The Mammoth Book of Special Ops Romance

by Trisha Telep

  He pushed back his chair and moved to her side. She froze, her hands clutching the sheet. “I can do this myself.”

  “Just in case you feel like keeling over.” She stiffened but the skin of her arm felt like warm cream under his calloused palm. “The bathroom’s to your left. And there should be clothing in there as well.”

  “Thank you.” She deftly detached herself from his grasp and disappeared into the bathroom. He tried not to follow the gentle sway of her hips but stood waiting with his back to the door until a few minutes later she emerged, dressed in a pair of khakis which revealed fine-boned ankles and feet in a pair of plastic flip-flops and a sweatshirt at least three sizes too big. She’d washed her face, and strands of damp hair framed the sides of her cheeks.

  Glancing briefly out of the porthole, she sat opposite him on a small bench covered in sleek butterscotch leather. With her knees set demurely together and her bare feet, she looked like a schoolgirl. But the voice was low, direct and damned adult. “Where are we?”

  He grabbed the end of the chair and straddled it, facing her. “Last time I checked with the log, we were 25 degrees east off Cape Hatteras.”

  “And where are we going?”

  “That all depends.”

  She kicked off the flip-flops and curled her toes into the softness of the carpet. “Look – I don’t know who you are but it’s probably best that you let me off at the next available port. This has been some horrific mistake.”

  “You know the man who owns that yacht?”

  “Yes, and I assume you do as well.” She quieted her hands on her lap. “The question is – who or what were you looking for after the attack on the Gabriella?”

  “What do you think?” Lying was easy, living a lie even easier once you got used to the fit.

  It took her less time to respond than he’d bargained for. “You work for him.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “You mean Rafael Hunter? And why are you looking for him?”

  Her eyes challenged him, the set of her mouth mutinous. “Does it matter?”

  He’d bet half the opium output of Afghanistan that Alexa Stoppard had something to hide. Something big. And he didn’t want it coming back to bite him in the ass.

  “What do you think?”

  “Why did he send you after me?”

  He shrugged, lying fluently. “Nobody likes loose cannons. Something had to be done.”

  “And you were reluctant to leave me with your competitors, the Mexican contingent.”

  “I’d say the cavalry arrived just in time.”

  “I would have managed something.”

  “Just be glad you didn’t have to.” Michael’s tone was harsh.

  “I’m obviously of some value to you, otherwise you would have left me on the boat or at the bottom of the ocean.”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t.” Her eagerness scared the shit out of him. He shifted in his chair, awkwardness like he hadn’t felt in two decades washing over him. “It all depends what you’re willing to do for us.” The words sounded like profanity, even to his ears.

  She licked her lips, the gesture totally unselfconscious. “I think I understand.”

  Like hell she did.

  “Is he on board?”

  He rose from the chair. “Who?”

  “Rafael Hunter.” She was standing now, outlined by the golden light of dusk on the ocean.

  He paused a heartbeat before answering. “This business is about letting somebody else do the dirty work for you. Does that answer your question?”

  “Do I at least get a name – your name?”

  There was the slightest hesitation. Then he said, “Michael.”

  Alexa followed Michael into the elevator and they were once again in the atrium of the ship. The debris created by the AK-47s had been swept away as if by magic. The Renoir, Miro and Goya hung peaceably in place, the spiral staircase with its onyx and silver handrail shining as though nothing had ever marred its glowing perfection.

  Up on deck the pool sparkled in the early evening light next to a table for two that was set for dinner with a bottle of wine and two glasses. The wind was slight, the air a warm caress and the North Star had made its appearance, glittering mockingly overhead. It was as if they were the only two people on this ghost ship in the middle of the ocean.

  Alexa felt him behind her. The height of him, the breadth, the harshness of his features were broken only by those striking blue eyes, an incongruity she couldn’t hope to reconcile. She should know better than anyone else the difference between good and evil all too often came in shades of grey. When it came to this man, it shouldn’t matter because he was only a stepping stone that would lead to Hunter’s ruin.

