by Pam Godwin
Across the room, Cole stiffened, his eyes narrowing.
“Calm down.” Danni pointed a finger at him and returned to Lydia. “You can do this with the women on the dance floor. Take everything I taught you and make it sexual. Touch them in ways you both like. It’s about turning each other on. But there will be men, and they’re going to flock to you with their tongues hanging out.” Danni shifted back to Cole. “Most of the people who frequent nightclubs aren’t there to dance. They’re there to participate in a clothes-on, fluid-free orgy. Loud music. Simple, mindless beats. Lots of sweaty people who can’t hear one another talk. It’s a non-verbal, dry-humping fuckfest without the penetration. If you want to succeed in this mission, you will swallow your caveman ego and deal with it.”
Lydia burst into laughter. She couldn’t help it. Cole looked so miserable.
His nostrils flared. His face turned red, and his jaw clenched to the point of breaking. But after a few seconds, he gave a nod.
“We’re going to practice.” Danni dimmed the lights and moved to the stereo as she addressed the room. “Doesn’t matter if you can dance or not. You’re here for the orgy. Lydia needs to test her skills with random bodies rubbing up against her. Let’s see some dirty dancing.”
Danni started the music—a rapid iteration of electronic beats. It took several seconds for Lydia to loosen up enough to move. When she did, she kept her movements subtle and tight, remaining right where she was, waiting to see what the others would do.
Trace moved first, heading straight to his wife and wrapping his body around her back. They rolled as one, dipping and sliding like they’d danced together a million times. No doubt they had.
Cole stayed at the edge of the room, his hands at his sides, swaying to the music with his eyes locked on Lydia, stoking a fire in her belly.
Someone came up behind her. Small hands rested on her hips. She turned, finding Kate’s pretty face smiling back, her body rocking with confidence.
Within seconds, she was surrounded. Tiago, Matias, and Tate favored the two-step side-to-side motion. Simple. Relaxed. Not a hint of awkwardness or discomfort. The women were bolder in their movements. None of them were dancers, but their assertiveness and self-possession more than made up for any lack of technical skill.
This group didn’t have a shy bone between them, and sweet Lord, they were sexual.
Through the next few songs, each of them danced with her in turn, rolling their bodies with smooth, deliberate, erotic suggestion, hips to hips, pressing in tight, and grinding with the motion of sex.
Cole didn’t lose his shit. He stood at a distance, never looking away. Perhaps he was testing himself, watching her writhe with his friends. Or maybe he was teasing her, making her wait until she was so sexed-up she would explode if he touched her.
As the group slowly paired off to dance with their mates, he approached. She trembled.
He circled her, placing a hand on her waist as he moved out of sight, keeping his touch on her at all times. When he came back around, he edged closer, aligning their bodies chest to chest and rolling his hip. One hand cupped her jaw. The other hung loosely at his side and slightly behind him, making it impossible not to grope his ripped physique.
She ran her palms down his torso, tracing the indentations and ridges of muscle through the shirt, and teasing the button of his fly.
“You’re beautiful,” he mouthed.
“So are you.” She smiled, feeling warm and gooey and so undeserving.
She wasn’t worthy of this incredible man, but she’d laid her claim and wasn’t letting go.
Grabbing his face with both hands, she rose on her toes and captured his lips. He kissed her back and pulled her closer, controlling the movement of her muscles, setting the pace, and letting her feel him.
His body was made for this, hips thrusting, mouth moving against hers, and hands palming her ass. He danced like he fucked, commanding, leading, and she followed without question. She loved his touch on her skin. She adored his breath on her neck. She craved the hard heat of him, and he gave her what she craved, total permission to feel.
To feel with her hands.
To feel with her heart.
To bask in the beauty of their bond.
They danced through several songs, kissing and grinding until her legs burned and her mouth went numb. Slowly, the room emptied, each couple quietly drifting into the hall.
