by Amy Jarecki
Crack, crack, crack, crack, crack.
The perp didn’t have a chance.
The lights flickered on.
Nearly blinded by the sudden burst of fluorescents, Henri slipped her NV goggles up and rubbed her eyes. “What the hell happened to you, Rose?”
“Ambushed.” He walked out of Building 3 with a massive splotch of red paint in the center of his vest and another on his thigh. “I think they bugged the blue dressing room.”
“Too right,” said Trevor from the car while his helmet dripped blue. “The first rule of war is to use spies.”
“That’s the third rule,” Garth barked over the loudspeaker. “But I’m impressed. Rose, you’ll have to step it up a notch.”
Henri had to laugh. Mike was the best damned combat ad libber she’d ever seen. He had an answer for everything, and the respect he received from the seasoned veterans during meetings in the situation room confirmed it.
Asa sat up from where she’d been shot, blue paint covering her helmet. “That was amazing.”
“We’ll make a field agent out of you yet,” said Garth.
One of the few Icelander’s on the team, Asa looked up to the observation window where Garth was still standing. “Who will monitor all the chatter?”
“Multitasking.”
Mike gave Henri’s elbow a nudge as he headed back to the blue room. “Ready for your sparring session?”
Tingles crackled up her arm and across the back of her neck. Sparring with Rose was invigorating and unbearably frustrating. But it was the best part of every day—the part she looked forward to—the part that made fire thrum through her blood. She sensed today’s sparring would contain an added challenge. Then those darned tingles fired across every inch of her body, even in places where they had no freaking business being remotely worked up.
Chapter Eight
Mike’s rules of war were based on his past experience and the writings of Sun Tzu. Garth had liked them so much, he’d allowed Mike to introduce his rules into the curriculum for new ICE recruits—at least the first two-dozen rules. The list was lengthy—Mike had developed over a hundred. Since he’d become a spy, one of his favorites was number twenty-six: All warfare is based on deception.
He sat cross-legged in the middle of the sparring mat. The training center was a labyrinth, from the paintball court to the weight room, from the flight simulator to the running track on the mezzanine that surrounded the sparring arena where he did his most intense training. On one wall were mirrors. Off to the side, a myriad of weapons including nunchucks, bow staffs, sparring swords and knives hung from hooks on the walls. Mike liked to spar weaponless the best. A man needed to be able to defend any attack with his hands—that is, as long as he wasn’t facing a gun further than ten paces away.
Henri was already a minute late, which gave him time to sink deep into a meditative state. After years of training in martial arts, Mike could reach a level of deep calm even when being smacked in the face, but sitting in the middle of an enormous space with no other sound was a rare and idyllic treat for transporting his mind, body and soul into a level of consciousness akin to floating. Eyes closed, his every breath rushed in his ears. His heartbeat hammered a rhythm in a slow cadence that kept time with the harmony of being.
A door to his right opened and closed. Soft, shoeless footsteps neared and stopped a good six feet away.
There was no need to open his eyes. Mike knew it was Henri. Her walk was like a gazelle’s, feminine and light. Men planted their feet harder and slapped the mat.
The air whooshed ever so slightly and Mike pictured her stretching in his mind’s eye.
“I think the paintball contest went well,” she said. “Natalie told me Garth intervened—gave them about two hours of coaching. It’s a wonder we weren’t obliterated as soon as we stepped onto the court.”
Mike inhaled deeply, keeping himself at his present level of consciousness. He already knew Garth had something to do with the paintball maneuvers. There was nothing the Head of Field Operations liked better than taking seasoned operatives down a notch or two, though it would take a lot more than a two-on-seven match to bruise Mike’s ego.
