The Samms Agenda

by Alison Kent

  She shook her head, wishing for Pride and Prejudice or Bridget Jones's Diary. "My British fantasies are all about Colin Firth. The way he walks. The way he looks into a woman's eyes."

  "Sorry." Julian banged more dishes together. "We're fresh out of chick flicks and female porn."

  "Don't write yourself off so blithely," she said, curiously pleased when the dishes rattled.

  He growled. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

  Strangely, she was growing rather partial to his surliness. "You cook, you clean. You sew."

  When she wiggled her toes, he rolled his eyes. When she winced, he sobered. "You okay?"

  She sighed, hating the feeling of being an invalid. "I will be as long as I keep the weight off and the movement to a minimum for awhile."

  "Sit still. Let me get the table cleared and I'll carry you to the living room."

  "Sure," she said, and nodded, waiting till he turned the corner before pushing out of her chair and hobbling into the other room on her heel.

  She lowered herself slowly to the floor beside the coffee table and collapsed back against the couch.

  Between the wine- and pain-induced giddiness and the attempts on her life, not to mention the fact that the man with whom she was holed up gave Colin Firth a run for his money, she was feeling rather not in her right mind. Was rather out of sorts, in fact.

  Was even wondering if she might not rather sleep with Julian than sleep alone. Sleep as in closing their eyes and not saying a word. Not sleep as in hot slick bodies.

  A thought that drew forth the moan she'd been holding back since seeing Julian in that too small T-shirt in Maribel's kitchen.

  Or perhaps since the chieftain/maiden fantasy she'd woven as they drove.

  Whenever it had happened, she was now suffering from a mighty crush that she feared would bring on more trouble than it was worth. Which was why it would be a monstrous mistake to indulge.

  Oh, but how she wanted to, to get her hands on that fab­ulous hard body, to cuddle up and let him protect her, soothe her, make her sweat.

  "If you're not going to sit still and wait for my help, I'm not going to have a lot of sympathy for your pain."

  She looked up to where Julian towered above her, his ex­pression fierce, concerned, hard with impatience. "Oh, I'm not in pain."

  One brow went up, a warrior who was certain he wasn't being given the truth. "Sounded like a moan to me."

  "It was. Just not of the painful variety," was all she said. Against her better judgment, she led him on, teasing, testing the waters, ridiculously turned on when that was the last road she needed to travel.

  "I see," he replied, still staring down, seeming to dare her to open her mouth and say more.

  A more she wasn't sure of, that made her nervous, that left her with a hollow feeling needing to be filled.

  And then he reached into his front pocket, pulled out a deck of cards, and tossed it to slide across the coffee table. "I found these in a drawer in the kitchen. Since my movies and magazines aren't up to your standards, a card game?

  She sighed heavily, picked up the box, turned it end over end on the table. "What did you have in mind?" "Poker? Blackjack?"

  "Stakes?" she asked, one brow raised.

  "Since I'm short on cash, it'll have to be clothes."

  He was goading her and he didn't know why.

  No, that wasn't true. He was goading her because he wanted to piss her off.

  If he pissed her off, he'd be guaranteeing she wouldn't want a damn thing to do with him. Right now, that wasn't the case.

  She'd had too much wine, was in too much pain, still had to deal with a killer.

  And that was the reason—the only reason—she thought she wanted to take him to bed.

  He watched her flip the box of cards on the table, from top to side to bottom to side, until it was all he could do not to snatch it out of her hand. Women did not make him ner­vous.

  This one was driving him mad. No. Forget mad.

  He was on a fast track to certifiably insane now that she had stopped with the cards, now that she was worrying her lower lip with her tongue and her teeth, now that she was looking up at him with sleepy-lidded eyes.

  "You're on," she said at last, and this time he was the one who groaned. "I'm too muzzy-headed for poker, though. I have trouble remembering the hands as it is."

  "Blackjack then."

  She nodded; her eyes drifted shut. "That I can probably handle."

