Desperate Deeds

by Dee Davis

  “I suppose that’s understandable,” she said, feeling somehow violated just the same. “How did you know I’d be here?”

  “I didn’t. We just happen to be staying at the same hotel.”

  “Government rates.” She lifted her glass in a mock salute. “So I guess I’ve made a real mess of things for you. I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” He frowned. “It’s not as if you knew what was going to happen.”

  “Yes, but it was my job to see the signs. Recognize the threat. And instead, I fell for their ruse lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “Which only means that they were good.”

  “Or I was bad.” She took a long sip, letting the burning liquid soothe her jangled nerves. And guilty conscious. “Bottom line, your detonators, and those men, were my responsibility. Which means that everything that happened is, at least in part, on my head.”

  “You’re letting Fisher get to you.”

  “No. I’m not. I’m just calling it the way it is. I realize that I had no way of anticipating what would happen. But the signs were there, and instead of seeing them for what they were, I let my judgment get clouded.” By memories of her mother, but she wasn’t ready to share that part of the story. “And because of that two men are dead.”

  “And the detonators are missing.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” She frowned at him over the rim of her glass. “Like who the hell you think might have walked away with them.”

  “I’ve got nothing,” he said, spreading his hands wide. “It’s still too early. No one is taking credit, if that’s what you’re asking. And any number of parties would be interested in the detonators for any number of reasons. They’re state of the art. So if nothing else they’ll fetch top dollar on the black market.”

  “That’s exactly what worries me. If those detonators fall into the wrong hands…” she trailed off.

  “It could go very badly,” he finished for her.

  “Exactly. And it’s not just that they’re state of the art. It’s that they’re designed for nuclear weaponry. We have treaties that guarantee our countries are not engaged in increasing our nuclear stockpiles. Particularly new technology. If word gets out that we’ve been secretly pursuing advance—well, I don’t have to tell you what the political ramifications will be. Not to mention the possibility of someone actually using the devices.”

  “Spoken like someone who knows her way around ordnance,” he said, his eyes probing.

  “What can I say?” She shrugged. “I’ve always liked things that go ‘boom.’ I studied engineering in college. And then joined the Army where I spent five years defusing everything our enemies deployed. And another ten working for the Company.”

  “Still dismantling?” The question was casual, but his stillness signaled his interest in her answer.

  “Let’s just say I can handle both sides of the equation. Whatever’s called for. My unit isn’t the kind politicians trot out when they want to look PC. What about you? Ordnance turn you on?” She hadn’t meant to use those exact words, but the bourbon was doing its job.

  “Not bloody likely.”

  The retort was unexpectedly sharp, and she frowned. “I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?”

  “It’s me that should apologize.” He shook his head. “It’s just that I’ve seen too damn many people hurt by little boys playing war. Anyway, once upon a time, the answer would have been ‘yes.’ I studied nuclear physics at university. Graduate work at Oxford. And then Number 10 Downing came calling. Patriotic duty and all that. I worked counterterrorism for longer than I should have.”

  “And now?” she asked, instinct telling her there was more to the story.

  “Like I said, I’m a courier.”

  “Well, I suspect you’re more than that. But since we’ve only just met, and since my follies are bound to have caused you one hell of a political headache, I won’t probe. And besides, I came down here to try to forget about it all for a little while.”

  “Except that there really is no way out, is there?”

  She stared over at him for a moment, trying to judge his tone. But there was no condemnation. Just a world-weariness that she was more than familiar with herself. “Not really. At least not without a lot of this.” She raised the glass and took another long sip. “So where in England are you from?”

  “The northern coast of Cornwall,” he said, accepting her change of topic without comment. “Small village called St. Ives. My father was a fisherman.”

  “I thought that usually ran to families.”

  “It did—for something like five centuries. Until the waters were fished out and there was no way to make a living. Anyway, it was never my cup of tea. I’ve always been more interested in the intricacies of fission than in trawling for fish. Although I suppose I did inherit a bit of the sailor’s need for adventure.”

  “An adrenaline junkie.”

  Again his expression tightened. “Maybe once upon a time. Not so much now.”

  “And your father?” she asked, again moving purposely away from probing too deeply.

  “Still in St. Ives. Although these days he spends more time in the pub than he does in a boat. He likes talking about the old days.”

  “Sounds like my dad. Only he’s retired military. And not one to take to retirement easily.”

  “Rather be out there on the front line.”

  “Exactly. He’s not the rocking chair type. With him action has always been more relevant than reflection.” A trait they shared. That’s exactly why she’d joined A-Tac. Maybe if she was a little less of an adrenaline junkie, she’d have made different choices. Maybe she’d never have been called on to guard the shipment.

  But then she’d never have been in a hotel bar drinking with a real-life James Bond.

  Hell, maybe there was a silver lining to this nightmare after all.

  “So which state do you come from?” he asked.

  “Technically, none of them. My dad was stationed in Germany when I was born. But I’ve lived in quite a few. We moved around a lot.”

  “Army brat.”

