Coffee never tasted better.
* * * *
Ohio
Motor Lodge Motel
February 17, Tuesday
Eight hours after the assassination...
“This is so not good.” Flayme puffed a lock of hair out of her eyes and released an agitated breath.
The reverberation of soft snores filled the air close to her ears. Damn the cowboy! Damn the cowboy who claimed he wasn’t a cowboy! And maybe he wasn’t one, but he sure had the heart and soul of one.
Or maybe he just possessed the heart and soul of an outlaw. Whatever he was, he concealed everything behind those icy green eyes of his and his tight lips. Emotions? She was pretty sure if he’d ever possessed them, they were long dead and buried.
There was only one thing she needed from the man beside her, and it wasn’t the royal screwing he’d promised her if she didn’t shut up and go to sleep. He seemed to think all she was capable of thinking about was having sex with him. Well, she was pretty darn sure it was he who was thinking about sex with her. She didn’t think about it—not much anyway.
Watching him now, she studied his breathing pattern.
Was he asleep or wasn’t he?
She didn’t trust her judgment or the fact he might be faking it just to make her look like an idiot. Beneath her breath, she counted off the slow moving minute hand on her watch. “One Mississippi-two Mississippi-three Mississi―” a groan. This was getting her nowhere.
Flayme had waited for what felt like forever for the stubborn agent to close his eyes. Yeah, she’d waited, but God was she fed up with stalling. Sooner or later, she had to make her move.
Startled when he suddenly moved in his sleep, she bit her cheek to keep from screaming when he rolled closer to her. Crap! Delaying only stretched her nerves to the snapping point. She smothered the urge to snort. As if her nerves weren’t already on the edge of cracking like an egg.
Waiting any longer to attempt an escape wasn’t going to accomplish a thing. “So, it might as well be now,” she muttered beneath her breath. Go for it, Flayme, before you lose the thread of courage you have left.
One shot, that’s all she’d get. If she was lucky, maybe that’s all she’d need. And if she was very lucky, maybe, just maybe, the agent had truly fallen to sleep a lot sooner than she thought—or into a coma. Yeah, a nice coma would be great.
With that damnable Stetson cocked low over his eyes, it was impossible to tell if his lids were even twitching. “Not a cowboy, my ass,” she smirked. Then why the hell did he walk, talk, and dress like one? In her experience, if it walked like a duck—a cowboy he was.
Maybe he thought he was God’s gift to the CIA, but in reality—shit, in reality—he was the kind of man that made a woman’s heart beat faster, made her body tingle and her breasts ache.
Oh yeah, for sure, she was ready to escape, before she made an absolute ass of herself, threw her hot, throbbing body on top of his, and insist he have his wicked way with her. The man lacked supreme patience when it came to her. Not that she blamed him. Stabbing him hadn’t exactly made her his new best friend.
Tension spasmed along her spine, her nerves tightened like a pair of guitar strings until she thought she’d snap from the strain racking her body. Doubts assailed her. Maybe she’d better wait a couple more minutes, then try to escape.
A satisfied smile tweaked her lips. Inside, she was a bundle of burned-out nerves. Outside, she felt gloriously capable. Heck, she was proficient. He might be a tough hombre, but she was woman, and as the saying went—hear me roar. She’d make him rue the day he ever took her prisoner!
This would work. It had to work.
And the thing that made it different, made it possible to succeed this time, Flayme thought with excitement, was the little fact she had access to his car keys.
Rather dumb on his part—at least in her opinion—for the cowboy to leave them in plain sight on the nightstand beside him. The keys. Temptation City with a capital T. C.
The man had known exactly the thoughts racing through her head when he left them there. The devil. He’d looked at her and grinned when he dropped them near the bedside lamp, a silent challenge for her to go for them, if she felt lucky. Well, she felt damn lucky. She could escape, if she managed to free herself from him and the cuffs. Drat the man!
Of course, he’d made darn certain the key to the manacles were in the far pocket of his jeans, just out of her reach. Okay. Flayme took a deep breath to fortify her nerve, and turned onto her right side. Not the most comfortable position, but manageable. However, it practically buried her nose against the left side of his manly chest.