Danni and Trace swayed in their own world, their bodies entwined and mouths locked in passion. Then Trace lifted her, cradling her in his arms, and carried her out of the room.
Cole moved behind Lydia, rocking and molding his hands to her curves and dips. His lips caressed her neck seductively, lovingly, luring her into his hungry orbit.
“I want to strip you down and lick your body from top to bottom,” he said at her ear.
Then he led her to the bedroom and did exactly that.
The next morning, they said goodbye to Danni and Trace. It wasn’t weird or strained, and it didn’t feel final. The couple might not be part of Cole’s vigilante world, but she knew she would see them again and often. She would make sure of it.
Her chest filled with nervous excitement as the rest of them packed up and headed to the private airport where Matias’ plane waited. As she boarded the plane and flew toward her destination with her hand tucked tightly in Cole’s, she recognized that she wouldn’t be here without him.
Without him, she would still be in Ireland, financially broke and emotionally destitute. Or dead.
When she started this mission twelve years ago, she had one purpose.
Revenge.
When Cole started this mission fourteen months ago, he had a different purpose.
Rescue.
He’d claimed her in Texas, and at that moment, he’d become her champion. He’d fought against it. She’d fought it, too. But in the end, he laid down life and limb to do what heroes did.
He rescued his girl.
Brașov, Romania
Two weeks later
The nightclub was rainbow lights and primal beats, throbbing like a heartbeat over a loudspeaker. Lydia didn’t need the music to rev her blood. She was hyped up on adrenaline and nerves.
Tiago led her through thick swirls of dry-ice smoke and sweaty hordes of writhing bodies. This was their sixth nightclub in two weeks, and she was beginning to think their intel was wrong.
There had been no Easter egg sightings. It had nothing to do with whether she could dance. PaulVer simply wasn’t at the venues they visited.
Inauguration Day was in five days.
Five days until Vincent Barrington became the President of the United States, the most powerful man in the world, and utterly untouchable.
She tightened her grip on Tiago’s arm as he muscled his way through the throng. The entire team wore disguises—wigs, hats, fake tattoos, and flashy club attire. Her ink lay completely hidden beneath layers of makeup, her wig a vibrant shade of blue.
For the tenth time, she yanked down the hem of her silver body-con dress, but within two steps, it worked its way back up her thighs. The glittery material barely covered her ass and breasts. Cole’s expression had darkened when he saw it, but he didn’t dare say a word.
The dress did what it was designed to do. It drew attention.
She felt the gaze of every man she passed, despite the danger wafting off her intimidating escort. Tiago wore all black, save for the long, brown fur coat and matching fedora on his head. With his shirt unbuttoned to his belt and his six-pack on display beneath the fur coat, he looked like a goddamn pimp.
She didn’t glance around the club for Cole. He would be close. Always within eyeshot. Since they were both targets for Vincent’s men, it was safer if they weren’t spotted together, even with the disguises.
When Tiago dropped her off at the dance floor, Camila and Lucia were already there, dancing together. She didn’t make eye contact as she sashayed past them.
The acoustics in the rafters t
hundered with the music and the pound of countless feet. Beams of lights crisscrossed over the crowd in an array of blues, acid greens, hot pinks, and gold. The booming rhythm fused with the bouncing bodies, and she joined them, rolling her hips, tossing her head, and miming sex with every person—man or woman—who approached her.
There was no talking, no need to fake an accent. This was all about tactical flirting, eye-fucking, heavy petting, groping, panting, and humping with clothes on. In the carnal beat of the music, in the heart of the nightclub, a hundred people bumped and writhed in a public gang bang.
While everyone danced to that lustful vibe, she danced for Cole. She knew he watched her. He saw every woman who touched her, every man who humped her, every flirty, grabby dancer who tried to reach under her dress. She kept the unwanted molesting at bay, refusing to give anyone what belonged to Cole.
The dancing lasted hours. Perspiration glistened on her brow. Her breaths labored, and her muscles burned with exhaustion. As the night wore down and the crowd began to thin, she knew it had been another wasted effort.