  “You’re the second person to call me that today,” she said, sobering as Lieutenant Mather’s words echoed in her ears. “Anyway, it’s an apt description.”

  “Sounds like a colorful life.” He lifted his glass to his lips, then swallowed, the muscles in his throat contracting with the motion, and she found herself wondering what his skin would feel like.

  “I suppose, looking at it with hindsight, it was,” she said. “Although at the time I hated it. Every time I’d get myself settled enough to have some sort of a life, my dad would come home from wherever and announce that we were moving again.”

  “Hometowns aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. I promise,” he said, unaware of the shifting direction of her thoughts. “What about your mum? How’s she handling the nonretirement?”

  “She’s dead.” Tyler tried to keep her tone casual, to keep the memories from surfacing. She’d already been down that road, and once in twelve hours was more than enough.

  “I’m sorry.” The regret that flashed across his face was real.

  “It’s nothing really. She’s been gone since I was a kid. My dad remarried, a couple of times actually. An active career in the military doesn’t really promote happily ever after. Or maybe it was just my father. Anyway, suffice it to say I’ve had a parade of stepmothers. All of which went into making my life—what did you call it—colorful?”

  “Well, I suppose we should drink to it.” He lifted his glass. “I mean after all if your father had settled down, you might not have chosen the path you did. Which means that I’d be sitting here drinking on my own.”

  She smiled, thinking how much his words mirrored her earlier thoughts. “Or you’d be back at that pub in St. Ives, lifting a pint and celebrating the successful delivery of the detonators.”

  “The obvious negatives aside, I think I much prefer being here with you.”

 
; His flattery was probably meant to disarm her. And the truth was—it did. She hadn’t been with a man in longer than she cared to admit. It was just too damn complicated considering her occupation. And she’d never shared a drink with someone as alluring as Owen Wakefield. Maybe it was the accent. Or the cleft chin. Or the way his hair brushed back from his forehead.

  Or maybe it was because he was part of her world—albeit halfway across the ocean. Hell, maybe that was the appeal. A chance for a brief encounter with no worries about future entanglements. MI-5 worked within the United Kingdom, for the most part. Chances of her ever crossing paths with him again were slim to none.

  “How about another drink?” he asked, hand already half raised to signal the waitress.

  “Maybe we should have it upstairs,” she suggested, her gaze colliding with his, the suggestion surprising her almost as much as it did him. She finished her bourbon with a gulp, not sure where exactly she was headed, but certain, in the moment, that it was the right direction. “I’ve got glasses in my room.”

  CHAPTER 2

  As the elevator doors slid shut, they moved together with a familiarity that belied the fact that they’d only just met. It was as if she’d made love to him before. As if she knew every inch of him by heart. His lips were hard, his kiss demanding, his hands moving over her body—teasing, exploring. His whiskers scraped against her cheek, the friction sending heat spiraling downward to pool between her legs.

  A part of her wanted him to take her here and now, but she knew that neither of them wanted to explain to their respective bosses why they’d been caught in an elevator in flagrante delicto. So instead she pushed closer, relishing the feel of his body against hers, the motion of the elevator enhancing the friction.

  She opened her mouth, welcoming him inside, reveling in the thrust of his tongue against hers. They parried and dueled, using touch as a silent language, neither advancing nor retreating but instead joining together in a tempestuous dance of emotion and sensation.

  He tasted like bourbon and toothpaste, the discovery at once seductive and familiar. She twisted her fingers through his hair, the black strands wiry and strong. Like the man.

  He cupped her breast, his thumb circling her nipple through the cotton of her camisole, and she swallowed a moan, the action only heightening her desire. His mouth moved to her cheek, then her ear. Waves of pure physical pleasure washed across her as his tongue found the soft whorl. This time she couldn’t stop her cry, and he pulled back to look at her, his smile slow and sure.

  She jerked away, embarrassed at her lack of restraint.

  “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “No.” She shook her head, her breathing still ragged. “It’s just that I’m usually not into public displays of affection.”

  “But we’re alone,” he said, a twitch of amusement touching the corner of his mouth.

  “On an elevator,” she whispered, sotto voce, glancing suspiciously around the paneled space. “What if there’s a security camera?”

  “There’s not,” he soothed. “I checked when we got on. Occupational hazard.”

  One she should have been thinking of instead of focusing solely on what it would feel like to have him moving inside her. She fought for breath, licking her lips, the skin sensitive from his kisses.

  “I can go if you want.” His dark eyes met hers, the passion there making her heart stutter.

  “No.” She shook her head, reaching for his hand as the elevator doors slid open. “I want you to stay.” Hell, she wanted him to take her right here and right now, but considering there was an elderly couple waiting to get on, it didn’t seem the most opportune of times.

  They walked off the elevator, fingers entwined, their bodies touching as they walked down the hallway. As soon as the doors behind them dinged shut, Owen swung her around into his arms, her back against the wall, his mouth demanding as he swallowed her protestations with his kiss.

  It was as if he were sealing a bargain she’d no idea they’d made, his mouth at once tender and possessive. A shiver of worry rippled through her, but was gone before she had time to think about it, replaced by the sensual pleasure of his touch. His heat invaded every part of her, a raging fire that she had no desire to extinguish.