Henri took a step nearer, her gaze boring into the side of Mike’s head like a laser. He’d never started a session like this before. The air again whooshed slightly when she sat. “Okay, so we’re meditating today. I’m cool with that,” she said—almost whispered.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Mike continued to rise the level of consciousness until he felt weightless. His breath, his heartbeat intermingled and laced with Henri’s. He sensed her aura as it surrounded him. He’d grown to know her scent and it filled him, almost completed him. As their breathing became united, so did the rhythm of their hearts. His mind floating, his body grew aroused. Not exactly the level of consciousness he’d been aiming for but, nonetheless, he wanted to stay there on that plateau. Indeed, the physiological reaction below his waistband wasn’t supposed to happen. In fact, it never had happened while meditating. And if there was one thing martial arts had taught him, it was to conquer all his mortal weaknesses.
Time to move.
He opened his eyes to mere slits and gauged the distance between them. If he raised his arm straight to the side, he would be able to brush her shoulder with the tips of his fingers. But any movement on his part would be immediately sensed by Henri. Mike’s attack needed to be lightning fast and deadly.
Taking one more deep inhale, he closed his eyes and swallowed.
With a sudden burst, he sprang into action. Rising to his knee, in one fluid motion, he stretched for her shoulder, gripped it in his right hand and swung a roundhouse kick at her face. Knowing her only counter would be a crouch and block, he held back to avoid a crushing impact.
Henri surprised him. Dropping down and twisting toward his thumb, she slipped from his grasp and caught his thigh with an upward heel bump.
Thrown off balance, Mike ran his fingers along Henri’s arm and pulled her down to the mat. On his back, he wrapped her up with his thighs and clamped tight. God, his knees nestled in the arc of her slender waist as if they belonged there. His cock lengthened, but he ignored his body. Sexual reactions when sparring with a female weren’t new to him, only this surge of lust was so powerful, it pushed his self-control to the ragged edge.
Placing his hand against her elbow, Mike used a tad of hyperextension to roll Henri to her back. He pinned her hands above her head while his body turned to fire.
“You ass,” she seethed, her eyes drilling through him. The woman sounded like she was about as turned on as a hippo protecting her young. So much for lustful urges. Gnashing her teeth, she bore down and circled her arms, making Mike fall forward. Then, after planting a knee to his backside, she broke away with her braid following like a bullwhip. In one move, Mike was on his feet facing her.
“Not bad, Anderson,” he growled menacingly, making damned sure she didn’t think he’d even dreamed about being aroused. If two weren’t ready to tango, there’d be no dance.
Henri chuckled as she circled her opponent. She’d known Mike had something up his sleeve when he didn’t respond when she walked in and told him about Garth’s intervention. Expect the unexpected—that was the rule to staying alive in this business whether you were working as a combat sniper or an ICE asset.
If she hadn’t sensed his attack, he would have nailed her in the face, the turd.
But Mike Rose was a quandary. It was both exhilarating and frustrating to work with him. She’d learned more in the past week than she had during her entire basic training—cool methods of smuggling weapons across enemy borders she’d never dreamed of, makeshift weapons, dismounted surveillance. Every day made her thirst all the more to be out there. And in the sit room, she’d heard the chatter about the free world’s greatest enemies with Fahd al-Umari and Omar Fadli topping the list. The excitement pulsing through her veins almost made her forget about the mine. Almost. Every night Henri looked
at Grandfather’s picture beside her bed and was reminded of her purpose.
Mike lunged.
Henri skittered back, making him miss, but he stopped himself before he stumbled forward.
She threw a roundhouse at his head to distract him, followed immediately by a jab to the sternum. He blocked both. Dropping, he swung a kick at her ankles—trying to make her fall. Henri jumped, but his foot caught her toe. She landed off balance and stumbled backward.
True to form, Mike advanced, giving her no quarter. Before she knew what happened, she was on her back with her wrists pinned but, this time, she couldn’t move.
Struggling, she looked into those electric blue eyes staring at her with intensity as well as amusement.
“What are you planning to do next, Anderson?” he teased with a wriggle of his hips. Didn’t he know how much that affected her? Damn, the guy made her knees grow weak just by being in the same room. When they sparred, she had to mask her feelings behind a tough-bitch, sergeant persona.
