Overkill (The Mammoth Book of Special Ops)

by E C Sheedy

  When Tanner put his hand on the door handle, Laine put her hand on his bare arm.

  Heat. A fine spray of hair. Hard muscle.

  Swallowing, her fingers tingling, she pulled her hand back. “My question wasn’t an interrogation. Just... friendly interest.”

  He smiled again, but this time it was fuller, and when paired with his eyes, bordered on mockery. “‘Friendly interest?’ I don’t think so.” He looked down to where her hand had briefly rested on his arm, then lifted his gaze to her. A gaze both seductive and impenetrable. A gaze that offered and took away. A gaze that made her heart pound and her brain soften. A gaze that saw a dangerous road ahead and... didn’t give a damn. “You and I will never be friends, Laine.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, stuffy as a parson’s wife. She knew exactly what he meant, but some obscure instinct said the game had to be played, surface words spread like a cool cloth on a fevered brow.

  But the words were useless against Tanner’s hot blue eyes. “Yes, you do.”

  “I—”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not putting a move on you. And I won’t. You’re the boss, so we do things your way.” His stare speculative, he added, “If we do them at all.”

  With that he was out of the limo and striding into Harrods.

  Breathing deeply, she watched his broad back disappear, her normally logical mind numbed by possibilities.

  Tanner Cross as a lover. After all these years...

  That thought ended her efforts at deep breathing and set off heart palpitations. Dear goddess, where were the smelling salts when she needed them!

  His words echoed. “You’re the boss...”

  Tanner cursed himself and then he cursed Laine Derek. Himself for losing his grip on whatever cool he’d managed to salvage from the jungle and panting after a woman he hadn’t seen in years, and her for turning out to be exactly what he’d expected—the woman who’d starred in his adolescent fantasies, and quite few since then.

  Not that she knew it, nor would he tell her, but it hadn’t been fifteen years since he’d seen her. No. He’d clapped eyes on her twice in the last six years. Cairo first, then Madrid last year. She’d made his knees weak then, and she did the same now. Not good, considering his current job description, and the fact that he was as far from being Laine’s type as a lion was from a Siamese cat.

  So shut the fuck up, Cross, and quit with the sex signals. Get yourself some working clothes and get away from her as fast as your ass will move.

  The menswear department was on the ground floor, so he headed straight for it.

  He pulled a half dozen white shirts off the rack, found a clerk, told him his sizes, and asked him to bring him three suits, one navy and two black, whatever ties would work, and some dress shoes – his feet hurt just thinking about them – and to toss in some jeans and underwear while he was at it.

  After a double-take on Tanner’s African-market-chic outfit, the clerk gave him a quick “Yes, sir” and set out as though on a mission to save a dying species. He had to hand it to the guy, he worked fast; in no time he was back swishing expensive clothes under Tanner’s nose.

  “Will these be suitable, sir,” he asked.

  “Fine.” Tanner pulled out his credit card and handed it over. “Wrap ‘em up.”

  “You’ll need a tux.” Laine stepped up beside him, her eyes scanning the clothes laid out on the counter, while the clerk did his tally. “I suggest Armani. And switch one of the black suits for a gray. And maybe add a couple of pale blue shirts.”

  The clerk looked at her, then him.

  Tanner dropped his gaze to hers; she was smiling. Without looking at the clerk, he said, “What the lady says.”

  “And put them on my account.”

  Again the clerk looked at him.

  “Negative that.”

  Laine shrugged. “What the man says.”

  When the clerk left to make the changes, Tanner looked down at Laine; raised a brow. “You trying to buy me.”

  “It crossed my mind... given you’ve ruled out friendship.” She wandered away, fingering suits, shirts, whatever, as she went, and occasionally glancing back at him.

  He followed her. Like a damn puppet on a string. Toward the private dressing rooms.

  They paused outside a door. Tanner opened it. Laine stepped inside.

  They were alone in the heart of London.

