by Sable Jordan
Another glance at the empty towel rack.
She’d have to improvise.
Grabbing her weapons, Kizzie tiptoed through the half-gaping bathroom door and down the short hallway that led to the main room. The intruder wasn’t even hiding; standing at the bed a short distance away, rifling through her things. He stiffened, and then slowly turned, a smile on his face and her chocolates from Phil in his large grip.
“Princ—” Barked laughter cut off the annoying nickname. Xander tossed the candy on the bed, motioned toward her hand. “The hell were you gonna do, sweetheart, TP me to death?”
She hurled the roll of toilet paper at his head. “Distract.” He ducked it easily as she thrust her other hand forward. “Attack. Believe me, I’da found a way to push this toothbrush through your eye.” Her lip curled in a snarl. “Still might.”
“You missed me, didn’t you?”
“Like a frosty, metal speculum. Hand me a towel, Duquesne.”
Xander didn’t move, stared at her hair although the rest of her was dripping wet and naked. She self-consciously palmed the damp ends at her shoulder.
“You cut it.” He said it as though it bothered him. But damn all that—he said it as if he had any choice in what she did with her hair. Or the rest of her, for that matter. “Black’s too dark. Drowns out your eyes. And way too short.”
“Towel, Duquesne.” Xander had already seen far too much of her for her liking. The horribly-timed thought of when she was last under his control made her wet nipples bead. She inched closer. “I’m freezing here.”
“I don’t think you’re cold at all.” Xander licked his lower lip, gaze caressing her skin. She couldn’t stop the shudder. “Happy Birthday to me,” he said, voice a velvet-soft mumble. “This is a nice present. Unexpected…a little early…but very nice. Remind me to thank Phil.”
Phil was so getting his ass kicked.
Seeing Xander earlier should have squelched any nervous energy at their reunion, but her belly fluttered something crazy, and that was not okay. “Uhh…‘bout that towel….”
“I prefer my sub naked, but I guess we can get you dry.” Xander plucked a white cloth from the pile on the bed and opened it wide. Standing too close, he started drying her breasts.
Kizzie snatched the towel and wrapped it around herself, cutting her eyes at him. Xander chuckled. “Gotta be careful with those. They look soft, but I found a knife in one.” He dug in his pocket and came out with her lucky blade.
Perfect. Getting to her other weapon meant going through him. Not an impossible feat. If he tried anything stupid, Xander would be the one with the knife in a gunfight. Pretty basic; no frills. Bullets didn’t need frills…
“This is special to you.” His thumb caressed the handle of the knife she’d carried for years. “Wood’s worn.” He hovered it over her open palm; jerked it away and smirked when she reached for it. A short scrape and click sounded, exposing the sharp blade. “A personal thing, using a knife. Feeling it slice through skin and muscle. Hit bone. It can take a while; the type of kill that stays with you. Not nearly as easy as pulling a trigger.”
Xander held her gaze a beat, then angled away, sliding his hand between the mattress and box spring. When he regained his height, her Beretta was in his grip.
Kizzie’s stance didn’t change, palm still open and an impatient “give it to me already” look on her face. Inside was a different matter. Inside, her heart sped to breakneck pace and her ribs compressed, too small for her lungs. The adrenaline surge said run. Phil warned her Xander would do anything to distract her from her goal. Not breathing would be one hell of a distraction…
Assess.
No quick moves. Unless the barrel pointed her way. Then she’d fight like hell.
Studying the weapon, Xander checked the safety and set it on the nearby nightstand. “I wonder, could you really kill a man with this?” He indicated the knife. Then his scarred brow lifted. “If you had to, would you kill me with it?”
Her mouth turned up a hint at the corners.
“I don’t know if I like that smile.” He frowned but his lips twitched. “I give this back to you, how do I know you won’t hurt me?”
“You don’t.”
Grinning, Xander folded the knife closed and pressed it into her hold, curled her fingers over it. Warm lips brushed her cheek. “I missed you, too, Princess.”
He lingered too long—soft-spoken words and decadent cologne doing tricks on her brain—and then left too soon.
