by Misty Evans
His free hand unzipped his jacket, dug under the vest and shirt covering the base of his neck. Her breath caught when she saw him drag out the very thing she was looking for.
Still searching her eyes, he held up the ornate golden cross and let it rock in the air. “I have it,” he said. “It was the only thing of you I did have.”
Light from overhead bounced off the inlaid gemstones, her future sparkling between them.
Chapter Three
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MILES’ GUTS CRAWLED at the scars on Sarah’s—Charlotte’s—body. She clutched the towel to her chest, trying to cover them, but he could see a fairly fresh mark on her collarbone.
Her face was devoid of any, and even without makeup, she was quite simply beautiful.
He saw her throat work as she swallowed, staring at the cross. She held out a hand, her gaze meeting his. “I need it back.”
His phone vibrated inside his pants pocket. He’d shut off the ringer, but he recognized the three short pulses of the personalized tone he had for Emit Petit.
Slipping the cross back under his shirt collar, he watched as Charlotte followed his every move. She licked her pale lips and his mind blanked out for a moment.
The things she’d done to him with those lips, that mouth. It was enough to make him hard.
Yet, after what she’d just told him, he had the sick, uncanny feeling she’d only been using him in some personal undercover operation to double-cross her own country.
The phone buzzed again, insistent in his pocket. “I want to hear the whole story,” Miles said, rising and offering her a hand up. He dug the phone from his pocket with his other hand. “Put some clothes on and we’ll talk.”
Snatching Charlotte’s gun from the vanity counter and moving a few steps back to give her room to grab her clothes, he answered the phone. “Yeah.”
His boss’s voice sounded annoyed. “Yolanda Fernandez needs your services asap.”
Yolanda was a West Coast security service client. A thirty-something dynamo who ran her own import company and had been going through a nasty divorce a few months back. Miles had played a hybrid security services specialist and bodyguard to her. “I’m kinda busy.”
“Her ex is at the house threatening her.”
Miles stuck Charlotte’s empty gun into his belt at the small of his back. “Then she should call the police. She has a restraining order.”
“This is the third incident in the past two months. She called the local badges, but no one’s responded yet. You’re only half a mile from her place.”
More like three miles since he was at this rundown motel on the north end of the city.
Charlotte had moved to the vanity where she was playing around with a makeup bag on the counter. She’d secured the towel around her ample breasts, having made no move to get dressed.
A warning bell went off in Miles’ head, and he moved behind her in record time, grabbing her hand out from inside the bag. She clutched a travel size lotion and raised an eyebrow at him in the mirror.
“Come on, man,” he said to Petit, steering Charlotte away from the vanity and toward the other room. “I’m on vacation.”
“You’re on a bender, and I totally get it after what went down in Syria, but I need to know I can rely on you to keep the West Coast Rock Star office running while I work on setting up the Chicago satellite. You said you needed a few months off from Shadow Force and could handle the personal security division out there, so what’s it going to be? Can you keep the West Coast division at top speed or not?”
He had the skills, he had the talent. All he needed was the motivation.
Charlotte had gone over to a suitcase lying open on the bed. Her bra and underwear were laid out on top of the comforter.
She rummaged around inside the suitcase. A telltale zip of energy ran up Miles’ arms. She was looking for something besides clothes.
In two strides, he was next to her, nudging her out of the way with his hip. He ran his hands inside the suitcase, searching, searching…
Nada. No weapons.
With swift movements, he yanked out a pair of jeans and a purple blouse, tossing them on the bed next to her undergarments and pointing from her to the clothes.
“Poison?” Emit’s voice was strained. “You there?”
Petit had rescued him from the foot of those damn mountains in Romania. Had given him a solid job and helped him keep his demons at bay. He owed the man a hell of a lot. Besides, he couldn’t in good conscious strand Yolanda. Her ex was a blowhard, full of self-importance and bluster, but the guy had a mean streak that made him dangerous. “I can handle it, boss.”
“Good, I’m counting on you. Now get your ass over to Yolanda’s and make sure our client is safe from her ex-husband.”
“I’ll take care of it. Tell Rory I found Veronica. He can quit digging around about her.”
Emit didn’t ask who Veronica was, thank God, and they disconnected. Charlotte was staring at him, making no moves to put on the clothes he’d laid out for her. “Please,” she said. “All I need is that cross and I’ll be out of your hair. You never have to see me again.”
That was the problem. He wanted to see her again. Traitor or not, he wasn’t letting her leave him again.
“So Romania. That was all a lie, then? You and me. You needed someone to get this cross”—he tapped his chest where the cross lay under his shirt and the flak vest—“out of the country. To keep it safe until you could retrieve it.”
Her eyes went soft. “Nothing that happened between you and I was a lie.”
If it hadn’t been for her, he would have died on that mountainside. She hadn’t known he was going to be there, so surely she hadn’t planned to save him for her own purposes.
Or had she?
Did it matter now? Somewhere along the line, she’d seen a way to get the cross out of Romania. What was so important about it?
He had to get to Yolanda but he wasn’t done with Charlotte. Not by a long shot. “We need to go.”
