Code Name: Bundle!

by Christina Skye

  “I have a lot to be thankful for.” Kit glanced at Wolfe and Izzy. “If these two could manage to recuperate as fast as my dogs, I’d be very happy.”

  Ryker cleared his throat. “I want to discuss something with you, Ms. O’Halloran. It concerns your dogs.”

  “No. You can’t have them.” Kit’s voice was polite but firm. “They need more time. They have to work on corner training and learn more chained commands, along with hazardous zone searches. They’re nowhere near ready for service placement yet, sir.”

  “Our police and military units desperately need dogs like this,” Ryker said thoughtfully. “But I have to agree, they aren’t ready yet. I’ve been going through your reports since they were referred to me. They would be an excellent asset for me.”

  Kit thought she saw Wolfe and Izzy share a look. She didn’t know what kind of unit Ryker oversaw, but she did know it was important. “I’m not sure what kind of service work your unit carries out, sir.”

  “We do this and that,” Ryker said vaguely. “Here and there.” He looked at Baby for a long time. “I’m proposing, Ms. O’Halloran, that they stay with you for another twelve months. At the end of that time we’ll evaluate their progress. And assess their…strengths. I’m assigning Commander Houston to be my personal liaison in this matter. Will that be acceptable to you both?”

  “Yes.” Wolfe cleared his throat. “Sir.”

  “Perfectly,” Kit murmured.

  “So that’s settled.” Ryker gestured at the box on the nearby table. “Now how about a slice of that chocolate cake? I hope this is another recipe of your mother’s, Ms. O’Halloran.”

  “Yes, it is.” Things were always uncomfortable when this man appeared with his silent entourage. Kit sensed tense undercurrents among the three men and references to things she didn’t—and never would—understand. But she wouldn’t dwell on Lloyd Ryker. He seemed like he could be a difficult man, but his offer was reasonable. She decided to accept. Working with Wolfe would give her the chance to figure out the next stage in this odd relationship they seemed to be having, even though he hadn’t said a personal word to her since the attack in the mine. If Kit had her way, it would be straight into bed. She’d enjoy seeing how inventive he could be with just one arm.

  And now that they had business together, he couldn’t keep avoiding her.

  She handed Ryker the slice of cake he’d requested. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you for putting in the new security system at my ranch, sir. That was very thoughtful.”

  “I consider it a business investment. We’ve all got hard work ahead of us, young lady. I don’t want you distracted with problems.” Ryker glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to be on a plane in forty minutes. I’ll draw up a contract about the dogs and we can talk after I get back. By the way, I thought you’d want to have this. One of my men found it while he was burying the lines for your new security system.” Ryker held out a handmade leather pouch with red beadwork and long suede fringe. The bag was worn but intricate and clearly valuable.

  Kit took the small leather bag, her touch reverent. “You found this at my ranch?”

  “Near the well. Do you know what it is?”

  “It’s a medicine pouch, probably Apache. My father had one just like this.” Her fingers closed gently around the stiff beaded leather. She had a sudden suspicion that she was looking at the Apache treasure Emmett and all the others had searched for over the years. The leather was pristine, the beadwork exquisite. A fine object like this, well preserved and with a personal provenance, would be worth thousands to a serious collector.

  And Kit didn’t consider selling it for a second.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly, slipping the bag into her pocket. She’d take the time to study it later, sorting through the bittersweet memories of her father that the bag inspired. But first she had to see that Izzy ate more and that Wolfe did his rehab exercises.

  Training high-strung, energetic service dogs had taught her a thing or two about managing men like this. After they finished, she was going to herd everyone out of the room so that Izzy could rest. Not the dogs, of course. They seemed to make him relax when nothing else could.

  After that, Kit had her own offer to make to Wolfe.

  “You’ll be hearing from me soon,” Ryker said curtly. Then he strode out, followed by his aides.

  The mood lightened immediately.

  Kit stared at Izzy. “Have a second piece of cake.” She cut a slice and put it on the rolling table in front of him. Ignoring his scowl, she helped him eat all of it.

  “Damned bound hands,” He muttered.

  Wolfe was very quiet, and Kit swung around to face him next. “Out in the hall. We need to talk.”

  But as soon as the door closed behind them, Wolfe turned and pulled her against him, using his good arm. “Don’t suppose you’d be interested in spending the night with me tonight.”

  Kit’s pulse spiked. “To talk about canine training regimens?”

  “To make love until we both drop,” he said harshly.

  “Your bed or mine?”

  “Both,” he muttered. “Then the floor. Then any tables that happen to be handy.”

  “That can probably be arranged.” Kit smiled uncertainly. “As long as you don’t hurt your arm.”

  “To hell with my arm.” Wolfe pinned her against the wall as his mouth skimmed and savored. “I’ve got a few hours’ leave and I’m going to enjoy it to the full extent of my tactical capabilities.”

  The possibilities made Kit’s heart lurch. But she sighed and pulled away as Miki and Trace approached down the hall. They were arguing, as usual.

