Savage Secrets (Titan #6)

by Harber, Cristin

  Grin sufficiently hidden again, Rocco raised eyebrows, finally looking more interested in the job than whether or not she’d secured her studio. “And our no brainer job is?”

  The bubbles tickled the back of her throat. She tried to ignore the carbonation but scrunched her nose, taking all the seriousness out of what she was trying to explain. “We’re taking out El Mateperros.”

  “El Mateperros, huh?” He laughed. “The two of us? Yeah, okay.”

  She smirked at his unimpressed reaction. “You’re Daniel Locke, the next big thing in arms trading and El Mateperros’s next big dealer.”

  Rocco’s don’t-believe-ya grin faltered. “You’re serious? The two of us and what back up team?”

  “There is none.” She sipped the Diet Coke this time. No need for another bubble explosion.

  “And, what… You’re…” He spun in a circle. The man could practically touch the opposite walls of her apartment. “My pretty friend who lives in a London shitshack, running an unsanctioned op out of a studio flat?”

  Pretty? Was that him being sexist and condescending, or was he passing out a compliment? The dimple flashed again, and she decided to ignore it as a compliment. She reached into her pocket and tossed a small box his way. He caught it in a fist but didn’t look at it.

  “What’s this?” He still didn’t look at the box.

  “The scariest thing I’m sure you’ll ever hold.” With a deep breath, Caterina smiled as sweetly and convincingly as she could. Years of that practiced look failed on Rocco. It felt like he could see straight through her saccharine charade and knew she wanted blood.

  “Cute, Kitten.”

  Her face fell. “Caterina. Cat for short if you must.”

  “I like Kitten.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Estás loco.”

  “Kitten it is.”

  Fine, be that way. “Actually, if you want to talk names, I’m Mrs. Locke—your wife—and you’re holding a wedding band. We check into a swank hotel tonight.” Shock waves scrolled across his face. Caterina loved it, tacking on a waggle of her brows. “We’re honeymooning.”

  Color fled his tan face. Soft brown eyes panicked. That chiseled jaw dropped, and the dimple fled. But even stunned silent, mouth gaping, he still looked like his nickname.

  She laughed, amused and aroused and annoyed. All kinds of opposing feelings. “Don’t look so surprised. There’s more to our relationship than even you know.”

  ***

  Hanging with Caterina in her crazytown apartment talking spy games had all been fun and games until she threw a honeymooning grenade. Then he felt like a freight train that locked its brakes, screeching and smoking and skipping off the tracks. Rocco’s test-the-waters, check-out-the-girl attitude choked.

  He let go of the small box. It hit the floor like it had morphed into a lead-lined anchor. Marriage was marriage, even the make believe kind. Didn’t he just escape from one marriage-hungry woman? No matter how smokin’ hot Caterina was or how much he loved listening to her talk with that accent, the commitment convo gave him the heebie-jeebies even if it was an undercover ruse.

  Maybe he’d misunderstood. He looked at the floor, then at her. No misunderstanding. This Penelope Cruz lookalike had dropped the m-bomb, and he had been holding a ring box. He shuddered. Few things in life sounded like a prison sentence. Marriage topped the list.

  One of her eyebrows arched, her dark cherry lips puckered, and whoa, was she sexy.

  “So, I should call Jared? Ask for someone else to work with?”

  Shake it off, man. This was a cake walk—with her, and no way was anyone else from Titan nearing this job. He could pretend he’d just walked down the aisle, and if he got his ass in gear, maybe this op would be all work and play. No complaints there. You got this.

  “Honeymooning?” He rolled his shoulders and snapped his head back and forth like he was walking into the ring, gloves on. “We just got hitched?”

  She nodded. “Ink’s not even dry yet.”

  He narrowed his eyes on the pretty pout of her lips, then looked at the box burning a hole in the carpet. Freakin’ Kryptonite. Who was Daniel Locke anyway? Rocco’s specialty was logistics. He could fly anything. Drive anything. Blow walls down. Take bridges out. But playing the likes of happily ever after? Much as he wanted to see how she’d honeymoon on the job, a chance to take out El Mateperros wasn’t worth blowing over some muy caliente pussy.

