by Cate Noble
He paged down the report. On the surface, the case had appeared to be a random drug bust that went bad. Under the surface…different story.
Rocco had practically volunteered for that particular assignment when he’d learned the destination. Taiwan.
Having just bailed his then-fourteen-year-old nephew out of jail for the second time, for possession of heroin, Rocco had a Bunyan-sized axe to grind.
Determined to root out the drug’s ultimate source, he’d patiently traced the heroin being sold near his nephew’s neighborhood in Raleigh, North Carolina, first to Los Angeles, then to Taiwan’s infamous Dragon’s Blood Cartel.
Before going out on that mission, Rocco had memorized the bios and photographs of the key cartel couriers. Then he’d beaten the bushes of his network of snitches in the Southeast Asian straits.
His efforts seemed to pay off when he’d gotten word on one of the Dragon courier’s secret routes. Rocco had kept that information to himself, knowing the accuracy of snitches was generally poor.
When he indeed spotted the courier, Rocco had pushed his way front and center, eager to wipe that smug look off the courier’s face.
Jesus, how stupid can one man get?
In retrospect, the little inconsistencies he’d ignored that day loomed large. The courier had been on deck, easy to spot. When they’d intercepted the vessel, the cocky SOB hadn’t even made a run for it. In fact, he’d raised his hands in mock defeat and offered to send over his boat’s captain—the ultimate signal of surrender.
Or more accurately, delay.
A tiny speed boat had blasted out from behind the courier’s boat, seemingly powered by automatic gunfire. Rocco had narrowly avoided catching a bullet. Even after hitting the deck, wood splinted around him. In the end, no one on his ship was injured, though the courier and his captain had both died.
Rocco had been saddled with the nickname “Dances with Bullets” afterward. His team had celebrated the courier’s demise, joking about how the man had made their job easier by staying on his feet a bit too long after the attack began. But six months later, Rocco was bailing his nephew out of jail again.
Rocco scrubbed his face with his hands.
He’d been fucking played.
He’d let his personal agenda cloud his judgment. The courier had given in too easily. Rocco had told himself it was because arrest meant little. With the corrupt court system overseas, the courier would never see jail. And more, the loss of a boatload of heroin was nothing to the cartel. In fact, astute businessmen that they were, they knew to allow for the occasional loss of inventory.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, recalling the incident. The courier’s supreme confidence should have tipped Rocco off. The bastard had known. The courier’s intent had been to lure Rocco forward, never expecting his own shit to hit the Eternal Fan.
Had the shooter taken out the courier once he’d realized Rocco had survived? No loose ends. No loose tongues.
Okay, so someone had tried to kill Rocco that day. But tying that incident to Catalina Dion was a stretch. She’d need to have access to someone with a lot of connections in Southeast Asia. Someone big. Like Minh Tran.
Minh Tran, who was also suspected in Dante’s capture.
Jesus. How had he missed that? Rocco looked at the report again, spotting the loose thread. His snitch. Jaleel…the one who’d whispered the Dragon courier’s route and acted surprised as hell later.
Rocco needed to find Jaleel, but he wasn’t about to put out his usual feelers. No, this required finesse. The I’m-gonna-fuck-you-up kind of finesse.
Opening a new browser window, he checked on flights, then powered down his laptop.
It was after midnight when Dante finally arrived back in Key West. Afternoon storms had delayed his flight out of Freeport. He grabbed a few hours’ sleep but jolted awake when his phone rang at 6 a.m.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Rocco said.
Dante groaned. Rocco wasn’t a morning person, which meant he’d probably been out all night and was just now getting home.
“What’s up?” Dante tugged on jeans and made his way to the kitchen to start coffee.
“Getting that list of cologne clients was relatively easy. As it turns out, the man’s competitor already hacks his files regularly.”
“And?” Dante slammed the cabinet shut. Where the fuck was—
“You’re out of coffee. Printer ink and paper, too.”
“Gee, thanks. Any more bad news?”
“Well, since you asked. The cologne’s another dead end. Besides Keiko Chan, who must be the Japanese lady you accosted, the other customers are the wife and two daughters of the French ambassador.”
“Shit. Figures.” Dante had known it wouldn’t be that easy…but still. He headed back to the bedroom to find a shirt and his truck keys.
“I’m checking a few other suppliers,” Rocco went on. “The cologne biz is as cutthroat as any, so there are several companies who knock off the high-dollar custom stuff at half the price. Cat may have gotten hers from one of them. Don’t hold your breath since con artists keep few records.”
Dante looked around for his shoes. “Yeah, well, I’ve decided that trying to trace a woman by her cologne is as asinine as it gets. After spending five hours in a crowded airport, I started thinking every perfume I smelled was it.”
Which had damn near driven him crazy. He’d ended up tranquilizing his senses with tequila. Too much tequila, judging by his headache.
“Any news from Travis?” Rocco asked.
“He’s hoping to score with the Freeport medical examiner today. He’s also trying to run down info on Giselle Barclay. Sounds like she’s Cat’s equal in the bitch department. Basically, it feels like I’m back at square one.”
“You know, maybe you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Rocco said. “Maybe you need to try a different tack. A different approach.”