Xander stepped around her and went to the bathroom, and Kizzie’s eyes slipped closed. She released the breath she’d been holding, tossed the knife onto the open duffle on the bed. The torrent of water stopped at the same time the tingling in the pit of her stomach subsided.
And then a hard, dull whump connected with her ass and rocketed through her body.
“The hell!” she shrieked, rubbing her stinging cheek. She glared at him as he came back around to face her; frowned when he used the cloth over her belly to wipe his wet hand.
“How’s the shoulder?”
The previously dislocated joint in question came courtesy of the deranged submissive she needed to hunt down. It wasn’t every day Kizzie got to reunite with someone high on her shit list. She was looking forward to it.
“Fine.” A small lie. The shoulder gave her a problem sometimes, but nothing major. And it wasn’t Xander’s business anyway.
“You get it X-rayed like I told you to?” She didn’t answer and he sighed his disappointment, shook his head. “The ribs?”
A gift from Sacha Sokoviev, a.k.a. The Puppet Master. He’d hit Kizzie hard enough to crack a couple bones and then added to his handiwork by carving a four-inch slice in her belly. She shouldn’t think ill of the dead, but as they say, thank goodness that fucker’s dead. “The ribs are fine.”
“Stitches held okay?” Xander reached for the towel to have a look for himself and she jerked away.
“I’m good, X. Everything’s…good.” His concern confused her and made her insides warm at the same time. Warm fuzzies were not okay for an agent to have when dealing with a known criminal. Especially when, not so long ago, said criminal had both her gun and her knife aimed at her person.
Xander cupped her cheek in his hand, thumb lightly stroking over the fading bruise beneath her eye. A crease dug into his forehead. “Who’d you piss off, then? I have an aversion to other people marking you.”
She swallowed hard. The third-degree had to end. Body contact, too. Yep, that definitely had to stop. She pulled away, steeled her voice. “Some clown. Friend of yours—ICBG.” Xander sat on the Board of Directors of Kizzie’s International Club for Bad Guys. She needed to remember that.
The firm set of his mouth melted into a soft smile. “Just worried about you when you left. And you shouldn’t have left with the shape you were in.”
Worry? This was too much. He’d come at her like a whirling-dervish, too many emotions in too short a period. His presence, his scent, his voice—hadn’t counted on missing the dark timbre—and a flurry of questions. It knocked her off balance. She had to get a grip.
“Why’d you cut your hair?”
Hugging the towel closer, Kizzie squared her shoulders. “My hair. I do with it whatever I want.”
His warm chocolate eyes went cold, staring at her locks like they were Medusa’s snakes. “I hate it.”
“You’ll get over it, slick.”
“And I hate when you call me that.”
“You’ll get over that, too.” Kizzie shrugged, feeling a bit better. She looked past him toward the mess on the bed. “Trying to hack my gear is a waste of time.” Three feet of space between them and it still felt like his hands were on her. Clothes. Now. And someone had taken the liberty of pulling them all out for her. How kind.
“Not interested in your gear.” Xander moved toward the chair and removed his coat, dropped it over the chair back. “Wear the blue ones.”
Kizzie reflexively reached for t
he lacy panties set apart from the rest of her belongings and paused. Then she grabbed a pair of peach satin.
“Between you calling me ‘slick’ and your disobedience, we’re at what in terms of punishment? 18?” A picture of control, Xander unbuckled his belt. “Although, I may add a few smacks for you cutting the hair. Major changes like that you discuss with your Dom.” Slowly, he pulled the strap out of the first loop, leather hissing softly as it slid against the material of his slacks.
Eyes riveted on the belt, Kizzie’s tongue darted out to wet her lips. She dragged a breath through her nose; watched the tail snake through the second loop then disappear behind his back. In her periphery she was aware of Xander watching her, but she fixated on the leather, waiting for it to break free from the other side. Xander paused; Kizzie’s body tingled. She curled the fingers of the hand clutching the panties, scratched the material over her dampening palm.
The train started up again, and finally the end of the strap emerged, breaking the spell. She took a step back and looked up. “I’m not…your sub, Xa—”
“Where’ve you been, Princess?” His smile mocked her. He tossed the belt on the bed and her eyes shifted that way, came back to his. “Judging by the tan lines on your beautiful skin, somewhere in the tropics. Though, not home to Panama. Why haven’t you moved yet?”