  “Wolfe, they’recoming.”

  “So what? I’ve waited two weeks to talk about our future, honey. I figure that you needed a little time to get your breath. But I’m not stopping now.”

  Kit gave up being discreet. Sighing, she flowed into the heat of his body, feeling as giddy and vulnerable as she had at thirteen when she’d watched him fumble with Marijo Shelton’s bra in the back seat of her car.

  The flood of hot fantasies left her flushed and she took a deep breath.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You. I lose my train of thought whenever you’re in the same county.”

  “That’s about the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, honey.”

  Kit stared up at Wolfe, loving his hard face and his dark eyes and the lines around his forehead that came from staring into the sun in places that didn’t appear on any map. “Just assuming that I decide to have sex with you—”

  “Make love,” Wolfe said firmly. “It was always more than sex, Kit. You know that. We need to talk about making this relationship permanent.” He cleared his throat. “As in contracts. Blood tests. Marriage.”

  Her eyes cut to his. “You’re asking me to marry you?”

  “I sure as hell am.” He took a breath. “But I may have to cut some red tape first. Meanwhile, I thought you could consider the possibility.”

  “Yes.” There was no doubt in Kit’s mind. Not a second’s hesitation. Suddenly she was struck by his odd choice of phrase. “What kind of red tape?”

  Trace and Miki were coming closer. “Later.”

  Kit didn’t argue, touching the faint scar that had already healed at Wolfe’s jaw. Her smile was teasing and sultry. “So what about the dogs while we’re hitting the sheets and having noisy, out-of-control sex?”

  “Those four troublemakers?” Wolfe linked their fingers and pulled her hand up to his mouth, kissing her palm slowly. “They’re going to have to find their own entertainment tonight. Now shut up and kiss me, O’Halloran. I think it’s time for us to break some more rules.”

  Code Name Blondie

  by Roberta Helmer

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

 
CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER ONE

  17°30’ south latitude

  18°52’ west longitude

  WHY DID SEX SOUND so noisy when it wasn’t happening to you?

  Miki Fortune steadied her digital camera and tried to ignore the grunts and groans from the nearby tent where her two models were doing the nasty again in full audio. There was no mistaking the sharply heaving canvas where her gorgeous six-foot-one Scandinavian model was getting screwed up, down and sideways by an equally gorgeous male model from Montana.

  Satisfied with two shots of the pristine cove, Miki shouldered her camera gear and headed back up the beach. White sand crunched beneath her feet and a warm wind ruffled her hair, but all Miki saw was camera angles and F-stops. Paradise meant nothing when you were trying not to screw up the biggest opportunity of your life, a full-color calendar called Best Beaches of the World.

  Behind Miki the tent walls shook harder. Panting voices carried on the wind. “Oh, Looogan. That way. Harder—harder!” The canvas snapped and the sound effect grew more obvious.

  Miki scowled. If people wanted to have sex, they should do it in another state.

  Logan Brooks, Miki’s tanned male model, ground out an urgent curse. Something crashed to the ground beyond the canvas wall.

  Disgusted, Miki stowed her camera and lenses, then glanced at her watch. After all the time zones she’d crossed between her home in New Mexico and this beach southwest of Bora Bora, her body clock felt permanently out of synch. But tired or not, she had finished the day’s shots without a hitch. Now that her new digital cameras were stowed and their precious memory cards transferred to a portable hard drive, Miki couldn’t wait to get back in the air.

  Paradise was fine when you were eighteen and crazy in love, enjoying a clothing-optional vacation. When you were working, paradise felt like salt in an old wound, reminding you of all that was wrong with your life.

  Which, in Miki’s case, could have filled most of Montana.

  One of the pilots leaned against a palm tree and peeled an apple, clearly enjoying the models’ escapade. An older pilot napped in the shade, hat over his head. Her boss sat in a leather campaign chair scanning the photos she’d transferred to his laptop.

  Vance Merchant didn’t look pleased. She’d given him her best work, shots that shimmered with dawn light and burned with sunset crimson. There was no possible reason for his frown other than the simple fact that he could. The man knew he held all the power and he enjoyed wielding it mercilessly. He was a tyrant, just the way Miki had heard. Being around him was about as much fun as sharing a cardboard box with a scorpion.

  But the job was important, her first chance at national commercial exposure. If the calendar was a success, Miki knew she’d receive dozens of travel assignments, a fiercely competitive category of photographic work. So she dug her toe slowly through the warm sand, fighting uneasiness as she waited for Vance’s verdict.

  Her balding boss looked up as the tent shook one last time. Moments later Miss Finland 2002 emerged, stunning in a black string bikini that hugged her body like butter. When her partner appeared, he was rumpled and languid, his shirt buttoned wrong and his zipper still open.

  Someone snickered. The men looked up as Miss Finland stretched languidly. Vance smiled and started to make a comment.

  Miki cut him off. “Can we go now?”

