by Judy Jarvie
“Where is he?” My voice is rusty.
“Can’t tell you. I would, but I’d have to kill you.”
Why do all these bastards here keep saying this? “Maybe you should. I feel like it would be a release from having to hear that phrase and feel this shitty.”
“Sir would kill me. You’re his key to cracking his case. You’re gold bullion, baby. You’re his hot bit of stuff on the side.”
And it’s only then that my orgasmic, sex interest euphoria dies.
Warbie’s just given me a wakeup call. Sir is just using me as collateral—keeping me sweet. A fuck on the side is just part of the service. He wants to screw over my dad—he’s done the next available person on the way.
I have what he needs most for his precious work. He probably screws his accomplices all the time. I’m just one of many. Bastard wanker shitface.
“He’s a lousy piece of vomit.”
“He’s no such thing. If you knew what he’d been through, you’d never say such things.”
I sit up. Head pounding, flannel falling but I’m past caring.
“What? So what happened? Why does everybody seem to act like he’s the guy who can’t be sneezed at?”
“Because he lost important things.”
“What like, his marbles? His virginity? His key to the poison drinks cabinet?”
Warbie’s eyes are angry and he’s never looked at me that way before. It hurts. But I’m too far gone to leave it.
“He lost the two people who were his closest in the world.”
With a gulp of air I falter. “How? Who? Why?”
“His partner. Guy he’d worked with for a decade.”
“How did he die?” My voice has softened.
“Mexico Heist gone loco.”
“And Dan survived?”
“He took that hardest blow—taken captive, but survived. Crazy thing is Nathan had his back and Dan had taken a couple of falls on duty before. Nathan used to give him flack for being the liability injured party as a joke. But Dan’s got some idea the ‘liability’ line is wedged in his brain. Blames himself. Had PTSD counselling. His first mission since return to duty.”
I feel bad for the things I’ve said. For glibly quipping that I’m just one of many, when Dan’s issues are so much bigger. “Was this recent?”
“Year and a half ago. But there are other recent wounds—a woman. I don’t think Dan would want me going there with you. Maybe he can tell you himself?”
I’m flailing at this reveal. Spinning in the aftermath of feeling guilty and heart-sore at what I’ve just learned. He had my respect and sympathy.
Ironically my headache’s improving and the nausea is ebbing like a Li-lo floating out to sea. But it’s scant consolation. The slug slime must be sucking up my heave juices. While guilt pulverizes my brain-cells. Dan is so not an open and shut case.
Warbie rises from the bed end. “Don’t ever tell him I told you.”
“I won’t.”
“And for all you malign him, he’s asked me to give you special care. You’re causing a big bloody rumpus here at Troika. I’ve never seen him more challenged or less in control, and that isn’t good. Though don’t let on I said that.”
“I’ll take great joy in dobbing you in,” I whisper.
Warbie’s hand goes up and his face isn’t listening. “He’s more beautiful than a display at The Museum of Manhood In Its Prime. You’d jump on him like a skipping rope. Surveillance guys are keeping it mum. Shower stuff.” He touches his nose. I’m more beetroot than a big one at a vegetable show prize-giving.
For seconds I regard Warbie. He’s bald as bald can be, but he’s a great-smiled-slice-of- humor with a Machiavellian evil glow that’s addictive. His eyelashes are envy-licious.
“You really do care for him, don’t you?” I probe.
“What’s not to love? Kinda like you, too.”
I feign a light tone. “Have you never thought of theatre? You’re great looking after the boys, but you’re so wasted here. You’d make an ace pantomime dame.”
“The smell of the crowd—the roar of the greasepaint. Tempting, but this job’s in my blood and bones, sweetie. There’s something magically stirring about playing nanny to black ops boys. All those muscles and trigger finger sharp reflexes. But once this job’s tied up—Copacabana Beach, watch out! I’ll be living my dreams soon enough, hon. Maybe you should indulge your own instead of worrying about me?”
“So why is he here? His Lord and Master—Darth Vader with a cop badge? Why is this mission so vital?”