Typical, Mike embodied the bad-boy alpha—the type who always made her melt. All it took was a grin. He perfectly played the part of the smartass flying by the seat of his pants. But that was the draw. Who could resist a guy on top of his game and knew it?
Mike was good.
Too good.
Worse, he constantly needled Garth about getting back into the field. He could be on a plane out of there tomorrow. They had no possible future together. For the love of God, she was half-Paiute and he was a Scot. They had absolutely nothing in common.
“Well?” he persisted.
“Come closer.”
He narrowed his eyes. “A head-butt to the snout? I like it.”
Henri’s tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth. “I dare you.”
A low chuckle rumbled from his throat, making vibrations swarm across her skin. But a man like Rose never shirked a dare. As soon as he dipped his chin, Henri stretched up and planted a smooch on his lips.
Mistake.
Major mistake.
With the flash of his eyes, his body crushed over hers as his mouth dove in for the kill with a full-contact, wet-tongued, disarming kiss that would make any woman swoon. Thank God Henri was on her back, otherwise she would have melted into a heap of boneless limbs. Within two swirls of his tongue, she was ready to tear off her clothes and offer to bear his children.
She didn’t have a hope of weaseling out of this one. Big, hard male covered every inch of her body. His chest molded into her breasts. But the most shattering feeling of all was his rock-hard cock rubbing back and forth along her crotch. Henri was dizzy with desire and, as he released her wrists, she wrapped her arms around him and clung on for dear life.
His fingers plunged into her hair as his hips relentlessly rocked, disarming her of any thought of attack.
Of course, the bad-boy ace from the Highlands could kiss. He was like a walking advertisement blasting out, “take me ladies, there’s none better”. He’d probably made love to every woman he’d ever worked with. But right now, Henri didn’t care. She tugged up his t-shirt and sank her fingers into the thick bands of muscle on his back. No one was around. He could take her right there on the mat and she’d let him.
He trailed kisses to her ear. “Round, set and match to you, lass.”
Could she melt a bit more? Sighing, she chuckled. “I should have known your weakness from the first time I laid eyes on you.”
“I—”
A door closed.
Mike rocked onto his haunches, moving faster than a cobra. “Garth?” His voice shot up like an adolescent. “What news from the upper deck?”
Chapter Nine
After Garth curtly dismissed Henri, Mike swiped his hand across his mouth and faced the CO. Nothing like being caught by the big cheese with your proverbial pants down. How much had Garth seen?
God, he was an idiot. But damn, he’d expected a head-butt, not a kiss. Henri wasn’t the type of woman who flirted around, either. The woman was far more likely to deliver a kick to the balls than a friendly pat on the shoulder—or a mind-blowing kiss.
And Mike had fallen for it. He’d not only fallen for it, he’d played right into her hands, practically fucking her right through those blasted yoga shorts that hugged her ass like a second skin.
Garth eyed Mike like he did when he had something up his sleeve—though this time it was probably an assignment in Antarctica. “She’s something else.”
Those words could mean anything.
“She is,” Mike replied.
“Then it’s a good thing I need you to leave for Pakistan in the morning. Jesus Christ, what is it about a mop of wild, red hair that women can’t resist? You look like Andy Capp on steroids if you ask me.”
Mike couldn’t help but smirk. “I’d rather think of it as Jamie Frazer on steroids, sir.”
“Who the hell is Jamie Fazer?”
“It’s a Scottish thing.” Avoiding an explanation of the American popularity of the Outlander Series, Mike batted a dismissive hand through the air. “So, are things heating up with Rodgers and Hamilton?” he asked, attempting to deflect the focus away from him.
“They are, and I aim to ensure they don’t do the same between you and Anderson.”
“No, sir.” He could bloody kick himself. Lord, he knew better than to get too close to an asset. What the hell was he thinking?
“Good to hear. By the speed with which you were moving when I entered the gym, I had my doubts.”
“I thought I was done when I collected my hundred quid.” Mike shook his head. “You can bet it’s time for me to head back out in the field. I’ve had enough recruiting and training. Besides, you could put Anderson in the field tomorrow and she’d be fine.”
