“Let’s not pretend we weren’t making each other miserable, C. D.”
His expression softened at the old nickname. “I wasn’t miserable.”
She snorted and rolled her eyes. “We fought constantly.”
He leaned in close, bringing with him the warm scent of his woodsy aftershave. “We fucked constantly, too.” Butterflies exploded in her stomach as heat curled over her thighs, and she fought the urge to rub them together. “It wasn’t perfect, but it was us, Tash.”
“It was dysfunctional.”
Hurt flashed in his eyes, replaced quickly with anger. “So your solution was to walk without giving us the chance to fix it?”
She ducked her head, blood rushing to her cheeks. They’d hit a particularly rough patch, and she’d panicked. She’d run, giving in to her immature, selfish fears, and by the time she’d realized the magnitude of her mistake, it had been too late. She couldn’t put the pin back in the grenade. She’d wrecked the best thing that had ever happened to her because she’d been too young to handle the complexity of marriage.
She could’ve tracked him down at any point over the past six years if she’d wanted, but she hadn’t, too terrified he hated her guts for bailing. But it didn’t seem like he hated her. And she wasn’t sure what to make of that.
Harry cleared his throat as he approached, rubbing his hands together as though warming them. “All set for tonight then?”
Brandon pushed off the table and returned to his side, putting distance between them.
Not that she could blame him.
Natasha skimmed her hands down the front of the skintight, revealing black dress that all of the catering company’s waitresses wore and sucked in a steadying breath. She smoothed her hair over her ears, further concealing the nearly invisible microearpiece in her right ear that linked her both to Brandon and to headquarters.
She hadn’t initially understood why Harry had insisted on Brandon for this mission, but seeing him now, she understood perfectly. He’d assumed the identity of William Drummond, heir to a European banking fortune with several semi-illegal investments in his portfolio. Drummond was exactly the type Silayev’s people would invite to a party like this: rich, connected, and crooked. She had to give MI5 credit—given the short notice, they’d done an excellent job of creating a deep and convincing cover for Brandon. Googling William Drummond brought up pictures, several news articles, a LinkedIn page, and an investment profile, all courtesy of MI5’s Digital Intelligence team.
And now, chatting with guests, a tumbler of scotch in hand and wearing the hell out of a navy blue Hugo Boss suit, complete with light blue dress shirt and deep red silk tie, he looked perfect.
For the role.
Right.
She lifted the tray of champagne glasses from the counter and pushed through the kitchen’s swinging door, her eyes scanning the open living and dining space currently filled with several dozen guests, all drinking champagne and feasting on toast points smothered in caviar. The decor of the large Wilton Street townhouse was opulent and over the top, with marble floors, intricate crown molding tracing across the ceiling, and lush, textured wallpaper in rich browns and blues hugging the walls. The entire place screamed wealth, power, and questionable taste.
She wove her way through the crowd, her eyes landing on the curved staircase by the kitchen that led to the second floor. Silayev’s office and the safe within it were upstairs, and the next step in the mission was to get into his office undetected and start working on the safe. A guest’s stray hand squeezed her ass in passing and she ground her teeth in disgust, suppressing a snarl.
“I saw that. What a cheeky bugger. I should break his hand.” Brandon’s voice came crisply through the earpiece, his accent having the same effect on her as always, sending sparks dancing across her skin.
She turned her head to the side as she spoke softly. “No. Focus, C. D.” She smiled, covering the flash of irritation burning through her. Irritation at the creep who’d squeezed her ass and irritation at herself, because Brandon’s words had tugged at something soft and warm right in the center of her chest. Something she had no right to feel, given the way she’d treated him.
“Hard to focus with you in that dress, love.”
More sparks. “Suck it up. I need you on your A game. If I get shot, we’re going to have a big problem.”
“Bigger than what I’ve got in my—”
She turned her face to the wall, speaking in a whispered rush. “I swear to God, I’m going to rip you out of my ear.”
“There was a time when you liked having me inside you.” Instantly, her traitorous mind conjured up memories of just how much she’d liked it. How wild he’d driven her, how safe and treasured and whole he’d made her feel. When they hadn’t been driving each other insane, that is.
She brushed by him, her bare arm grazing the soft wool-cashmere blend of his suit jacket. In a movement so small that everyone around them but her would’ve missed it, he dipped his head slightly as she passed and inhaled. His eyes closed briefly, and her stomach did a slow turn. Maybe if, after the mission, they snuck away, and didn’t talk, and just …
She shook her head. Talk about a spectacularly bad idea.
She smiled, her teeth clenched together with such force that if she didn’t let up, she was likely to crack a molar. “Now isn’t the time.” She kept moving through the crowd and could feel his eyes on her ass as she strode away.
Through the earpiece, he laughed, his deep, rich voice sending a wave of heat rippling along her spine. Her stomach fluttered, and she swallowed thickly, fighting to regain her composure. He was unraveling her, probably on purpose. Probably as revenge for running scared and bailing out on their marriage.
She shook her head again, refusing to get sucked in to the lust simmering through her veins. She needed to get upstairs, crack the safe, and recover the virus so that she could get the hell out of here and away from Brandon before she did something incredibly stupid.