“Katsaros. It’s a personal mission. Dan’s out to prove himself—or get himself blown up.”
“You really only going to give me that? Has he had his heart broken?”
“Nathan died on duty on Dan’s watch. Dan had a girlfriend, who wasn’t exactly squeaky clean—taken out at point blank range. I said I wouldn’t tell you, so you’re totally sworn to die before you’ll ever let that go.”
“Shit. But yes, it’ll stay incarcerated in my brain. Won’t breathe a word. Wouldn’t dare.”
Just. Shit.
“Yeah. He’s kinda never been the same since. He has personal points to score—that he’s back on game and can take this particular bad guy down. Let’s just say the sex trafficker thing is his personal bête noir.”
This is my life as a spy mole. Gritty shocks and measures of reality, and revelations that make you feel so tiny and insignificant, it’s humbling. I’d rather work on the checkouts, frankly, but at least I’m alive and being well looked after. I feel intense guilt at being such a diva burden to all these guys who put their life so ably on the line.
Except Ivan. He got what was coming. Dickwad.
But all the others—especially Dan. Just shit. I’m not worthy—totally unprepared for these reveals. Totally unprepared for the wobble of empathy that’s gone way too deep inside my heart.
* * * *
Later, once I’ve showered and dressed in my freshly laundered clothes, Warbie takes me out of my room for good behavior.
“Time to get your head back in the game,” he says.
I’d clap my hands and say goodie, but I resist. I’m grateful just to feel okay again. “Where are we going, anyway?”
“You need a fitting.”
Does he mean for a coffin?
“For what?” I squeak.
“Clothes. You meet Donaldson soon. Can’t go appearing like Orphan Annie went to a thrift store and only had twenty pence to barter with.”
“But I thought that was on hold.”
“In this place plans change more than a burlesque dancer’s wardrobe.”
Warbie stops in front of a steel door, then presses a button that slides it away. He nods for me to enter before him, like the crazed psycho gentleman than he is.
“Your Bibbety-Bobbity-Boo moment. Where I turn you from a bumpkin to a beauty.”
“You’re really pissing me off,” I grind out. If petulant was a lip color I’d have it as my signature style.
“Honey. There are no full-length mirrors in this place other than the one we’re about to use on you. Trust me—you look like shit.”
I glance over and there is a huge mirror and I jump. Not at my reflection, though the hair is Lady Ga-Ga after a fight meets Zombie Apocalypse. It’s the scowling woman staring me down beside it.
“Do I know you?” I say.
If dislike was a person—this would be she. She’s doing a gorilla face. I don’t know what I’ve done.
“You don’t know me. I’m Havana’s replacement. You can call me Dee.”
Shit. Come back Hav, all is forgiven.
“Why the hell they’ve sent me here to help you with dresses I’m less than pleased about.”
“Is she crazy?” I ask Warbie.
“She’s sane. Utterly sane and lethal. She’s gunned-up too, so tread with care. She knows how to kill a man by touching his neck in two places.”
“Useful,” I answer and evade the fiery dag
gers she throws me, glare after glare. Instead I swap attention to the pile of clothes and hangers before me.
“Get behind the screen. Get your gear off and let’s get this show on the road.”
Warbie’s going to dress me up, and I’m going to hate every goddamn minute almost as much as Dee the female wrestler spy hates me.
“I really have to?” I plead with Oscar eyes at Warbie, but he doesn’t answer and just gives me an indelicate shove. Bastard.
Chapter Fifteen
Kate
I now have an outfit decreed as Interpol appropriate. The downside is it’s for a meeting with my dreaded crime-scum dad.
I’d hoped to avoid this, but like an appalling scratchy outfit you hate in childhood, it’s on again for reasons outside of my control. I’m left squirming with the discomfort. So this is just a nasty stinging nettle I’ll still have to grasp and bear buggering blisters from.
“Stop scowling, you’re totes hot,” says Warbie.
Even Havana stops by, with her IV fluids tripod in tow, to take a peek. Man, there’s nothing that’ll keep that woman down. Today she’s sporting the toned-down smoky eye and I’m hugely impressed.
