Kiss the Killer [From the CIA 2](BookStrand Publishing Romance)

by Dawn Kunda

He added more water to his cup, then sat across from her, watching. She didn’t bring her eyes from her stained cup. The silence didn’t bother him. His plan had been made quickly and a complete turnaround from what he’d expected to be doing only a few hours before. He manipulated the steps he’d come up with for tomorrow and continually decided that his first scenario would have to be the best.

  “What about Egypt?”

  He’d nearly forgotten that she was in the dark as to her part. “That’s one of the diversions before we hit Iraq.”

  Pushing her half-full cup to the side, she said, “I don’t understand why we have to go so far out of the way.” He opened his mouth, but she continued. “I know you want ‘diversions’ along the way, but isn’t that a little far? And why Egypt?”

  “It’s to get you into Iraq as safely as I can.” She huffed with impatience. “Listen. I have connections in Egypt. You’ll have a job to perform, which will solidify your standing because after Egypt you’ll be sent to Iraq, with their approval for a continuation of the work.”

  Her teeth clenched. Color shaded her fair cheeks. She was sexy when mad. “Work? What kind of work would I do there? And how can that get me into Iraq for more work? I just want to find Christa and bring her back.”

  “That’s what we’re going to do.”

  She squinted her eyes and looked at her overnight bag. “I don’t like your plan. You’re not telling me everything.”

  He shifted in his seat as he watched her luscious lips close and part, then remain glued together. He wanted to smother her mouth with his, but this was business and to mix carnal actions could get deadly for both of them. “I’ll tell you the rest on the plane.”

  “I want to know now, or else I can’t go with you.” She pushed her chair back. “For all I know you sent that note to me—”

  “And I killed your psychiatrist.” She slumped against the chair back. When her energy lapsed, he added, “I didn’t send the note, and was with you when your doctor was killed, or close to knocking on your door. The two go together. She had a note also, so logic dictates that I had nothing to do with it.”

  A slow nod told him that she believed him. Good. If she didn’t trust him, they’d never get through this alive.

  “I’ll tell you why we’re going to Egypt. If you don’t want to go through with it, we can abort the idea right now and I’ll take you to the police department and they can find a safe place for you because you’re not going back to your house. That I won’t let you do.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I won’t be responsible for returning you to whatever your chaser has in mind for you.” She twisted her mouth sideways. “And I can tell you it won’t be pleasant.”

  “You act like you know what ‘they’ want or have planned for me.”

  “I don’t, but I do know those type of people. They may want something from you first, and probably do, but the end result won’t be a long life.”

  She put her hand on her bag. “What time are we getting up?” You’d never know he’d just informed her that her life was on the line. If he hadn’t taken control and made her leave her home, if they hadn’t been discussing how to openly sneak into a terrorist country, and if a murder hadn’t been committed, he’d swear she thought they were going on a vacation and the only thing she needed to worry about was not missing her plane.

  He’d insist on sleeping with her, only to hold her tight and make sure she didn’t change her mind, but he knew himself better than that. When she leaned down to her bag, the cowl neck of her sweater gaped and exposed a swell of a firm-looking breast against a lace-edged, midnight-blue brassiere.

  He looked away. The stark, plastered wall to his left cooled his thoughts.

  She left her hand resting on her grip. “Egypt? Before I go to sleep I want to know what my nightmares will be about.”

  Looking into her cup, he got up and retrieved the carafe of hot water, filling both cups. “Actually, we’re going to Austria first.” Her eyebrows rose, then sank back into place after a split second. “I have a few contacts there that I need to get information from.” He hurried on. “Then we’ll head to Cairo, Egypt.”

  “More contacts, I suppose.”

  “In a sense. Abasi Shehata, an Egyptian parliament leader, will meet with us.” She squirmed in her seat. “His daughter was killed in Iraq. An Egyptian leader will set no limits on retribution for the death of a family member.”

