by Misty Evans
“Sweet, yes. After I refused to wear them anymore, I helped her turn the dresses into curtains for our kitchen windows to try to make amends. She was good like that. She covered her hurt and kept plunging forward, no matter the circumstances.”
He moved a step closer to her. “Reminds me of someone else I know.”
There was more, so much more that she wanted to tell him. About her mother, her father, herself. “My older brother, Landon, has autism. Mild, but still a strain on our family. This boy at school, Teddy Oostenrick, made fun of Lanny all the time and it really pissed me off. I finally punched him in the nose when we were seven. I got in trouble, of course, but it didn’t stop me. All through primary and into elementary, I took on anyone who made fun of my brother, and there were a lot. My dad finally taught me how to fight more efficiently and not get caught. I’d wait for the bullies after school, off school property, and then I’d kick their arses.”
Miles was chuckling now, slowly moving closer and closer. “Landon’s lucky to have you for a sister.”
“When we got older, he’s the one who made me look at things logically, with less emotion. I learned a lot from him. How to think outside the box, how to run numbers and combinations in my head and look for different possible outcomes. His autism felt like a burden growing up, but it helped me in so many ways. All of my family—my mom, my dad, Landon—they made me the agent I am today.”
He was close enough to touch her now. His fingers skimmed her hand, his thumb grazing her wrist. “When we’re done here, I’ll make sure you get back to them to tell them that.”
The thought of seeing them made a lump form in her throat. She hadn’t been home—really home—in years. Her mother was dead. An accident they said, but Charlotte knew better. She’d been there that night, had seen the blood on her mother’s chest, the fire bursting from the shop’s windows.
Insisting her mother had been murdered only resulted in her being put in a psyche ward, straps around her wrist, drugs pumping into her veins. She’d learned a lot since then. Her mother’s killer was still out there. Her father still wouldn’t speak of her death.
Miles brushed her face, stroking her cheek and jaw. “Out in the truck you said you didn’t know who you were or what you wanted. I think that’s bullshit. You know exactly who you are, Charlotte Carstons—a beautiful, intelligent MI6 agent on a mission—and I believe you know exactly what you want. You simply need to be honest with yourself.”
Her cheeks heated, the memory of his words in the truck filling her brain again.
…the one thing I want more than anything is to get you back under me.
She could be honest with herself. That’s exactly what she wanted too.
Looking up into his eyes, the night so dark and silent around them, she felt like she was back in her cabin. Snow fell outside, no one around for miles. Inside the plane, the air between them was charged with sexual longing. A craving so strong, she couldn’t deny it even if she was the best liar in the world.
“There’s more you should know about me, about my heritage. I don’t think you’ll care but some people do. My mother…well, I’m a posh ratt. That’s slang for half-blood.”
“Your mother is a Horvath. I know,” he said, brushing his lips across hers. “She’s a Gypsy and you have Gypsy blood in you.” His hand circled back to rub her lower spine. “Probably put a curse on me, haven’t you? That’s why I can’t get you out of my blood.”
In Romania, she had to keep her half-blood status a secret. In the old country, they looked down on a Romani rackli—Gypsy woman—marrying a gorga mush—non-Gypsy man. The chavvies—kids from that union—were always outcasts and looked down on.
In Britain, standards among the Gypsy population were looser, although some still considered mixed blood a taint to the tribe. Like the Mudbloods in the fictional Harry Potter stories, she was ignored or even hated by those who felt she was beneath them. Her father’s job had given her a certain amount of insulation in school, but she’d hidden her half-blood status from many Gypsies over the years.
She leaned into Miles, kissing him lightly and laughing. “A spell to keep you lusting after me. There’s a dance that goes along with it. I can show you.”
They chuckled together, and then he kissed her for real, bending her back and parting her lips with his tongue. She welcomed it, wrapping her arms around his neck and feeling the surge of familiar passion.
So long. She’d waited for this for so long, never believing it would happen. Now he was here, with her, and ready to pick up where they’d left off.