  She splayed her fingers across his chest, feeling his heart beating wildly against her fingers, her own beating in tandem. He pulled her closer, her hands trapped between their bodies, raw physical need overriding all other thought. She ground against him, rewarded by his muffled groan, and he cupped her buttocks, their bodies rubbing together in an age-old dance.

  Tyler let conscious thought go, intent instead upon riding the wave, finding release from the glorious pain building inside her. Release that only he could give her. Then from far away she heard the elevator ding.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, her voice thready with desire, as she pressed her face against his chest, “you’re turning me into an exhibitionist. I thought the English were supposed to be repressed.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve been sadly misinformed,” he answered, his breath hot against her cheek. “And unless you want me to take you right here in the hallway, I suggest we go to your room. Now.”

  She nodded, unable to pull together a string of words. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d wanted someone this badly. It was as if she’d been waiting for him all her life. Which was a ridiculous notion, but one that nevertheless, in this moment, seemed oddly irrefutable.

  With a last hot kiss, he swept her up into his arms and strode down the hallway, releasing her at her door, her body sliding against his as she dropped to her feet. “Where’s the key?” he asked, his voice tight with need.

  “Here,” she said, pulling it from her pocket.

  He grabbed it and slid it through the slot, the light turning blessedly green. In seconds they were inside, the door swinging shut as he pulled her back into his arms, everything that was hard and unyielding about him coming together in the moment, hot and demanding. And she opened her mouth to his, relishing the feel of his tongue as it tangled with hers, each of them taking and giving, their movements a prelude of things to come.

  He pressed her back against the wall, and she wrapped her leg around his hips and twined her fingers through his hair. His hands found the smooth plane of her back beneath her camisole, massaging her skin, the friction from his calloused palms arousing her heightened senses even more. She pressed closer, feeling him hard against her, and knew he was aching for her as much as she longed for him hot and ready inside her.

  “I want to see you,” he whispered, his hands closing around the hem of her camisole.

  She smiled and leaned back, lifting her arms, and in one fluid movement he stripped away the cotton chemise.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he took in the dark purple bruises that spread across her chest.

  Between her desire and the bourbon, she’d almost forgotten her injuries. “They’re just bruises. From where the bullets hit the Kevlar. It could have been much worse.”

  “And the scar?” he asked, reaching out to gently trace the jagged line running between her breasts.

  “That’s what happens without the vest. I’ve been really lucky,” she said, resisting the urge to cover herself with her arms. “Twice.”

  His hands moved to her shoulders as he moved closer. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s just part of the job.” She’d tried for flippancy, but choked on the last bit instead.

  “If it helps,” he said, his voice still gentle, “I understand.” He pulled off his jacket and shirt. His right shoulder was covered with scar tissue.

  “A bomb?” she asked, recognizing the telltale signs.

  “Wrong place. Wrong time.” He nodded.

  “So you were lucky, too,” she whispered, splaying her fingers across the damaged skin.

  “I’m not sure I can agree with that.” He shook his head, his hand covering hers. “But I’m alive. And it’s moments lik
e this that make me glad of it.”

  She nodded, and they stood for a moment, eyes devouring each other. Then with a groan of impatience, she reached for him, hungry to feel his skin hot against hers.

  Velvet and steel.

  Following her lead, he pulled her close, his kiss devouring as he sucked her tongue and then bit her bottom lip, the gesture halfway between pleasure and pain, the sensation traveling first to her belly and then trailing fire to the wet place between her legs.

  God, she wanted this man.

  With a blatancy that surprised her, she pulled down the zipper of his pants, her hand slipping between white cotton and the hard, smooth skin of his abdomen, her fingers closing around his penis, the heat seeping into her as she moved her hand rhythmically up and down.

  With another groan, he swung her up into his arms again and moved to the bed, setting her amidst rumpled sheets. She shimmied out of her jeans and then arched her back, her hands on her breasts, their gazes colliding in a heat that was palpable. She let her hands trail slowly down her stomach to the apex of her thighs, teasingly running a finger across the crotch of her cotton panties.

  His eyes darkened, the deep blue turning black. She shivered in anticipation, watching as he pulled down his pants, his penis springing free, hard and solid, and one hundred percent male. With a smile that would no doubt melt icebergs, he straddled her, two fingers hooking into the elastic at her waist.

  He slid the panties off, and she opened for him, her body humming with a life of its own. Dipping his head, he found the tender crest of one breast, drawing the nipple into his mouth, sucking it with a strength that sent heat rippling from breast to groin. She tipped her head back, her mind spinning away, anticipation building.

  His hands moved lower, stroking her stomach and then the soft flesh of her inner thighs, while he teased her nipple with his teeth. Then in one swift move, his thumb unerringly found the soft skin of her labia, and quickly laid her defenses to waste, his fingers sliding deep inside her, his tongue still stroking her breast. She swallowed, the delicious tension inside her ratcheting up to levels beyond anything she’d ever experienced.