  * * * *

  Alina wanted to scratch herself or feel pain in a subtle way to tell her she wasn’t involved in an espionage or thriller movie. Her surroundings held no familiarity, even less than her new home, and this relaxed man sitting within arm’s reach was planning to act on a script six feet deep with terrorism, government leaders, and what sounded like it could turn into an all-out war between nations.

  She felt her heart thumping against its space under the ribs and silently beseeched it to hang in there and not cause her to flop to the floor in an active heart attack. To think the one day she went out of her safe zone, which mostly included her new house and a few necessity stores, she runs into some type of agent, maybe a spy, or who knew what else he hadn’t revealed yet. Were all men who went out for a bite to eat connected to a world she barely had an inkling that it existed, and she’d never played a role in? Was a seduction the first play of the game every time? Did they all have big guns, a controlling manner, and a powerful body to sway them into their bed? It had been her bed, so he must be even better at it than most, if she was right.

  “…Shehata will get us into Iraq with an escort.”

  She’d missed the first part of his explanation as her mind reviewed how she ended up sitting across from this…man who has international connections. Was he some kind of spy, or undercover agent? He mentioned the CIA. Really? “Can you repeat the last part?” She needed to know the plan because there was no way she would accompany this man along with Egyptian guards to terrorism at its finest. She’d cooperate, and then find a way out to do it on her own.

  “Why don’t I retell you in the morning when you’ve rested? Four-thirty.”

  He probably thought she was too tired and stressed to listen. That would work for her. “You’re right. I’m having a hard time focusing. I’m sure your plan is good and will work.” She honored him with a meeting of the eyes and saw a fatigued droop to his eyelids, yet a spark of energy ignited somewhere deep inside. He meant whatever he had said and she was sure he’d take her on this mission with a definite resolve to get work done. Maybe he was using her for something bigger.

  He bent over to pick up her cup. His sleeves had been pushed up his arm at some point. Muscles pulsed and changed shape along his forearm, for God’s sake. That brought her straight back to their first night. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to appreciate the perfection of his form. Without clothes on, it only got better. His organizational skills and energy made a cool drink on a hot day a paltry excuse for relief.

  If he wasn’t a madman with an ulterior motive to use her, he equaled perfection. This reminder came like a Novocain shot to the mouth. She’d have none of that in her life again. She’d run fast and far to avoid another dance with the perfect. Once was enough and perfection would never last a lifetime.

  His back faced her and exposed his slightly loose jeans forming to the muscles on his thighs. He turned his torso to speak to her. “Your room is at the end of the hall. I’m sure you won’t have a problem finding it.”

  “Right. No problem.”

  Down the hall with her bag in tow, she stepped into the room. Her glance lasted a few seconds and covered anything worth noting. The bed looked unused with the blanket stretched tight to all four corners. She wasn’t sure the thin material would weather the drafty feel in the back of the apartment. Wearing clothes would be helpful plus she could get up and leave if the mood struck her.

  She had wisely packed a pair of pajamas complete with line drawings of scattered sheep. Llamas hadn’t been in vogue during her minimalistic shoppi
ng trip. Dressing in farm animals would definitely keep Vic uninterested. She had mainly bought them because they appealed to her at the time. Normally, she wore nothing to bed. She had always liked the feel of clean sheets against her skin, but not tonight and not until she was home alone again.

  She calculated their time away in accordance with the week the veterinarian had promised to watch Gerty. Getting Christa home in a week would be victory in her mental healing, and she looked forward to returning to the quiet and stable life of a scientist alone with her compounds. This nearly pleasant thinking could give her a successful start at a few hours of sleep.

  No one would chase her. No one would find her. No one would kill her.

  Chapter 11

  “So this is Stockholm, huh?” Agent Tom Duchaine rhetorically asked of his partners, Agents Dean Borland and Eben Eikem. They had arrived two days prior to the shooting of a government psychiatrist. “I’m glad we sent the other guys south. They’re due more action than we should find up here.”