Heat prickled over her skin as his fingers went under her shirt and touched her gently on her back. His tongue wove around hers before his teeth nipped at her bottom lip.
Maneuvering her around, he guided her to the table, giving her a boost onto it. She spread her legs wide, allowing him access as he bent his head. Arching her own back, she let him kiss down her neck, across her collarbone, moaning as he licked the hollow of her throat.
His fingers still rubbed slow and steady up and down her back. Heady with lust, it took her a moment to realize he was tracing her scars.
Flashbacks of her time at Nicolae’s hands suddenly filled her head, making her stiffen. She turned her head away from Miles, revulsion thick in her throat.
It wasn’t only the awful memories of the beatings. She knew how to shove them deep into a mental hole. But she was full of scars, inside and out. Ugly scars that she needed to keep hidden.
As she tried to scoot away, he stopped her, his mouth brushing against her ear. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop the bastard,” he murmured, “but he won’t get away with what he did to you. To all of us. We’re going to take him down, and whoever was working with him as well.”
His warm breath on her ear, his solid hold on her—not constraining, only comforting—melted the unease flooding her body. Miles knew she had secrets and he’d already seen the physical scars. He hadn’t run, hadn’t told her to get lost. So why was she freezing up at the thought of him seeing those scars again, tracing them with his fingers?
Parting her lips, she let go of the breath she was holding. She looked into his face, the shadows making his eyes unfathomably dark. Her fingertips lightly touched his cheek. “You said earlier that I knew what I wanted. You were right. I want you. But I have to be sure…is this what you really want?”
His answer was a kiss, long and deep, his hand bracketing her face and holding her in place. He worked over her lips, then spread soft kisses to her cheeks, her forehead. He held her still as he broke away from kissing her and looked deep into her eyes. “I don’t know what tomorrow holds, Charlotte, but tonight, this is exactly what I want. You. All of you. No holds barred, no secrets between us.”
His hands caught the hem of her shirt and worked it up her arms, over her head, baring her to him. She let him slip her bra straps down, free her breasts, and once more lower his head.
As he used his skilled mouth on each breast, Charlotte closed her eyes and pretended they had a future.
CHARLOTTE LAY ON her stomach on the table, moonlight highlighting her back and the fine white lines crisscrossing it. They looked silvery in the light.
Miles kissed his way down the back of her neck, listened to her sigh. She hated baring herself in this manner, letting him see the scars, but he needed to. Hands working on getting her pants off, he took a moment to look—really look—at those damn scars.
He’d thought he’d seen it in the bathroom when she’d been exposed. Again when he’d removed the tracking device from between her shoulder blades. Now, with no towels or robes in the way, he was sure of it.
N-I-C-O. The letters were carved in the pale skin over her right hipbone.
The bastard had marked her as his.
Anger roared through him, sickening him at the thought she’d endured such torture. That Nicolae Bourean—or any man—thought he had the right to brand her.
Before he realized that his hands had stopped
peeling off her pants, that his lips had stopped tracing her vertebrae, she jerked a look at him over her shoulder. He didn’t shift his gaze fast enough and she caught him staring at those letters. She jerked, half turning and tugging her pants back up.
“Stop,” he said, stilling her hands. “Let me look at you.”
“What’s there to see? Do hideous scars turn you on?”
“You’re beautiful, scars or no.” Did she even know Bourean had carved his name into her hip? “If you decide you want to remove them, I know a doctor who can help. She’s had good luck with laser surgery. Helped me with a few of mine.”
“You’ve had scars removed?”
He shrugged, unbuttoned his shirt to show her his chest. “More like refashioned.”
The scar on his chest, courtesy of some shrapnel from the helicopter crash, had been smoothed out by Dr. Pasil. Over it, Miles’d had his favorite tattoo artist create a stylized wave and trident with the initials of his dead Team brothers on the tip of each of the trident’s points.
