“Stop it,” she snapped, and folded her arms across her chest. “You are such a man.”
Duel scratched his jaw and laughed. “That I am.” Hell, it’d been so long since he laughed or flirted, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done it. “Doll baby, there’s just no stopping myself from enjoying the view,” he taunted.
It got to her, and he knew it. She squirmed beneath his pointed stare. He lifted a brow and muttered. “Damn door, open,” he said in a fit of temper and jiggled the doorknob. The lock clicked on command and he shoved the door in hard enough that it bounced against the wall heater a couple of times. “Finally,” he breathed.
At the moment, he didn’t give a good damn if the door knocked the heater off the wall and broke it into a dozen pieces. He desperately needed some distance between him and this aggravating woman and he needed it fast. She was killing him, with her sultry perfume, her tongue making all those tiny, sexy darts, and her firm looking breasts.
God, it’d be a shame if a grown man whimpered. He was close to doing just that. His palms tingled. Hell, his entire body itched, worse than if he’d been bitten by some kind of bug. Their conversation had grown way too deep and intense and—hot. Why couldn’t she just back down? Give an inch? But oh, no, not her, she had to stand toe-to-toe with him and argue about everything.
Bad as he felt and cold as it was, no way should his cock be jerking around like a snake waking up from hibernation. But there you had it. Where this woman was concerned, his damn dick was leading him ‘round by his nose.
Duel didn’t like the fact it swelled against his zipper every time he was near her. Hell, much more, and it’d be singing whoop-ee-ti-yi-o. Of all the women in D.C., why did he have to want this one? “Mac’s little joy toy,” he muttered.
“What?” She flung back her head in question.
“Nothing. Leave me the hell alone!”
“Gladly,” she popped back, again, getting the last word.
* * * *
Flayme watched the agent prowl about the room as if his pants were on fire or he’d been bitten by ants or something. “What’s wrong with you?”
He paused and sent her a scathing look. Boy, was it possible to wilt from such a scorching look?
“You! You’re what’s wrong with me.” His tone sounded accusing. “You don’t have the sense to shut up or back down. Just keep pushing my buttons, lady.”
She laughed.
He sent her a sour look. His mouth twisted with loathing.
She shivered. God, he hated her. Flayme had a feeling his contempt was based on more than just the fact she’d bested him in a fight and stabbed him. Really, she’d be the first to admit it had been a fluke. Looking at him now, at how he was ripped, how broad his shoulders were, his solid physique, and how utterly dangerous he was, the wonder was he hadn’t snapped her neck.
Sure she’d managed to knife him, but only because she’d caught him by surprise. No way should she have been able to that. He was a highly trained operative with skills that’d frighten the ordinary lay person. So there was more than luck catching him unawares. There was another reason, something else going on with the agent besides her stabbing him.
Flayme mentally shrugged. She didn’t know why, but the man looked exhausted. His nostrils weren’t just pinched with pain. Dead on his feet, she couldn’t help wonder why he was so beat. Before she thought better of it she blurted, “What’s wrong with you? I mean besides the obvious. You’re dog-tired, but I think you were worn out long before you broke into my house.”
His eyes hardened with a steely glint. “There’s nothing wrong with me that a little R and R won’t cure.”
“Oh. By that, I assume you mean sex.”
“Sex works for me.”
“Don’t look at me. I’m not your R and R.”
He snorted. “Don’t I know it? You’re the thorn in my ass. You might look like an angel, but the truth is, lady, you’re tough as an old boot. I like my women a little softer, a lot more loving, and a whole hell of a lot less trouble. Come on,” he snapped, and grabbed her just below her left elbow.
Flayme blinked back the unexpected tears that suddenly stung her eyes. Crap. Nope, she wasn’t going to cry. She refused to let this man break her. Tough as an old boot? What a joke. He liked his women soft, huh? Well, she was a big old softie if ever there was one, but he made her sound so–so—mean—
“I am not tough as an old boot,” she cried and burst into tears.
