Cold Cruel Kiss

by Toni Anderson

  He’d ask Andy if he had any connections he could tap into when the guy arrived in the morning.

  “Do you want anything to eat or drink before you go to bed?” Lucy stood in her kitchen looking nervous. He paused. He had forcefully kissed her and then invited himself over to spend the night seconds after she’d confessed to him that she’d been badly hurt by some asshole.

  Was she scared of him?

  He hated that idea.

  He dumped his bag by the doorway.

  “I’ll take some water, please.”

  She poured two glasses from a filter jug in her fridge. She handed him one and then sipped her own. Her eyes were wide behind the glasses she wore. She seemed to have no idea how pretty she was.

  He looked around. Tried to put her at ease. “Nice place.”

  She produced a tired huff of breath. “It’s okay. I have a great view and it’s a safe area.”

  The apartment building had good security with gated underground parking and a security guard in the garage and another in the front lobby. She also had an interior alarm system. She obviously took safety seriously, and he was relieved about that. He’d seen enough bad shit happen to people when he’d been a street agent and a soldier to last him a lifetime.

  He drank thirstily and went to the tap for a refill. Lucy stood awkwardly to one side. She gave a sudden frown and removed her glasses, massaging her forehead.

  “You okay?”

  “Headache. I’ll grab a tablet after I get you settled.”

  “Just point me in the direction of a place to sleep, and I’ll get out of your way.” His plan was to search every inch of his belongings for any hidden listening devices. After that, he would pass out into a coma for a few hours.

  The way she was watching him with those hazel eyes made him think about things he shouldn’t be thinking about. She pushed off from the counter. “You’re down here.”

  He grabbed his stuff and followed her along a short, tiled corridor then came to a door at the end. She let him go ahead. It was a plain, white-painted room with a double bed made up of white sheets and duvet cover.

  “There are fresh towels in the vanity in the bathroom. Help yourself.” She worried her bottom lip with her teeth.

  “Lucy.”

  Her eyes snapped to his.

  “I’ve got this. Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She nodded, her shoulders relaxing as if she were relieved. He felt a whisper of regret that he wasn’t going to get a repeat of that kiss any time soon. And it wasn’t like he spent a lot of time kissing women, certainly not as much time as he’d like, come to think about it. His life didn’t have much opportunity for softness or sweetness. There were sporadic hookups. The very occasional girlfriend who generally lasted for the duration of his temporary posting. But no real comfort. No connection.

  He hadn’t realized how lonely that was until he’d met Lucy. Her life seemed to reflect the same emptiness as his. It wasn’t a reassuring realization.

  “Goodnight, Max,” she said softly as she turned to leave.

  “Night, Lucy. Sleep well.”

  * * *

  Sleep well. If only.

  Lucy lay in bed that night watching the shadows creep across her ceiling while trying not to relive that kiss over and over again. The feel of his arms around her. His body pressed against hers. The strength of him holding her off-balance as he took what he wanted from her mouth.

  She’d been dumbfounded by lust.

  The fact Max was only a few feet away on the other side of her apartment ramped up the ache she was feeling. The tingle, low in her abdomen, the growing need for satisfaction that kept intensifying even though she’d thought it was dead.

  Not dead. Dormant.

  And the kiss would never happen again. It could never happen again.

  After hours of fantasizing about his hands and lips on her body, about how he might slide his fingers over her until she was begging, about how his cock might feel beneath her fingers, how it might fill her…she finally gave in to the need to touch herself.

  It was the first time she’d allowed herself sexual pleasure since she’d discovered Sergio Raminsky’s betrayal, and tears streamed down her face as she slowly pushed herself to that edge.

  Her release, when it came, ripped through her body in great waves of pleasure that lashed through her and made her buck on the bed. And still she felt empty and dissatisfied when she lay there lax in the aftermath.

  Hours later, just before dawn, the text message she’d been expecting finally arrived. She got up. Dressed in running gear. Tucked a keycard in the invisible pocket in her running pants and slipped quietly out of the apartment door.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Max woke with a throbbing hard-on that wouldn’t quit even after he climbed out of bed. His entire being felt aroused, and he knew it had as much to do with the erotic dreams about a certain assistant PA as it did with testosterone.

  He headed to the shower but, rather than help cool him off, his imagination conjured up images of Lucy naked and wet. He soaped himself all over but then gripped himself in one hand and squeezed his eyes shut as he leaned his arm against the cool tiles. Defeated, he jacked himself until the pressure in his balls released all over his hands. His body bucked, and he held himself still for a few deep breaths to try and get himself back under control.

  Obviously, it had been longer than he’d realized since he’d last had sex. When this case was over, he intended to get well and truly laid. He had some ex-girlfriends who might be interested in rekindling something brief and hot. The thought failed to excite him. An image of Lucy biting her lip while wearing her black-framed glasses flashed through his mind.

  He groaned again. He obviously had a previously unknown, totally unexplored Personal Assistant fetish.

  He cleaned up, toweled off, and dressed in jeans and a clean chambray shirt—hopefully, the suitcase Eban was sending finally arrived today as laundry was low on the priority list but becoming increasingly necessary. He straightened the bedsheets before leaving his bags packed and ready to go on the middle of the bed.