“Great look, Hav,” I whisper.
“Thinkin’ just the same thing.”
I shrug. “Thanks. I can think of better guy dates to use it on, but them’s the breaks.” At least the silky, cobalt rockin’ it dress suit is game-on, even if my insides will be carved into inch-long bits of terror. So Warbie has hidden style talents after all.
I go back to my room for an hour of wall staring, when Warbie returns like a boomerang footman and, smiling, presents me with the half of my lost luggage that was confiscated, presumed security checks and laundering. Apparently it’s had to undergo clearance, I mean, get real.
“Shit, Warbs. You’re amazeballs.” I throw my arms around him and I think he’s shocked and a bit awkward with my manic display of affection. But the comforts of home bring untold joy, even if slightly over the top.
I flip the locks and run my eyes and excited fingers over my things.
“I have connections.” He winks. “And a very fit young agent who wants to please at my bidding. So does your Sir. He’d put in an order before I did.”
I feel like Sir’s vanished without due warning. I’ve not seen him. “Did the mission go okay?”
I feel like I don’t have grips on the lingo yet. How do they talk about such things and is there appropriate vocab? I suspect I’m missing the marker by a country hectare. “Did they get in and out like they wanted?”
“Objective achieved. Sir’s busy with unexpected strategy planning. The other part of my messenger duty right now is to take you down to G wing. He’s waiting for you there. An update and another briefing.”
Zing. But doesn’t that cause an internal shimmy. It’s somewhere warm and welcoming. That enjoys spooning and slow dances. Shit.
I’m so easy it makes me wince.
I act normal but am probably blushing like a teenager in puberty with her first blushers variety box ready for experimentation. “G Wing? Don’t I get time to change into real clothes first?” It’s probably a cellar and a dungeon, but if it gets me out of wall staring, I’d take cleaning duty or worse.
Warbie hides his comment behind a hand. “Rooms at G wing have no camera surveillance. I’d suggest you opt for decent underwear, too. Go, get changed. Good plan.”
Shit, the man doesn’t pull his punches.
“Nice slice, Warbs. I can’t imagine what you mean.” He’s laundered my things. He’s seen the full horror. “Is that all you can think about? People at it?”
“We don’t get much down here, chicken. Covering up your shenanigans has turned into my full time job. Ten minutes to get changed, then I’m taking you as directed. ‘Kay?”
I wreak my subtle revenge on his baldy head. “Keep your hair on. Laters.”
But I’m left thinking I can’t believe there’s a team of crackpot IT wiz crime-crackers who’ve probably hidden condemning evidence of my arse and tits as their day job.
I caress my clothes, towels and goodies to take my mind off Sir’s plans and past indiscretions. Today, they’ve made a kidnapped, confused and sleep-drugged woman intensely satisfied. That’s not something I say lightly.
Warbie leaves me to my luggage comfort break to prep for a visit to Sir.
* * * *
Room Three in G Wing isn’t some awful torture chamber or sluice room. It’s a very small billet with a low bed and a light and that’s it. Except right now it also has Dan lying in it under that gray dim central light.
“You okay?” I whisper. “You wanted me? You sleeping?”
The lump in the bed moves and turns to face me. It’s a handsome, breathing, awake lump with muscles like a Spartan and a face you’d kiss until you cried.
“Katie. Nice wake up call. I should take you on all my assignments.” He’s grasped my hands in an affectionate display that takes me quite by surprise.
“No fear. I’d rather be a pirate. I hate boats. I get seasick crossing a puddle. Don’t think I’d pass your entry tests.”
“Oh I think you underestimate the strings I’d pull for you.” Dan shakes his head at my rambles. But his grin gives me hope he doesn’t hate me that much. “I’m fitting in extra sleep recovery time—haven’t had much recently. You do that to a guy, d’you know that?” His sparkling eyes crinkle in a way that tells me he won’t be aiming for more siesta. Or polite hand holding. “Kinda fancied another close inspection of that highly arousing tattoo.”