“Different how? Help me out here, bro. I haven’t even had a fucking cup of coffee yet.”
“Think about your relationship with Cat. What was your favorite thing to do? Where did you go? What did you eat? What did you discuss while eating? You know…the good times.”
Dante bristled. “Dude, she tried to kill me. The good times were…an act.”
“If that’s the case, then it would have been even harder to keep that act pure. We draw from our own experiences to fabricate covers. She had to let something slip. But you’ve got to step back to see it.” Rocco’s phone started beeping. “Shit! I’ve got another call. Later, man.”
Disconnecting, Dante started for the door. Halfway there he paused. Rocco had a point. This also wasn’t the first time someone had implied that he’d lost his objectivity when it came to Cat. Dr. Houston had suggested the same thing, even going so far as to encourage the use of self-hypnosis and biofeedback.
He wandered back toward the bedroom and pulled a small box out of the closet. Inside the box, untouched, were the relaxation CDs Dr. Houston had given him.
Back then, Dante was also being pressured by Dr. Winchette to explore his premonitions. Dante had basically refused to explore anything. Fuck anger management. At the time he’d relished his anger.
But now…
He picked up one CD. Would these help him shelve the anger long enough to remember the good times he’d had with Cat? Whether she’d been faking wasn’t the point. He’d had strong feelings. He’d fallen in love.
Hell, he’d even considered marriage.
Now, though, Dante couldn’t think of her without wanting to go ballistic. What had been so damn special about her?
Besides the sex…
Chapter 17
Anguilla, Caribbean
December 23
(Thirty-One Months Ago)
“So you had an unhappy childhood?” Dante picked up his wineglass, watching Cat over the rim. Hardly daring to believe she was finally here with him.
After months of dreaming about making love to this beauty and juggling imp
ossible schedules, he’d been forced at the last minute to cancel their very first planned rendezvous. And then she’d backed out of the second one, dropping out of sight into another role.
He’d begun to wonder if he was cursed. Doomed to wanting without ever receiving.
Now, however, it appeared the third time was indeed a charm. The goddess of love had cut him some slack. He and Cat were together, on a romantic island, with a week to spend however they saw fit.
His choice: in bed.
“What makes you think I had an unpleasant childhood?” Cat replied.
He grinned. All through dinner, she’d mimicked him—answering questions with questions, telling him zero. Even her expression gave away nothing. Maybe amusement. The lady was good. She was also—thank you, Jesus—still interested in him. His worries that time and distance would snuff the sparks that had smoldered between them in Belarus evaporated.
Most of them anyway. He still had the occasional nightmare where he hadn’t reached Cat in time. The missile attack on the laboratory, launched by Chechen rebels, had killed most of the staff. Getting Cat out alive and undetected hadn’t been easy.
With that mission scrubbed, they’d both shipped out to other assignments; he within the Agency, her with I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.
As a contract agent, Cat moved around a lot. Or so he supposed. One of their agreements had been never to discuss work.
Steel drum–influenced Christmas Muzak played softly over the speakers scattered around the hotel’s restaurant.
Cat’s flight had been delayed getting in and she’d been famished. His suggestion that they eat before going up to their room hadn’t been motivated by chivalry. Quite the opposite. If he’d been alone with her in a room with a bed, the only hunger he’d be feeding would be his libido. Hell, scratch the bed even. Alone would have been provocation enough.
At one point, back in Belarus, Dante had thought he’d go mad with wanting her. She’d indicated a similar need.
Now, though, delaying had become a game of who could hold out the longest.
Cat played dirty, too. During the first course, she had started playing footsie with his balls, giving him the wide-eyed What? stare.
Two could play that game.
In retaliation, he’d lingered over his entrée. Instead of rushing the meal so they could get naked and horizontal, he found himself savoring every bite. Anticipating. Then he’d ordered dessert. Pre-dessert. Cat was the only sugar he craved.
“Most people,” he went on, “when asked about their favorite Christmas memory, yak about the year they got a new bike, or a BB gun. Maybe for you it was Barbie.”
“Which one for you?”
“It damn sure wasn’t Barbie.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m betting the BB gun. Or did you get the old you’ll-shoot-your-eye-out speech instead?”
“See? You’re doing it again.”
“What again? This?” Her foot stroked his crotch, dropping away before he could react.
She picked up her wine goblet, her bright red nails glinting as her fingers slid up to cup the glass. He wanted those hands cupping him, those fancy red nails stroking his—
He cleared his throat. “Your reluctance to give a straight answer leads me to believe that Christmas was a disappointing time for you.”
Cat’s laughter was enticing. If sound were tangible, he’d dart around the room plucking her laughs from midair; not wanting to share any part of her.
“I’m not biting, Dr. Freud,” she said. “What you term ‘reluctance’ is simply me honoring our agreement not to discuss our pasts. Good, bad, or indifferent.”
“Another nonanswer. Remi St. James taught you that, right?”
“Nor do I expect you to discuss your past. Your mentors.” She leaned in, her voice a whisper. “Unless you really want to talk about that BB gun you got. But I’m guessing you’ve got other things on your mind, right?”