Duel stilled beside her. “Hey-hey-hey,” he said huskily, drawing her close. “Don’t cry.” He rubbed her back. “You’ll ruin your pretty face. Besides, you should know a woman’s tears and me? We don’t get along so well together.”
“Why not?” She blubbered, gulping sobs. She felt utterly humiliated. How could she be crying in front of this man?
“Because they tend to melt this crusty ol’ body.”
She leaned away and studied him for a moment. “You aren’t old. You aren’t even forty yet.”
“Right now I feel pretty damn ancient. So stop crying. And damn woman, I’m a long way from forty, so let up on bruising my ego a bit, will ya?”
“I couldn’t bruise your ego with a sledgehammer. I’m not crying. I’m not tough.” Unthinking, she punched him on his injured shoulder.
“Ow! Fuck!” He practically doubled over. Duel rubbed his shoulder and groaned. “Jesus, woman, are you determined to kill me?”
“Ooh, I’m so sorry.” She blinked through her tears. Seeing how pale he’d turned she started blubbering again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Flayme buried her face against his chest and sobbed. “This has been a horrible night, the worst one of my life.”
Awkwardly, he patted her back in a clumsy attempt to soothe her. “I agree with you there. It hasn’t been one of my better nights, either. Hey, stop crying now. It’ll be okay.”
She burrowed closer against him. “No, it won’t. Someone wants me dead and I don’t know why.”
He buried his fingers in her hair and tilted her head. His face was close, his mouth closer. God, she wanted his mouth on hers in the worst way. She needed to be held, cuddled and for some odd reason, she wanted this man to be the one who held and cuddled her.
He must have seen something in her eyes, her face, because his eyes hardened and he set her away from him. “Puh-lease. Don’t try to play me. Cut the water works, sister. It’s the oldest trick in the world, besides clipping a man’s hair.”
“Oh, so now I’m a Jezebel?”
“You said it.” He steered her inside the room.
“You insinuated it.” She jerked free of his hold, and stared him down, eye for eye. “You know what?” She rubbed the tears from her face. “Think what you like.”
“Lady, I don’t have to think anything. Less than five minutes after I hit the CIA building you were the topic of discussion. I heard all about you doing Mac. How you spend your lunch hours with him, take money from him, and busted up his marriage. The information fountain bubbled over, and the topic was all about you. Think? This ain’t my first rodeo. I’ve seen your kind in action before.”
“My kind?”
“You’re an expensive piece of ass. Classy, I’ll grant you that, and probably worth every penny, but you’re a glorified hooker. That’s it.” Duel stroked his jaw and eyed her up and down. “Mac might be foolish enough to fall for your beauty and tears, and pay you for a good time, but I’m not buying what you’re selling.”
“I’m not for sale. Not to Mac, you, or anyone.”
Duel snorted. “You deny accepting money from him?”
She hesitated, her mouth opening, then closing on silence.
“Like I said, I know your type.”
“No. You think you know who I am.”
He grinned, but there wasn’t a hint of a smile in his green eyes. “I never said I know who you are, only what you are.”
“You know nothing. Neither what nor who I am.”
“It i
sn’t difficult to figure out, sweetheart.” He cast a scathing look at her. “Flayme Jansen, secretary extraordinaire. Money-hungry whore. Home-wrecker. Top of the list on the gossip chain who has all the men panting after her. Did I leave anything out?” he asked, a sneer curving his lips.
Her stomach plummeted to her toes. Flayme closed her eyes and swallowed back the hurt. Opening her eyes, she lowered her gaze. “No, I think you got it.”
Inside, her stomach felt like a mass of twisted nerves. At the moment, all she wanted to do was curl up somewhere and lick her wounds. He hadn’t painted a pretty picture of her. Did he honestly see her as an ugly-to-her-soul, cheating, heartless woman?
She stiffened her spine. Anger bubbled hot and furious. Why let this stubborn, know-it-all jackass of a cowboy get under her skin or hurt her with his lousy opinions of her? She didn’t owe him explanations. Heck, she hardly knew him, certainly not well enough to share things from her personal life with him. Besides, he’d already judged her and found her guilty. No matter what she said, he’d never believe her.
