Hot on the Hunt

by Melissa Cutler

  “Things are already messy. There are fifty troops and agents outside this building, ready to raze it if necessary. You have no bargaining chip left. Game over.”

  “Yeah, well, I have one more bargaining chip for you right here and it’s pretty damn convincing.” Diego rushed Logan fists first. Behind him, a brawl broke out.

  John lunged, ready to dive into the middle of the fray, but a hand clamped onto his arm and the next thing he knew, Avery was pulling him back from the fight.

  She pushed a compact, loaded grappling hook launcher into his hands along with a pulley. “I think the easiest way for you and Alicia to escape is from the office across the hall. There’s a building next door to the west that would be your best bet to escape through, but you two need to leave right now. I’ll cover you.”

  He gaped at her, marveling at the disparity in her sweet, kind face and kick-ass, black ops mentality. “Who are you, really?”

  “Just the secretary.” Before he could question her cryptic reply, she added, “I have a surprise for everyone in a few more seconds.” She opened her hand to reveal a remote detonator. “When I push this button, you two get going, got it?”

  Ryan had the man on Logan’s crew in a headlock while he delivered blow after blow to his gut. He paused and made shifty eyes at John and Avery, but didn’t interfere.

  “One more thing,” Avery said. “Our jet is at an airstrip four miles due north of here. If you and Alicia don’t have other plans already, you should come to France with me and Ryan. It’s a great place to start over. We’ll keep you out of the way of the law and we could always use a few more people on our crew.”

  They had a jet and a crew?

  “Here we go.” She held up the detonator.

  John grabbed Alicia’s arm. “Are you ready to blow this place with me?”

  Alicia smiled at John. “Ready.”

  “What about our agreement?” Rory said behind her.

  Alicia turned her head to look his way, then shrugged one shoulder and faked an impertinent hair toss. “All’s fair in black ops, as they say. Have fun rotting in prison, you bastard.”

  With a grin of anticipation like she couldn’t wait to blow something up again, Avery depressed the detonator button.

  An explosion rocked the building. Everyone in the room except for Avery, John and Alicia hit the deck as ceiling tiles started to fall and sprinklers kicked on, spraying foam fire retardant down on everyone.

  Alicia grabbed her computer, then she took John’s hand. Together, they leaped over Logan and Diego, who were on the ground, though still locked together with their hands around each other’s throats. The air in the hall was thick with smoke and fire retardant. They slogged through it as fast as they could and pushed into the office across the hall. In less than a minute, they’d set the grappling hook line and pulley. Together, they stood in the broken out office window, holding fast to each other and the pulley. Without a moment to spare, they pushed off the window and into the air in a final leap of faith for their future.

  Chapter 18

  When John pulled into the private airstrip parking lot in the old car he and Alicia had stolen, there was only one plane that seemed large enough for a transatlantic flight like Ryan and Avery’s private jet would have to be capable of. It sat at the edge of the runway, its stairs extended as though Ryan and Avery had beaten them there and were waiting.

  John threw the car in Park. There was no other way onto the airfield than through the office, so he took Alicia’s hand and tried to act as if they belonged there.

  A huge, burly, tattooed man with a beard sat in a chair in the lobby reading a magazine as an airport employee barely afforded John and Alicia a glance.

  When he saw them, the bearded man stood. “Are you John and Alicia?” That he knew their names threw John off as much as his French accent.

  “Yes,” Alicia answered with a note of suspicion.

  “Avery said you’d be here. My name’s Russeaux, their pilot. Come on out. Avery called ahead. They’re on their way.”

  They followed Russeaux through the office and onto the runway. John had so many thoughts running through his head and was still so jumpy that another obstacle to their happiness was going to pop out at them any minute, he couldn’t find any words, but just held Alicia’s hand and followed the bear of a man.

  “Russeaux?” Alicia said at the base of the jet’s stairs. “We need a moment. We’ll be right in.” At Russeaux’s nod, she pulled John to the runway behind the plane.

  “Alicia, this island is crawling with Feds and soldiers. We need to get out of sight—now.”

  She took his hand, urging him to slow down. “I think we’re safe here and this can’t wait. I need to tell you that I’m sorry for everything I put you through. Being shot, it did something to me, but—”

  “I know it did.”

  “Let me get it all out, okay? Before we meet up with the others.”

  He looked her way, at the hope and determination in her eyes, helpless to deny her this. He had no idea where they went from here, but he loved her and they were safe. For now, that was enough. “Talk to me.”

  She took his hand. “I’m so sorry I ever doubted you.”

  “I forgave you a while ago for that. I’m sorry I walked away from you—twice.”

  “Forgiven. I would have walked away from me, too. I never was really good at trusting, anyway. My whole life, I tried, but I couldn’t let go of control like a normal person could. For the rest of my life, I’ll regret that I didn’t trust you when you told me you were innocent.”