  The smell of coffee drew him into the kitchen and there stood Lucy, freshly showered, dressed in a cream linen suit that hung loosely off her hips. Maybe she’d lost a lot of weight but hadn’t treated herself to new clothes. Maybe that was why nothing she wore fit except her yoga pants. She’d applied some makeup today—apparently in an effort to cover up the bruise-like shadows beneath her eyes.

  It wasn’t working.

  She held out a mug of coffee made exactly the way he preferred it.

  He took the mug, avoiding touching her fingers because he was trying to clear his brain regarding this woman and didn’t want that weird electrical pulse that seemed to flow when they connected scrambling his thought process.

  “Sleep well?” she asked.

  With a burst of surprise, Max realized he’d slept like the dead. “I did. Thanks.”

  And now they were back to an awkward silence where he tried to forget he’d spent most of the night dreaming about fucking her every which way and had then masturbated in her shower while thinking about her wet and naked.

  He shook his head at himself and sipped his coffee. Lucy would be horrified if she knew. Not that she ever would. Shit. He cleared his throat. “You?”

  “Like a log.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She still looked tired. “Want some breakfast?”

  Max shook his head. “We can grab something on the way in if that’s okay. I want to get to the Negotiation Center early.”

  Kidnappers often stuck to a schedule, possibly because of family or work constraints. Even hostage-takers had lives.

  Lucy took a quick chug of coffee.

  “Did Kristen ever mention this boyfriend of hers to you?” he asked.

  Lucy shook her head and washed up her cup, placing it on the draining board. “She didn’t but, although we’re friendly, she didn’t confide in me that muc
h. She knows I work for her mom and would be obliged to tell the ambassador anything relevant. Have you found him?”

  “Not yet,” he admitted.

  Lucy’s eyes widened. He probably shouldn’t have even said that much. The FBI couldn’t track down a teenage boy? Why the hell not?

  How about because he didn’t exist?

  Max’s work cell dinged. He read the message out to Lucy. “The FBI Tactical Operations guys are going to access my hotel room today and search for bugs and plant cameras of their own so they can keep an eye on anyone entering when they shouldn’t.” He grimaced. “It’s supposed to look like I’m using the room, but they say it’s cool if I don’t want to sleep there. Ha. No kidding.”

  He’d worry about finding a new hotel later. Maybe where all the other new agents were staying to deter SVR operatives hanging out in the bar.

  Eban also sent him a slate of photos to show Lucy.

  “Recognize any of these guys?” He passed her the phone while he washed up his mug, then stood behind her as she scrolled through the images. Her hair smelled of jasmine. She stopped scrolling when she reached a gaunt-looking, bald bloke.

  “Him. Or someone that looks a lot like him.” A frown pinched her eyes as she looked up at him over her shoulder.

  He ignored the fact her gaze rested on his lips.

  Max nodded. It certainly could be the man from the elevator last night.

  He messaged Eban with Lucy’s answer and went to grab his bags.

  His cell rang as he strode back to meet Lucy by the front door. He dropped his bags.

  Eban didn’t bother with any niceties. “Holy shit. She identified Anotoly Agapov, former KGB, who is now high up in the SVR.”

  Ice slid down his spine. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  Lucy was watching him with big eyes.

  He headed into her kitchen out of earshot. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, but he also didn’t want her to pass any of this onto the ambassador. Lucy was already privy to classified aspects of the case because of his need for an interpreter, but he needed to remember, no matter her clearance level, that she didn’t work for the Bureau.

  “Don’t mention this to anyone. Not even the woman you’re working with. We need to figure out what it means. Counterintelligence will lead on this aspect of the investigation not the Legat,” Eban warned. “I sent Lucy Aston’s more detailed background files to your email, but she’s squeaky clean. Short stint at the Agency. No details about what she did there, but that’s the CIA for you.”

  Max wondered if the man who’d hurt her was involved in her decision to leave the CIA. It made him angry, but he didn’t have time to get distracted from a case that was becoming increasingly complex.

  “TacOps also planned to tap into the surveillance videos from the hotel after they went through your room. I’ll suggest they make that a priority so we can confirm his identity. If Agapov tried to set you up with a Russian agent, then this thing is starting to stink of some sort of espionage rather than a straight-up kidnapping.”

  “Or they’re trying to get the girls for themselves to use as leverage and perhaps hoped to use me to facilitate that,” Max murmured. “I need to go.”

  “I’ll call you later. Hey,” Eban said. “Watch your back.”

  * * *

  Something was going on.

  It was morning. Kristen sat up. She’d started to recognize the subtle change in the quality of the darkness and gauge the slowly rising temperature by the stickiness of her shirt.

  She could hear the shuffling of footsteps and the chink of chains. More than one person was in her room, talking in guttural tones outside her wooden prison.

  Had they discovered her abortive plot to escape and decided to lock her to a radiator the way Irene was chained up in the other room? Perhaps they’d decided to let them stay together? Another thought shot through her brain. Were they moving them?

  Or…hope carved its way craftily past her guard, maybe her parents had paid the ransom, and she and Irene were about to be released?