  She turned to face him. “How many people on board with us?”

  “As few as possible and just enough to keep the ship running.”

  He ran a hand through his thick hair, hair the colour of old gold. Who was he, and how had he found himself playing for a man as evil as Hunter? She watched as he pushed away from the rail and moved over to the table to pour two glasses of wine.

  He was expecting her to say something. But she couldn’t, the words stuck in her throat.

  “Are you all right?” The man missed nothing as he pushed a glass of wine into her hand. She took a sip.

  She couldn’t afford any weakness but, before she could protest, he had propelled them both over to the sofa by the bar. She sank into suede the colour and feel of butter. She pulled away from him, all too aware of the strength of his body next to hers. With all the discipline she could manage, she slammed the door on her thoughts.

  “I’m fine, absolutely fine. Simply not hungry.” Alexa could read nothing on his face, nothing in his eyes. He was just waiting; waiting for her to screw up, make a mistake.

  “You’re in pretty deep, Alexa.”

  Night had fallen and lights wreathed the deck in subtle shadows. “I understand,” she said quietly, thinking of Danni.

  He moved in closer until she could reach out and touch him if she wanted to. For the first time, she noticed the small scar on the side of his mouth. A fall from his bicycle when he was six? She doubted it. More like the remnants of a knife attack, the pattern as familiar to her as the impasto of an artist’s brush.

  He watched her with an unnerving stillness. “You realize this has nothing to do with trust. You don’t trust me and I sure as hell don’t trust you. The only reason you’re here is because we want you here.”

  We. Us. He meant Rafael Hunter.

  “And it’s my job to make sure our association pays off.” His warm breath, spiced with wine, assailed her senses. “All you have to know is that once you’re in, there’s no going back. Do I make myself clear?”

  What was he doing, giving her a way out? Mesmerized by the deep velvet of his voice, Alexa couldn’t hide from the truth. She was crazy to think she would survive this, let alone bring Hunter to his knees, the leader of one of the world’s most dangerous and complex drug cartels.

  And now this man. With his sensual mouth and the hard, beautiful eyes that missed nothing.

  “Very clear,” she said.

  His voice came low and quiet. “If you want to say no, say it now – and not when I ask you to do the impossible, to surrender the last shreds of your conscience or to give up the people closest to you.” His eyes flickered over her shoulder, surveying the deck. Then he lifted his hand and drew it across her cheek to her chin, tipping her head towards his. “Now or not at all.”

  Alexa didn’t know what she was saying yes to. Her breathing came faster and she was powerless to slow it. He was trying to seduce her; this was part of the game. To see how far she would go to sell her soul. And yet all she could think about was his intense blue gaze. The particular slant of his brows. And that he smelled of soap and sun.

  “Yes,” she said.

  For a long moment, he held her gaze. Then his hand slid down her arms to her wrists, tracing her racing pulse. The pads o
f his fingers moved slowly over the thin skin and she bit her lip as he wrapped his hand around her wrist. Like a manacle, shackling her as much to her past as to her future. She should pull away but didn’t. And it was as if he knew, the corner of that wide mouth lifting in an almost smile.

  “Scared? You should be.” He lowered his lips to hers. He kissed her hard and deep, sending her a message with his thrusting tongue. Alexa moaned into his mouth, her body shivering with a combination of dread and desire.

  Hot, urgent, demanding, his arms were around her. She felt his power as he held her, his arm locked around her waist, his thick erection grinding against her pelvis. She shuddered, mind and body, fear and desire, warring inside her. His hair was thick beneath her hands although she didn’t know when she had reached for him. She didn’t care. This was a fight she didn’t dare lose, a fight to the finish. And it had begun the moment he’d entered the stateroom on the Mexican yacht and pinned her to the bed.

  Retreat was not an option, never had been. So she clung to him as his tongue thrust and thrust again, stroking her mouth, skimming her lips. One of his hands cupped her breast, bare beneath the voluminous sweatshirt, and desire tore through her.

