Bait

by Leslie Jones

  That brought him up short. How could he not have anticipated that she would want to be armed? Damn. The CIA didn’t arm their employees in the States, of course, since they couldn’t legally operate within its borders—­and she had no authorization to carry inside Concordia—­but neither of them were concerned with technicalities, Gabe realized. Arming her made sense. He had to stop thinking of her as a principal.

  “I’ll see what I can do. What else?”

  Gabe heard the noises seconds before Christina. As her head swiveled toward the sound and her mouth opened, Gabe wrapped an arm around her waist and spun her behind him, holding her there with one hand on her waist. She squeaked in surprise.

  “Quiet!” he snapped. He tugged her over to the relative safety of the wall, pushing on her shoulder to indicate he wanted her to crouch, relieved when she understood and obeyed. Giving himself two steps, he jumped and caught the top of the high garden wall, pulling himself up easily and crouching as he took quick inventory of the layout before dropping lightly to the other side. The sounds came from his left; grunting and rustling as though the person or persons were trying to be quiet but couldn’t quite manage it. He drew his Glock, stepping soundlessly across a bed of pine needles from the previous winter, using tree trunks to mask his approach.

  “I’m close.” The man’s voice was a light tenor. “I’m almost there.”

  “Hurry.” The other voice was pitched higher. “My parents will be looking for me.”

  A reluctant grin tugged at Gabe’s mouth as he caught sight of the two teenagers locked together in a clumsy embrace, the girl’s back against a tree trunk and a leg on a rock, skirt up around her waist. He withdrew as silently as he’d come, leaving the young lovers oblivious to his presence.

  Christina searched his face when he dropped back down beside her. “Well?”

  “It was nothing. A deer. Let’s keep walking.”

  She accepted his explanation, following as he took them back the way they’d come. “All right. So back to our master plan. Obviously, this isn’t going to be a standard protection detail. Say something happens. When something happens. You can’t whisk me away, or leave me behind, as you did just now. That defeats the purpose. We need to draw him out, not hide from him.”

  Gabe stopped and turned to her, forcing her to stop as well. “I will not let anything happen to you.”

  She made an exasperated sound. “That’s not what I’m saying. We need a plan to funnel the assassin into a trap. A pre-­determined net.”

  “We have the beginnings of a plan. We’ve brainstormed a lot of different scenarios.”

  Exasperation turned to anger. “And when are you going to fill me in?”

  She wasn’t being unreasonable, as much as he hated to admit it. Taking in a lot of air through his nose, he exhaled slowly, willing away his annoyance at being questioned by another damned CIA officer. “Before each appearance. I’ll make sure one of us fills you in. Sound good?”

  Christina nodded, apparently mollified. Jesus. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worked with an unknown entity. It was exhausting.

  Rushing to put herself out there as a target made her either brave or foolhardy. She recognized that her mission in a nutshell was to be bait, and she hadn’t balked or whined. That was the good news. On the flip side, she might fold under pressure. And he had to consider whether Christina or the CIA, or both, had their own agendas. Leanne had sold him out to the Reyes Cartel with the sweat of their lovemaking damp on his skin. Even four years later, it still made his gut clench.

  The depressing truth was that he could not afford to trust Christina Madison.

  Chapter Six

  IN THE TIME they’d been gone, the princess’s home had transformed into something almost unrecognizable. The second bedroom was littered with duffel bags and rolled-­up sleeping bags. The furniture in the third bedroom had been pushed against the walls, and folding tables covered with computer equipment bisected the room. Gabe’s team lounged on the sofas or hunched over the computers. The huge living space seemed smaller with the seven of them. Why had she thought she would be alone with Gabe? She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

  Relieved, of course.

  Deni Van Praet sat at the desk in the study, tiny reading glasses perched on her aristocratic nose as she scribbled notes in the margins of a sheaf of papers. She looked up as Christina entered, looking more resigned than annoyed. A small, practiced smile graced her mouth. “Princess,” she murmured, rising.