  Tanner planted his hands on the wall, one on each side of Laine, careful not to touch her. But he could feel her warmth through his cheap shirt, see her heart pounding under the silk of her blouse, smell her million-dollar perfume—the million dollar woman. If there was sound outside their tight and cozy world, he didn’t hear it. What he heard was the whisper of her breath, the flurry of it on his throat. “You sure about this?” he asked.

  She placed her hands on his chest—and his lungs damn near stopped pumping. “Absolutely not.” She moved her palms, grazing his nipples. He sucked in a breath. Their eyes met. Held. “Are you?”

  He brought his mouth down, brushed it over hers. A taste. The barest of tastes. “I’m sure it’s the biggest mistake of my life.”

  “Good.”

  He cocked a brow in question.

  “We never forget our mistakes.” She continued, then slipped her arms around his neck.

  Running her hands through his hair, she pulled his mouth to hers. Took it hard and greedily. And in that moment, he went deaf, dumb, and blind to everything but her lips pressed to his. On a moan, she took his tongue, played with it. His temperature shot to stratospheric, and the down-low, intelligence-starved anatomy behind his cheap Congo zipper turned to hot steel, raw and rough with lust.

  Wanting closer, wanting in, he ground himself against her, his reward only the crush of her breasts to his chest. He tugged at her blouse, slid a hand under the silk of it, then over the satin and lace of her bra. He pressed his thumb against the pebbled jut of her nipple—and she pushed back, whimpered. His brain went primordial.

  The kiss deepened—Him? Her?—he couldn’t tell, but when she sagged in his arms, he locked her body to his, his hands sliding over her hips, her ass. He wanted her. He wanted her now. Here!

  In a fucking Harrods changing room?

  He pulled back. “Jesus...” He put his forehead to hers. Their uneven breathing a storm between them—hot, gusty, and trapped in a dense silence.

  “Well... that was, uh, interesting,” Laine finally said, burying her face in his shoulder.

  “That’s one description.” His voice sounded broken, too low.

  “And yours?”

  “A hell of a good beginning.” He looked around the well-appointed dressing room and smiled. “But your choice of venue is seriously lacking.”

  She gave him a small smile in return, and started tucking in her blouse; her hands were trembling. “I didn’t exactly plan ahead for this.”

  He pulled her to him, again brushed his lips over hers. Damn near killed him to hold back. “But you did plan.”

  She studied him intently. “I’m not sure I did.” Frowning, she added, “I just suddenly felt... wild.”

  “And now?”

  “Now? I don’t know what I feel.” Turning away from him, she said. “Except we’d better get out of here. I think Harrods would agree.”

  When they arrived at Joe Derek’s Mayfair mansion, Laine asked Collier to show Tanner to his room. And yes, she might have been brusque, but she was more than a little desperate to get away from him—and do some thinking. Something she hadn’t managed to do when she’d seduced him in a men’s dressing room. Tanner gave her no argument, but the last look he shot her before turning to follow Collier told her he was making a pretty good guess about what was going on inside her.

  Good for him, because she had no idea.

  Still light-headed, she drifted into the library to wait for her father. She might not understand her body’s response to Tanner, but what she really wanted to know was why her father brought him
here. Why him?

  “Hello, love.” Her father strode into the room, walked directly to her, and gave her the usual kiss on the cheek.

  His valet, Jacobsen, came in a few steps behind him. “Is there anything you need, Mister Derek?” He nodded in her direction. “Miss?”

  “No, we’re fine. Thank you, Jacobsen.”

  “Very good,” he said, in his odd stiff way. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

  When Jacobsen was gone, Laine eyed her father’s suit and tie. “Are you going out?”

  “A late meeting.”

  She wished he wouldn’t tire himself, but knew it was useless to tell him so. “I’d have thought you’d want to see Tanner. I brought him here straight from the airport.”

  “Really? You picked him up?”

  She nodded but offered no explanation. How do you explain a whim fed by curiosity. “I understand he’s joining your security staff.” She studied her father closely, as she’d taken to doing ever since his diagnosis. It always surprised her how well he looked, tall, straight—thinner than six months ago—but his color was still good. Other than looking tired he wore his sixty-three years with polished grace. She called him her gray fox. A gray fox she was terrified she’d lose.