  "Forget it," he said, and turned to walk off. She wasn't even going to try. She was going to give in, let him win, get naked, and call it a night.

  "And here I thought you were the type to enjoy a good challenge," she said behind his back.

  If she only knew. The challenge wasn't going to be win­ning at cards but the end game of turning her down.

  "Besides," she went on, "you haven't ever played my version of blackjack."

  He turned back, stared down where she rested against the base of the couch, her head back on the cushy seat cush­ion, one knee drawn up, her injured foot pointing toward him.

  He followed the line of her long leg from her foot up her thigh, wishing he hadn't because even in baggy men's jeans she did more for him than a woman had done in a very long time.

  "Your version?"

  She patted the floor at her hip. "Come sit, and I'll ex­plain."

  He tossed the red shop rag he'd used to dry his hands onto the kitchen table he hadn't finished cleaning, crossed the tiled floor, and sat.

  Not beside her, though. That would be too close to tempting fate.

  Instead, he kept the table between them, draped a wrist over1 his updrawn knee, and said, "Explain away."

  "Okay. I draw two cards from the box and hand them to you. You draw two cards from the box and hand them to me."

  "That's it?"

  She nodded. "That's it."

  "You're making this up as you go along, aren't you?"

  "Actually, yes." She tilted her head to the side and con­sidered him from beneath her long lashes, the tips of which brushed her honey blond brows. "I was trying to make it as dangerous as possible. You know. To fit with my life's cur­rent theme."

  "Katrina," he growled, "what's happening here isn't a joke."

  She stared for several seconds, her eyes unblinking, before she hurled the deck of cards toward his head. He caught them, raised a brow, waited.

  "I know it's not a joke," she whispered, the sound a raspy sob as she pointed an index finger at his face. "But don't you dare deny me the right to deal with it however I have to. Even if my dealing doesn't follow your rule book for looking death in the face."

  Elbows on the coffee table, she buried her face in her hands, her hair, free from her ponytail, falling forward like a concealing curtain. He didn't want her to cry. He sure as hell didn't want to be the cause.

  He'd convinced himself she was incapable of taking any­thing seriously, of giving credence to anything deeper than designer labels. But one by one she was shooting the legs off the ladder he'd used to climb into his ivory tower.

  He'd been casting down stones to destroy her facade when there had been no need. She wasn't who he'd thought she was at all.

  Unless she was a hell of an actress and he was a big fat sap.

  He flipped open the box and knocked the cards loose like he would a cigarette. "You want to pick first or you want me to?"

  "You've got the deck. You go," she said, brushing back that mane of hair and looking at him with purely dry and, oh, such wicked eyes.

  Sap, hell. He was a fucking puss. He slid two cards from the box, slapped them facedown on the table.

  She took the box from his hand and did the same for him. He met her gaze, refusing to check out the cards he'd been dealt. "I win, I want your pants."

  "Fine." Her voice didn't even shake. "I want your shirt."

  She turned over her cards, the queen and ten of hearts. "Ai ya," he muttered, knowing she'd have no idea who or what he was
damning, and flipped his two of clubs and four of spades into the center of the table.

  He muttered further while yanking his T-shirt over his head and off. He tossed it beyond her shoulder to the cor­ner of the couch.

  And he swore the moment fabric hit fabric, the mood in the room tightened to bursting. As if a ratchet had been ap­plied to the tension and torqued.

  Katrina's sleepy, seductive eyes widened, then closed. She pursed her lips, blew out a slow, steady stream of breath. A subtle shudder seized her limbs and she flexed her fingers, pointed the toes of her left foot.

  It was when she looked back at his face that he knew the depth of the trouble he was in. Wine or no wine, pain or no pain, she had sex on her mind.

  And not the cheap and quick, any-dick-will-do variety, but intimate and intense sex with him.

  "You going to deal or what?" he finally asked, hating the raw sound of his words.