Her size six teased him again. Dante clenched his jaw. Where the hell was that waiter with dessert?
“Actually, it was a Winchester rifle. Thirty-ought-six,” he said. “I was twelve and dying to go hunting with my uncle.”
“Oh, I see. Shoot the poor deer’s eye out instead?” Her frown seemed genuine.
It was Dante’s turn to laugh. The woman was credited with more than one confirmed kill, yet talk of Bambi and thundersticks upset her.
Dessert arrived with a flurry. The chocolate cheesecake and a crème brûlée were presented. As their waiter poured coffee and simpered in Cat’s direction, Dante slid his hand beneath the floor-length tablecloth.
This time, when her foot came up, he was ready. Cupping her heel, he rubbed her fully against his erection.
“Sir?” The waiter turned back to him. “Anything else?”
King-size bed, Cat naked. “We’re good.” Dante scowled. Just leave.
Cat arched a brow at the waiter’s retreating backside. “Wow. That look was more effective than waving a club.”
“He’s posturing for a good tip—which he’ll earn by leaving us alone.” Dante stroked her instep as he spoke, his thumb pressing up and in, massaging.
“That feels divine. Where’d you learn reflexology?” She let her eyes drift shut for a moment, which was almost a sin. If eyes were the mirror of the soul, Cat’s reflected Heaven. God’s soul.
“No questions about our past,” he said. “Remember?”
“A pony.”
“Excuse me?”
“My favorite Christmas present.” She lowered her voice. “Damn you’re good.”
“We haven’t even begun the good.” He shifted his hand slightly, stroking more firmly. “This is tantric reflexology. If I rub there, you should start to feel excited. Stimulated.” He brushed her foot against his erection again.
Cat arched her toes, prolonging contact. “Something feels excited.”
“And if I exert pressure here.” He pressed his fingers into the ball of her foot. “You should either have an orgasm…or wet your pants. Unfortunately, there’s a fine line between the meridians to the Mons Venus and to the kidneys.”
She started giggling. “There’s also a fine line between rubbing and tickling.” Tugging her foot back, she pushed her dessert plate aside, barely touched.
“Ready to blow this place?”
“I’m ready to blow something.” She winked. “But you haven’t finished your cake.”
“I’ll get something sweet upstairs.” Dante pulled out his wallet and signaled to the waiter.
A few minutes later they strolled across the expansive lobby toward the bank of elevators. Dante had his arm draped loosely about Cat’s shoulder, enjoyed the slight pressure of her hand at his waist.
“This place has only been open a few months and already it’s getting rave reviews,” he said.
She nodded, looking around. “I can see why.”
“I understand they’ve got great—” He stopped, instantly alert.
Cat had paused so suddenly he’d almost tripped. He scanned the group of people straight ahead who’d just exited one of the elevator cars. Had one of them caught her attention?
She took a step backward, her gaze softening. That’s when Dante realized she was staring at one of the large oil paintings set up on ornate gilt easels throughout the lobby. Relief melted his tension.
“A perpetual art show,” the concierge had informed Dante at check-in. As befitting the Christmas season, the current works were churches.
“You know this place?” He pointed to the canvas.
She shook her head. “I have a friend who collects sacred art. She would like this piece.”
Dante steered her toward the front desk. “Let’s find out who the artist is then.”
She stopped him—tugging him back to her side. “There will be time for that later. You didn’t get dessert yet, remember?”
The look she gave him sent his pulse to the moon. Then south. To the pole. It took an effort not to r
un to the elevator.
Once inside, she asked, “What floor?” Twice.
It took an effort to think. “Twelve,” he said. “Our room number is 1223. Today’s date.”
As soon as the doors shut, Cat slid closer. He met her and took over. His mouth found hers as he pressed her against the wall. She opened, their tongues dueling, teasing.
His hands cupped her face as he ravished her lips. So sweet…Her hand grasped his cock, rubbing the solid length of it. He accepted her invitation and ground his crotch against her, pinning her in place.
The bell sounded.
They practically jumped apart, both breathing hard.
Dante looked at the digital numbers—relieved to see the number 12 illuminated. He’d nearly lost control—had forgotten where they were.
Grateful their room was only a short distance down the hall, he dug out the key card. He let Cat step inside the room first. Then he paused to lock and secure the door.
She didn’t move away when he turned back, and with a little noise, she flew into his arms. Once again her hands went to his cock, stroking it briefly before going to work on his belt. He liked her priorities: skip clothes, go straight for the crotch.
Dante decided to dazzle her by acting like a gentleman. He’d remove her shirt first, slow and easy. But as he moved to unfasten her blouse he ripped one of the buttons off. Shit. He moved to the next button and fumbled it too, all thumbs, all dick. Damn it, he used to be a master at this.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he whispered against her mouth. Then he tore the fabric apart.
She made a breathy noise of approval and stepped backward. She had on a sexy red bra, the low cups thrusting her generous breasts up in a tantalizing display. Her necklace, up till now concealed beneath her shirt, made him smile.
His fingers skimmed the firm swells of flesh, catching the green locket dangling between her breasts.
“Mistletoe?”
“’Tis the season,” she murmured.