  She pulled her matted hair back from her face and knotted it into a bun. Then she pulled the hood over her face.

  Whatever happened she wouldn’t react. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing how terrified she was. Or how disappointed if they weren’t being released. If only she could stop her teeth from chattering as if she were in a freezer rather than a stuffy wardrobe, then maybe they’d believe her.

  The voices moved out into the hallway, too far away to make out the words, but not far enough to suggest they’d left.

  Her heart raced, but there was no escape and no answers. The desire to cry rose up, and she pushed the tears away. She thought about her mother and her mother’s fierce spirit. Kristen tried to channel that. She straightened her shoulders and listened attentively in an attempt to hear what the hell was going on over the frantic rush of blood through her ears.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Lucy stopped at a local café and ran in to grab them some breakfast. Max wasn’t hungry, but he forced himself to eat. Who knew when he’d get the chance again? His cell buzzed. Miranda Foster. The ambassador wanted an update.

  With Russian Intelligence officers crawling out of the woodwork, Max needed to proceed carefully. Counterintelligence agents were in communication with the lead case agent for Operation Soapbox. This whole thing was becoming a giant house of cards that the slightest breeze could bring tumbling down. The main casualties if everything went wrong were the lives of two innocent girls.

  Max texted Miranda back to say he’d be there in two hours. He needed time with the team first.

  Miranda replied with a single digit. 1.

  Max’s mouth tightened.

  Lucy’s cell buzzed in her purse as she got back in the car. He’d bet money that was Miranda ordering Lucy to make sure Max was there within the hour. Lucy passed him a large paper bag filled with warm pastries. Neither spoke as they ate. They’d shifted into an easy kind of silence.

  A few minutes later, she drove through the gate into the embassy grounds. They both showed their passes while security checked the car for possible explosives. Lucy parked. Max went to grab his bags out of the trunk.

  “Leave them there if you want.” She tossed him a key. “My spare. No one’s going to touch your stuff here and, if you need anything, you can come back and grab it.” She shrugged like it was no big deal.

  He grinned. “I could get used to this Personal Assistant schtick. Thanks.”

  “Ha.” She knew he was teasing her. He liked that.

  They headed up to the Legat’s office, and the place was buzzing with FBI agents. Most were working on Operation Soapbox. However, some were helping track down vehicles used in the kidnap and searching for this mystery guy, Miguel. Others were coordinating with the experts at the National Lab, tracking down the bug planted on Kristen.

  The Legat was officially coordinating both the kidnap investigation and the Argentine arm of Soapbox. He was leaving most of the running of the kidnap case to Max. Max was fine with that, but it didn’t leave much time for him to man the phones or brief superiors.

  He walked into the Negotiation Center. Quinn had dragged his laptop in here and was working away.

  “Anything from the kidnappers?” Although Max would receive an automatic text if that number was called. He glanced at the clock. 7:46 AM.

  “Nothing.” The ALAT tried to cover a yawn. “Sorry. I slept on the cot. It was as comfortable as it looks.”

  Max nodded. Rate things were going, he might be sleeping on it tonight. No way did he fancy getting into bed with his coworkers watching from SIOC. Or the fucking Russians for that matter.

  He’d rather stay with Lucy but was wise enough not to mention that to her. He enjoyed her company.

  Sure, buddy.

  It had nothing to do with hours of burning fantasies and an unsuccessful cold shower. But he didn’t want to hurt her, and something about Lucy struck him as incredibly
fragile and that was taking into consideration the dropkick she’d pulled on that knife-wielding asshole the other day.

  “We have another negotiator arriving today,” Max told Quinn. Hopefully with a suitcase full of clothes for him and more cash for the ransom. “I’ll come back and take over for a few hours after I’ve spoken to the ambassador. Let you grab a shower.”

  Thoughts of his own X-rated shower had him glancing at Lucy again. What would she think if he confessed he’d begun thinking about her as more than a colleague? He had no idea and wouldn’t risk it during a case.

  When would he risk it? When he was back in DC or on another flight to another country with a K&R problem?

  Max opened his mouth to say something further to Quinn, but the phone started ringing.

  Showtime.

  He urged Lucy all the way inside the former closet and closed the door. In the meantime, Quinn had turned on the recording equipment and pulled on a listening headset. Max handed one to Lucy and then answered the call.

  “Good morning, this is Max.”

  “Ah, Max.” The kidnapper sounded buoyant even with voice distortion. “This is el jefe, you remember me?”

  “Of course, el jefe.” In reality he was another asshole kidnapper in a long list of asshole kidnappers.

  “Do you have my money, Max?”

  “I have some of the cash. I would be happy to drop it off for you today in exchange for the two girls.”

  “How much?”

  Max did a rapid calculation in his head as to what the Feds had provided plus what the Dickersons and Lomakins could put together in a pinch. “The two families together can raise two hundred fifty-seven thousand US dollars by the end of the day.”

  Usually, he’d avoid naming a number first, but this wasn’t a normal kidnapping. Not anymore. Other factors were at play, and he needed to get ahead of the potential for the Russians to interfere.