  The model, who currently worked under the name of Jasmyn, stretched slowly while she toyed with her tiny bikini top, aware that she had all the men’s attention. “Me, I am hungry with appetite. I can eat very big horse right now.” She frowned beautifully. “Anyone have very big horse to give?”

  Miki’s boss muttered something to the older pilot. Miki ignored them.

  Sometimes men had all the subtlety of boa constrictors. And now three new bruises darkened Miss Finland’s elegant neck. They’d have to be digitally removed, the same way Miki had removed the other bites and scratches incurred from St. Thomas to Tahiti. Luckily, Miki was very skilled at both cosmetics and Photoshop.

  Vance Merchant looked up and waved his hand at the younger pilot, who climbed aboard one of the two amphibious Cessnas rocking in the water. As the models waited, the pilot revved the engine and gestured from the small cockpit.

  About time, Miki thought, heading toward the plane. This place was getting creepy. Besides, the wind was picking up.

  Vance caught her arm. “Not you. I need a dozen more shots of the reef before we leave, babe.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. I filled a flash card this morning.”

  Her boss’s eyes narrowed. “I’m the one who decides when we’re done, honey. Remember that.” He tossed her his big Nikon, careless of the $10,000 piece of equipment. “Get moving.”

  Vance Merchant could afford to buy a camera a day for the rest of his nasty life. His silver spoon came from his father’s success in coffee commodities—and his mother’s good fortune in being an oil heiress. The man’s trust fund was obscene.

  As Miki checked the camera, the balding businessman slid an arm around her shoulders. “I can see that taking orders is a problem for you. We’ll have to do something about that.”

  She pushed his hand away smoothly and thought about decking him. One solid chop to the collarbone and he would be moaning. On the other hand, physical assault didn’t get credits on a job resume.

  Excellent lighting skills. Inventive with neutral density filters. Crushed the supervisor’s collarbone. May be unstable and probably dangerous.

  Not the best path to career advancement. Miki sighed. She needed to stop drifting and start being serious. Photography was in her blood, a passion since she was ten. Day and night images haunted her thoughts, burned into her head. The problem was getting someone’s attention so that she’d have the backing to shoot for a living. She had finally grown up and started to take her work seriously, which meant no decking the boss.

  The Cessna’s motor turned over. The models were aboard with all their gear, and the pilot was checking his equipment.

  “What’s he doing?”

  The Cessna began to pick up speed. Miki felt a sudden sharp uneasiness at how isolated they were on this speck of an island. “They’re leaving ahead of us? I thought we were flying out together for safety.”

  “If you do your job, we’ll be flying out in a few minutes.” Vance glanced at the older pilot, and a silent signal seemed to pass between the two men.

  “What do you mean, do my job?” Miki frowned at Vance. “I think we’ve got enough background shots for ten calendars.”

  “You think? Who’s paying you to think, babe?” Sunlight burned on Vance’s yellow silk shirt as he traced Miki’s neck. “The sooner you stop whining and start shooting, the sooner we take off.”

  “You can’t let them go ahead of us, Vance.”

  “I just did, babe. Move it because your stalling is costing me money.”

  No point trying to change his mind. After three weeks of travel in close quarters, Miki had figured out that the man was impossible. She stalked over the sand and leveled Vance’s Nikon, trying to ignore the roar of the other Cessna as it prepared for take off. Palm trees waved, the ocean glittered—and clouds piled up to the south. />
  Miki couldn’t shake a sense of unease. When she finished two dozen new shots from different angles, she gritted her teeth and turned back to her boss. “I’m done here. Why don’t you take a look so we can go?”

  “Cool your jets, babe.”

  Babe? If Miki never heard that word again, she would die a happy woman. Was it stupidity or arrogance that made men think women actually liked that name? Of course, Babe was better than Blondie. For the last five years, Miki had dyed her natural blond hair to a streaky brown in order to shield herself against the wrong kind of male attention. From bitter experience she knew that being blonde automatically took off five years and ten pounds. The only problem was that being blonde also knocked fifty points off your I.Q. in the eyes of most men. Some women seemed happy with the tradeoff, but Miki wasn’t one of them. So why the hell was she back to bubblehead blond now?

  When she’d heard about the team shooting an exotic calendar called Best Beaches of the World, Miki had instructed her photo agent in Santa Fe to accept the offer with no negotiation. At first her agent had been discouraging. “Waste of time, Fortune. Vance Merchant only hires blondes because he thinks they’re good luck.” The agent had rolled his eyes. “That means all blondes, all the time. Besides, Merchant is a little hard to work with.”

  Miki was too enthusiastic to let the offer slip away. That same day she had dyed her hair to its original streaky gold, angry but determined to snag the job.

  Unfortunately, her agent had neglected to mention several details. For example, Vance Merchant’s interest in blondes usually took on touchy-feely overtones by the second day of a shoot, and Miki soon tired of dodging the producer’s fast hands. Between the constant travel and the isolated location shooting, she could never seem to escape him.