“I do need to go, but not with you. It’s too dangerous for you to be around me. Just give me the cross and I’ll get out of your life again.”
“You’re coming with me, like it or not. So put on those clothes or I will drag your half naked ass out of here. Your choice.”
Her nostrils flared as she sucked in an irritated breath. “If Nicolae—”
“If Bourean comes anywhere near you,”—Miles moved into her personal space and stared down at her—“I will tear him apart, limb by limb. Let him come. I look forward to it.”
He thought he saw her shiver. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
Snatching the shirt off the bed, he handed it to her. “Get dressed. We’re leaving.”
She let the towel fall, donning the bra and slipping the blouse over her head. “Where are we going?”
“To help someone.” He moved away to give her some privacy, but there was no way he was taking his eyes off her. He leaned against the doorjamb and cocked his chin at her suitcase. “And quit going after weapons. I know who you really are now and how you think. You’re not getting this cross off of me until I’m good and ready to give it back.”
“But you are going to give it back, right?”
He let his eyes drift over her hipbones, her thighs. He couldn’t help himself. She was underweight and there was a haunted look that never seemed to leave her face, but nothing slacked his desire for her. She was a goddamn traitor—the thing he hated most in the world—and even that didn’t turn him off.
Fucked. He was totally, one-hundred-percent fucked. From the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, he’d been a goner.
She donned the jeans and slid her feet into a pair of shoes next to the bed, raking her wet hair back as she waited for his answer.
Scars and betrayal be damned, he still wanted her. He glanced out the window, checking the area for Bourean
or anyone else who might be watching.
“We’ll see,” he said, as he tossed her her jacket and hustled her out the door.
“WHERE ARE WE going?” Charlotte said, jerking her elbow out of Miles’ grasp.
His hair was short now, his body as lean and muscled as she remembered. There was a hardness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. A hardness that took her breath away when he looked at her.
Unlocking the truck, he hustled her into the passenger seat. “To help someone.”
She needed her passport, her wallet, her gun. “Bringing me along will not help them. I’m—”
He shut the door before she could finish her sentence. Skirting the front of the truck to his side, he scanned the parking lot and then hopped in to the cab.
Fluid movements, focused concentration. Just like in the bathroom when he’d studied her naked body from head to toe.
“Nicolae Bourean is after me,” she reminded him. Why didn’t he understand how vicious and tricky Nico was? “MI6 thinks I’m a traitor. Anyone I’m around is in danger. I’m in danger. Especially since you’ve left me unarmed.”
He started the truck and put it in reverse. “You don’t need a weapon. I’ll protect you.”
The night was dark and still. He pulled out of the parking lot and followed the access road to the main highway, seemingly unconcerned about her current situation.
Miles was one man. Nico had hundreds of men—ruthless mercenaries—at his beck and call.
They waited at a stop light, silence filling the cab. “What happened after the cabin?” Miles asked. “Where did you go?”
Maybe if she answered his questions, that hardness would leave his eyes. He’d be satisfied and would give her the necklace. “After I contacted Emit Petit to come pick you up, I went to see my handler.”
“How do you know Emit?”
“I crossed paths with him a few years ago in Moscow when an American businessman was accused of spying activities and needed help getting his family out of the country. His wife is a British citizen and so are the children. I was in the area and had been called in to try diplomatic avenues. Those were failing and Mr. Petit arrived with a less diplomatic, but more efficient, solution. I lent a hand in the exfiltration; made sure the wife and kids made it back to London.”
Lights from a car behind them illuminated the cab. Miles’ face was devoid of emotion. “What did you go see your handler about? To tell him you pumped the American sailor for intel?”
“I set your broken ankle and nursed you back to health. I never pumped you for intel.”
A muscle popped in his jaw. He kept his focus on the highway as the truck topped eighty.
Could this reunion be going any better? “I went to see my handler because I hadn’t checked in with him for six weeks.” She turned toward the window and stared at the all-night gas stations and restaurants dotting the landscape. The best six weeks of my life.
If only she could reach out and touch him, tell him how sorry she was.
Charlotte stared at his shadowed profile, the pulse at the base of her throat beating like the wings of a trapped bird. It took all her willpower not to touch his hand on the shifter, run her fingers across his tight jaw. He wouldn’t accept her touch any more than her apology, and she didn’t have time for this…whatever this was. “How about you answer one of my questions? Like, who are you so fired up about going to help?”
They passed a slower moving car. He unclenched his jaw. “A woman whose ex is threatening her.”
A woman. Charlotte’s heart tweaked a little. Of course he’d found someone new. He probably had dozens of women he spent time with. Good for him. It wasn’t like they could resume their past relationship, anyway.
But, God, the thought of him with someone else made her heart feel too small inside her chest. As if all the blood were drying up, her heart cracking.
She forced casualness into her voice. “You really think it’s a good idea to bring me to meet your girlfriend?”
“Girlfriend?” He sent her a confused look. “She’s a client and he’s a lousy SOB who needs to be taught a lesson.”
Client, right. Rock Star Security—the front for Shadow Force International. She’d figured Miles wouldn’t go back to the SEAL teams, figured Emit Petit might have use for him. While SFI kept the identities and whereabouts of the employees strictly confidential, it hadn’t taken long for her to figure out Miles wasn’t in D.C. when she arrived in America. He was working out of the West Coast branch.
