Classified

by Debra Webb

  Stark shook his head. “Walk back to town and get help. I’ll chill out here.”

  Funny. “We’ve had this conversation before, Stark. Now grab hold of the belt.”

  “Just don’t fall back in here.” He reached up and wrapped the end of the belt around one hand. “Here goes nothing.”

  Casey rolled her eyes. If she were a guy they wouldn’t be having this conversation.

  Stark bent one knee upward and dug the toe of his boot into the dirt wall. When he was satisfied that he had a toehold, he looked up at her. “You set?”

  “Climb already.”

  The belt tightened on her wrist. Casey grabbed on with her other hand and dug her elbows into the ground. His weight dragged against hers and she slid forward. A yelp ripped out of her before she could stop it.

  He let go of the belt.

  A crash echoed inside the hole.

  A scream trapped in her throat, Casey peered down at him. He was okay. Thank God.

  He turned his face up to hers. “Go for help. This isn’t going to work.”

  What was wrong with this guy? She was no quitter. Casey looked around again and found a large clump of scrub brush a couple feet away. But there was nothing near enough to help. Wait. There might be stuff in the old ruins.

  “I’ll be back.” She grabbed the tire iron and headed for the nearest dilapidated building.

  She couldn’t move as quickly as she would have liked for fear of falling into another unmarked hazard. The mine shafts were all supposed to be marked. Supposed to be evidently didn’t always pan out.

  An old bucket. A bench. Couple of large stones. Nothing useful. That she could carry anyway.

  Casey scrubbed the back of her hand over her forehead. What now? Every minute he was down there was a risk. Fernandez’s goons could show up to ensure their loose ends were tied up. The heap holding Stark could give way. She wasn’t adequately prepared.

  Then an idea occurred to her.

  Enthusiasm recharging, she picked her way back to the hole where she’d left Stark and dropped to her knees. She leaned forward. “Take off your jeans.”

  A considerable expanse of startled silence lapsed. Then, “Is that a pickup line?”

  “Ha ha.” He was a comedian. “Now take off your pants and toss ’em up here.”

  “You have a new plan?” He didn’t bother concealing the skepticism in his voice.

  “Just trust me, Stark,” she advised, her impatience flashing like a neon sign.

  “Trust you?” One of those deep, sexy—okay, she’d said it, sexy—laughs echoed from below. “Why not? I’ve trusted you this far, I guess.”

  “Fine. Just hurry up. It’s cold up here.” She shivered, the chill creeping all the way to her bones.

  He reached for his fly and glanced up. “Do you have to watch?”

  Casey sat back, her arms hugged around her to keep the cold at bay. She should have walked back to town. Maybe she would have been there by now. Instead she was freezing out here in the desert while some guy she’d just met shucked his pants. A guy who had trespassed into her mission.

  The jeans landed on the ground in front of her. Good shot. She picked them up and, despite the circumstances, checked the brand. “Pricey.” Now if the construction would just take the stress of what she was about to do.

  After tossing the end of one leg down to him, she wrapped herself around the bigger scrub bush and coiled the hem end of the second leg in her fists. Casey had no idea how deep the roots of these Mexican shrubs went, but any extra leverage would be useful.

  “Ready?” he called out.

  “As I’ll ever be.” That statement was far too true.

  This was it. There were no other options, except walking out of here alone. Stranger or not, competition or not, Casey didn’t want to leave Stark out here.

  Was she really that afraid of being alone? Lately it sure as heck seemed so.

  Stop with the ridiculous questions. Her mom had planted that idea in her head and obviously it had taken root. Stay on this course and you’re going to end up alone like your uncle Thomas. That was ridiculous. Her parents had been married for thirty years. ’Course they had married before her father joined the Agency. And what about Lucas? He had Victoria. Her mom was overreacting just because she wanted grandchildren and Casey had no siblings.

  The slack wrenched out of the jeans. Casey closed her eyes and concentrated on holding her ground. One, two, three seconds passed with the strain mounting fast.

