Crazy Hot

by Tara Janzen

  Far enough and then some, she realized, as he kept kissing her, going lower with each soft caress, until he'd pushed her back on the desk and was kissing her knees and working his way back up the insides of her thighs.

  At the hem of her skirt, he lifted his head. His eyes glittered darkly in the shadows of the office.

  “Wanna have some fun?”

  Oh, God, whatever he was thinking, it was crazy.

  Still leaning over her, he lifted her leg and pressed another kiss on the inside of her knee as he pushed her skirt up higher and higher, until she was intimately, utterly exposed to that glittering green-eyed gaze. A thoroughly satisfied smile curved his mouth.

  “This is crazy, Quinn.” Even to her ears, it was a weak defense.

  “Uh-huh,” he agreed, bending his head back down. “Totally crazy.”

  Oh, God. A shuddering sigh went through her. If this was what people were doing to each other, she didn't know how her marriage had lasted a week.

  She wanted to stay with him forever, to feel like this forever, but didn't think that was prudent, or even possible. In fact, the very thought scared her to death. Tonight had been the wildest night of her life, but it was only one night, and she was absolutely positive it would be better to keep it that way, just one night—one incredible night.

  Tomorrow she would go back to her regular, perfectly safe life, wiser for the experience—but remembering this, how he made love, and discovering that the taste of his mouth was enough to drench her in desire. She still didn't feel like she knew him. She didn't know him—but her body did. Her body knew his, and her mind had been more than willing to follow its lead—which was so unlike her. Regan McKinney did not take her clothes off in the great outdoors, and she most certainly did not have sex on the hoods of cars, or on the trunks—and she did not, did not, let a man do to her what Quinn was doing under her skirt, not, dear God, in the rafters of an old warehouse in Lafayette.

  His mouth slid another inch up her thigh, and it was all she could do not to beg him to go higher, to beg him, please. She was paralyzed with anticipation, her breathing shallow, her body trembling. He palmed her again with his hand as his mouth strayed up onto her belly, kissing her, licking her, tantalizing her with the lazy tracings of his tongue across her skin—driving her out of her mind.

  She was on a slow burn, his other hand molding her breast, teasing her nipple.

  “Quinn,” she pleaded, breathless. “Quinn, please.”

  He responded by sliding down—down until he was there, where she needed him, his mouth so hot, his tongue so sweet, and quick, and clever between her legs. A tidal wave of pleasure surged up her body, making her gasp.

  IN the rafters on the other side of the warehouse, Hawkins dropped his head into his hands. Goddamn, he couldn't possibly be hearing what he thought he was hearing. They were at it again?

  What in the hell was Quinn thinking?

  No, he quickly told himself. Don't go there. You do not want to be thinking about what Quinn is thinking about.

  Damn it. This is unfuckingbelievable.

  He heard another soft groan, a woman's groan, and his imagination started filling in all sorts of pieces whether he wanted it to or not.

  This was torture.

  He didn't know how much noise they thought the generator was making down on the main floor, but it wasn't making enough.

  Great. He gritted his teeth and checked his pistol, a Glock 9mm he'd already checked twice. He checked his watch, then rolled over, aimed, and checked his line of fire.

  Slowly, but inevitably, those sweet sounds she was making fell into a rhythm that without a doubt spelled his doom. Christ save him. He absolutely, positively, did not want to be part of some long-distance, voyeuristic, ménage à trois, and—oh, great, he was getting hard.

  Perfect.

  He was going to kill Quinn.

  He would have thought a former Air Force pilot, a decorated hero, for God's sake, could have kept his hands off her for thirty or forty lousy minutes.

  Was that asking for so much?

  In Quinn's defense, Hawkins admitted that he himself was one of those rare people who could hear a pin drop at fifty yards over two lanes of fast-moving traffic, let alone a woman on the verge of orgasm who was definitely less than thirty yards away.

  He was going to kill Quinn.

  Down on the main floor, the refrigerator running off the generator kicked into its hourly On cycle, bringing the noise level in the warehouse back up to normal, and as quickly as that, he was saved. If he couldn't hear them, he didn't have to think about them.