  “Sounds like a good gig, but I’m not suited for this job.”

  His eyes slid down from her white tank top to her blue jeans. It was his favorite look. She’d be fun, a hot handful who kept him on his toes. Or maybe his back…

  “You’ll be fine.” She took a sip of her soda. “I take your silence as agreement?”

  Yeah, nope. Too busy having some kind of moral argument with myself, thank you very much. “Not really.”

  “Come on, big boy. Easy gig. Talk guns and pretend you don’t mind me hanging on your arm.”

  Sounded simple coming from her. Then again, married? “Someone’s going to call bullshit. It’s not believable.” He shook his head, pissed that he wasn’t ready to fake it with a foreign beauty rockin’ an all-American girl look. “I don’t look like the white picket fence type of man. Call your boys at MI6. Find some Bond looking dude.”

  He paused. She looked amused, a smile ticking on her cheeks, like this was what she expected, and it was only a matter of time before he agreed.

  “I don’t want MI6, Rocco.” She had have rolled her Rs on purpose. “I want you.”

  The words made his dick jump. Good freakin’ Lord. Talk like that would get them both in trouble. All she had to do was throw in a por favor, and he might just pick that box of doom off the floor and slip on some new jewelry. Shit.

  She smiled, and if any man ever told her no, he’d change his mind soon enough. But not him. Wouldn’t work. He’d get them both killed.

  “I don’t fit the part. As much as I want to say I do and partner with you—El Mateperros? He’s a big deal. I can’t let…” who I want to screw “…my interest in a job overshadow what’s best for the op. The guy needs justice shoved down his throat.”

  Her dark eyes narrowed, shooting silent missiles at him as if he was already negotiating this marriage minefield. Her interrogator side surfaced. All business. Very deadly. Extraordinarily sexy. What, a woman who could kill him slowly a dozen ways was a new turn on? Hell no. Except for the fact that he was turned on and fighting it. Hard.

  Toned arms crossed against the white tank. “Daniel Locke was a wannabe international arms dealer. You think he wanted white picket fences? You’d play an arms dealer. Think about it. You know guns. Explosives.”

  Rocco shifted his weight. She had a legitimate argument, but she also had an insane plan. Marriage. “Okay. Point made, but—”

  “Ay Dios mio.” She stared up at him through her dark lashes. “It’s the job. Over the second the bastard is—in custody. Calm down.”

  He looked at the box again, seriously considering a closer look at it. Wait. No. He couldn’t. Even if he wanted to. Undercover work when he randomly tripped his balls off? Hallucinating at a moment’s notice? Yeah, couldn’t happen. No way. He’d get them both killed. Or Jared would find out it was still an issue then kill him anyway for not mentioning it.

  She continued. “Failing would kill us both anyway. What was that whole line? You avoid death. Don’t fail, you won’t die.”

  Exactly. They were on the same page—avoid death at all costs, and because of that, his answer was no. “Look, Caterina. I’m just saying there’s gotta be at least a handful of men out there who could stand in here.”

  A ball-bustin’ grin pulled at her cheeks. “A whole handful in the entire world, huh? Guess I am in good company then.”

  Already saying the wrong things and the ring wasn’t even on his finger. This woman was going to trigger some flashing lights in his head if she kept needling him, all sexy and pushy and all. He tugged at his colla
r. His pretend marriage was suffocating him, and he hadn’t even said yes yet.

  Yet?

  Wait. Not-uh. Not possible. Remember blackouts and fuzzy memories. “I’m just…not believable husband material.”

  Her eyes twinkled. Thick lashes blinked so slowly he would’ve sworn the move had been done on purpose. “I’d believe it.”

  Damn. That accent. And that mouth. The little flips of her tongue as words rolled off her lips were killing him. He was nearly ready to grab the ring box and put the job in motion. So many reasons to walk away…

  “I could.” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and looked around the tiny studio. She was playing him. He knew it, didn’t care, kinda loved it. Maybe could work around his psychedelic complications. “That’s not the problem.”

  She walked toward him. “I bet you could slide your hand around my waist like you’d done it so many times before.”

  Man, did she know what she was doing.

  “Rocco? You’re not up for the job?”