Straight to the point, her Xander.
Not my Xander.
No idea where that thought came from, but it could go back and have a seat right after it shut the hell up! Months spent tracking and tagging Sanzio Galletti with unwavering determination and focus, but a handful of minutes in Xander’s presence had her flustered? Time to end this. Right now.
“Sure you don’t want to see me in the red ones?” A bend at the waist and Kizzie lifted the silky briefs with a finger. “I think you might like these. They fit real snug, usually get me compliments.”
His brow lowered. “Blue, and you know I don’t like repeating myself. You’re up to 21.”
“As you wish.” Swapping out the undies, Kizzie bit her lip and slowly strolled over to where he stood in front of the chair. “Look…I’ve had time to mull this over, and I think we should stop with the games. We’re two adults, obviously attracted to each other, and to be honest, I prefer you trying to get in my pants to you trying to get in my head. So, how ‘bout it,” Kizzie said, adding a deliberate and sultry, “Sir?” and looking up from beneath her lashes.
She dropped the towel.
“Any way you want me. Tie me up,” she touched her tongue to her upper lip, “spank me,” smoothed her palm up the front of his shirt, bringing the other hand up to start on the buttons. “Fuck me. Hard and fast…nice and slow. Whatever would please you.”
She leaned into him, enjoying the feel of his solid chest and the fire chasing his palms as they skimmed down her spine.
God, those hands. Possessive brands on her skin.
Lifting a bit brought her mouth closer to his, and she breathed the next words over his lips. “Any. Thing. You. Want.” His head lowered, mouths almost meeting. It took all of her strength to rock back out of reach. “But first…”
He cleared his throat, a heat simmering in his eyes. “First?”
“First, you need a shower,” Kizzie’s whispered. “‘Cause I don’t like the smell of her perfume.”
A hard shove dropped him and the bewildered look on his face into the chair. A wink later, she backed away, moving toward the bed for her clothes. She stepped into the peach satin and yanked a pair of jeans up and over her hips. A bra and cotton tee followed and then Kizzie went about repacking the belongings she hadn’t unpacked in the first damn place.
Silence reigned as she neatly folded and re-rolled clothes, positioned the few pairs of shoes in the small suitcase with military precision. A shopping bag sat on the bed. She removed a box and lifted the lid, revealing the boots she’d snagged leaving the De Galle airport. Hand-stitched Italian leather; overpriced, but too cute to pass up. Double bonus for being comfortable and sturdy. Considering all she had were a pair of sneakers and sandals, the heavy-duty boots weren’t a hard sell. She set them on the floor.
“When’d you get in?”
“Earlier.” Blunt and even. Not a hint of warmth in it. Good. This trip would not be anything like the last one…two. There would be no fraternizing with the enemy—damn you, warm fuzzies—and Xander was the enemy. Temporary teammate. Means to an end. That was it.
She settled her tablet in its space in the bag, put the binocs back into the soft black case. Snatched the Beretta off the table; checked the chamber was clear and the safety set.
“You think I slept with her.” A statement.
“Not my business if you did.”
“And if I didn’t?”
She looked up at him then. He was struggling on the edge—eyes sharp, chest rising and falling evenly. So very close to having his carefully wound control snap.
Kizzie smirked. “Whatever you do or don’t do with your submissive…my bad, I mean,”—a glance at his hand, the gold band absent—“wife, is really not my concern. Just here to do a job, slick.”
Xander’s fingers curled into a fist.
“And so we’re clear,” Kizzie added, “I don’t mean—” She stuck her tongue in and out of her left cheek, made a loose fist with her right hand and pantomimed a blowjob; ended the show with a crass little slurp on the head of the imaginary cock.
Xander’s jaw went tight. “She’s…” He inhaled a slow breath. “It’s….” Both attempts at starting that sentence failed, and with wonder clear in his voice he asked the air, “Why am I even explaining myself?”
The duffle thudded onto the floor. “Don’t know. But I make a living getting people to talk—well, when I don’t need ‘em to shut up, that is.” Kizzie plopped onto the bed and the springs sang. Stretched out on her back, she crossed her bare feet at the ankles. “Want to spill your guts, or have ‘em spilled for you, I’m your girl.”