She sat up and touched the tattoo, her fingers cool against his skin. “That’s wicked. I can’t see or feel the scar that was there at all.”
“I’m lucky the shrapnel didn’t do more damage and that the cream you treated it with healed the cut so well, but there was a decent scar there and the laser surgery reduced it significantly. Dr. Pasil can help you too. I’m sure of it.”
Her hand fell away, traced the hint of hair that ran down his stomach and disappeared under his belt buckle. She looked up at him, leaned forward and kissed the trident on his chest, causing him to suck in his breath. “We’re a mess, you know. All of our scars.”
Her accent had thickened, her eyes pools of the deepest blue in the moonlight. They were a mess, but he didn’t care.
He caught her mouth with his, laying her back down on the tabletop as he kissed down her neck, between her breasts, down her stomach. Morning was only a few hours off, and while he could have used the sleep, he needed Charlotte so much more.
Heart beating like a gorilla in his chest, he loved hearing her moan his name. Her hands were in his hair, the jeans sliding down her long legs and hitting the floor.
A buzzing came from his back pocket, his phone vibrating his ass cheek and disturbing the quiet of the plane’s cabin. He ignored it, spreading Charlotte’s legs wide and kissing the inside of her thighs.
“What’s that?” she half whispered, half moaned. “Is that your phone?”
He trailed his lips up higher. “Don’t worry about it,” he said against her soft, smooth skin.
Her fingernails scraped against his scalp, her fingers tugging his hair, encouraging his lips to move even higher. “What if it’s your friend? What if he’s in trouble?”
Shit, Jax. She could be right. Pausing in his ministrations, he laid his forehead against the top of her right thigh, dug his phone out. Caller ID told him it wasn’t Jaxon, but it was important.
Straightening, he still kept his body looming over Charlotte so she didn’t get any ideas he was done with her. Far from it. “Don’t move,” he said to her as he punched the accept button and glanced out the nearby window. The landscape beyond the plane looked the same. Empty. “Yo. What’s up?” he said into his phone.
Beatrice—thank God—was her normal self. No small talk; all business. “Rory and I found something. Check your messages.”
Miles clicked over to his message app, saw a grainy, monochrome photo that meant nothing to him. Charlotte was giving him a curious stare. “What is it?”
“Can you see it?” Beatrice said in his ear. “Security camera at the safe house caught it.”
He did another scan of the photo. Grey mass with a blob here and there was all he saw. Charlotte sat up, forcing him to move back. “Caught what exactly?”
“Upper left-hand corner. See the darker mass in the fog?”
A third look at the photo. This time, Charlotte leaned forward, scanning the photo as well as she located her shirt and tugged it on with one hand and hit the speaker button with her other.
Multitasking. She’d always been good at it. He smiled as he remembered just how good she was at it in bed.
Which made annoyance at the current interruption burn like acid under his skin. “Looks like a bird,” he said to Beatrice. “Why do I care?”
“It’s a drone.”
Charlotte’s eyes snapped to his. “A drone?” she said, grabbing her jeans from the ground.
Beatrice didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, Agent Carstons. We believe it followed you from the house. Any clue who might have sent it?”
“No.” Charlotte shook her head even though Beatrice couldn’t see it. She pulled up her jeans and zipped them and Miles wanted to punch the table. “Nicolae, I guess. He traded in them on occasion, but I never knew him to use one.”
A squeak from Beatrice’s chair filtered through the phone. “I don’t believe it was Nicolae Bourean. Whoever used this drone to track you had to be on your tail at the safe house. They’re the ones who notified MI6 where you were headed.”
“Nicolae’s the one who embedded a tracking chip in her back,” Miles argued. “That’s the only way anyone could have found us at the safe house.”
“Unless Bourean is working with MI6, Agent Carstons, I’d say there’s another player in the mix. From airport footage, we can see that the drone definitely followed you to the airport, then disappeared right before the MI6 agents showed up.”