  “God, you taste sweet.” His voice was rough and urgent, his shoulders blocking her view as his hand slid to her other breast.

  The craving was deep, almost painful. Her stomach muscles tightened as his hand skimmed the bare skin of her midriff, slowly bunching the material around her torso. She arched her back as he ran his hands over her distended nipples still covered by the fabric. Easing her back into the buttery cushions, he slid his mouth over the sensitive nerve endings of her stomach. Butterfly kisses suddenly gentle on her bruised skin.

  “Take off your sweatshirt for me, Alexa.” The voice was a low, soft contradiction to the hard gaze.

  She couldn’t say no to him, didn’t want to. Lifting shaking hands, she gathered the fabric in her fists, first removing her arms and then pulling the material over her head to sweep it aside.

  His jaw clenched and she felt the warm ocean air and those blue eyes on her naked breasts.

  “Beautiful,” he said, his own breathing short and rapid. He trailed his lips up her waist to the underside of a breast. She closed her eyes at the hard pull of his mouth, the sensual lick of his tongue, sending bolts of pleasure low in her body.

  As though she had been taken over by another being, her hips rocked and her arms wrapped around his shoulders, so hard and warm beneath the thin T-shirt. Suddenly, she couldn’t get enough of touching him, losing herself in the rhythm of his mouth on her breasts, desperate, hungry, aggressive.

  Her voice shook. “Please, please.” Her heart beat so hard she could hear it in her ears, feel it in the tips of her fingers. She felt his lips leave her skin as he brought his mouth close to hers.

  “What do you want? Tell me. And don’t lie.”

  She met his dark gaze, scared by the power of her own need, afraid to analyse its source, petrified that she could never turn back. She closed her eyes, unwilling to say the words.

  She didn’t want to look at him. She didn’t want to think. Everything drew up tight inside her, a place where the past, present and future didn’t exist. Her body was everything, wanting too much, wanting him. Looking into the night sky, the world became a cascade of shooting stars.

  A shout rose from the yacht’s bridge. Alexa started, the feel of hard muscle beneath her hands reassuring. Just then a burst from a rifle exploded into the silence.

  Cool air on her bare skin. He was on his feet, eyes skimming the deck and bridge. “Get dressed. Now.”

  Alexa threw on her sweatshirt as Michael hauled her to her feet and pushed her towards the stairs leading to the atrium. “Stay out of sight and keep quiet until I give you the heads up,” he whispered so softly she could barely hear him. His expression gave nothing away. “Go!”

  Another ricochet of bullets. Alexa turned and ran down the stairs. The atrium was dimly lit, her eyes darting around the room: chairs, a settee, a coffee table, a closet, the fireplace, a door in the corner – leading to where exactly?

  Suddenly it was quiet. The ocean calmed at night and the familiar groans of the hull stilled. Her ears strained for the slightest sound.

  It didn’t take long. A thunder of footsteps coming down from the bridge. Now they sounded like they were on the main deck.

  “Drop the gun or he goes overboard.”

  Alexa slipped up the spiral staircase, the carpeting muffling her footsteps. She reached the halfway point and stopped.

  “Doesn’t work for me.” Michael’s voice. Cold as ice.

  Taking three more steps, she flattened herself next to the doorway and took a breath of ocean air. Framed by the entrance was Michael, a Glock steady in his hand. Three men had their AK-4s turned on him while a fourth held somebody that looked like the ship’s captain, epaulets dangling on what remained of his jacket. The face of the captain was fading from white to ash, his eyes bulging with terror.

  “A bit of persuasion is in order.” The man spoke English with a Middle Eastern accent. He tightened his hold around the captain’s neck then signalled something with the jerk of his chin.

  One of his men produced a green garbage bag. A tidal wave of stink from fish blood and guts drenched the atmosphere. Alexa forced back a gag.

  “Your methods are as crude as ever, Daoud,” said Michael.

