Page 26

Hunt

As I shower for this evening’s event, I clunk my forehead against the tiles. I am so damn screwed. We didn’t fuck, we made love. Hell, at forty, I know the difference. My climax was—an Amazing Grace kind of moment.

My friend Wulf told me all about his ah-ha moment at his bachelor party. At the time, I said he was full of shit. Now I understand, but it’s too late.

It’s going to shred me when I leave. What other option do I have? I should stop the madness, but it’d be easier to halt the pounding of my stupid heart.

Shaking my head, I table those thoughts. Peoples’ lives are depending on us. Game-face on, Special Agent Hunter.

We dress together in silence, stealing glances occasionally, more like teens than grown-ass adults. Once I’ve slipped into black jeans and a matching long-sleeved shirt, I add a shoulder holster under my wool suit jacket.

As I recall how she mocked it the day we met, she grins, no doubt on the same page. Chuckling, I turn as she twirls in front of me. My breath catches at her stunning beauty. She wears a dark blue tunic, leggings, and thigh-high heels. The outfit, while modest, shows off her athletic body, making me randy all over again.

I should be focusing on the mission, but she makes it hard—so to speak.

Objective back in mind, I reach into my suitcase. Dropping a comm device in her ear, I undo her top buttons to hide a mic under her bra.

I nip her nipple through the layers of fabric. “Sure you don’t want to stay here?”

“Scott, I need my life back.” The heat in her eyes tells me I could lure her back to bed, but I don’t. She’s a former warrior turned federal officer.

If she were a man, I wouldn’t be hesitating. This thought gives me pause. I never considered myself chauvinistic. Hell, she’s not any woman—she’s mine .

Tucking my concerns aside, we shrug into our heavy coats, hats, and gloves.

At the door, I remind her. “Intel gathering only.”

“Right.” Her overconfidence twists my gut.

The Iranian chemical engineer has had her in his crosshairs since bumping into her over coffee. I suspect he’s not the kind of man you say no to.

Without warning, a deja vu flashes in my mind’s eye causing goose bumps from shoulders to fingertips. Buckle up, buttercup. We’re in for a helluva party.

Fifteen minutes later, we enter a posh ski chalet’s living room. With its loft, floor-to-ceiling slate fireplace, and geometric rug, it probably won an award for interior design.

Acting the part of an unhappy couple, I make a beeline for the bar. She searches for Ahmad while I wander around, beer bottle in hand. Eventually, I lean on the wall near a guitarist who plays a nylon-stringed guitar by the crackling fireplace. His chords are barely audible over the clinking glasses and boisterous laughter.

On the surface, it’s a group of elite skiers enjoying a party. The men’s whispers and dark faces tell an entirely different story. Done with my perimeter check, I sit on a white leather couch next to a woman in her sixties.

Before she can share any more stories of her sexual prowess, I excuse myself. “Sorry, my girlfriend needs me.”

Jumping up, I meander toward Ahmad, who stands way too close to Kelly. One hand on the bar, the other holding a drink, he curves around her as if he’s already her lover.

“Everything okay here?” I step between the two.

Kell rolls her eyes at me, gently pushing the terrorist away. A phony wink tells me she’s in control.

“We’re fine, Jack. Jeesh. Why do you have to make shit so complicated?” She might as well have slapped me across the face.

The urge to grab her bicep and drag her home almost overpowers me. Taking a deep breath, I recall the most important thing. Ricin. If we leave now, thousands, perhaps millions of people could die.

“Ditch your boyfriend and come up to my room.” The smirking chemist puts his arm around my woman’s waist.

As he tugs her closer, it’s a goddamn miracle I don’t snap his wrist.

Oblivious to my internal struggle, her gaze shifts to his left hand. “What about your wife?”

“She’s back at home. What I do is none of her concern.” Scowling, he tightens his grip.

No act, her wince makes me inch forward, but a short toss of her red hair warns me not to intervene.

“Listen, I hardly know you.” Giggling, the actress flutters her damn eyelashes at him. No way she’s going to sleep with him. Even so, my fists clench, itching to beat against my chest.

Me Tarzan.

Eyes on me, the slimeball caresses her face, and slips a loose curl behind her ear. “We both know John Bourdin. If he gives his blessing, will you consider my offer? Believe me, a man of my wealth can treat you far better than your so-called boyfriend.”

His disdain makes me want to drag the cheating dirtbag outside and pummel him to a bloody pulp.

Right now, my hands are tied, but soon, Ahmad, real soon.

Kell rubs her nose to his, much like a kitten. “Call John. Do it. For me.”

Excellent ploy, babe.

I pinch my lips to cover my smirk. The coyote’s in lockup, his phone locked up.

Sorry douchebag.

Not giving up, the sleazy player shoves his screen in front of her face. “This is my company.”

He swipes. “Here is one of my many homes.”

O’Malley studies the photos for a long time as if making up her mind but hands the electronics back with a shrug. “Sorry, I don’t do one-night stands.”

“What game are you two playing, huh? You take me for a fool?” Snarling, the man clamps onto her upper arm.

“Let go!” When she kicks him in the shins, the man doesn’t flinch.

Wondering why she’s holding back, I recoil my elbow, happy images of decking him dancing in my head.

As I’m about to strike, she winks. “I got this, sweetheart.”

Fingers clenched, Glock unholstered, I follow them out. Before I can shout stop, she swivels. Fingers around his neck, she thrusts up her knee. He crumples into the snow, moaning, hands cupped over his crotch.

Ouch. I step over the asshole, tug her to me, and brush a kiss across her lips. “Note to self. Never piss off an ex-Marine.”

“Oorah.” Squatting, she removes a wallet from his back pocket.

While she thumbs through it, she says, “Can you grab our coats? We should go.”

By the time I return, she’s hogtied the man and dragged him behind a bush. A glove in his mouth muffles his curses.

Finger near my pistol’s trigger, head on a swivel, I hand over her jacket. “I thought we agreed. Gather data.”

“Yeah, well, plans change.” She tucks a passport into my hand.

Flipping the pages, my pulse quickens. “Last valid stamp is Canada. The U.S. entry is a fake.”

My border guard nudges Ahmad with her boot. “Sorry, mon ami , I believe you are under arrest.”