“Is there anything else to know?”
“Nothing,” Flayme quietly replied, and turned away. “Apparently you know my entire life’s story.”
“Not your life, but I know all I wanna know about you. And just for the record, I don’t pay a woman for a piece of ass. When I sleep with one, it’s by mutual consent, and for reciprocated pleasure. The only expense involved is for condoms.”
Flayme clenched her jaw. “I see. It’s straight to the sack, not even a candle lit dinner or the cost for a bottle of wine? Cheapskate,” she said with a sneer.
“For heaven’s sake, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I think you did. It’s what you said. Gosh, I’m surprised you toss in for the condoms, or do you make your lady pay for them? And just for the record,” she mocked his words. “I don’t pay a man to sleep with me, either, and I’ll be damned if I buy a box of rubbers. You want ‘em, you buy ‘em.”
“For Christ’s sake, I don’t want them.” He eyed her. “I don’t have any use for them. You aren’t exactly my type.”
“Thank God for miracles.” She glared at him.
“Look, if you wanna shower, it’s now or never. Once I hit the bed, I’m not budging, and neither are you.”
“Let go.” She jerked from his grasp. “Keep your hands off me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, honey. Women like you grow on trees in the D.C. area.”
“Women like me?” She tapped her foot, then moaned as the sliver of glass slid deeper.
“Senator’s playthings? You know, bouncing the old mattress? Rocking the old headboards? Putting out?”
She clenched her fists at her sides. “I am not some senator’s toy.”
“Special Agent’s toy, then. Same difference. You’re a political plaything.”
“Ooh, more than you can ever imagine, cowboy, but I’m—”
“What?” Fury etched his face.
She shook her head. “I don’t understand. What are you so pissed off about?”
“Are you denying you’re in Mac’s stable?”
“I’m a mare, now? This just gets better and better.”
“Deny it. Give me a reason not to be pissed.”
Flayme opened her mouth, then closed it with a snap. “I’m not going to deny anything to you. I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“No, you don’t. But, doll baby, don’t play coy and innocent with me. I know better.”
“What gets your goat the most, Mr. Hot Shot Agent, the fact that Mac beat you to me or because I belong to him, so you can’t or won’t touch me?”
“Wouldn’t count on the won’t.” He parted the drapes a mere inch and peeked outside.
Did he have to sound so absent, as if he was hearing a small part of their conversation? “What?” She frowned. She had the feeling he was miles away.
“Nothing.” He fiddled with the curtains, making sure they closed tightly. “What gave you the idea I want to touch you?”
Flayme clenched her jaw. He wasn’t absorbing the conversation that was plain enough. He said the words, but that’s all he did, spoke the words. He wasn’t into the conversation. He was immersed in checking their surroundings. Yes, he gave her his watered-down version of lip service. For some reason, it made her angrier to know he wasn’t tuned in to their conversation. “Oh, you know, there’s a certain little pointy part of your body that just gives you away, cowboy.”
“Huh.” Abruptly he whipped around eyeing her.
It struck her that although he’d given the impression he was half listening to her, he’d been paying closer attention than she’d thought.
“Don’t flatter yourself, honey. I haven’t had a woman in a…let’s just say it’s been a long, dry spell. If a flea hopped aboard my zipper I’d get a hard-on right now.”
Flayme lifted a brow. “A long, dry spell, huh?”
“Dry as the desert. Don’t let it trouble your pretty little head, sweetheart. I told you, you aren’t my type.” He tore off his denim coat and draped it across the back of the only chair in the room. With just that small movement, he groaned and what little color he had left drained away, leaving his face pale as the snow outside on the ground.
She bit her lower lip and sent up another silent prayer that he didn’t die on her. Her eyes widened as she slowly scanned his body. Good grief, the man was armed to the gills. A shoulder holster fit snug against his side. When he turned to lock the door, she saw a second weapon at the small of his back. “You have one of those tucked in your boot, too?”
