Page 34 of Out of Control

Warmth blossomed in Spencer’s belly, overtaking a little of the pain. When was the last time someone had been this protective of him? Maybe other people might mistake it for macho posturing, but he knew it to be an expression of affection. Aww. The guy still cared about him. Aloud he said, “From what little I recall, you nearly succeeded in killing them last night.”

“My dear man. If I’d wanted them dead, they’d be dead.”

“I remember you hitting them with something.”

“I marked their sorry asses.”

“How?”

“Steel baton I lifted from one of them. I split their faces wide open. They’re each going to walk away from last night with a disfiguring facial scar that no amount of plastic surgery will fix.”

“Jeez, Drago.”

“Every goddamned morning for the rest of their lives, when they look in the mirror, they’re gonna remember me. And they’re gonna remember what they tried to do to you.”

“You’ve got a mean streak in you, Dray.” And he kinda loved it. He wouldn’t have had the cojones to do something like that, but he was secretly glad Dray did.

“When it comes to someone hurting you, I’ve got a downright homicidal streak.”

The warmth in his belly expanded to take over his whole body. “Stay?” he asked in a small voice.

“I already said I would.”

“Pinky swear?”

Drago huffed. “Pinky swear, you goofball.”

Spencer held out his last finger, and Dray hooked his pinkie in it.

“Go to sleep, Captain Cubbie. The 1950s called and they want you to come home.”

“Get bent, you bogus spaz,” Spencer sighed on a smile, his eyes drifting closed.

“Sweet dreams,” Drago rasped sexily at him as he drifted away on a fluffy pink cloud of sweet, morphine-induced oblivion.

THE NEXTtime Spencer woke up, bright crimson light shone in his eyes.

The sun. Setting.

Whoa. He’d slept all day. Squinting against its glare, he spied a sprawled form in the chair, pulled over right beside the bed. Drago. The guy needed a shave. Dark stubble made him look positively piratical. The dude was passed out in the chair, which was a couple of sizes too small for his muscular frame.

Drago stayed.

Color him shocked.

A wave of gratitude rolled ashore in his soul, laving him in its cooling waters.He stayed.The words were a sigh, a benediction, that brought him profound peace. Drago had taken care of him. Had come back and rescued him, then tended his wounds and stayed with him.

He’d been dead sure Dray would take advantage of his drugged stupor to finish the escape he’d started last night.

An escape that was a stark reminder of the job the CIA had sent Spencer here to do, and of how easily Drago could change his mind, break his word, and take off if he wanted to. It was so damned easy to underestimate him, which was part of why he was so effective a field operative. Behind that bravado and naïve-seeming enthusiasm lay a frighteningly keen mind and an insanely skilled operator.

Had Drago been playing him by taking him to the Grand Med Memorial? Had that entire field trip been a setup to get into a heavily populated area late at night so he could slip away? Which he had?

Or had Drago actually been trying to remind him of what they owed those victims? Was Dray really trying to recruit him to help go after Jabril Hamza?

Spencer knew from harsh experience that Drago thought and planned in circles within circles. Nothing was ever as it seemed on the surface with him. Which left Spencer with no idea what Drago was really up to or why the man was still here in this hotel room.

He would love it if Drago’s continued presence meant the guy had feelings for him.