Disappointment crashed through her, but she kept moving, dipping her hips with someone at her back, dipping with her. Masculine hands molded to her hips. A warm mouth nuzzled her neck. Then she felt it—the sudden chill as he stepped back, the brush of fingers against her wrist, and the round egg-shaped object touching her palm.
Her heart rate exploded, her elation bursting in shimmery waves. She couldn’t contain it, her cheeks rising with the stretch of her laughing smile as she thrust her free hand in the air and extended her index and pinkie fingers in the sign of the devil horns.
To anyone watching, she was just waving her arm to the music. But to the team, her hand sign just alerted them that the man at her back was the target.
She spun around, but the man had already turned away, his head down and shoulders hunched around his ears. She glimpsed dark hair and an average-build as he quickly slipped through the jumping crowd.
Cole had demanded she not engage or chase the target for fear he would panic and run off. Her job was to lure him in and mark him. The team would do the rest.
Without any pockets, she reluctantly dropped the egg and glanced around the dance floor, noting the absence of Camila and Lucia. They were already on the move, trailing the hacker. As she turned toward the exit, she came face to face with Cole.
Electricity sparkled across her skin, heating her up. She wanted to scream, We have him! But she pressed her lips together and kept herself in check.
Within the shadows of his baseball cap, his beautiful features showed no reaction, no shared excitement. This was his work face, the one he wore in fight mode, when he was hyper-focused, detached from emotion, his mindset cold and competitive. She’d seen this expression often during his captivity in Texas.
He pulled her closer and rocked his hips with purpose as he led her off the dance floor. Then he gave her a discreet nudge toward the exit. She walked ahead of him, knowing the rest of the team was focused on the target. They would stay with the hacker until he left the building. Then they would engage.
Since her role was finished, Cole’s only priority was getting her out of the venue and somewhere safe. Once they had PaulVer in their possession, Cole would take her to him so she could help plead their case.
Outside, she quickly crossed the busy street, keeping close to the shadows of buildings, parked cars, anything that provided cover. After being hunted for over a year, stealth and concealment had become second nature to her.
Any stranger walking along the sidewalks could be a hitman.
At the end of the block, she hid in a recess of the building and glanced back. Cole was nowhere in sight, but he was there, somewhere. He would never let her out of his sight.
Their rented vehicles waited just around the corner. She headed there, rounding the bend, and stopped.
A man stood in the empty side street between the medievalesque buildings made of stone and arched windows. He faced the opposite direction, but she recognized his build, his dark jacket, and short black hair.
Twenty feet before him, Camila strutted forward, wearing red leather pants and stiletto heels. The drape of her off-the-shoulder shirt was deliberately baggy, hiding the weapons beneath it.
“PaulVer,” she purred, laying on the seductive ruse. “You speak English?”
He stiffened, his shoulders curling forward and hands flexing at his sides. A small satchel hung against his hip with the strap crossing his upper body.
“I don’t know that name.” His English was succinct, despite the heavy inflection of a Romanian accent.
Lydia’s muscles trembled as she flattened herself against the corner of the building, remaining hidden.
Matias and Lucia leaned against their rented SUV, which was parked at a distance behind Camila, well in view of PaulVer. Kate would be inside the vehicle. Tate and Tiago stood in the shadows at the edges of the side street, mere feet from PaulVer’s position. Their unmoving forms would be difficult to detect by an unsuspecting eye.
Behind her, people strolled along the main road, coming and going between the bars and nightclubs.
After a moment of searching, she spotted Cole crouched beside the building across the street. He held a gun at his side, his gaze flicking between her and PaulVer.
“I have a proposition for you, handsome.” Camila slowly placed one heeled shoe before the other, sashaying her hips as she approached.
“You have the wrong person.” He pivoted, revealing a shockingly youthful face before he ducked his head and strode in Lydia’s direction, not seeing her.
Jesus, the guy couldn’t have been older than eighteen.