  Duchaine watched the cluster of compact cars while they waited for their rental. A chill ran up his arm, yet he held off from shoving his hands in his pants pockets. Pushing his jacket to the side might reveal his holstered gun, which he had strapped tight to his lower abdomen compliments of his CIA badge getting him through all airport gates.

  Borland added his thoughts. “I’m not into executing a war of guns with Vic Grant, either. I’d prefer to be back in DC. Better weather, women, and less danger at the office.”

  “Yeah, well we’re in too deep to say no. Kreis’ll shoot us himself if we don’t dispose of the evidence.” Eikem showed more aggressiveness. His younger age and military background still vibrated through his cerebellum. “If women are what you’re worried about, I’m sure there’re plenty here and they need to be kept warm, too. You clowns need to get out of the office more. It’ll keep you in shape.” He tightened his chest and sent a glare to anyone near enough to question his standing.

  Duchaine signaled that the rental car was approaching. “Men, it’s time to head north, but I’m sure we can cover the territory expediently. I still doubt Grant went north.”

  Fifteen minutes later they arrived at a three-story, historical-looking hotel. The double glass doors had definitely been changed since the outer construction of large blocks of stone and mortar. The late afternoon weak strands of sunlight reflected off the glass. They couldn’t see the interior until they swung the doors open and entered the tepid lobby. The men stopped at the reception desk. While waiting their turn, they glanced around and spotted an attached pub. Dim lights meekly lit the doorway. The dark stools, tables, and chairs offered a perfect hideout for the evening. They didn’t plan on getting to business until early the next morning.

  “Over there.” Duchaine hitched his chin toward the darkened pub. “We can catch a bite and check out their stock of beer.”

  “You want to get us checked in, and I’ll find a table.” Borland didn’t waste any time making a decision.

  “I’m in,” Eikem said. “Maybe we’ll even find a little fun tonight.” With a shit-eating grin, he snickered.

  “This better be the last night women rule your peabrain while we’re here.” Duchaine watched the two agents head for the dim lights and turned back to the desk to take his turn at room keys.

  He left the front desk to join his partners. The bar held a few business suits, worn-out tourists, and what looked like a couple locals after their blue-collar jobs. The agents wore casual attire of jeans and polos beneath a sweater or jacket, which always draped their shoulders when wearing guns. No need to scare the innocent or cause a problem with the National Task Force. The less people who noticed their attendance, the easier it would be to keep on course.

  “Let’s sit at the bar. I like the looks of the help.” Eikem headed for a section of vacant stools.

  Duchaine shook his head. Checking on his periphery, he noticed only a few glances from women sizing them up and men who undoubtedly considered the competition inadequate and their curiosity faded. Nobody paid them special attention. Sitting at the bar might be a good idea. Hiding in a corner catches more attention sometimes.

  “Couple menus, please.” He addressed the bartender who’d popped over to the men as they spread their legs over the stools. He sat at the last stool, flashing the room keycards.

  “How about a line of brews?” Duchaine noticed the young bartender’s thick, sandy-colored hair shine in waves of a braid under the lamplight as she spoke. A bossy red lipstick pouted with the suggestion that a beer was a must if sitting in front of her. She cocked her head to the side and scanned the row of the three men who’d taken up space at her counter. “I think I know just what you need.” She flipped around, grabbing a collection of tall beer mugs. With the other hand, she scooped up menus and shuffled them onto the bar in front of her customers.

  Eikem leaned toward Tom Duchaine. “I think she wants you.” He chuckled and elbowed Tom.

  Duchaine glared at Eikem. Eben Eikem could’ve left his personality back in the States, but Tom knew Eikem could be an A1 sniper on a moment’s notice. “I’ve got jetlag, so I’ll leave her to you.”

  Borland leaned back on his stool, keeping out of the rivalry while he viewed the menu. Bossy Red returned with tall pale lagers and doled them out. “Do you need some help with the menu?”

  Tom chuckled. “I’ll have a plate of köttbullars.” He looked up with a grin at his Swedish choice. “The meatball thing.” He smiled and put the menu down.

  Eben chimed in with a “Biff burger, please. You next, Deano.”

