Combustion: Ensenada Heat Book Two

by Tess Summers

As tired as Reagan was, she still managed to put her ear to the door to try to catch his conversation with her sister. She was only able to make out bits and pieces, but could tell his tone was clipped and much harsher than it’d been when he talked to Kennedy earlier.

  She heard him end the call and walk toward her door. She scrambled to get away from the door and into bed, but he never came back in.

  Why was she disappointed he didn’t come in?

  She definitely needed to get some rest. It had to be the drugs still in her system making her want his company. Maybe more than just his company.

  Okay, that’s the lack of sex over the last year talking.

  Reagan managed to sleep for several hours, but then was wide awake at two in the morning, thinking about Mason and wondering where he was sleeping. If she had been more of a brat, would he have slept in the captain’s quarters with her? That might be in the cards for tomorrow. She wasn’t feeling as fuzzy now and her spunk was coming back.

  What had he called her? Sassy pants.

  He was going to see how sassy she could get.

  She crept to the door and tried turning the knob. Kennedy had always said, “You never know unless you try”—although even if she found the door unlocked, she wasn’t sure how much good it would do her. She couldn’t exactly escape in the middle of the Pacific, and sending an SOS would be fruitless. He was in the CIA; it wasn’t as if anyone would come to her rescue—other than Kennedy. Besides, calling for help would mean having to explain why he’d taken her in the first place, and Reagan wouldn’t blow her sister’s new identity.

  Still, she was feeling restless and felt like exploring.

  Examining the lock, she determined she could pick it. Reagan had grown up hungry most of her young life. Back in Fargo, the Jones girls had become masters at opening doors without keys before they even hit their teens; breaking in somewhere had often meant the difference between eating that day or going hungry. She had been almost as good at it as Kennedy was, although she was probably a lot more out of practice than her sister now. It’d been a long time since she’d picked a lock, but it had to be like riding a bike, right?

  She fished around for something to help her. Why did she have to wear her hair down today? When she had it up, there were always at least a few bobby pins in it, but not today. Reagan fished through all the drawers in the both the bedroom and the bathroom and came up empty-handed. She was about to give up and go back to bed when she noticed a brochure for the satellite TV onboard, and the salesman’s card paper-clipped to it.

  Jackpot.

  She was out the door and tiptoeing through the yacht in a matter of minutes. It was eerily quiet at night; even the ocean seemed to be asleep. She explored the entire ship, except for the crew’s quarters and the rooms near where she thought Mason was holed up. She didn’t want to risk being caught and having to explain to him that she was out of her locked room just because she was bored. There was no malicious intent.

  Reagan lay on a chaise lounge on the main deck, looking out at the dark skies and wondering what the hell was in store for her over the next few days. She felt guilty for getting kidnapped and forcing Kennedy back into a clandestine mission; her sister had a daughter and husband to think about now. She also felt ashamed for being attracted to Mason.

  How was that even possible? Sure, he had a dimple that made him look like a charming grownup schoolboy when he smiled, and his muscles were drool-worthy. And he was funny, intelligent, and interesting, and dare she say kind? But still…

  How could she consider him kind when he had threatened to kill her? And he’d planned on offing her only sister. She couldn’t reconcile what he was on paper to how he was when she was with him.

  He’s an agent; they’re trained to be the best actors there are. Her sister had told her as much the few times she’d talked about her life in the CIA.

  Reagan just needed to keep her wits about her until they reached land, then pray that her sister would be able to help him rescue his brother, and that he’d keep his word and release her.

  That was a lot of contingencies to her leaving the ship alive.

  Chapter Five

  Mason

  He watched on the video cameras as she snuck out of her room in the white satin pajamas he’d left for her in the drawers. At first, he was going to storm after her, but became mesmerized by her image as she tried to stealthily maneuver her way around the ship. How she managed to look so damn sexy in a nightshirt and shorts, he had no idea, but she did, so he decided to just observe her for a while. The sight of her sneaking on deck was vaguely familiar yet different; it wasn’t like she was going to jump overboard like her sister had.

  He couldn’t help but smile as he tracked her throughout the yacht, and he chuckled out loud when she paused in the kitchen to nibble on some Oreo cookies from the pantry. She then began opening drawers and doors to poke around, moving on to explore the unoccupied parts of the ship.

  When she fell asleep on the lounger on deck, he came out to wrap a blanket around her, staring at her features a long time after tucking the corners around her shoulders and fighting the urge to kiss her cheek. He wondered what it would feel like to wake up with her in his arms after breathing in her scent all night. She had a sexy, unique smell that reminded him of the beach and summer.

  She turned onto her side and snuggled further under the covers, making a little whimpering noise as she did, and once again, his dick moved.

  I am so fucked. How is this possible?

  His auto mechanic father’s words echoed in his mind: When it happens, it’ll hit you like combustion. And there won’t be a damn thing you can do about it.

  Like he said, he was so fucked.

  Suddenly, her breathing changed and her eyes flew open, her face full of fear when she noticed him. He must have looked like a lurker—and technically, that’s what he was. Reagan sat up like a shot, the blanket falling to her waist.