As he hurried away from Camila, nervous tension tightened in Lydia’s gut. Fourteen months of searching and hoping, and her answer was walking straight toward her. She knew the team wouldn’t let him get away, but it took everything inside her not to jump out and grab him. She would do it in a heartbeat if she weren’t being hunted by Vincent’s goons.
Tate swept out onto the street, walking casually behind PaulVer. Then Tiago emerged, joining the slow, heart-pounding chase.
PaulVer marked them and tucked his hands in the pockets of his skinny jeans, picking up his pace, gaze on his sneakers, and reeking of fear as he inadvertently strode directly into Lydia’s path.
He must’ve decided to head back to the nightclub. In about three seconds, he would turn the corner and see her. She would have to engage him, try to push him back onto the side street and out of view without making a scene.
Something stirred behind her, lifting the hairs on her nape. She didn’t have time to consider who or what before someone crashed into her back. A split-second later, gunshots rang out.
The impact of two-hundred pounds slamming into her knocked the wind from her lungs and sent her pummeling toward the ground.
More gunfire erupted, booming through the side street.
The next few seconds slowed to a crawl.
As she hit the ground beneath the weight of her attacker, PaulVer froze. His shoulder kicked back as if punched by an invisible fist. He staggered. His eyes bulged, locked on her. He reached for his chest, then his arm, and pulled his hand away, smeared in blood.
He was shot.
Oh, God, he was shot.
No, no, no!
A guttural sound barreled from her throat, and her stomach rolled in violent waves. Trapped in the cage of unbending steel arms, she could only watch in horror as PaulVer crumpled to the ground a few feet away. Lifeless.
She twisted her neck, her lungs screaming for oxygen, and found Cole stretched out atop her like a shield of flesh-and-bone armor. He’d saved her life again, but with that realization spiked a blood-chilling fear for his life. While she lay safely beneath him, his entire body was exposed to the bullets whizzing past her head.
All around her, the team returned gunfire. The deadly exchange of lead lasted a long, agonizing minute. Then the street fell quiet.
“
All clear,” Matias shouted.
“Cole?” She whimpered, panicking. “Cole, are you-?”
“Not hit.” He dropped a kiss on her temple and rolled off her back.
Three dead bodies scattered the sidewalk behind her. Vincent’s men.
She stumbled to her feet, frantically scanning the side street before her. The team had taken cover during the gunfight. Were any of them hit?
The wrath of a million bees swarmed her bloodstream as Cole shouted, “Report in!”
One by one, each person on the team responded with “Not hit.”
As she exhaled some of her tension, the blare of sirens broke out in the distance.
“Move out!” Cole crouched beside PaulVer’s body and tossed the kid over his shoulder.
She raced ahead, leading him to the SUV with Tiago and Kate.
“Is he alive?” Kate asked from the backseat.
“He’s breathing.” Cole fell into the seat beside Kate and dumped the kid between them.
Lydia jumped in the front passenger seat next to Tiago, and before she got the door closed, Tiago hit the gas, shooting forward.
The other four teammates sped down the street in the second SUV. Tiago followed closely behind, skidding around turns and running through stop signs.
“Is he alive?” Blood thrashed in her ears as she twisted to face the backseat.
“Yes.” Kate bent over the kid’s body, eyes narrowed on his shoulder while Cole held a small flashlight on the wound. “It’s a graze. Not deep enough to need stitches.” She laughed, coughed against the back of her hand, and laughed again. “He passed out from a scratch.”
Cole’s face broke out in a grin, and within seconds, everyone in the vehicle was laughing, including Tiago as he tore through the streets, outrunning the Romanian Police.
“Search his pockets,” Lydia said. “See if there’s an ID.”
Cole rummaged through PaulVer’s clothing in the dark. “No, ID. But this was in his satchel.” Cole held up a slim laptop.
His eyes, chocolaty and warm, latched onto hers. They stared at each other, letting the moment sink in.