“Presumptuous, aren’t you, Sir?”
“For defs. I am the deputy boss guy. Deal.”
God, how did he get to be so gorgeous with all that stubble shadow, and when he spends all his time in ops clothes ready to do the daring do? I see the slash marks on his face and neck, and I let out a sharp gasp.
“What the hell happened? Not another Rocco fight?”
“No. Long story. No damage as such. A scratch.”
“Other than your boat race.” I nod toward his previous head gash. Now, added to the neck wound they’re not quite Freddy Krueger, but he’s suffered a few dents to be sure.
“Boat race?” I forget he’s a New Yorker, and he won’t get my Cockney slang for face. So I change tack, closing the space between us when I smell his macho male just-back-from-maneuvers scent. “Kinda like you roughed up and ready, Sir. Dirty and dented around the edges.”
“Kinda like you any which way I can get you.” He rises in the bed to lean on his elbows. “Listen, we have to talk.” He stares at me. A crooked smile, that delectable chin dimple and lips designed for first thing in the morning sin. Killer combo. My tongue is glued just watching.
I unglue it enough to react. “Talk about what?”
“Last night I told myself I was going to back up from you. I realized I’m getting in deep. Which is bad for the mission and for my mental state,” he says softly. Like I’m absinthe or crystal meth or something. “Then I found out what that freakin’ asswipe Ivan did to you, and all bets were off on the back off. If I can’t have you, then nobody can.”
Wow. He’s gone all action man. Primed and powerful.
And I find I like it. Especially when he growls, then seizes me for a kiss that tells me he means it. I’m gasping in nought to four seconds.
“I hadn’t planned to tell you about Ivan,” I pant, when we eventually part lips for long enough.
“Why the frig not?” He’s a thunderbolt of anger in a blink. “Huh?”
“Didn’t want to start feuds on campus, Sir.”
“Seriously, the man has been an ass licker creep out to sabotage my rank. But last night was the limit. He’s fired, hasta la vista, dumbwad.”
“Wow.” I nod. “I’ve never been responsible for a super cop’s career collapse—nice résumé add, though. Was that why you asked me to come here? Details about how I’m the thistle in your day, making you fire your staff at a rate of knots?”
�
�I asked you to come here—mistress mine—so I could get my rocks off before I explode into suicide sex bomber shrapnel.”
“Sounds fun to watch, but painful to experience…”
But Dan shoves a hand over my mouth. It’s a forceful hand. A strong, warm and not-taking-no-for-an-answer hand. “Stop talking, woman. You’re on my bed—I want you in it.”
I squeak. It’s all I can manage. “You really think that’s a good idea? Thought you were backing up?”
“There’s a penalty for the way you make me feel. The way you’ve taken control of my thoughts and my body.” He grabs my hand. The next thing I know it’s been thrust onto his man-of-steel cock. I don’t dally either. I rove his plains of promise with an eager hand. It’s a very impressive member. One that’s just been on maneuvers. I just didn’t imagine I’d be manhandling his primed privates quite this soon without instructions.
Whoa! Talk about curveball with benefits.
“Dan. This your version of a dick pic?”
He gives me a wolfish grin. “This is how you make me,” he grinds out. “Fully loaded.” His accent, with a roughed-up desperate edge, agitates the suds out of my easy to oust sex drive. It leaves me lathered and ready for a whirling cycle, followed by a fast spin. I’m creaming, wanting a full cottons high temp seeing-to with a man who could service all my stains in a blink.
But there’s a kink in my ‘insults’ drainage pipe…
“You said you don’t want me. You can’t want me. That’s not exactly flattering. Doesn’t exactly make me inclined to oblige.”
“I said it. But the voice is being ignored to hell and back. I want every bit of you and more. I want it now.”
His lips press to mine, and he devours my mouth in a long series of plundering, mouth-wracking kisses that go deeper than the submarine diver who got the bends. I love it. I kiss him back. Tasting him, touching him wherever I can. The touch of his scar—still tender, but warm—is an unexpected turn on. Who knew?