“I’ll decide when she’s ready.”
“Of course.” Mike excused himself and headed for the showers. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Garth frowned on fraternization at ICE, though it happened all around him. Look at Hamilton and Rodgers—they’d spent their entire holidays together at his ranch in Montana. And dammit, who wouldn’t go off their trolley after being cloistered underground at ICE for a few months? None of the operatives were robots—possibly aside from Garth. The men and women who risked their necks for the clan were living, breathing people with human needs. They were all young and vibrant and smart and that included being sexually healthy.
If Garth didn’t like the idea of Mike kissing Henri, then he could go bite himself on the bum.
After a shower and a rare steak in the mess, Mike headed to the only place he could get a cold beer. The last crew had dubbed the bar the “Ice Cave” and the moniker had stuck. The director of administration even had a sign made and posted outside the door, though it wasn’t neon. It was silver and business looking, and followed the same font, size and standard as every other door sign in the compound.
The techie recruits were gathered around the bar, with Ed Sheeran blasting from the red jukebox that played tunes nonstop. But the music was barely louder than the tequila-swilling crowd pounding on the bar and shouting.
Moving closer, Mike homed in on the cause of the brouhaha. Natalie, the Brit from Liverpool, was on her back on top of the bar with her belly exposed. Aaron from Colorado was straddling her legs with a bottle of tequila in his hand while Pam swiped a lime along Natalie’s throat and sprinkled on some salt, then squeezed the juice into the lassie’s navel.
“Hiya, luv,” Natalie yelled from her back, grinning at Mike. “Come have a body shot.”
Aaron pumped his arm like a bodybuilder, which he was not. “I’m the body shot challenger of the world!”
Pam from Texas grabbed the bottle of tequila and held it up. “Are you ready?”
“Hell yeah!” Aaron shouted while Natalie sucked in her gut and Pam poured in the tequila.
The crowd pounded the bar shouting, “chug, chug, chug,” though all Arron did was lick the salt from Natalie’s neck, then slurp the tequila from her belly button. Roaring, he
sat upright, flexing his muscles. “I’m the baddest man in town!”
Shaking his head and laughing, Mike moved behind the bar, pulled out an Icelandic Red Ale and popped the top. “You lot are having a piss up without me?”
“Only way to drown our sorrows, mate,” said Trevor.
“We nearly had you,” said the German.
Mike took a swig. “It’ll never happen.”
“Not as long as you have Hawkeye watching your back,” said Pam.
“You mean Soaring-Eagle?” He leaned his elbow on the bar, unable to stop himself from taking a long visual examination of Natalie’s shiny, wet navel.
Still on the bar, she rolled to her side. “Is she really an Indian, luv?” she asked with a slur to her Liverpool accent.
Aaron slid down from the bar and a pulled a beer out of the fridge. “Native American.” By the looks of the squeezed limes piled up in a glass, they’d been at it for a while.
“Her mother was a Paiute,” said Mike. He took a drink. ICE policy was not to disclose too much about an asset’s background, though they already knew Henrietta Anderson’s middle name was Soaring-Eagle. Garth had let that one slip.
Natalie ran her finger up and down Mike’s bicep. “She’s an anomaly.”
“She’s fucking unbelievable,” said Aaron.
Mike nodded and took another pull from his beer, hiding his smile. Unbelievable was right.
“Do sharpshooters turn you on?” Natalie’s tongue slipped out the corner of her mouth while she poured a shot of tequila and held it up to him. When Mike refused, she chugged it.
He gave Arron an elbow-nudge. “How long have you lot been at it?”
“Came straight here after Garth chewed us out.”
Mike chuckled. He should have known Garth would have had something to say. “Got an old-fashioned, military arse-whipping, did you?”
“Not only that, we’re hitting the slopes in the morning—ice climbing.”
Gesturing to the near-empty tequila bottle and countless empty beers, Mike shook his head. “Do you have a death wish? All of you will be knackered and chundering up your guts.”