  If she and Quinn were in love, and from the way he'd seen them looking at each other, he couldn't imagine they weren't, he was all for it. Quinn had been working off a full dance card for years, hoping to find someone to share his happily-ever-after. He was such a romantic sap, always had been, even as a kid, and he was the last person Hawkins would expect to show a little restraint once he'd found the woman he loved.

  Thank God for the refrigerator.

  He had plenty else to think about, like how he was going to get back into the Jack O' Nines and explain to Roper about Kev-boy screwing up and getting himself arrested.

  Anger, he decided. He'd go in real pissed off about having to work with such a jerk-off idiot. Roper respected anger. He understood it.

  If things went down even half right after the Jack O' Nines, some phone calls would be made, the deal struck, the exchange set up. With the bones back in Roper's possession, it would be time for somebody to rumble up with the guns—if that was even the deal.

  Hell, Hawkins didn't know anymore. Government intel wasn't a hundred percent reliable.

  He checked his watch again and hoped to hell Quinn was checking his.

  CHAPTER

  22

  KID OPENED HIS EYES, instantly awake and aware of his surroundings. Steele Street. Past midnight. Bed.

  Nikki.

  She was still wrapped around him, her leg over his, her arm resting lightly across his chest, her breath, so soft and warm, falling in the curve of his neck. It was as close to heaven as he'd ever been, having the silken length of her body resting against him. And he never wanted to leave her—but he had to, because he'd heard something.

  Careful not to wake her, he slipped out from under the covers. She stirred, a sigh falling from her lips as her shoulders relaxed deeper into the bed. He reached for his pants, letting his gaze linger on the curve of her hip beneath the sheet, the length of her naked back, and that wild tousle of purple-and-black hair spread out on the pillow.

  They'd been asleep for a couple of hours, and if possible, he was even more in love now than he'd been when they'd drifted off in each other's arms. She had a hold on him that half fascinated him and half scared the hell out of him. He hoped Quinn and Hawkins had gotten lucky tonight and closed the whole damn Roper Jones file for good. He wanted some time off, starting now, to spend with her and figure out what was happening between the two of them.

  Not bothering with his shirt, he padded across the carpet and slipped out into the hall leading to the office. He was awake, alert, and on guard, but not too worried. Steele Street was as damn near impregnable as a building could get, which meant someone could still get in, but it would have to be someone damn good—better than anybody Roper Jones had working for him—and they'd have to have a damn good reason to go to so much trouble.

  Nobody that good had a reason, not this month—and his sixth sense was telling him it was Dylan. He was expected, and the noise Kid had heard had been no more than a snick of sound. Neither Hawkins nor Quinn moved with that kind of silent grace.

  When he reached the open area of the office, he stopped. He hadn't seen Dylan since before he'd been sent to baby-sit Quinn in Cisco, but he recognized him instantly, not always an easy task with Dylan.

  A guy of medium height, with a medium build and an unremarkable face with plain brown eyes, glanced up from the computer monitor he was standing over. His ha
ir was ill-kempt, shaggy, sparse, and dishwater blond. He was wearing a poorly tailored, dull brown suit with a beige tie and a rumpled off-white dress shirt—not exactly power dressing in Washington, D.C., or anywhere else, which made Kid wonder what else Dylan might have been up to on the East Coast.

  Dylan didn't look up, but Kid knew the boss of Steele Street knew he was there.

  “Kid,” he said after a minute, his attention still on the monitor, his voice anything but indistinguishable. “I'm glad you're here.”

  Dylan's voice was deep, with a soft raspiness Kid had once heard a woman describe as “pure sex on a dark night under a magnolia tree,” except it had come out sounding like “pyooah sayx on a dahk naht unda uh mugnolya tray,” which was exactly how he would have described her voice.

  Kid didn't get it himself, but the description had made an impression, as had the woman—especially the woman, an elegant and sultry New Orleans beauty who had dismissed him with one glance as a boy too young to hold her attention, let alone her interest—not at all the way she'd looked at Dylan, who had held her attention just fine.