  “Come on, come on,” she muttered. Hold on just a little longer.

  The bush gave a little. Casey’s eyes snapped open. “Hurry, Stark!”

  She couldn’t hold out much longer. He had to make it fast. She dug her heels into the dirt for more leverage.

  His head, then his shoulders appeared. Then his upper body was up and out.

  Casey resisted the urge to relax. Not until he was all the way out.

  One long, bare leg—save for the fancy boot—swung up onto the ground. Then the other. He rolled away from the hole but didn’t get up.

  Casey uncoiled herself from the bush and got to her feet. A frown wrinkled her forehead. Was he hurt?

  She walked closer. “You okay, Stark?” He wore paisley boxers. She laughed. Hadn’t meant to, but once she started she couldn’t stop.

  He stared at her until she stopped. When she did, he said in a very pointed tone, “I’m fine. But I’d rather not get up until I have my pants.”

  Casey burst into laughter again. She couldn’t help it. Maybe she was giddy with relief or just plain hysterical. Either way Stark wasn’t amused.

  Stark rolled onto his side and pushed up in a move smooth enough to impress even her. He wrenched off one boot, then the other and tossed them aside. He stalked up to her, sporting socked feet and those unexpected paisley boxers, bent down and claimed his jeans. He shook the dust off and pulled them on, all without taking his eyes off hers. If she hadn’t been so busy staring at him she might have had the presence of mind to hand him the jeans.

  When he’d fastened the fly, she gestured toward the hole. “I think your belt’s over there somewhere.”

  Casey gave him time to get his boots and belt in order before confessing, “You can head straight back to town if you want but I’m planning on paying Fernandez a little visit.” Maybe get the info he’d promised. “His place is on the way.”

  Stark held up the tire iron. “You think you’ll need more than this?”

  This part was going to be complicated. “I came here to do a job. I’m not leaving until it’s done.” She folded her arms over her chest, more from the cold than as a display of determination. But she was determined. This was her plan. She didn’t need his approval or his cooperation. Be that as it may, some clue as to what he had in mind could prove useful.

  “Well.” He dropped the tire iron to his side. “I have the same dilemma.” He braced his hands on his hips. “I suppose it would be a conflict of interest to work together toward that common goal. Never mind that I’ve proven my reliability and trustworthiness under considerably dicey conditions.”

  Was he proposing they help each other? Or was this a trick of some sort? What if their employers were mortal enemies? This could get complicated fast. “I’d have to know who you’re working for first.”

  He held out his hands, palms up. “That’s one thing I can’t give you.”

  Casey’s jaw dropped. That was ridiculous. “You want to work together but you can’t tell me who sent you?” Totally unacceptable.

  “All right.” He put his hands on his lean hips. “Tell me who you’re working for and I’ll do the same.”

  Her shoulders tensed. Classified, Lucas had said. “Sorry.” They were at an impasse. “I can’t do that. But,” she added quickly, “only because I’m under strict orders from my employer. Not because the information is relevant to you.” All true. Not that she owed him an explanation.

  Stark glanced over his shoulder and considered the lay o
f the land in the direction of the road then settled his attention back on her. He shrugged. “Well, we’re headed the same way.”

  “We are.” An entirely exaggerated awareness of him had her pulse speeding up again.

  “No reason we can’t walk together,” he suggested.

  “No reason at all,” she allowed.

  He gestured in the direction they’d come in a dead run from the bad guy. “Ladies first.”

  Shoulders squared, she stalked past him. He caught up with her and draped his jacket over her shoulders, all without missing a step.

  “You look cold.”

  She stopped and glared at him. “I’m fine.” She offered his jacket back to him.

  Instead of grabbing it, he took his time rolling down the sleeves of his shirt, first one, then the other. “It’s a long walk back to Fernandez’s place. It’s pretty cold out here.”