“Come on, Flayme, you can suffer through anything,” she told herself, pressing her nose a little closer. She savored the pure, raw aroma of the man. Oh, yeah, this was pure hell. She simply couldn’t imagine having to go through anything worse than this torture. Manly scent. Flayme couldn’t quite figure out the fragrance of the out-of-this-world aftershave that teased the senses.
My, oh, my, why hadn’t he put his shirt back on? She swore he lived to torture her. She licked her suddenly dry lips and stifled a moan. Did he have to leave all that expanse of chest bared to her gaze or—ooh—her fingers itched like crazy with the need to take a stroll through the patch of hair lightly dusting his chest.
Flayme curled her nails into her hands and ignored the sharp pain. Resisted temptation—barely, but the hasty dressing he’d pressed against the wound reminded her she’d injured him. He wasn’t going to welcome any advances from her—ever.
Ooh! Those soft little sounds she’d first heard from him back in D.C.—faint snores—which seemed like days ago now—reverberated in her ears.
She was too close. Way too close, in more ways than one. If she wanted to escape, she had to keep this impersonal. Room was what she needed in order to work her right hand across his stomach. The position she was in right now left her arm pinned under her side. Crap!
Flayme scooted sideways in a crab-like motion, and prayed the inch or so of space she created between them was enough. A sigh of relief escaped her. Yes! She could move her right arm freely, as long as she took his left arm with her.
Her nostrils flared as she again caught a whiff of his aftershave. There was just something about a cowboy, this cowboy—all that ruggedness and tough as leather, don’t-tread-on-me-or-I’ll-pull-my-colt, testosterone, just simmering in his genes. Leather! That was it. He smelled like old rawhide and—Flayme snorted. “Old rawhide my ass!” He smelled like sex on the hoof. Hot. Spicy. When did buckskin become such an aphrodisiac?
Lord, her imagination was going berserk. He wasn’t wearing buckskin or anything in any form of leather, not even a belt. Flayme skimmed her eyes down his flat belly, following the trail of dark hair that arrowed past his waist and disappeared below his beltline. She tried to lean closer, but ended up tumbling against him. Her heart leapt into her throat. “Oh, God.”
She stilled, but her raspy breaths competed with his soft snores.
The cowboy stirred.
Damn-damn-damn!
“Nicole?” he mumbled feverishly.
Flayme bit her lip. He sounded ill. She pushed his hat off his head. He’d probably have a fit because it landed on the floor brim up, but she didn’t care. She needed to see his face. His eyes. And damn it! Who the hell was this flippin’ Nicole he kept calling to? The woman needed to butt out of her business.
His eyes flickered open. Flayme swallowed hard and splayed her hands across his chest.
“Nicole?” he repeated urgently when she didn’t answer.
His eyes glittered with a glassy sheen. He blinked, as if he was having trouble focusing. His cheekbones looked hot and red as cherries. He licked his dry lips and moaned. Flayme splayed her palm against one whiskery cheek. God, he was burning up! What if he died? She asked herself that question for about the hundredth time. She’d have murdered not only an agent, but a fellow human being. She didn’t think she could live with that k
nowledge.
Gently, he pushed a stray curl behind her ear. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “I wanna do you, but you know that. Don’t you?”
Do her? Flayme stifled a snort. That’s just what she needed, a Cowboy Romeo out-of-his-head with fever—craving sex.
“You okay?” he asked huskily. He dragged her across his chest. His right arm settled around the lower part of her back.
“Peachy,” she gritted through her teeth. “Your Nicole is just fine and dandy, cowboy.”
“My Nicole,” he drawled, sighing. His hand dropped to her ass and he squeezed a butt cheek. “Like the sound of that, baby. Mmm, love the feel of that.” He massaged her ass again. “Definitely love the feel of that.”
