mr. Blake thought that a face-to-face meeting might alleviate her qualms.”

  Marisela snagged an hors d’oeuvre from a waiter’s tray and popped the prosciutto-wrapped delicacy in her mouth, amazed when the cool sweetness of melon exploded on her tongue. Okay, maybe hanging out here wouldn’t be so bad. At the moment, Mrs. Barton-Ryce seemed entirely more interested in flirting with Ian Blake than on further assessing the agents assigned to retrieve her daughter. After ten seconds of conversation, Marisela had been summarily dismissed. “Yeah, her maternal concern is overwhelming.”

  Max tilted his head slightly to the right, but otherwise controlled any reaction to Marisela’s obvious doubt. “I didn’t think you would judge another woman so quickly.”

  Marise
la laughed, then swigged her drink heartily. “See, there is something you don’t know about me.”

  The door opened behind them and Frankie walked in, looking like sin on a stick in slim black jeans, a black T-shirt, and his signature leather jacket. His eyes captured hers in a split second and caused a fluttering in Marisela’s belly that she neither expected nor welcomed.

  When Marisela turned back to Max, the guy was gone. “How does he do that?”

  Frankie answered her rhetorical question with a half-grin. “Never underestimate Max. He’s not just some flunky.”

  “I never thought he was,” she said, side-stepping out of Frankie’s personal space, “but he’s starting to creep me out.”

  Ian gestured them over, so Frankie placed his hand oh-so-subtly at the small of Marisela’s back, renewing the tingle shooting through her veins. She was supposed to be over him, dammit. Immune. Satisfied enough to leave him alone for the duration of the mission.

  Yeah, right.

  Frankie guided her toward Elise and Ian. For God’s sake, she could certainly cross a room without any help, couldn’t she?

  She tugged aside, then speared him with a warning glare. Maybe surrendering to that intimate itch with Frankie hadn’t been such a wise idea. Not because, as Lia’d insisted, she’d simply renewed her addiction to a man who would never turn out to be more than a good lay, but because Frankie had that whole machismo thing going on. Sparking his protective instincts on the eve of their first mission together hadn’t been the wisest move. He couldn’t help himself. The need to protect and direct the female of the species had been bred into his blood, into his genetic code. With their history, his natural progression would be to protect her, rather than share the danger with her.

  Well, that had to stop. She hadn’t signed on this mission to be a liability to anyone.

  “So, Ian,” Marisela said, grinning with much more friendliness than she felt, “this is quite a spread. I sure hope you didn’t put all the caviar on Mrs. Barton-Ryce’s bill just for me.”