“What?” He frowned, dragging the chair across the room and jamming it beneath the doorknob, making the room as secure as possible. “Yeah. Sure. I have one in each boot.”
“You expecting an invasion?” she asked, half joking. The other half of her mind darkened with fear. If he was this concerned, she thought maybe she should be too, or at the least, a bit more alert of what was going on around her. His unease worried her, because it meant there was something more than someone taking potshots at a little nobody CIA secretary.
“Hold it. I’ve changed my mind about the shower,” he drawled, watching her limp toward the bathroom.
Her defense hackles shot up. He was not going to keep her from cleaning up, damn it! She’d taken a couple of tumbles, rolled in the snow with this man, and not for pleasure. She’d slipped and fallen when some idiot asshole took potshots at her. Her face hurt. Heck, her entire body felt like one big bruise. “Oh, well,” she said sweetly. “That’s fine with me. I’d much rather take a nice long soak in the tub with lots of hot water and bubbles.”
“Bubbles?” He rubbed the area around his heart and coughed. “Not happening, sweetheart. I said it isn’t happening. Get over here,” he barked.
Flayme folded her arms across her chest. “Make me!”
Duel narrowed his eyes. Slowly, he stalked toward her. “Don’t-ever-challenge-me,” he breathed, and grabbed her by the upper arms. “My job is to protect you, but don’t think I have to play nice.”
She tried to sidestep him, but it was already too late. He squeezed her arms and crab-walked her backward to the bed. There, he parked her on the side of it.
“What are you doing?” she snapped, slapping at his hands. “Let go of me!”
“Stay still,” he ordered, and eased down beside her. “Damn, woman, you are one suspicious little soul. Have you always been so distrusting or are you just naturally ornery?”
She glared at him. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re ornerier than a rattlesnake shedding its skin.”
“Huh. Shedding its skin makes it mean?”
“Yup. It can’t see, so it strikes at everything. You’ve had your fangs in me since the moment we met.”
“Now I’m a snake.”
He grinned. “Yup. Let me have your foot.”
“Why? Don’t you have two of your very own?” She batted her lashes.
He laughed.
“I do, but I want one of yours. Give.”
“No. I’m not in the mood to donate body parts.”
“Flayme, set your leg up here.” He patted his thigh.
“Oh, so now you want the entire leg?”
“I want to remove the piece of glass from your foot before you cripple yourself.”
“Oh, in that case…” She swung her leg across his thighs. “Have at it, cowboy.”
“See if there’s a pair of tweezers in that first aid kit. Will you?”
Flayme nodded and dug through the kit. “Ooh, lucky me.” She pressed the tweezers in his hand. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
“I’m not, you know.”
“Not what?” Flayme asked.
“A cowboy.”
She traced her gaze over him, noted the hat, jeans, boots. He even wore a western cut shirt.
“My ass,” she muttered. “You look like the genuine thing to me.” She recalled he’d been wearing a tux when they’d first set out tonight, but he’d changed clothes at a rest stop somewhere along the way. He’d looked hot and sexy in the tux, but this was the real man here, tough, rangy, with the look of an outlaw, and this was the way she liked him best.
He arched a brow. “And when have you ever seen the genuine thing?”
“Right now,” she said her voice soft.
Duel cleared his throat and looked away. “Hmm. Nasty cut, sweetheart, but it’s clean. I guess the snow washed the bottom of your foot. It’s stopped bleeding, too.”
“Ouch! What are you doing?” she gasped, when he probe the cut on the bottom of her foot.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to hurt you.” He stopped for a moment and rubbed his forehead.
Flayme eyed him. “Are you sure you’re up to removing the glass?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. Your hand is shaking.”
He gripped the tweezers. “I said I’m fine. I’m going to remove the glass, so don’t jerk your foot.”
“Ouch! That hurts, you big galoot.”
He grunted. “Be still!”
Flayme bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. He held her foot with a firm grip, yet his touch was soft against her skin. Gingerly, he worked the tip of the tweezers under the sliver of glass. She squeezed her fists and buried her face against his shoulder.
Playing For Keeps (Montana Men) Page 21