  Casey exhaled a lungful of frustration. “Fine. Fine. Fine.” She dragged on the jacket, sliding her arms into the too-long sleeves. His scent immediately invaded her nostrils… His body heat still warmed the inside of the jacket.

  Dear God! What was wrong with her?

  She marched forward, ignoring the man and the assault on her senses.

  He fell into step beside her. “Thanks for rescuing me back there.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Nice panties, by the way.”

  She kept walking. He was lucky. Really lucky she didn’t have a gun in her hand.

  If he survived until daylight he would be even luckier.

  Chapter Six

  Outside, Paulo Fernandez’s home and landscape remained as rustic as when he’d purchased the abandoned mining hacienda. But inside, he’d clearly spent extravagantly to create a retreat suitable for a royal. Too bad he was anything but royal.

  The two goofballs who had been charged with disposing of Casey and Stark were evidently groveling for forgiveness. Casey watched through a window near the front of the house as the two cowered in the center of the great room while Fernandez paced back and forth across the stone floor ranting and waving his arms like a dictator. There seemed to be little pleasure in paradise. If those two thought Fernandez was giving them a hard time, just wait until Casey got her turn. She hadn’t looked forward to getting even this much since her last field assignment for the Agency.

  Irritation rumbled in her belly at the idea that she’d been assigned to a desk for the last six months. Yeah, she’d almost taken a bullet a few times—three to be exact—in her two years of field service prior to that. The last time didn’t count in her opinion since the bullet had scarcely grazed its target. But the powers that be had labeled her reckless.

  Was it her fault the hostage had gotten injured during retrieval? Not at all. The guy had been a spoiled brat of a prince who hadn’t grown up in twenty-five years. He should have followed her orders. Then there wouldn’t have been an almost international incident. And he wouldn’t have needed a Band-Aid for the scrape he’d suffered.

  Casey kicked the frustrating thoughts aside. Maybe this vacation—that was what her superiors at the Agency thought she was doing—would demonstrate that she was more than capable of showing restraint and caution. She hadn’t killed or even injured anyone yet.

  “When he’s finished chewing them out,” Stark whispered, the sound so close to her ear she nearly jumped out of her skin, “maybe he’ll throw them out and the odds will be more in our favor.”

  Casey eased back from the window, needing to put some space between her and Stark since, for some reason, she seemed to have an issue controlling her physical reaction to his voice. There was no landscape lighting, so no fear of them being seen outside the restored soaring windows. Fernandez hadn’t bothered with window coverings anywhere on the first floor. She imagined that he assumed the dirty build-up on the glass would do the trick.

  “Especially after we disable them and take their weapons,” she said in response to Stark’s suggestion.

  Stark raised an eyebrow at her strategy, drawing her attention to his unusual green eyes for the hundredth time. She disliked immensely that she was so taken with the color.

  “Subduing Fernandez would likely garner their compliance,” he argued. “In light of their less than stellar performance so far I’d recommend something less than an excessive show of force. Get in, get out with the least amount of resistance.”

  “They have guns, Stark.” Did he have to argue with her every approach? If this was his idea of teamwork, she was out.

  “That would be my point.” He shifted his attention back to the drama inside. “We’re not armed and Fernandez appears not to carry a weapon, making for a more level playing field.”

  He probably viewed busting in as a bad idea, too.

  “Waiting until Fernandez calls it a night will provide the optimum opportunity,” he went on. “His underlings will retire to their quarters and we’ll have the least interference.”

  Casey knew it. Stark would take the most conservative approach. Every step they had made together so far had teemed with caution. They hadn’t gotten twenty yards in this direction before he’d stopped and insisted on going back to search the area around the hole they’d fallen in for the weapon he’d taken from the bad guy. It hadn’t mattered that she explained repeatedly that she had not seen the weapon while trying to figure out a way to get him out of said hole. That proved, without a doubt, that he did not trust her. How were they supposed to work together if he didn’t trust her?