  Where was the thermostat? It was getting warm. “I didn’t say I couldn’t or I wouldn’t.”

  She put her soda on the coffee table—the last remaining barrier between them—and closed the distance, leaving a foot of space. Her spicy perfume and the kaleidoscope of browns in her eyes were the final selling points.

  She knew it and went in for the kill. Soft hands smoothed against his chest, almost too delicate to interrogate a terrorist, too feminine to handle torture devices. Her eyes locked on his. The warm air felt alive. Tension burned hot, and that wasn’t the threat of imaginary marriages or his hallucinations. That was intoxicating lust hanging heavy.

  “What do you say?” Her fingers bent just enough to let her nails scratch the fabric of his cotton shirt, just enough so he could feel the tease on his skin. The slow scratch of her fingernails confirmed she knew torture. The move was fast enough to claim innocence and slow enough to make his entire body spring to life.

  “Por favor?”

  And there it was.

  He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulder again. “Alrighty, let’s do this.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rocco had been married for five hours, and already he didn’t know if he could pull off this job unscathed. Bombs, he could do. Faking a cover? That wasn’t his scene. He checked the alarm clock on the night stand. Five hours and twelve minutes. Married life was going slowly, even if he was hitched to Caterina.

  He’d been learning everything he could about Daniel Locke. The file and all of the lesser known details of his temporary life stared up at him. Not a ton of intel because no one knew a lot about Locke. Roc’s eyes wandered. He watched the dangerous beauty he now called his wife. If ever was there a reason to go undercover, she might be it. Still, his big hairy hesitation was his mindfuck. He tried to remember every trigger he’d ever experienced before a hallucination.

  So far he’d come up with…nothing specific. What had happened directly before he tripped his balls off?

  Watched some TV.

  Drank a couple beers.

  Nothing out of the ordinary.

  His warning signs were clear: the tingles across his skin and the electrical zaps in his brain. Those were the only warning shots that a spell was upon him. Funny, he got almost the same feeling out in the field when the enemy was just out of sight, but attack was imminent.

  Caterina had brushed his arm hopping in the taxi from her apartment to the hotel. He’d bumped against her in the hotel elevator. That had been intentional and all to make a pretty girl smile. It had worked, and that made him smile. But now, memorizing intel, his mind was numb.

  Rocco glanced at the television, trying to relax. British humor wasn’t his thing. Maybe it went over his head. Give him some Tosh.0 or Duck Dynasty any day. He laughed. Hell, if Si and Tosh ever got together, it might be one of the funniest things he’d ever see.

  “What’s so funny?” Caterina scrutinized clothes in her closet like there’d be a test later. It all looked easy enough. Shirt, skirt, shoes, who cared? But with all that shuffling and studying, it was clear she wouldn’t agree.

  “American stuff.” She didn’t seem the type of take his appreciation of Pawn Stars and Dude, You’re Screwed seriously. The hangers in the closet jangled as she slapped them back and forth, clearly having issues with the whole shirt-skirt-shoes debacle. “Where’d all that stuff come from?”

  He hadn’t checked the clothes for him but assumed he could make fast work of it. Shirt-slacks-shoes. When was the last time he’d worn slacks? Maybe never. There was a lot of personal stuff for the Locke cover. Clothes, luggage. After agreeing to newlywed status, the pieces fell quickly into place. Fancy hotel, designer duds, a bathroom counter that was covered in all kinds of girl crap.

  He sat at a small table in the suite’s bedroom. Caterina walked to the mini-fridge and pulled out a bottle of Diet Coke. “Can’t have an empty closet and…” she mouthed silently, “have it believable.”

  “Right.” He slapped the folder on Daniel Locke shut. It was the only thing in the room that proved he wasn’t who he said he was. Rocco walked to the bathroom and pulled out a zippo. A flick of the flame, and the folder with its quick burning contents went up in a fiery poof. Smoky ashes and smoldering bits floated to the base of a massive tub.

  One last look at the burnt evidence, and he started toward the door. A button down shirt and expensive-looking khaki pants hung on the wall. Not his typical wardrobe on a job, or ever. “This for me?”

  “Si. Put it on.”

  Right…

  She waited expectantly. “Any day now.”