  “Dylan.” He nodded in greeting. “What's up?”

  In response, Dylan glanced over at the far corner of the office to a rumpled figure snoring on the couch. “What's Johnny doing here?”

  “Watching Wilson McKinney. We had to pull everybody in. Quinn and Hawkins are out at the warehouse in Lafayette right now.”

  Dylan finally looked over at him, and one eyebrow lifted. “You're wearing camo-cream to bed now?”

  Damn. The goshawk makeup. Kid wiped his hand across his face, knowing he must be a mess, while Dylan continued, “Skeeter updated me about an hour ago, but didn't mention the girl. Who is she?”

  “Nikki McKinney.” Damn. The sound he'd heard must have been Dylan closing the guest suite door.

  “Ah, look, Kid . . . I'm going to need you in Colombia with me ASAP.” Dylan slanted him an unreadable glance. “We have a military transport standing by at Peterson.”

  Kid felt his heart stop for a second. There was only one reason for Dylan to send him to Colombia. Something must have gone wrong with his brother J. T.'s mission. He tried to keep the panic from his voice. “Trouble?”

  “Maybe.” Dylan deftly removed a pair of dirt-brown contacts and placed them in a container he'd taken out of the desk's top drawer. “Creed and J. T. missed their check-in four days ago, and this morning in D.C. we got a report of a wounded American being held at a village in northern Choco, near the Panama border.”

  “Choco? That's the Darien Gap. What in the hell are they doing up there?” The Darien Gap was the most impassable stretch of jungle in the whole western hemisphere.

  A pair of cool gray eyes were leveled at him from across the room. “We're not sure it is them. That's why we need to get down there. They should have been in Cartagena on Wednesday.” He turned back to the computer and hit a couple of keys.

  A series of grid maps began scrolling down the monitor. Dylan loosened his tie, then reached up and peeled the dishwater blond wig off his head and tossed it on the desk.

  Thick brown hair cut in a style that only British schoolboys, Japanese anime characters, rock-and-roll stars, and Dylan Hart seemed to be able to pull off fell in a flattened, cheekbone-length swath down the right side of his face. He dragged his fingers back through it, and for the most part, except for a few strands, it stayed in place.

  “What else?” Kid asked. There was something else, something worse. Kid felt it down to the marrow of his bones.

  “There was another man with the wounded American, a dead man the villagers described only as having tres cicatrizes.”

  Three scars. Kid felt the world fall out from under him. His pulse slowed to a near stop with dread. J. T. had three scars in a neat row near the top of his left arm.

  He met Dylan's eyes, saw compassion and concern and the steady regard of a man who also loved his brother. “I can take someone else,” Dylan said.

  Kid shook his head, gathered himself. “Give me half an hour.”

  “Half an hour, then.”

  Kid washed his face and threw his things together faster than that and had his bags at the office door before Dylan had finished downloading whatever information he'd been able to find about northern Choco, using the Defense Department's files.

  “The CIA has run a couple of operations out of there over the last four months,” Dylan said, popping a disk out of one of the drives, “though it's hard to tell if they're working for or against the NRF.”

  Kid knew he was talking about the National Revolutionary Forces, a rebel army operating out of northern Colombia that spent a lot of time blowing up the country's oil pipelines, using money they earned through selling drugs, kidnapping oil executives, and extortion.

  “I'll find out who's still there. If we need them, maybe they can back us up.” Dylan paused, nodded toward the door. “Tell her good-bye if you want to.”

  “Five minutes,” Kid said, then turned and walked back down the hallway to the room where he'd left Nikki.

  Shit. His pulse was racing. His mouth had gone dry. Tres cicatrizes.

  Nikki was still asleep when he reached the guest suite. He knelt down next to the bed and ran his fingers through her hair, smoothing it back off her face.

  “Nikki? I need you to wake up,” he said quietly.

  Even with the low throb of fear pounding through him for J. T., watching her drift up from sleep proved to be one of life's more profound pleasures. She stretched, and the sheet slipped off her breasts. She yawned and smiled and lazily opened her eyes, and his heart turned over in his chest.