  “I—I can explain.”

  Against his better judgment, he sat down next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. She stiffened under his touch, which shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did. He’d meant to calm her, but it seemed to have had the opposite reaction. Under normal circumstances, he would have welcomed that. Fear in a hostage was a good thing, but he was at war with himself over her being afraid of him.

  “Hey, it’s okay. I had a feeling that flimsy latch wasn’t going to keep you in there for very long. I’ve seen what your sister can do with a lock—I should have known it ran in the family. Besides, where are you going to go?”

  “I could have snuck in and killed you.”

  Well, shit.

  Of course, if he was thinking with his brain instead of his damn dick—or worse, his heart—he would have considered that. He’d been trained for that to be his first assumption, yet the idea had never even crossed his mind with sweet Reagan Elizabeth Jones. Her drawing it to his attention reminded him she had sass too.

  As if his fingers had a mind of their own, he swept the hair from the nape of her neck, then he leaned in and said softly, “That would have been a bad idea. Although I might have enjoyed the fight.”

  He couldn’t help but notice her nipples stiffen under the white satin—she wasn’t wearing a fucking bra, and he bit back a groan. This is so bad.

  Standing abruptly, he ordered, “Get back to your room, Reagan. Try to stay put until breakfast, otherwise I’ll put you over my knee.”

  Just the thought of her round ass in the air as his hand came down… Fuck!

  His grip on her elbow was a little tighter than it probably needed to be as he unceremoniously yanked her toward the stairs, and she wrenched away from his grasp.

  “Ow! Let go! I can do it without you manhandling me.”

  He was manhandling her when he just wanted to be holding her. He needed to get his shit together.

  “Walk!” he boomed, ignoring her complaints.

  “You’re grouchy in the morning,” she sassed, th
en tucked her tail and scurried forward like she was expecting a swat on her butt. Looking over her shoulder at him with a grin when she didn’t receive it, she walked into the living area leading to the captain’s quarters.

  “I’ll come get you for breakfast at eight. Don’t come out until then.”

  “Such a grump,” she muttered as she closed the door behind her. He locked the door again, although he didn’t know why he was wasting his time; she’d proven it was useless. He’d have to see about finding a better way of keeping her confined. One that didn’t involve him pinning her body underneath his.

  ****

  Reagan

  That man was infuriating. And sexy as hell with his messy bedhead, plaid blue and green pajama pants, and plain white t-shirt emphasizing his muscular arms and linebacker chest.

  He’d started out sweet, then quickly turned pissy after she’d pointed out that she could have snuck in his room and killed him.

  Fat chance of that happening. She couldn’t even kill a spider, not to mention she couldn’t just squash Mason Hughes with her shoe.

  And ‘Although I might have enjoyed the fight?’ What the hell did he mean by that?

  She hastily washed in the tiny standup shower off her bedroom. She would have loved a long, luxurious time under the hot water, but she wasn’t sure how much fresh water was available on board, so she decided to make it quick.

  As she stood naked in the cabin, going through the new clothes she’d found in the drawers last night, she suddenly felt like she was being watched. Covering her private parts with her hands, she looked around for any monitoring devices, then dressed quickly and waited for Mason to come retrieve her for breakfast.

  She had barely sat down on her newly-made bed when there was a knock at the door. His appearance so soon after her being ready did not alleviate her worries about cameras in her stateroom.

  Reagan marched to the door and flung it open, hand on her hip.

  “Are there cameras in here?” she demanded.

  He silently observed her, as if waiting for further outbursts. When there were no more forthcoming, he simply said, “No. Not in there.”

  “But there are on the ship?”

  He tilted his head slightly, as if annoyed. “You know there are. You heard me telling Kennedy that I watched her escape.”

  “Oh my god, this is where you had her?”

  Suddenly she felt sick to her stomach. She was probably sleeping in the same room they’d kept her sister while she waited for her impending execution, like who knew how many countless others. How many people had died on this yacht?

  “So is this like your floating death ship?”

  He’d started to guide her toward the kitchen and paused. “Huh?”

  “This yacht. Murder in style or something?”

  “I already told you, sassy pants, I’m not going to hurt you. Unless you give me reason to.”

  “But you were going to kill my sister. On this very boat.”

  “Yachts are ships, not boats,” he corrected as he steered her forward.

  “I think you’re missing the point.”

  They reached the kitchen and she sat down, staring at him while silently willing him to reply.

  He looked up at the ceiling with a sigh.

  “I’m not sure what response you’re looking for, Reagan.”

  Tell me you weren’t going to assassinate my sister, you idiot.

  “Would you have really killed Kennedy?” she whispered.

  “Personally? Probably not. But I was the leader of the team that was sent to extract her. We did, and were ordered to wait for further instructions. Those orders came in to eliminate her.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand as she fought back a sob.

  “You would have let her die,” she hissed. “And now you want her help saving your brother?”

  He sighed again, running his fingers through his now-combed hair.