Oh, you do, do you? Tough! Because Nicole was about to make her big exit. His eyes closed. Flayme drew a sharp breath. She waited for him to settle back into sleep. Then slowly, reluctantly, she slid off him. She told herself not to do it, but couldn’t resist gliding her right hand across his bare midriff. Ahh. Yummy. Talk about tight. His stomach felt hard as a brick. It fairly shouted, ‘Explore me more!’
Beads of sweat popped out on her forehead. A scant inch more, and she could slide her fingers right inside his jean pocket. Or below his waistband. A quarter inch. A hair. Whew! She was inside. Not past the waistband, although God knew her sorry fingers had hesitated there before moving on to the pocket. She itched to explore his manly package, but she had to behave herself to a certain degree.
Instead of going for the branding iron and gold nuggets, she’d gone for the other gold. Her fingertips touched the warm metal of the key. Shoot. Somehow, it just didn’t have the same appeal.
Hard, calloused fingers bit into the tender flesh on her wrist. “Woman, you’re going to have to manage to get a little control of yourself.”
Flayme squeaked, jumping like a startled chicken. “Control?” Lord have mercy, but he’d scared the hell outta her!
“Yeah. You go feeling ‘round so close to my—uh—you keep feeling around in there, doll baby, and you’ll get hold of something a lot harder than a key.”
“Auk! Crap. You weren’t asleep at all, were you?” Flayme jerked her hand out of his pocket, leaving the key behind.
“This what you’re looking for?” He held up the shiny key, amusement in his hot eyes. “Did you honestly think for one minute I’d leave the key to your freedom within your reach?”
“But…I–I saw you put the key in your pocket.”
“You saw me put a key in my pocket, the key to the trunk of my car.” He pulled it out and held it up. “Is there something in it you want? Need?”
“Jackass!”
He grinned, tossed the key on the nightstand and opened the drawer. He fumbled inside it for a moment, then held up a shiny steel key. “I believe this is the one you need.” He slid the key to the cuffs inside his pocket. “I just wanted to prove to you that you can’t get the key out of my pocket. I’m a light sleeper. Try it again, and I’ll cuff you to the bathroom sink.”
“Ooh! You and I simply don’t see eye-to-eye. We’ll never get along,” she snapped.
“I’m crushed. Here I was thinking we were getting along like Tom and Nicole.”
“You’re kidding right? They’re divorced!”
“I know, and we’ll be very divorced if you try for the key again.”
Flayme flipped on top of him, pounding his chest. “Let me go!”
“Ouch! Stop it, you little wild cat. I’m an injured man.”
“You deserved that for squeezing my ass.”
He grinned. “I couldn’t resist. You’re adorable when you’re scheming.”
She punched him again. “Let go of me!”
“Control yourself, tigress, you’re the one pinning me down here.”
“Oh.” So she was.
Duel rolled with her, settling his hard body on top of hers. She tried slapping him, but her position wasn’t the best for inflicting pain. Besides, he manacled both her wrists between one of his and grinned like a damn wolf, all white, shiny teeth and deadly eyes. “It was a test, doll baby, and you failed. You just proved you can’t be trusted.”
“You better start trusting me, cowboy,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“I’m all you’ve got. In a few hours, you’re going to need my help. The fever has already set in. You can’t fake that, and you’re bleeding again.”
He glanced at the dressing on his shoulder and moaned. “Thanks to you, I’m bleeding again. You just had to punch me, didn’t you?”
“You’re adorable when you’re scheming,” she said, tossing his words back at him and batting her eyelashes. “As long as those wounds remain open, they’re going to bleed with the least bit of exertion on your part. They need cleaning and suturing.”
“And you think I’d turn you loose with a needle to use on me?”
“If you don’t, you might die.”
He snorted. “If I don’t, I might live longer.”
“You need stitches.”
“Do I look like I’m interested in losing an eye? I give you a needle, and lady, with your love for sharp things, no telling where you’d stick me. Uh-uh. Forget it.”
“God, you’re so stubborn.” She fumed. If it had been possible, she’d have folded her arms beneath her breasts and tapped a foot in pure frustration. “I wouldn’t dream of stabbing you in the eye with a needle. Do you really think I’m that dangerous?”