Again.
NATASHA SLIPPED INTO THE kitchen and set down her now-empty tray, poking her head around the corner and glancing in the direction of the living room and the staircase to her immediate right.
“I’m heading up,” she whispered, edging closer to the stairs, her gaze scanning every direction before she darted furtively up the stairs two at a time, not slowing her brisk pace until she reached the top. Finding the hallway dark and quiet, she headed straight for Silayev’s office. It was locked; slipping her lock-picking tools from a garter under her dress, she made quick work of the simple pin and tumbler mechanism. Closing the door behind her with a quiet click, she crossed to the far side of the office and began her search for the safe, locating it in a low cabinet nestled into the wall. She pulled her phone out of her bra and started the process of hacking into the house’s wireless network.
She snorted out a quiet laugh. “The network’s not even encrypted.”
Brandon chuckled in her ear. “What is this, amateur hour? I guess we can be grateful that he hasn’t had a chance to put in all the upgrades yet.”
She smiled, and then a pang of longing and loneliness slipped between her ribs like a knife. God, she’d missed him. She’d known that, but she hadn’t realized just how much; seeing him again, arguing with him, flirting and laughing with him brought home the fact that without a doubt, she was still completely in love with Brandon Clarke-Davies.
The enormity of her mistake sat on her chest like a lead weight. It was a mistake for which he’d likely never forgive her. Hell, she’d never forgive herself for leaving him the way she had.
Once she’d accessed the house’s wireless network, she opened the CIA’s customized safe cracking software on her phone. She tapped a series of numbers into the safe’s electronic number pad, connecting it to the wireless network as well. With a swipe of her finger, the software connected to the
safe, interfacing with it directly. The program began running through sequences of numbers at lightning speed.
For several tense minutes, there was nothing she could do but stay silent, let the program do its job, and listen to Brandon flirt with some Eurotrash socialite. When she excused herself to go powder her nose—probably with cocaine—Brandon checked in with her.
“How’s it coming?”
“I’m still cracking the safe. All clear downstairs?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? I don’t like maybe.” She stared at her phone’s screen, willing the program to work faster, the prickling threat of sweat teasing along her hairline.
“Two blokes headed upstairs. I’m on it.”
The safe emitted a series of beeps and popped open as the locking mechanism released. Triumph surging through her, she tucked her phone away and swung the small safe’s door wide open.
“Hel-lo,” she murmured to herself, pulling free both a small metal briefcase and a silver Walther PPK covered in garish scrollwork. She flipped open the case, verifying that it contained the vials. It did. Then, she checked the Walther’s clip and found it loaded.
The office door swung open, cutting a swath of light across the darkened floor. Briefcase in one hand, gun in the other, she dove behind the heavy wood desk as the first bullet, muffled by a silencer, dug into the wood paneling to the left of the window, inches from where her head had been.
“C. D., I need you. I’ve got company.”
Brandon’s heart pounded furiously against his ribs. As soon as those men had gone upstairs, he’d excused himself from the party, made for the loo, and then charged up the stairs the second he was sure no one was watching. Natasha was unarmed. He couldn’t let anything happen to her. Not that he’d let anything happen to a fellow agent, but this was different, somehow. The idea of something happening to Natasha sent him spiraling into a near panic, urged on by the sound of her laugh skimming along the surface of his brain, her lavender scent ghosting through his nostrils. Even now, after all these years, after the way she’d left, she had the ability to utterly and completely captivate him, even when he wanted to strangle her.
Bloody fucking hell. He was still in love with his ex-wife.
On silent feet, he approached the open door of the office. Two muffled shots reached his ears, and he broke into a sprint. Like Natasha, he was also unarmed—it hadn’t been possible to sneak any weapons into the party. Two men stood just inside the room, advancing on the large desk. Swiftly, he grabbed the first assailant’s arms from behind, slamming his hands against the doorframe and forcing him to drop the gun. Brandon moved in front of him and landed a hard right hook to his jaw, sending him sprawling backward. Brandon dove for the gun and recovered it as a shot whizzed by his ear, splintering into the wood paneling behind him. He rolled to his back, sat up, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit the first man square in the chest, and he slumped heavily to the floor.
Brandon pushed to his feet, the gun trained on the second man, whose own gun was aimed directly at Brandon.
“Drop your weapon,” Brandon said, knowing he was going to have to kill him. He couldn’t leave him alive and risk having both his identity and Natasha’s exposed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her rise from behind the desk, a gun clutched in her hands. He kept his eyes on the man in front of him, not giving her away.
“Drop yours,” sneered the man in a thick Russian accent.
Suddenly, Natasha was behind the man, the barrel of her gun pressed against the base of his skull. “You’re outnumbered. Drop it.”
“Fuck you,” he spat, and spun, knocking Natasha away. Her gun flew from her hands, and the thug now had his gun trained on her. Without hesitating, Brandon fired two shots into the man’s back, and Natasha scrambled out of the way before he fell.