  “Deano.” Borland grinned as he said, “Guess I’m the only daring one. I’ll take a kåldomar.”

  “Stuffed cabbage, right?” She scribbled on a notepad. “You must be here on business.” Bossy Red displayed her ability to know her crowd. She continued with her confidence at peak form. Pointing her pen at Tom, she said, “You’re being careful with your choice, but still want adventure along with a successful trip.” Tom sat still, trying not to look surprised at her accuracy, but rather needing to be anything she didn’t mention. Turning her attention to Eben Eikem, she decided he had no adventure or else was saving himself for a good time, and lastly, she gave her interpretation of Dean Borland. “You want to take a chance before it’s too late.” She smiled. “The cabbage calls for a strong stomach. Unless you’re used to eating like that.”

  The men all looked at each other. Duchaine, always in the work-mode, said, “Do you analyze all your customers?”

  Bossy Red glanced down the bar. All the mugs and cocktail glasses were at least half full. “Makes it more interesting.” She wiped her cloth down the edge of the bar. “A lot of you Americans have turned up here lately.” She stopped and put her palms on the bar. Smiling, she added, “Seems all you Americans are in a hurry and have something to hide.” Her hand ran across the bar with the cloth again. “Just an observation.”

  Deano Borland jumped into the conversation. “What are the other ‘Americans’ here for?”

  “My guess is they’re on a mission. Some sort of,” she waived her hand around, “secret thing. I’m guessing they have guns, too.”

  Eikem swigged his lager, then asked, “What makes you think they have guns?”

  “You type always have them.” She looked at Eikem’s chest. “I bet if you opened your jackets, or coats, I’d see some powerful steel.” Her eyes sparkled eagerly.

  Duchaine wasn’t sure, but it was never far from his mind that clues are many times found in the least likely places. He ignored her dare to open their jackets. “So, where are all the ‘gun-carrying Americans’ headed for? Do they tell you anything?”

  “Not really, but the last guy and,” she looked up to the ceiling, “a couple Middle Eastern hard-ass types kept asking me about north of Stockholm.”

  Duchaine felt a trickle of nerves tighten the neck of his unbuttoned shirt. “What’d the Americans look like?”

  “One American. He was pret
ty much like you guys. Dressed well and kept to himself. The Easterners were more interested in me helping them feel at home. That’s part of my job, ya know?”

  Eikem asked, “How well do you get to know them?”

  Bossy Red pursed her lips and batted her long lashes. “Not as well as they’d like, I’m sure.” She looked down the bar, smiled, and took off to fill drinks.

  Duchaine looked down his line of men. “It’s unlikely, but do you think…?”

  “I think I need to get to know her better.” Eikem took another drink. “You never know, and well, we don’t start our search till tomorrow, and any lead would be good.”

  “Curb her appetite about us being on a ‘mission,’ though. She doesn’t need to pass on anything about us.” Deano Borland glanced at her filling beers for other patrons. “If she does have anything to tell us, she’ll tell anyone anything.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking.” Duchaine looked around for a clock. “Eben, I’m feeling you’re our man for this rendezvous.”

  “Told you there were women who needed warming up in Sweden, too.” Eikem smiled and patted his abdomen where he stowed his gun.

  “Get rid of the gun before you get her undressed.” Duchaine ducked his head and gave a piercing look at Eikem.

  Eikem raised his brows. “Don’t worry, I’ve been down this road before.”

  Before they could discuss the plan to get information further, Bossy Red came back with heaping plates. She winked as she put the cabbage dinner in front of Borland, a corner of her lips rose as she deposited the meatball dish by Duchaine, and an approving look followed the burger placement. Without a word, she whirled around and returned to the kitchen.

  He was ready to dig in. Duchaine thought the meal looked better than he’d anticipated. Without looking up, he said, “Eben, looks like she’s picked you.”

  Eikem stuffed a big bite in his mouth, chewed, and then spoke with food impairing his words. “Lucky me. Don’t worry, I know to get information before the fun starts.”