  Christina ran her nails through her hair, lifting it off her neck. “It’s just me, Deni. No need for formality.”

  “Very well. Then come sit down and we’ll go over the guest list for the Viscount and Viscountess of Nabourg’s anniversary party again.”

  Christina obediently went to sit in front of the desk. The celebration would be the first real test of her abilities. A shiver of anticipation raised goose bumps on her arms. She grinned at Deni.

  The older woman pulled out a black binder and opened it at random. Pointing to the photo, she began to quiz Christina. “Who is this? What is his relationship to the Nabourgs? When did you last meet him?”

  Christina realized she actually knew the answer. All that studying with the princess paid off. “That’s Lord Vrejflouw, MP of Meestragen North. His title comes to him by marriage, and he has very little influence, even as a member of Parliament. He became a widower three years ago.”

  “How do you know him?”

  Christina felt the corners of her mouth twitch. “Trick question. I’ve never met him, nor very many other members of Parliament. The queen alone has the honor of sitting in the royal box at 6 Rue de Nobles.”

  A curious stillness in the air made her look up. Gabe leaned against the doorjamb, thumbs stuck in his belt loops and his ankles crossed. “How’s it going?”

  Such innocuous words, but Christina knew from one look into his eyes what he was really asking. “I’ll be ready.”

  “Good. There hasn’t been a lot of mission prep time. The damned thing’s in two days.”

  “I’m a quick study.” Christina turned back to the book. Flipping the page, she said, “Nessandra Florentine. Socialite. Been on the cover of Le Sommet three times.”

  Gabe wandered up to peer over her shoulder, and gave a low whistle. “Holy smokes. As what? Sexiest cougar of all time?”

  “Just divorced husband number four.” Christina’s lip curled. “Obtained her wealth through her ex-­husbands’ generosity. She’s probably looking for ex-­husband number five, if you’re into that.”

  Gabe lifted the binder from Deni’s desk and peered at the photo. “Damned straight. Are we going to meet her at this shindig?”

  Unaccountably nettled, Christina snatched the binder from him and snapped, “Maybe you could roll your tongue back into your mouth long enough to remember that your job isn’t to hit on women at this shindig.”

  He gave a low chuckle, and she realized he’d been teasing her. She groaned and dropped her head to the back of the chair. “Go away. I’m working.”

  The chuckle turned into a laugh. “I just came in to tell you Tag’s looking for you.”

  “Seems you found her first,” Tag said, tramping into the room. “You got a sec? I need to test your microphone.”

  “You bet.” She followed him into the third, smaller, bedroom and over to a Louis XV table, carefully covered to protect it. An array of equipment littered the table and the sofa next to it.

  “Sit down,” Tag said. “I need to measure you.”

  She found out what he meant a moment later when he held up a tiny coil of wire.

  “You’ll have to either pull your shirt up, or take it off.”

  She snorted a laugh. “Yeah, right. I can do it myself. I’ve attached wires to my clothes before.”

  “To the back of your bra?” cam
e Gabe’s voice from the doorway. What was it with him, appearing like unwanted magic in doorways? “You’d have to be pretty limber for that.”

  His eyes were on the electronic gadgets, not her, but Christina found herself turning beet red. Fortunately, neither man seemed to notice. “I can attach it to the front, under the dress,” she said.

  “Won’t work,” Tag said. “Too close to your heartbeat. That only works if it’s outside your clothes, like they do on air or whatever.”

  Tag poked among the various wires, looking at Christina’s breasts with apparent professional detachment, then came to perch beside her, reaching for the back hem of her blouse.

  “I can do it,” she said, her laugh good-­natured. She batted his hands away.

  “I have to measure the width between your shoulder blades, and the width of your bra at the clasp. Then we size the wire and the microphone so they’ll fit under the strap, but on your back.” Tag waited, hand outstretched.

  She hesitated. It was his job. He was a professional. And so was she. “All right. Go ahead.”