  Daoud narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you want to know what’s in here and what we’re going to use it for?”

  Michael shrugged like it didn’t matter either way. “Do what you must, gentlemen.”

  “A pleasure,” said Daoud. “I’m actually looking forward to this.”

  Alexa choked when she saw the green garbage bag dragged to the yacht’s railing.

  “What do you think?” Daoud asked his men. “Should we throw the captain overboard first?” He twisted the captain’s neck for emphasis, as though asking for his opinion. “And then baptize him with the fish blood I have here? That should bring the sharks circling.”

  Alexa thought she was going to black out, dark spots dancing before her eyes. Through the haze she saw Michael, not moving, not giving in.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, heard the screams ripping through the night and then the splash of the body hitting the pitiless surface of the ocean. Nausea soured the back of her throat.

  “Cold-blooded bastard, aren’t you?” Daoud gestured to Michael. “Now that’s done, I’ll ask again. Where is she? We know you have her.”

  “You’re surprisingly sure of yourselves.” Michael’s low voice was calm and steady. “I told you she’s not on board.”

  “Amazing how many people want Alexa Stoppard, isn’t it?”

  Her pulse notched up several beats until all she could hear was a pounding in her head. Sweat trickled down her back and a fresh roll of nausea settled in her belly, self-loathing dark and thick.

  She stopped breathing, expecting the worst. And it came.

  Michael lunged at Daoud, grabbing his gun, bullets spraying the other three men, caught unaware in the split second between life and death. They collapsed to the floor amid an ear-splitting series of blasts, screams, and crumbling bodies.

  Michael went for Daoud’s throat, grabbing handfuls of his shirt and his hair. Throwing him down on to his knees, he tightened his arm around his neck, his foot knifing his back, grinding into his spine.

  The bodies of the three men lay twitching around them, like a macabre tableau.

  “You son of a bitch, Daoud.” Michael exhaled the words. “Who sent you? I won’t ask again.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I’m not a patient man.” Michael tightened the grip around Daoud’s neck, the action speaking louder than words.

  Alexa watched as Daoud clawed ineffectively at Michael’s face, struggling like a fish on a hook, his face purpling as he gasped for oxygen.

  “For the last time.” Michael buried the muzzle of his gun in the man’s ear.
“Tell me who sent you.”

  His eyes bulged. “Coombs.” The name was wrenched from his lips. “Zachary Coombs.”

  Alexa swayed in the dark. Impossible. The man she had trusted most of her adult life. The man who had been her husband’s closest friend. Impossible . . .

  Spittle formed around Daoud’s mouth. “Coombs keeps the routes open for us, the veins of opium flowing through the West. You should know – better than anybody.”

  It made no sense. None. Zachary was at the forefront of the war on drugs.

  Michael’s grip loosened infinitesimally, his foot still on Daoud’s back. “You’re doing a good job. Keep talking.”

  “Not just the war on drugs he wants to continue,” Daoud gasped, “but the war in Afghanistan. Where he makes his money.”

  Bile rose in Alexa’s throat. Her mind reeled, unable to grasp the fact that an esteemed Supreme Court judge would be in the pay of both drug lords and arms dealers.

  “He’s the one who sent you after Alexa Stoppard. Why?”

  Daoud’s face glistened with sweat. “Because she knows. From when she was a kid. Coombs wanted her out of the way – in case she remembered.”

  “Remembered what?”

  In the darkness Alexa prayed, a prayer she had learned in the orphanage so many years ago. Prayed not because she expected divine intervention but because the rhythm of the words had, more than once, kept her from going insane.

  “Her foster parents used her as a mule, to move drugs.” Sweat beaded Daoud’s brow. “She saw things, including her own sister killed.”

  The pain was suffocating. She remembered being shut into the container, with her little sister. Danni’s white face, the staring eyes . . .

  Daoud was no longer trying to escape, his body limp. “She saw things,” he repeated. “People.”

  Her past yawned wide open. She was about to step into the chasm.