  She tapped the box on the table, tugged two cards free and used two fingers to slide them to him facedown. Then she offered the box, which he took, grabbing the two top­most cards and slapping them down for her.

  She picked them up, but was a long time looking at them, her gaze wandering instead over his bare shoulders and throat and what she could see of the rest of him with the table blocking her view.

  Meat. Zhandou de yi kuai rou. He felt like a friggin' piece of meat, and forced his gaze to his hand, which was no bet­ter this time than it had been the last.

  A five of hearts and six of diamonds. A whopping total of eleven.

  Katrina turned her cards over slowly and one at a time. The seven of diamonds. The six of clubs. Besting him by two. Gou sbi. Shit, shit, shit.

  She stared at both hands of cards, worried her bottom lip with the edges of her teeth, finally lifted her gaze, which had grown heated and heavy, to say, "I want the band from your hair."

  He blinked, caught off guard, having expected her to strip him to his skivvies. Instead, he tugged the leather band the length of his hair and handed it over, watching her watch the strands brush his shoulders, watching her watch him shove it back from his face.

  He couldn't help it. He had to know. "You looking for something in particular?"

  She shook her head, grinned slyly. "Just a fantasy I've been entertaining lately."

  He snorted, grabbed up the box, handed her two more cards. "Here. Fantasize that this time I win."

  "Okay, but you realize I have to take off my shoe to take off my pants, which is an unfair advantage."

  Fuck unfair. He just wanted another look at her long bare legs—and was willing to give her even more advantage to make it happen.

  "Here." He reached down and slipped off both of his shoes. "I'll give you two shoes to your one."

  She didn't even hesitate, adding her athletic high-top to the mix, turning over her king and ace of spades.

  He gave a cursory glance to his nine and jack of the same friggin' suit and reached for his fly.

  "Wait."

  Hands at his waist, he looked up.

  "You're still wearing two socks." She made a "gimme" motion with her hand. "One of them will do."

  For her, maybe. He was ready to be done with this exer­cise in bad luck that was dragging out way too long. He wanted to get to sleep because he was not going to bed her.

  Still, he did no more than pull off one sock as she picked up the deck of cards.

  Finally. He stared at his two tens while watching her turn over two fours. Once he laid his cards down atop hers, she reached for the copper button at her waist, lifted her hips, tugged the denim down and off.

  That left her sitting in borrowed white panties that did little to curb his appetite.

  They played another round without speaking. Not that either of them had said much at all—a reality that should have made him a lot more comfortable than it did.

  Mindless, uninvolved sex he could handle. If he took her right now, that was exactly what he could have. He could get her out of his system and be done with it.

  But that wasn't what he wanted. And because he wanted more, he wasn't going to allow himself to do more than look and lust.

  He lost his second sock and they played again. This time when he won, he couldn't even gloat because he had no idea what to ask for.

  The way she sat now, the elastic legs of the panties teased his line of vision. He could see the edge of one hip before his view was blocked by the bulk of the table.

  Taking her panties made less sense than her top, her bra, her one sock, or even the diamonds twinkling in the lobes of her ears.

  And so because he was half bastard, half gentleman, he asked for her bra.

  "Interesting choice," she said, smiling as she reached be­neath her loose shirttails for the back clasp. "Rather safe, yet rather sexy."

  "Just working with my own fantasy over here," he said, figuring it was a safe enough admission.

  "You intrigue me, Julian Samms. I thought you'd go for the instant gratification of getting me out of my panties."

  "Nope." He shook his head, watched her breasts bounce beneath the white oxford cloth, and swallowed hard. "Never been the gratuitous sort."

  A smile played over her lips as she reached for the cards. A smile that had him wanting to respond in kind. And to kiss her. And to slit his own wrists for both.

  "Whose turn is it?" she asked.

  "Does it matter?"

  "I suppose not. Since neither of us has much left to lose."