  It was a balm to his battered heart to hear. “Phoenix, you joined the CIA when you were eighteen. You’ve never been a normal person and I wouldn’t want you to be. Be proud of all the good you’ve done and the sacrifices you’ve made for your country. I’m proud of you. So very proud.”

  Her eyes turned glassy. “I almost framed you for a double murder.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  A tear jogged loose from her eye and the hint of a melancholy smile danced on her lips. “I didn’t. I never thought I deserved to be with someone as good and bighearted as you.” Her hand worked its way into his hair and pulled his face near hers, foreheads touching, noses brushing. “But you taught me that love isn’t about getting what you deserve. It’s about listening to your heart. So I’m going to listen to mine. I want you and I want us. Of all the things I’ve ever fought for, this is what I want most. You, forever. Because I love you more than anything.”

  She was so beautiful, with her brilliant mind and nerves of steel. She was perfect for him. And part of being perfect for her was accepting her, faults and all. The idea of spending forever with her left him short of breath and dizzy, it made him so happy. He never thought he’d be happy again. He’d set out to capture Rory because he wanted to fight for a second chance at life. How amazing, then, that it was Alicia who was giving that to him.

  Emotion crashed over him, so intense he could barely breathe. In his arms, he held the love of his life. It was exhilarating, as if he was waking up after a long, fitful sleep. It was time to let it all go—the stubborn chip on his shoulder, the need to prove himself, his anger at Rory and their black ops teammates. What mattered most was that he was alive. With the woman he loved. And everything was going to be all right.

  “Do you think this plane has Wi-Fi? I need to borrow your computer for a video chat.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “With whom?”

  “Eugene. I owe him something.” From his jacket pocket, he pulled out his good-luck charm—Michael Jackson’s Bad album.

  Alicia threw her head back in a belly laugh. “Do you think the plane’s big enough for you to do the moonwalk in? That’s my favorite of your moves.”

  He smiled at her, feeling brighter and more alive than he
ever had, even during their secret affair. If the hell he’d gone through was necessary to get to this place with her—this bright future—then he would gladly brave it all over again and so much more.

  “For you, Phoenix, I’d do anything.” He held out his hand and tipped his head toward the stairs. “You ready for this?”

  “If you mean your dance routine, then absolutely. And if you’re talking about our future together, then I only have one thing to say—bring it, baby.”

  And just because he could, because he hadn’t felt like it in more than a year and half, he pushed off one foot into one of Michael Jackson’s signature spins. Alicia clapped and asked for an encore, which was why John Witter—former Green Beret sniper, former black ops agent and a warrior who’d come back from the dead—took the hand of the only woman he’d ever loved and moonwalked all the way to the plane.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from THE MANHATTAN ENCOUNTER by Madison Fox.

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  Chapter 1

  London, Today

  “You can’t be a damn playboy all your life.”

  Liam Steele stared down his grandfather and ignored the fact the man’s rheumy blue eyes held more mischief than censure. “Fascinating advice coming from a man who narrowly avoided an arranged marriage to a princess because the urge to sow wild oats remained too strong.”

  “I was waiting for the right woman. She wasn’t it.”

  “Maybe I am, too.”

  Alexander Steele’s snort was loud and about as subtle as the whistle of an oncoming freight train. “Could have fooled me.”

  A light sigh floated over the top of Liam’s head before a gentle hand cupped his shoulder. “Alex. For the love of God and all that’s holy, would you please leave the man alone? Even I’m sick of listening to you.”

  Liam stood and took his grandmother’s hand, helping her into the chair. “Nice save, Grandmother.”

  “A necessary one.” She settled her hands in her lap, her gaze focused on her husband. “He’s been going on and on and I’m done listening to him. You’ll settle down when you’re damn well ready to and not a moment sooner. Just because your father married at twenty doesn’t mean that’s the right path for you.”

  “Now, Penelope.” His grandfather started in with the tone Liam and his sister Kensington had dubbed the “Parliament Address.” “Marriage is good enough for Campbell, Rowan and Kenzi.”

  “Because they found the right partners. Liam’s still looking for the woman who makes his heart sing.”

  Liam shook his now-empty glass, the whiskey-tinged ice cubes making a satisfying sound to echo the end of Round 1. “I’m actually standing right here, you know.”

  “Yes, dear.” His grandmother patted the hand he’d left on her shoulder. “But sadly, the argument rages on whether you’re here or not. Your grandfather has wedding fever.”

  Which, to his grandmother’s earlier point, his siblings had done an admirable job of feeding. Three relationships in less than a year—good, solid relationships that were destined to stand the tests of time—had only increased his grandfather’s focus.

  His grandfather’s maniacal focus.

  “In the event it’s escaped anyone’s notice, I date plenty.”

  “Plenty being the operative word,” Alexander Steele grumbled. “You date a series of vapid models who are convinced a piece of chewing gum will make them fat. Real women eat.”