  “I’ve got a few minutes. Would you like a drink?” He walked to the bar, poured himself a brandy.

  “No. And don’t try changing the subject.”

  He sighed, and despite her refusal, poured her a glass of Chardonnay. Handing her the glass, he said, “That’s what I get for raising a too darn smart, pit-bull of a daughter. I can’t get away with anything.”

  “Tanner said he was hired by Holister. That Holister told him about your surgery. Why? Holister has never had anything to do with Derek security before. Why now? Why didn’t you use our usual firm?” She paused, softened her tone, and tried not to show her fear. “What’s going on, Dad? Is there something—some threat—that I don’t know about?”

  “No, darling. Nothing like that. Tanner’s just a temporary replacement for one of my men who needed some unexpected time off. When I mentioned the situation to Holister, he brought up Tanner’s name. I remembered him, of course, and I thought it would be interesting to see him again.” He smiled. “Nothing dire, no devious plots.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “He knows about your surgery. You’re okay with that?”

  He shrugged easily. “Security is the man’s business, Laine. If Holister trusts him to be discreet, I accept his judgment. Besides, in a few days the surgery will be behind us, and Tanner will be gone. Let’s not make a big thing of it. All right?”

  Something wasn’t right... She had a million questions, but rather than cause her father stress, she lifted her glass and nodded. “And in those few days, you’ll be on the mend and driving the staff crazy.” She forced a smile.

  He tapped her glass with his, his expression oddly grim. “Amen to that.”

  Tanner dropped his duffel bag on the bench at the foot of the four-poster bed. His room, with its lofty ceilings, ornate moldings, and antique furniture, was as far from the jungle as a man could get in one day.

  Walking to the window, he watched Collier from the corner of his eye, as the driver grudgingly hung Tanner’s newly acquired Harrods haberdashery in the closet. Tanner couldn’t resist issuing an instruction. “Leave the jeans on the bed. I’d appreciate it.”

  Collier shot him a fiery look. “You’re a pretend guest, Cross. Don’t push it.”

  Tanner smiled and turned away from the window—nothing but a street outside with slow moving traffic—and sat his butt on the edge of the window seat. “How long did you say you’d been with the Dereks?”

  “I didn’t.” Collier faced him, his face tight. Not a man used to taking orders, Tanner thought, or being asked questions. “Four weeks. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Cushy job, driving a beautiful woman around.”

  Collier said nothing, then, “If you’re finished asking me about things that are none of your business, I have to drive Mister Derek to a late engagement.” His expression was dark as if something black and ugly was on his mind. “There’s a dinner tomorrow night. You’re expected to be there. Try not to be a complete asshole.” He strode from the room, his back as rigid as the doorway he walked through.

  Tanner watched him go and smiled. Cross, you really need to work on your people skills.

  A half hour later—he was coming out of the shower—the phone rang. It was the woman on his mind. Laine.

  “I don’t imagine you’ve eaten,” she said, her tone brisk.

  “Some plastic wrapped stuff on the plane.”

  “Come down to the kitchen, then. We can talk while we eat.”

  Being a man of few words, he decided to use some, “Laine, about what happened—”

  “See you in fifteen minutes.” She hung up.

  When he found the kitchen, three floors down, Laine was already there. Cooking! “I thought you had a chef for that.” He gestured toward the pot in her hands.

  “We do. But when I get the chance, I like to do it myself.” She moved the pan off the heat. “And this is pretty simple stuff. Some pasta and chicken.” With her head she gestured to the table and chairs by a window that looked out over a small terrace. “Sit.”

  He sat, and in seconds she’d filled their plates and joined him at the table, already set with cutlery and two glasses of wine.

  “Laine, I—“

  “Eat, Tanner. Just eat. Please.”