  The expensive silk slipped through Tag’s fingers as he gathered it and slid it up her back. She reached over her shoulder to grab it, holding it up so Tag could measure her. She glanced at Gabe. Her back faced away from him; he couldn’t see anything, yet he stared at her with an intensity that was unnerving. He swallowed several times.

  Christina froze. The naked hunger in his gaze paralyzed her. He followed Tag’s touch like a physical caress against her skin. She was shocked when a rush of heat flooded her. Her lips parted on a breath. Their eyes caught, suspending her in a timeless moment. It became Gabe’s long fingers, scorchingly hot against her skin, lightly touching her back under her bra. Her tongue touched her lower lip. His gaze zeroed in on that tiny movement. He didn’t seem to be breathing.

  He yanked his gaze away, expression closing down with a finality that jarred her. He hadn’t meant for her to see his desire, that much was clear.

  What the hell had just happened?

  “What . . . what if I wear a different bra that night?” She forced words past the constriction in her throat. The tenuous thread between them vanished, and she could breathe again.

  The two men looked at one another, brows pulled in. Apparently, it had not occurred to either of them.

  Christina swallowed a laugh. “I’ll go get the one I’ll be wearing,” she said.

  Gabe moved away from the doorway as she passed him. Making sure there was no contact between them, she thought. Anxious to get this over with, Christina hurried to her bedroom and dug into the underwear drawer. Véronique de Savoie favored silky, sexy underthings more daring than anything Christina had ever attempted. She’d purchased a dozen sets similar to Ronnie’s, since the maids would find it odd if the princess started wearing plain white cotton. Christina was wearing one of the more conservative sets now, plain black but edged with lace. She rooted through the contents, looking for another comparatively plain set.

  Her nails snagged on a sheer pink bra, deeply cut and barely there across the nipples. The panties were equally scandalous. A deep V started at the top of her thighs and dipped to just above her mound. Anticipating the look on the operators’ faces, she chuckled and scooped up the bra. Let’s see Gabe look at that with no reaction.

  TAG FINGERED THE tiny microphone. It would nestle between her shoulder blades without a telltale bulge. Once under the bra strap, no one would be able to tell she wore a wire at all.

  Christina walked back into the room. No, she swaggered. Her tight, athletic body was curvy in all the right places, and Gabe couldn’t stop the stirrings of his body. His attempt to jerk Christina’s chain had apparently worked a little too well, and not the way he’d intended.

  Damn it! Why couldn’t he be attracted to that cougar—­ whatever her name was? Yes, she was beautiful, but how could men miss her greed? The cold and calculating gleam in her eye. Gabe preferred the understated sexuality he was certain Christina did not know she exuded.

  Although, at the moment, there was nothing understated about the sway of her hips as she approached them. What was the blasted woman up to? He had his answer a moment later, when she dropped a tiny pink bundle into Tag’s outstretched hand. As Tag straightened the fabric, Gabe felt all the moisture leave his mouth. Holy God! There was barely enough fabric for Tag to grasp, and what was there was like gossamer. A picture of Christina wearing the scraps of barely-­there and sprawled across his bed had him sitting abruptly and shifting forward on the chair, hands clasped in front of him to hide the bulge in his pants.

  “Here you go,” she said, voice husky. “Do you need me to put it on? Or can you manage?”

  “No problem.” Tag sounded strangled. “I can just, um, use this.”

  “Oh, good,” she purred, eyes on Gabe. “I have work to do, so . . .”

  She was playing with him, that much was obvious. The question was, could she see just how affected he was? He wiped all expression from his face but could not stop his eyes from dropping to her breasts. Watching Tag do nothing more than lift the shirt up her back had gotten him so revved up he hadn’t been able to hide his reaction from her. Damn it! He dragged his gaze back up to her face. Satisfaction flared in her eyes, and he silently cursed.