“Did you get the vials?” he asked. Without a word, she dipped behind the desk and emerged with a small metal briefcase. He stuffed the gun into his waistband and closed the distance between them, his hands landing on her shoulders. “You’re okay?”
She nodded. “Thanks to you.”
He pulled her into his arms, unable to stop himself. She laid her head against his chest, and something deep within him settled, blood flowing like liquid gold through his veins. She pulled away and their eyes locked in the dim room, heat pulsing between them. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, letting his thumb trace along her cheekbone. She was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her. Beautiful and smart and brave.
“You gonna go all James Bond on me and sweep me off my feet?”
Mentally, he added smart-ass to her list of attributes. Funnily enough, it also went in the pro column.
God, he’d never told her that, had he? No, he’d only given her grief for what he now realized were some of her best qualities.
He’d been a royal prick at times, but he’d been too young and stupid to realize the extent to which he’d pushed her away. Small wonder that she’d left when he could’ve done so much better by her.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.” He shoved the window open and scanned for guards, but the alleyway at the rear of the house was empty. He eased his feet out onto the narrow ledge and grabbed the drainpipe, climbing down quickly. Once he was safely on the ground, Natasha tossed the briefcase to him and then followed, her athletic body making quick, graceful work of the short descent. Without a word, he took her hand and they started to run, their feet slapping against the pavement as they wove their way toward St. Peter’s in Eaton Square, where a car had been left for them.
The towering wrought-iron street lamps cast a warm glow against the darkness, reflecting against the puddles dotting the sidewalk and street. Within minutes, they’d reached the black Fiat parked in a far corner of the church’s car park.
Both Brandon and Natasha stepped up to the driver’s side, and just as she yanked the door open, he pushed it closed again.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m driving. I’m the better driver. I’d like to get to the Embassy before, oh, I don’t know, tomorrow.”
He laughed. “I don’t think so, Top Gear. You’ll drive on the wrong side and kill us. My country, my agency’s car. I’m driving.”
“I think—”
“Shut up and get in the fucking car, Natasha.” He leaned his hands on the roof of the car, caging her in as he beat back the urge to kiss her until neither of them could think straight. Jesus Christ, the woman was infuriating. Sexy and smart and irritating as hell.
He fucking loved it.
She inhaled sharply and pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “Fine. You’re right. You drive.”
Before he could fully process the miracle that was Natasha telling him he was right, headlights flashed as a car turned around the corner, and she scurried around to the passenger side. In what he felt was a generous compromise, he pulled the stolen gun from his waistband and handed it to her as he dropped into the driver’s seat. She tucked the small briefcase containing the vials under the passenger seat.
He started the car, threw it in gear, and gunned it, heading toward Belgrave Place. The same headlights flashed again and then disappeared as the driver extinguished them. Brandon’s stomach knotted, and he flexed his fingers around the leather steering wheel.
He floored it and took a sharp corner toward Belgrave Square Garden, and the sedan followed, tires squealing. “Shit,” he hissed. “They’re on us.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it.” Twisting around in her seat, Natasha opened her window just enough so she could wedge her head and upper body out.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” If he hadn’t been so intent on steering and keeping them in one piece, he would’ve reached over and hauled her back inside.
She ducked back in, frustration pulling at her features. “You saved us. Now I�
�m saving us. You really do want all the glory, don’t you?”
“For fuck’s sake. Not everything is a competition.”
“Sorry, can’t hear you. Too busy being awesome.” She eased back out the window, the stolen gun clutched in her competent hands as she took aim at the black sedan pursuing them. Trying to avoid the main roads, Brandon swung around Hyde Park Corner, keeping the yawning darkness of Hyde Park to his left and avoiding the bright beacon of Buckingham Palace. Cutting his gaze to Natasha, he watched as she squeezed off several shots, pumping her fist in victory when the sound of squealing tires and then crunching metal pierced the night.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, the leather creaking beneath his hands. “Did you just—”
“Shoot the tires out in almost complete darkness?” She sent him an adorably cocky smile. “Sure did.”
Something tugged painfully in his chest, and he fought the urge to curse. God, he was so angry with himself. He should hate this woman for what she’d done to him, but he couldn’t. She might drive him mental, but, idiot that he was, he liked it. Needed it. In the six years they’d been apart, he’d dated plenty of women, and not a single one of them had challenged him, frustrated him, impressed him, and turned him on the way Natasha did without even trying.
The simple truth was, there was no one else for him except Natasha Rowe. Never had been, and never would be.
“Hey, you okay? You look upset.” She laid a hand on his thigh and his knuckles went white on the steering wheel.
Now wasn’t the time to process the confusing jumble of emotions churning through him, so he simply nodded and focused on getting them safely to the American embassy in Grosvenor Square.
“IT’S FINE, C. D. I can get to my room on my own.” Natasha shot Brandon a tired smile. After barely getting away from Silayev’s men, they’d turned the briefcase in at the embassy and then headed over to MI5 headquarters for a lengthy debriefing. Brandon must’ve sensed her fatigue because he’d insisted on driving her to her hotel.
SECOND CHANCES: A ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA® COLLECTION Page 11