  Roger that. Huh, he’d be unrecognizable in this garb. A minute later, that was confirmed. All clean cut, pressed, and ready for a dog and pony show with a terrorist mad man. If the guys could see him now, he’d catch a lot of hell.

  “You got this.” He glared at the mirror, giving it his best I’m-gonna-kill-you glare just prove the whole GQ look didn’t take away his edge. Maybe he’d strap a knife to his ankle and add a nice Glock to his waist. Any good arms dealer would be armed. Right?

  Adequately reassured, he turned back toward the sitting area. A silky robe hung on the back of the bathroom door, begging him to do a double take. “Holy smokes.” He unsuccessfully tried to ignore it. She wasn’t putting out, and he couldn’t make a move. The lingerie was part of their cover and had nothing to do with what would actually take place while playing the Mr. and Mrs. act.

  “Almost ready?” she called from the living room as if she hadn’t been staring into her closet for hours.

  He partially opened the door, and in the thirty seconds it took him to don his new wardrobe, she’d done the same thing. Bonus points to her for not preening in the bathroom for hours. Another round of bonus points because she was hovering over several handguns, inspecting her options.

  One last glance at her, and he turned back toward the mirror, shaking his head at the contradictions that were Caterina Cruz. Candles rested on the tub’s ledge waiting to be burned. He picked up a small glass bottle and sniffed it. This was the least Titan moment of his life. Ah hell, but the bottle smelled like Cat. Freakin’ pansyass.

  He put the bottle down before she caught him. The whole hotel suite smelled like that perfume, very… Caterina-esque. Rocco scrubbed a hand over his face and into his hair. What was his problem? Get a grip.

  She knocked open the open door. “Hey.”

  He jumped, not wanting to get busted ogling bottles of girly crap. Thank fuck he’d just put that bottle down.

  “Ready?”

  She was stunning, and he’d never described anything with that word in his life. Her glossy lips and made up eyes were more than he could take. Gone were the jeans and tank top. All American was replaced by All Star. The clothes were probably designer, fitting for an international arms dealer’s new wife. His brain scrambled because the whole expensive and extravagant thing worked on her just as well the jeans and t-shirt and her skintight
black outfit from the MI6 location. Everything worked on her. “Yup. Ready.”

  She smoothed the side of a light pink dress the color of cotton candy. It softened her. The woman standing there wasn’t a trained killer; she was…Mrs. Locke, and damn if he wasn’t stoked to be the Mister.

  “Everything disposed of?” She eyed the trash can.

  “You checking on me, Kitten?” He had a thing about trust and respect. It drove him to join the Army, pushed him to become part of Titan and strive for leadership. Trust and respect defined his world. He needed it from the team, needed it from Boss Man, but had more or less expected it from Caterina.

  She waggled her eyebrows. “Maybe.”

  “We’re all good.”

  “Good.” She nodded and walked toward the front of their big-ass suite. The woman who had pressed her hands to his chest and purred a request to work together had been replaced by an operative forced to wear a pink dress. She was all business and as focused as he’d ever seen her. It was hot as hell.

  His neck burned. His chest tightened. Rocco squeezed his eyes shut, praying that this was an over the top reaction to the skyscraper legs parading in front of him. He followed her, his feet feeling that they’d been cemented to the floor. Each step seemed heavier than the last. Piss poor timing if this was what he thought it might be…

  Caterina turned around. The fabric of her dress hugged her tight, making him memorize her every move. A blur of haze blocked his view for a hot second. He focused in again on the pink and lost his sharp line of sight again.

  Zip. Zip. His ears burned with electricity. Goddamn it.

  Zip. Zap. Zip.

  Panic swelled, colliding with the reaction that had already started. The one that he dreaded. His palms went clammy. This couldn’t be happening right now. Seriously. He’d will the insane episode away. Rocco sawed his teeth and ordered his lungs to breathe steadily.

  Zip. His sight went fuzzy, and his lungs revolted, doing their spastic best to throw him in Lake Crazy. The glow from the lamps became shining orbs. The pink dress spun itself into a cotton candy frenzy. Fuck. He couldn’t stop it and had to bolt. At least he was always a man with a plan and had booked a just-in-case hotel room a few floors down.