  “Kid,” she murmured, and closed her eyes again.

  “Nikki, I have to go. I'm sorry, but I can't tell you—Nikki? Are you awake?”

  “Hmmm,” she sighed.

  “Nikki.” He rubbed his hand up the length of her back and gave her a little shake. “Nikki, I have to go. I wanted to stay with you tonight, but I can't.”

  Soft gray eyes slowly reopened and focused on his. “Go?”

  “Yeah. There's a plane waiting for me. I don't know when I'll be back.”

  “Does somebody else need a bodyguard?”

  He hesitated, swallowed back the fear for his brother and his reluctance to leave her. “Yeah.” That was as good an explanation as any he could come up with and actually tell her. “I might be gone awhile, and I . . .” His voice trailed off. What could he say? Wait for me? Don't forget me? Don't, for God's sake, run off and have Travis sexually imprint you while I'm gone, because I think we've got it down perfectly? “I'm going to miss you.”

  “I don't want you to go, Kid,” she murmured, sliding her hand up his chest. A soft smile curved her mouth. “Tell them to get their own bodyguard. I want to make love with you again, and again . . . and again.” She raised up enough to kiss him, and he couldn't help himself. He opened his mouth over hers and bore her back down on the bed. His hand slid up to palm her breast, so warm and sweet.

  God, he felt torn in two. He didn't want to leave her, not for a minute, but every fiber in his being was telling him to get to Colombia now and find his brother. The one thing he'd learned in the Marines was never to assume anything, and he wouldn't believe J. T. was dead, not without a body right in front of him. Not J. T., no way.

  What in the hell could have gone so terribly wrong? J. T. and Creed were the best.

  A wave of fear rolled through him, and he slowly broke off the kiss.

  “Nikki. I have to go, but I'll be back. I swear.”

  “I'll be right here.” She sighed, sinking back onto the bed in a way that made him wonder if she was even truly awake. “Don't be late. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he said, watching her curl herself back around her pillow as he rose to his feet. Hell. He didn't know if she was going to remember a word he'd said.

  But he had to go, and with a final kiss to her brow, he turned and walked away.

  ROPER Jones had the face of evil, pure and simp
le, nothing more and certainly nothing less. Regan could see him clearly in the bright lights below her in the warehouse. He was bullying the men he'd brought with him, shouting curses and curt commands, and the men were stumbling over themselves to respond, making short, sloppy work of loading the crates.

  It was a face she would never forget, at first glance handsome, but with each successive expression becoming an object of fear and loathing. He had blond hair, thick and straight, and cut to accentuate his finely chiseled features. His smile was wide, revealing perfect, blindingly white teeth. His nose was narrow, his eyes blue slits. He was thin, almost emaciated, an aesthetic model for what even she could see was a very expensive pale gray suit, and even in the dust and detritus of the Lafayette warehouse floor, his shoes were still shined.

  But those blue slit eyes were heated with a frantic energy that seemed to spill out of the pores of his body. Worst of all, he'd brought his dogs, a matched pair of rottweilers who fed on that selfsame energy, the animals Hawkins had said would feed on Quinn. The thought had been too bizarrely horrifying even to register properly, until she actually saw Roper with the beasts. The warehouse was in a frenzy with him and his dogs at its vortex, and the sight of all that manic, malevolent energy struck terror in her heart.

  Neither she nor Quinn had spoken a word since Jones had first pulled up to the warehouse with his trucks and gang of street toughs. She'd been warned to keep her silence, but the warning hadn't been necessary. She was hardly breathing for fear of drawing attention to herself, or to Quinn. The last place on earth she wanted to be was in the middle of the frightening chaos Roper Jones was orchestrating around himself.

  His men had already dropped two of the crates in their hurry to get everything loaded on the trucks. Bones had spilled out onto the floor, crashing into the cement, some of the fossils cracking, a few out-and-out disintegrating.

  Roper had cursed and raged with every mishap, and then forced two of his men down on their hands and knees to sweep the floor with their hands, leaving hardly a dust smear behind by the time they'd left the warehouse.