  Damned if her face wasn’t pink. “Not before I apologize. That kiss... I stepped over the line.” And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

  She shook her head. “And I stepped out of character.” Looking at him, she added. “Which didn’t make it any less... fantastic.” She put down her fork. “But I didn’t ask you down here to talk about our misguided kiss.”

  He let the ‘misguided’ comment go and stayed on the ‘fantastic’. Picking up his fork, he asked. “Then what?”

  “I want to talk about my father.” She gave him her full attention. “And I want to know why you’re here.”

  Tanner looked into her keen, searching eyes, and didn’t miss the cool intelligence behind them. Years ago, those eyes had been hidden behind glasses with big dark frames. Now nothing hid them, not shyness—and she had been shy—not uncertainty, and not her innate intelligence. Laine Derek had grown up to be the smartest, toughest, sexiest woman on the fucking planet, and he wasn’t going to disrespect that.

  “You’re not going to like it,” he said.

  “Try me.”

  “I came here to kill your father.”

  She blinked and her clear brow furrowed, then she pressed a hand to her throat as if to regulate her breathing. “Say again.”

  “You heard it right the first time.”

  For a moment, she sat still as marble, then she brought her hand back down to the table. “If you’re telling me this, I have to think, A you’ve changed your plan, or B you also plan to kill me—maybe with your pasta fork. After you’ve eaten, of course.”

  He curled some pasta on the fork in question, but answered her before putting it in his mouth. “First off, I never had a plan, I’m only the hired gun.” He ate the pasta, wiped his mouth with the napkin. “And second, I’d cut out my heart before I hurt Joe Derek.” Or you.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Tanner, tired of playing it cool, and wanting some answers of his own, put down his fork and picked up his wine. “It’s your father’s idea. He wants me to kill him before he goes under the knife.”

  She stood. “That’s insane! Why on earth would he want that?” Roughly, she shoved her long dark hair behind her ears, held it there, a look of utter confusion on her beautiful face.

  “He says he’s afraid to wake up and not be the man he was.”

  “The surgery isn’t without risk, of course, but the doctors are confident— This makes no sense!”
She turned away, then back. “And why you? Why did he choose you? Is that what you are? A killer for hire?” The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she held up her hand, palm toward him. “Damn it! You’re a Raven, aren’t you?”

  How the hell did she know about the Raven Force? “What are you talking about?”

  The look she gave him was withering. “Do not treat me like an idiot, Tanner. I’ve known about my father’s... sub rosa operation for years. I run Derek Industries, for God’s sake. That means I follow the money. Raven is very expensive.”

  “I see.” One smart lady. And damn it, he was a sucker for smarts. His chest tightened over an alien surge of panic. A red alert. He could fall for this woman—fall hard. Do not go there, Cross. Focus! “How much do you know?”

  She faltered. “No details. I know the work involves the illegal arms trade, sometimes drugs. In the last few years, anti-terrorism.” She paused. “And I know it’s important to my father.”

  “The Raven Force is your father. And it’s not only the money. He’s a genius strategist, connected to the highest levels of government, both here and stateside. He knows—hell, he vets—every operative in the force. That kind of power attracts equally powerful enemies, for him, and the Ravens.” He rubbed his jaw. “My guess is that’s what this death wish of his is all about—what he knows and who he knows. He’s thinks this surgery will make him a danger to everyone involved. Everything he’s built.”

  She eyed him warily, suspicion darkening her startling green eyes. “Maybe you agree with him. Maybe you’ll do anything to protect the Ravens.”

  “I will.”

  “I thought you said...” She straightened. “I’ll kill you if you hurt my father, Tanner. I mean it.”

  “Jesus, I am not going to hurt him! Get that in your head and keep it there.” Running a hand through his hair, he added, “I’d rather hurt the other guy.”

  “Other guy?”

  “Joe knows hiring a Raven to kill him is not a sure thing. Especially this one.” He smacked his heart.“Hell, I’d be a nowhere man if it wasn’t for him turning my life around, getting my ass in the army, taking me on as a Raven.” He took a beat. “I think he’s got a back-up plan.”