  Liam had learned long ago to let the opinions of others—even those he loved as dearly as he did his family—roll off his back. He lived his life as he chose and couldn’t muster up much concern about what anyone else thought.

  So why was the urge to simply leave so overwhelming?

  “I’m only in London overnight. Any chance we can discuss something a bit more interesting?”

  “What’s more interesting than the rest of your life?”

  “Living it.” He set the leaded glass down with a thud on his grandmother’s antique end table. Whatever either of his grandparents had been about to say faded on their lips as they both stared at him, silence descending on the room like a thick roll of fog.

  * * *

  Isabella Magnini dug the piece of paper out of her pocket once more to double-check she’d come to the right address. Rain beat down on her umbrella, sluicing off in a curtain of water that made the front door hard to see, and she squinted to make out the gold numbers partially hidden by wet ivy. At least she’d found the place.

  The bottom of her slacks was a soupy wash of wool against her ankles, striking evidence that the Tube ride that had begun her evening was a monumentally bad idea.

  Like coming here.

  She fought the thought and marched the rest of the way toward the door. No backing out now. No turning around. No wishing her actions away. She needed help and if the increasing threats finding their way to her office, her home and her car were any indication, she needed it now.

  The London townhome rose several impressive stories above her as she lifted the heavy knocker. A small porch cover shielded her from the rain and she turned to shake off her umbrella as she waited for the door to open. A heavy clap of thunder startled her—just like everything else these days—and she jumped, water flying off her umbrella like a wet dog shaking out its fur.

  “Hey!”

  A dark voice behind her added to the surprise and she whirled around, the motion flinging more heavy drops of water toward the doorway.

  A man filled the portal, his thick dark—almost black—hair brushed back except for a few errant curls that formed artful waves over his forehead. Broad shoulders filled the breadth of a white button-down shirt that tapered into a narrow waist clad in black slacks. The water she’d inadvertently slung at him stained the white in heavy drops and he wiped water from his eyes before turning a narrow gaze on her.

  “Sorry. I’m so sorry.” She reached forward in a vague attempt to wipe the water off his shirt but stopped with her arm outstretched as the man took a decided step back.

  Oh no. She’d written the address down wrong, that had to be it. Another mindless mistake, one of the many she made in her daily life as her head filled with the abstract thoughts of her work. Thoughts that took up so much room she edged out all the smaller details others had no problem recalling with ease.

  She shook her head and dropped her outstretched arm, the heavy pour of rain at her back misting against her nape. She had the wrong house. Alexander Steele was eighty-five if he was a day and the man who answered the door most definitely did not have the look of hired help. This part of London was known for its high-end homes, an increasing number filled by eligible bachelors who worked the stock market or billed exorbitant rates at the city’s most well-heeled law firms. She’d clearly found her way to the front door of one of them.

  “I’m so sorry. I must have the wrong house.”

  The smallest spark of warmth filled his shockingly blue eyes before he reached out a hand and gestured her closer. “Where are you headed?”

  She glanced at the crumpled paper, now nearly transparent with rain, but didn’t move from her spot. “Three twenty-five.”

  “You’ve found it.”

  “But I’m lookin
g for Mr. Steele.”

  “I’m his grandson, Liam.” Cultured tones lit up his voice—not quite British under the American but obviously influenced—before he reached out and snatched the umbrella, then took her firmly in hand. “You must be this evening’s entertainment.”

  Entertainment? “I’m just here to see your grandfather, Mr. Steele. I won’t take up much of his time.”

  A small smile lit up his face and the transformation was so shocking she simply stopped in the center of the large foyer to stare for a moment. A large glass chandelier hung from the ceiling, lighting the entryway in a soft glow and the warm light bounced off the rich locks of his hair.

  The smile changed his face—warmed it considerably—and in some small, nonsensical portion of her brain she had the distinct thought the man smiled rarely, if ever. The stoic figure who stood in the doorway had looked like a formidable opponent. But the smiling man before her was a devastating one.

  Sleek as a shark and likely as lethal, with a smile that begged you to come closer.

  “Who are you?”

  The words were as effective as the rain at dousing her fancies and she pulled herself from her drifting thoughts. “Isabella Magnini.”

  “Dr. Magnini?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Dr. Magnini who presented at Davos last year?”

  “One and the same.”

  Liam shook his head once more, his muttered words nearly undetectable as another clap of thunder echoed off the marble entryway. “Wily old bastard.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Please, let me take your coat. My grandparents are in their sitting room enjoying a cocktail.”

  “I’m so sorry to intrude on your family’s personal time.”

  The smile fell, that stoic facade concealing all expression on his face. The slightest lines bracketed his eyes and mouth—faint, yet evident enough to add character—and whatever sarcasm she’d sensed vanished when he finally spoke. “No intrusion at all as I’ve no doubt you were invited this evening.”