  When they had finally reached Fernandez’s place, they had searched the small outbuilding before advancing to the main house. The outbuilding seemed deserted and no weapons had been lying around, but it was obvious that the building served as a bunkhouse for Fernandez’s pals. A man like him would never share a roof with the help.

  “Waiting,” Casey countered. “That’s your plan?”

  “You’re suggesting that yours is better?” He waved the tire iron in her face, the rusty weapon made significantly less threatening by the dim glow from the window. “Since we’re so well prepared and all.”

  “We compromise.” Casey turned the notion over in her head. “We lay in wait in the bunkhouse and surprise his men. Put them out of commission, then we’ll have the advantage of no distractions and we’ll be armed. Convincing Fernandez to talk will be a breeze.” Made perfect sense to her, but then she was a highly trained agent.

  Stark deliberated for long enough to make her want to shake him. She wasn’t going to like his response. Exasperation roiled in her gut. This was exactly why she preferred working without a partner. Far too much energy was expended on talk rather than action.

  “Must the last word always belong to you?”

  She’d expected a flat-out no or maybe a counter plan. Definitely not such a personal question. No, not a question. He’d made a statement disguised as a question. An outright accusation. “Is that a yes?” They were wasting time. Since Fernandez was no longer pacing she had to assume the discussion inside was winding down.

  “Why not?” Stark directed his attention back to the scene inside the house.

  Would it have been so difficult to respond with a simple yes? She checked the status of those inside one last time before moving away from the window. When she was clear, she pushed upright and hustled to the outbuilding they had decided was a bunkhouse. Stark followed close behind her.

  Casey had never worked with a P.I. before. If they were all this conservative she didn’t see how they ever completed a mission successfully.

  The bunkhouse was unlocked. In fact, there wasn’t a lock at all. Casey supposed Fernandez’s security or cleanup detail, whatever those two called themselves, weren’t concerned with their own personal safety. Made Casey’s job a whole lot easier. The door’s hinges creaked with age and neglect, making her cringe though she knew the noise was coming. The smell of overloaded ashtrays and sweaty socks wasn’t any more aromatic now than it had been the first time she’d entered.

  Li
ke the landscape, the interior of the one-room structure was rustic and desolate. Light beyond that of the moon filtering in the windows was not required to survey the sparsely furnished space. Wood floors and walls that had been around several decades. Windows with no glass, just small rectangles cut out of the walls. A couple beat-up iron beds with shabby blankets covering the mattresses. The chest of drawers loaded with unwashed clothes had been searched and there was nothing on the wobbly table other than a couple empty beer bottles. A single bare bulb dangled over the table and its accompanying woven bottom chairs. A rusty fridge held more beer. The place was a real dump.

  Casey took a position at one of the windows facing the back of the main house. Stark stayed near the door. She needed a weapon. They’d checked under the scrawny mattresses already as well as every other nook and cranny in the joint. There was no place else to look.

  The beer bottles. She smiled and moved as soundlessly as possible to the table. One in each hand, she resumed her position at the window just in time to watch the two hombres swagger from the back of the main house. She drew back but there was no worry. The men were too busy arguing about who screwed up to look, even if they had been able to see her in the dark.

  She glanced toward Stark; he had faded into the shadows on the other side of the door. Doing the same, she flattened against the wall, putting the chest of drawers between her and the door.

  The hinges whined as the back door opened. Their booted footsteps echoed loudly as the two men stamped into the room, still growling at each other.

  Casey held her breath.

  The man in the gray sweatshirt dragged out a chair, the legs scraping across the wood floor, and collapsed into it. She braced for him to yank at the chain, turning on the overhead light but he didn’t. Anger lit beneath her breastbone. This was the idiot who’d chased them through a literal mine field.

  Guy Two ranted in Spanish, basically reenacting the scene with their boss, as he slammed the door. He blamed his partner for not putting a bullet in Casey’s and Stark’s heads sooner. He opened the fridge door. A dim burst of light pooled around him. Casey held absolutely still, the blood roaring in her ears. The faint glow didn’t reach her or Stark’s position.