  “We’re leaving at one o’clock tomorrow for the hospital,” he said, striving for matter-­of-­fact. He kept his eyes fixed on Tag as his teammate attached the wire to the bra he held in his large hands. “Wear shoes you can run in, if you have any. The team will be stationed along the route in unmarked cars. You and I will take the goddamned unarmored piece of shit state limo.”

  Her brow furrowed. “That doesn’t work for me. We should convoy in three cars, one in front of us and one in the back. Let ­people see us. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

  He couldn’t stop the irritation flashing across his face. This wasn’t her area of expertise. He knew what he was doing, and he’d be damned if he’d allow any harm to befall her.

  “The more visible we are, the more likely the assassin will make a play for me. Isn’t that the point? Don’t you think this”—­her arm swept in an all-­encompassing arc—­“is overkill? If you keep me too safe, you practically invite the assassin to make a play that might get civilians killed.”

  He took in a lot of air through his nose. She was part of his team, he reminded himself. He couldn’t shut her out. “Sit down,” he said finally.

  She hesitated, but finally came to settle on the sofa next to him.

  “I don’t bite,” he snapped, annoyed with her reticence and knowing he was the cause. But wasn’t it better to keep her at a distance?

  “Are you sure?” she shot back. Tag laughed.

  “Not unless that’s what you’re into.” Damn it! That had sounded flirtatious. He controlled his own damned body, not the other way around. He glared at her. “God knows what they teach you at Langley.”

  Surprisingly, humor lit her eyes. “I don’t recall biting being taught as a self-­defense technique.”

  He couldn’t manage a chuckle, but his irritation faded. “We’ll leave you more exposed, but in the future. I don’t disagree with anything you said, except that we don’t have positive control over the environment. We’ve barely had time to vet the attendees, and this has been advertised on the princess’s website for weeks. We want to draw the assassin out, yes. But on our terms, not his. And we sure as hell don’t want any civilians caught in the crossfire.”

  To his relief, she dipped her head. “I understand. I’ll be ready.”

  He stood with her, searching her eyes, for what he had no idea. His unwilling attraction would go nowhere. She was the principal, and therefore off limits.

  No, she wasn’t. Nor was she truly part of his Delta Force team.

  She was Christina Madison, CIA.

  Chapter Seven

  CHRISTINA CHANGED INTO s
horts and a T-­shirt and headed down the wide hall to Ronnie’s private gym. Since the team had arrived, someone was always in there. This afternoon, it was Gavin, Alex, and Tag. One of them had hung a heavy bag in a corner—­miracle-­worker Deni must have acquired it for the team—­and Gavin worked it steadily, sweat dripping down his face. Tag ran on the treadmill, and Alex pumped free weights.

  Tag lifted a hand in greeting. Christina flopped onto the floor to stretch.

  “What’s your poison?” Alex asked. His biceps bulged from the eighty-­pound dumbbells in each hand, but he wasn’t even breathing hard.

  “I’d really like to do some speed training. I’ll probably need to move fast rather than hit something. Are you up for some sparring?”

  “I could do that.” He looked doubtful. “We didn’t bring any pads, though.”

  “No problem,” she assured him. “We’ll just pull our punches.”

  Shrugging, Alex set the dumbbells neatly back in their rack and came to the center of the floor. It was covered in a thin layer of foam, making it a soft landing spot in case he took her to the ground.

  She moved her right leg back a few inches and raised her lightly closed fists. Alex mirrored her move, and they started to circle. Christina threw two jabs and a left cross. He slipped them easily, throwing a halfhearted punch toward her center. She faded left, and he let her. Taking two steps in, she executed a combination of kicks and jabs. He fended her off, but didn’t return with an attack of his own. She frowned. Executing a perfect spinning side kick, which should have dumped her on her ass as Alex scooped her leg, she made light contact with his thigh as he simply moved back.

  “Alex, this is only helpful if you actually engage with me,” she complained, stopping and dropping her hands.

  “I am . . . I just don’t want to hurt you . . .”