Without signaling, Miles took an off ramp and interrupted her thoughts. “How did you end up kidnapped by Bourean?”
She debated whether to answer. Decided it didn’t make a lot of difference. He wasn’t going to answer more of her questions and she needed him to understand the severity of what he was doing. “In recent years, Britain has been hit by a Romanian crime wave, including rapes and murders all led by Nico. MI6 sent me to infiltrate his organization. It took time, but I got in deep enough to start gathering intel on several of his criminal activities and overheard a disturbing conversation. He’d hooked up with a terrorist and formed a collaboration to export certain members of his clan to the UK in order to set up sleeper cells.”
They drove past a fancy, gated community, and took a left onto a long drive that rose to a house on a hill.
“Sleeper cells for what purpose?” Miles said, slowing the truck and scanning the dark expanse of yard.
All the lights were on in the two-story mansion. Outside lights revealed a Mercedes in the circular drive, parked at an odd angle, and a man standing on the steps with his hands raised into the air, shaking his fists and yelling.
“He was going into the terrorist business. I just needed to prove it.”
Miles cocked his chin at the man on the front steps. “This guy is trouble. If I don’t shut him down, he will eventually hurt the woman inside. He’s probably drunk and needs to know, right here tonight, that he can’t keep doing this. Help me out a minute, would ya?”
He was out of the truck and striding toward the man before Charlotte could ask how.
She checked over her shoulder, saw no one had followed them. She debated, then exited the truck.
“Ted.” Miles stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “I told you to stay away from her.”
The man whipped around and snarled. “And I told you to butt out. She’s my wife!”
Miles took the stairs two at a time, putting himself face-to-face with the guy. “Not anymore. She divorced your sorry ass for this very reason. You’re a violent drunk. Let her go. Get some help. Move on.”
Ted growled and took a roundhouse swing. Miles easily dodged it, grabbed the man’s arm and tossed him down the steps.
A couple of flips, arse over teakettle, and he landed at Charlotte’s feet, moaning.
He wasn’t all that big, but probably a good thirty pounds overweight. He lifted his head and looked up at her, his eyes bloodshot. The smell of beer wafted up from him. Something changed in his demeanor, and a second later, he reached out and snagged hold of her ankle.
She stomped on his wrist with her free foot. The man howled and let go. Miles, having followed the man down, grasped his flailing arm and hauled it behind his back. Then he forced Ted to his feet, rolling his eyes at the man’s string of curses.
Spittle formed on Ted’s lips and the alcohol fumes made Charlotte take another step back.
“The police are on their way to arrest you,” Miles told him. “This is your third violation of the restraining order. We can’t have this, Teddy, ol’ boy. Not on my watch.”
Ted spit at the ground. “Fucking cops won’t do anything to me.”
“No, but I will,” Charlotte said, moving closer.
Miles looked at her over Ted’s shoulder. “Yeah, my friend here doesn’t like men who abuse their wives. You know, if it was just me, I’d kill you and make your body disappear, but Charlotte here, she likes to make domestic abusers suffer.”
Ted stopp
ed struggling.
Charlotte gave him her best psychotic smile and ramped up her British accent a notch. “Do I get to take him apart limb by limb? I so love all that blood.”
Miles spoke close to Ted’s ear. “She has a spot out in the desert, keeps you alive for days while she tortures you.”
“Fuck you,” Ted said, blustering again. “I don’t believe that.”
Charlotte licked her lips. “Want me to show you what I can do?” She ran a finger over the side of his face, eyeing him like he was a piece of meat. “I learned from the best, you know. Serbian war criminals. Russian mobsters. Romanian Gypsies. They all know how to inflict tremendous pain without killing you.”
“Gypsies?” Ted reared back from her finger. “Who the hell are you?”
Funny that the term Gypsy carried more fear for him than war criminals and mobsters.
She could work with that. She tapped the end of his nose. “We’re going to have lots of fun, you and I. And while you’re dying, I’ll curse your bones so your ghost walks the desert from now until eternity.”
She began chanting a Gypsy song her mother had taught her.
The man reared back again but went nowhere since Miles was holding him. “You’re sick.” He tried to twist away from Miles’ grip. “Let me go. I want out of here.”
Lights from an approaching car spotlighted them. Charlotte startled and turned. A black and white cruiser. Police.
A violent relief flooded her and she backed away, out of the spotlight. As Miles handed Ted over to them, she slipped quietly into the truck, keeping her face in shadows.
A woman erupted from the house, flying down the stairs and hugging Miles as the cops shoved a handcuffed Ted into the backseat of the cruiser. He was yelling and cursing and Charlotte could hear him through the windows.
She caught his eye. He stopped mid-curse and stared at her, almost daring her.
She gave him a little wave and licked her lips. Then she gave him what she hoped was a full-on serial killer smile.
He drew away, sliding across to the other side of the seat.
Miles finally detached himself from Yolanda and guided her to an officer who began taking her statement. Miles climbed into the truck a moment later and put it in gear.