“Uh-huh. I might be stubborn, but one thing I’m not, is a fool.” He slid his gaze over her face, touching on her eyes, her nose, then finally zeroing in on her mouth. “I’ve got you exactly where I’ve wanted you since I first saw you.”
“And that would be when?” Flayme couldn’t keep her gaze off his mouth. Such luscious lips. She’d never much thought about how a man’s mouth could be sexy and inviting, but this man’s lips were as fascinating as sin, and just as tempting. Velvet soft, sexy, and she already knew the taste of him, the power of his kiss.
“Right after good old Neil tempted you with his offer.”
“What offer?” Flayme frowned. She had no idea what he was going on about. Somewhere between his fascinating lips and the top button of his jeans, she’d lost her train of thought, and she wondered just which one of them was febrile. This man had the ability to scorch her soul.
“There you were, mad as a hornet,” he drawled, lazily twining one of her curls around his index finger. “You took off down the hall, feisty, furious, your hips swaying.” He studied the silken threads of her hair as if they were the most interesting things in the world to him. “Such fire,” he said. “Your hair is like a flame, hot and untouchable, yet here I am…touching.” Slowly, he released the curl and it bounced back in place. “And your legs. God, they looked fabulous in those sexy heels you were wearing. I loved those heels. What happened to them?”
“You happened to them,” she said warily. It wasn’t exactly true, but somewhere in the hours of this crazy night, he’d been involved in the destruction of her favorite suit and heels.
A frown settled between his eyes, as if he didn’t quite understand what she’d said. Then he continued, “All I wanted was to follow your lead, grab you and lock us together in a closet somewhere and do…wicked things to you.” His eyes glittered with sultry promise.
“Wicked?” Flayme licked her lips. “What kind of wicked…things?”
“Oh, you know…a lick…here.” He drew out the words. “A lick…there…licks… everywhere.”
Moist heat spiraled between her thighs at the slow pronunciation of the word lick—damp, hot, sinful heat that left her feeling as if she was in a sauna. The muscles in her womb softened and turned to mush. Her body buzzed as if an electric current shot through it. “Oh, God, I…uh…I didn’t see you—”
“No. I was standing near the elevators. I wanted to kiss you then, and I’m not foolish enough to waste this moment.” He cupped the sides of her face, lowered
his head, and nibbled along her jaw line. Before she realized his intent, he blazed a path of tiny kisses to her mouth, then lifting his head, he searched her eyes. “Now’s the time to say no, if you’re gonna.”
She blinked. “Do you think I’m insane?
“You had your chance,” he whispered. His mouth settled on hers, soft, ravaging, so damn blistering and sexy, her insides ignited and flashed white-hot. He might be injured, maybe even feverish, but when it came to kissing, the cowboy knew his stuff.
Ooh, this kiss!
Flayme thought if her mouth hadn’t been so thoroughly involved with his, she might start panting, or simply implode. Lord, the man had kissing down to a fine art.
And his tongue—those little licks he gave her lips, her tongue, oh yes, his tongue—he definitely knew what it was for and how to use it. He stroked the inside of her mouth, sipping from her as if her mouth was a delicate flower. His touch felt like silk, softly probing, coaxing her into responding while he took his time and fully explored every secret crevice. Wondering about other uses he might be expert at with it sent the blood super-charging through her body.
What he was doing to her just now, the way he skimmed the tip of her tongue with his, tasted and sipped, licked and searched out every tiny forbidden secret inside her mouth, sent waves of scalding steam spiraling through her womb and between her thighs.
Were her toes really curling? Maybe. She couldn’t think clearly with his hands scooping over her breasts, or the fact his fingers skimmed down her ribs as if they were the most precious things he’d ever touched.
All the while, his lips worked magic. He glided his fingertips over her body in a slow and sensual caress, touching forbidden places, searching for and discovering erogenous zones she didn’t even know existed.
Playing For Keeps (Montana Men) Page 23