Charlotte sank into one of the seats and stared out the window. “Nico is wanted by MI6. He would never work with them. Even if they cut him a deal in exchange for his help, he wouldn’t give up the chance at killing me. There’s no satisfaction in that. No revenge.”
“Then I suggest you review your contacts and friendships, Agent. Someone has betrayed you.”
The line went dead. Miles put the phone away and slid into the seat next to Charlotte. “At least we know now how MI6 found us at the airport.”
“Yeah.” She continued to stare out the window, but her mind seemed a million miles away. “You’re sure there is no other tracking device buried under my skin?”
“Positive.”
“And yet someone found us again.” She pointed out the window and Miles’ heart lurched into his chest.
A dark figured moved stealthily down the hill, disappearing behind a tree.
“Damn it.” He rose and checked his weapon. He should have been paying more attention. The farm was long ago abandoned, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t ever used by criminals and vagrants. Or maybe even a spy or two when they needed a place that looked deserted to hide in.
Charlotte laid a hand on his. “Are you sure it’s not Megadeth?”
“Hiding in the woods? Stay here. I’ll take care of it.”
“Bull.” Charlotte rose from her seat, grabbing her coat from behind her. “We do this together.”
Two minutes ago, he’d had her on her on her back, nearly naked. Now she wanted to jump into the line of fire with him. “I don’t think you understand how this works. I’m protecting you. Now sit tight.”
White teeth flashed in the shadows at him and he heard the click of her gun’s magazine snapping into place. “I’ve never had a partner before. This could be fun.”
Jesus. He was so screwed. “Charlotte…”
“Don’t Charlotte me. I’m a trained operative, not some rich housewife who can’t hold her own against an abusive husband. We’re partners in this. Now get moving before that guy out there ambushes us.”
Defeat wasn’t in his vocabulary. This is only a concession. “Stay close and watch my six.”
There was a teasing note to her voice. Excitement too. “You think you’re taking the lead on this?”
Screwed, yessiree. He was one-hundred percent screwed. “Either that, or you sit your sweet ass back down in that seat. You’re a Rock Star client, operative or not, and I’m your bodyguard. Take it or leave it, Carstons.”
Her hand found his ass and gave one
cheek a little squeeze. “Oh, I’m taking it,” she said, her presence suddenly warm against his backside. “Lead the way, bodyguard.”
Washington, D.C.
BEATRICE REESE STARED at the paper file on Charlotte Carstons and tapped her pen on her blotter. Paper files were so last millennium, but the SFI computer system was undergoing a complete virus scan like it did every Wednesday evening, and she preferred not to fight with her computer while the scan ran in the background. Rory assured her the scan didn’t slow down her computer or the normal office intranet, but Beatrice didn’t believe him.
Most places ran their full system scans in the middle of the night when no one was around. At SFI headquarters, there were always staff around. Much of their communication often happened at night when their Rock Star clients were more active, as were the criminals Shadow Force teams hunted.
Granted, several of her paramilitary teams were out of the country and in different time zones, but her and Rory’s analysis of peak times confirmed that Wednesday evenings between five and eight p.m. EST were usually quite dead and the opportune time for him to babysit the scan. Beatrice relied on logic, data, facts. She still didn’t understand why that particular time was so slow every week.
Security wasn’t just important at SFI, it was at the top of the list. Client safety was a close second. Beatrice preached it daily to her staff and employees. Security and safety—sides of the same coin.
And that’s why she was particularly worried about Miles Duncan.
Charlotte Carstons had a red X on her back. A target. Not just from a Romanian crime lord, but also by her employer. A bad combination if Beatrice had ever seen one. Since she had once been hunted by her own employer—the U.S. government—she knew all about that particular scenario. Things had been ugly for a while, but she’d lucked out. The assassin sent to kill her wanted out of the termination business…and he’d turned to her for help.
That’s why Rory was now on the SFI payroll.
Carstons, however, wasn’t going to get that lucky. Even if Beatrice found a way to get MI6 to back off—and she did have her ways—there was still Nicolae Bourean to deal with.