  "Really?" he asked perversely, feeling angry and frus­trated for no reasons that made sense. Having no one to blame but himself. Wishing they were anywhere else and there for any other reason than the threat on her life. "Nothing much to lose?"

  "I'm talking about clothes, Julian," she said, canting her head to one side and weighing him curiously. "That's all."

  He didn't say anything, but took the cards she dealt him before choosing two for her. He lost, and waited for no more than the lift of her eyebrow before skinning down his pants.

  "Will you do something for me?" she asked as he slid, depending on his luck, what could very well be the game's last two cards across the table. "Will you come to bed with me tonight?"

  She turned over the hand she'd been dealt. His knocked them out of the park. Her shirt or her panties. He was clue­less on how to decide. "We're not going to have sex, Katrina. Not tonight."

  "That's okay," she said, smiling as he showed her his cards. "I just don't feel like sleeping alone. Not tonight. Not after today."

  She waited for him to respond, but his throat had swelled to the point that he couldn't even swallow. He thought of holding her close for no other reason than that of her need­ing him.

  It was a thought that left him stunned and with nothing to say but, "Go to bed, Katrina. I'll be in soon."

  He got to his feet, helped her to hers, looked away as she limped her way around him in nothing but a shirt that was too sheer and borrowed panties that shouldn't have been the least bit provocative.

  He didn't look back until he had no choice. Then and only then did he watch the hem of her shirt flirt with the curves of her bottom, take in the length of her legs, her slen­der ankles, the way her slow progress never drew a single word of complaint.

  Once she'd closed the door to the bedroom, he grabbed up the cards, shoved them back into the box, and returned them to the kitchen where he stood staring at the floor.

  In the dark it was so much easier to picture Kenya, and to "wonder why the visual memory of the blood he'd spilled— and especially the why—was doing nothing to help him keep Katrina at a distance.

  How the hell he was going to get through this mission, he hadn't a clue. He wasn't even sure he was going to make it through the night.

  Eight

  SG-5 Safe House, Saturday, 1:30 a.m.

  Katrina lay curled on her side unsleeping, waiting, wonder­ing about the strange game of blackjack she and Julian had played hours ago. Wondering what the hell they'd been doing besides making
a bad situation even worse.

  Wondering how a game of cards could so obviously be not about winning or losing at all.

  She punched her pillow into an even harder knot be­neath her head, pulled her knees closer to her chest, winced when she jabbed the toes of her good foot into the ball of the other, elevated on a spare pillow.

  Having sat still for Julian's needle earlier, she swore now that she'd make the worst field soldier ever. Focusing on his warrior's face was the only way she'd gotten through the pain.

  She had nothing on which to base this visceral attraction. Yes, he was gorgeous, but so had been Peter Deacon. And she better than most knew looks had nothing to do with who a person was.

  What Julian's appearance did, however—because it was more than the set of his mouth, nose, ears and eyes—was compel her to discover what about him left her feeling as if she would never, even with her best years ahead, have time enough to learn all there was about him to know.

  He was enigmatic, aggravating, and arrogant. But he was also kind. Very very kind. And funny whether or not he wanted to be. He was serious as the situation demanded, and vigilant, and formidable.

  Such simple qualities proved what a good man he was. One more complicated than all the men she'd known com­bined.

  Her eyes were already closed when the bedroom door opened, but still she squinted at the soft spill of light from the lamp left on in the other room. Julian closed the door just as quickly as he'd opened it and stepped to the far side of the queen-size bed.

  She realized she was holding her breath, listening for his movements, his bare footsteps on the tiled floor, his dis­carded clothes rustling. What she wasn't expecting was the heavy sigh he expelled. Or how her heart raced at the feel of his weight settling at her back.

  She moved nary a muscle, waiting for him to speak, to fall asleep, to shift closer or farther away. He did none of that. He did nothing at all.

  And so she finally turned onto her back and gave a sigh to match his. "I'm not asleep."

  "I know." His voice rumbled through the coils of the mattress.