Xander pushed to his feet, lifted his coat with a level of calm that bordered inhuman. He stared down at her from the foot of the bed. Had she not seen that deceptive composure directed elsewhere, she wouldn’t have known it for the anger it was.
Screw his anger. Kizzie wouldn’t be an accomplice to adultery. She stared right back until he shut the door with a resounding click.
Kizzie flipped off the bedside light, hoping for sleep to emerge from the darkness. Turned on her side and beat the pillow with a fist. Waited a handful of minutes before she was on her back again, studying the ceiling. Perfect. Now she wasn’t tired.
The lights went on.
Hands in her hair, she worked the pins out and lifted the wig off her head. The stocking cap followed, and she fingered the long, brown and honey-colored tresses. Her gaze traveled to the belt beside her, the memory of having her arms bound by leather rushing to the fore. Heat suffused her body and she growled at the intrusion.
Pushing both recollection and accessory aside, she closed her eyes and muttered to the only person in the room, “You’ll never be his damn sub.”
But the only person in the room didn’t quite believe her.
* * * *
“The hell are you doing?” The door snicked closed, softly underscoring the thinly-veiled violence in Xander’s tone.
Phil sat at the table on the other side of the room, rubbing a cloth over an extracted barrel. Two handguns and the field-stripped frame and components of a third rested on a towel spread over the tabletop. Tiny bottles and brushes were within arm’s reach, a box of ammo a little farther away. He didn’t bother looking up to respond. “Same thing you’ve been doing the last few hours… Cleaning my gun.”
Xander’s nostrils flared. The sonuvabitch thought this was funny? He launched his coat on the bed and strode over to the table, sank into the available chair. Palming the grip of his SIG, he twisted the gun to and fro. “If you wanted your skull cracked, Phillip, all you had to do was ask.”
Phil glanced up, false co
ncern on his face. “How is Mrs. Duquesne?” He concentrated on the gun again, reseating the barrel.
With practiced moves, Xander started in on the gun he held—dropped out the magazine, cranked the slide a few times to clear the chamber. Clack-clack—“How long’ve we been boys, Phil?”—Clack-clack.
“Too long to count. More than just boys. Brothers.”
“Brothers.” By blood. In a way stronger than if they’d been born to the same parents. A visual check of the chamber and Xander locked the slide back, flipped the breakdown lever to vertical. He pulled the slide off the frame and took the cloth Phil offered. “So this stunt doesn’t compute. What’s the problem?”
The slide of Kizzie’s Glock in hand, Phil lined it up with the frame rails and pushed it back into place, continuing past neutral and cranking it back and forth. Clack-clack, clack-clack.
“As your brother,” Phil shoved an empty magazine into the base of the stock with a crunch, “it’s my job to slap you upside the head before you repeat a mistake. Consider yourself slapped.” He yanked back the slide again and then squeezed the trigger to dry fire the weapon. Thumbing the button on the side dropped the magazine out.
Xander knuckled a box of shells across the table and then sprayed his barrel and spring with cleaner. Setting those aside, he gave the nylon brush a couple of short bursts of solvent from the can and set to work scrubbing the slide. Phil had something to get off his chest; he’d wait for the man to do it.
They worked in the comfort of ritual. With the TV off, the only sounds were the clank of metal-on-metal and the soft shhh-shhh-shhh of the scrub brush. Phil interrupted the music.
“Sacha was—”
“A loose end.”
“A calculated risk,” Phil corrected, pulling on a pair of gloves, “and that’s sugarcoating it.” He thumbed the ammo into the cartridge, metal jackets clicking into place.
Xander lightly oiled the slide of his SIG. In a moment of white-hot rage, he’d risked the bomb they’d worked years to acquire just to ensure the bastard who cut Kizzie Baldwin was dead. And he was. Strung up like the puppets he jerked about and mistreated. Given more time Xander might have tortured that monster instead of leaving before the man’s breathing stopped, but hunting Sacha Sokoviev down to Nikolay’s home in St. Petersburg took a couple days. Which made Xander late meeting Naima in Paris.