  “Look, Reagan. I didn’t love the orders when they came through. I’d read Kennedy’s file—she was an exemplary Marine and kick-ass agent as far as I could tell. But I just assumed she had decided to flip sides, and my allegiance is to the agency. But, at the same time, I also know what a numbskull Agent Robinson is—and I let him take her out of the servants’ quarters alone. And I didn’t stop her when I saw her traversing the hall by herself toward the deck. So maybe my subconscious was talking to me. But, at the end of the day, I would have followed orders.”

  “Yet now you’re willing to disobey them.”

  “I’m not pretending to be holier-than-thou. I recognize that I’m the typical ‘until-it-happens-to-me’ guy. But it has happened to me, or at least someone I care about, and I’m fortunate enough to have the means to do something about it.”

  She scoffed. “And you had to kidnap me in the process. What if my sister hadn’t accepted your proposal? Then what would you have done with me?”

  Mason shrugged unapologetically. “I was betting on Kennedy caring as much about you as I do my little brother.”

  She persisted. “But what if she hadn’t?”

  He stepped into her personal space and looked down at her with a smirk that showed off his dimple, eyes twinkling. She could smell the soap from his shower and the mint from his toothpaste.

  “Then I guess I would have had to find something else to do with you.”

  That should not have made her stomach get butterflies and her lady parts tingle, but here they were, fluttering and zinging.

  “Like what?” she asked, way too breathlessly for her liking.

  He stared at her mouth for a moment then stepped away, bringing a closed fist to his mouth and coughing.

  “You know—cooking, cleaning, laundry.”

  She knew there was a ninety percent chance he was teasing her, yet her feelings were still hurt that he didn’t say something like ‘personal sex slave.’

  What is wrong with me? I wouldn’t sleep with him if he was the last man on the planet.

  That was her story, and she was sticking to it.

  Throughout her life, Reagan had been told she needed to work on her poker face. She was sure her disappointment was showing. To save her pride, she rolled her eyes and snarked, “I’d be sure to put extra starch in your underwear.”

  That made him laugh out loud and shake his head, muttering, “Sassy pants,” as he took out royal blue ceramic mixing bowls from one of the cabinets to make breakfast.

  “Can I help?”

  He shook his head. “I actually enjoy cooking. It’s kind of my stress reliever.”

  “You’re going to make some woman very happy someday.” The pang of jealousy that it wouldn’t be her led her to add, “Or man. I guess I shouldn’t just assume in this day and age.”

  It was obvious she was baiting him, but he dutifully took it while he whisked eggs in the bowl.

  “I like women, sweetheart. A variety of them. Someday I’ll settle down, but not anytime soon.” He poured the contents into a heated frying pan, and they made a sizzling noise.

  “Well, for your sake, I hope you get tested on a regular basis, Mr. Variety-Pack.”

  The corners of his mouth went up, even as he concentrated on making sure not to burn the eggs.

  “I do. But I always wear a condom. Without fail.”

  “So no chance of little mini-Masons running around in the world, then?”

  He looked away from his task to stare poignantly at her.

  “Not yet.”

  She drew a sharp breath in, but quickly caught herself and tried to sound nonchalant as she replied, “Oh. Well, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of time. But how will you choose from all your flavors of the month?”

  “My dad assures me that I’ll know when the right one comes along.”

  “So then what? You don’t really expect me to believe you’d be content with one flavor for the rest of your life. What if you ended up with something like plain ol’ vanilla?” Like me?

  “I happen to like vanilla. It�
��s delicious. And it’s versatile, so you never get bored with it. You can add different sauces and whipped cream to keep it interesting. Maybe a banana every now and again. Then there’s sprinkles… and don’t forget the nuts and cherry.”

  “And you’d be happy with that? Even if the cookies and cream looked delicious?”

  Were they really using ice cream as a metaphor for women?

  “Nope. Once I decide to quit sampling and choose a flavor, I’m sticking with that. Forever.”

  He slid the eggs from the pan onto a plate, added two slices of toast he’d just buttered, and handed it to her.

  “This looks delicious, thank you.”

  “If you’re good today, I’ll make you huevos rancheros tomorrow,” he said with a wink. “If you’re naughty, well…”

  She cocked her head as she asked hopefully, “Yes?”

  The CIA agent seemed to be caught off-guard at her asking him to continue that thought, but grinned when he replied, “I’ll put you over my knee, and then make you eat cantaloupe for breakfast.”

  “I like cantaloupe,” she challenged.

  Mason's eyebrows went up in surprise, and his smile returned.

  “Be careful what you wish for, sassy pants,” he warned.

  Chapter Six

  Mason

  Little Miss Reagan Jones was going to be a test of his willpower, he had no doubt. The desire to spank her or fuck her, or both, was strong.

  As strong as the temptation to fall in love with her.

  How could he not? She was spunky, interesting, smart, beautiful, and his dick seemed to have decided it’d found its soulmate, because it was standing at attention whenever she was around.

  He’d dated a lot of beautiful, interesting women throughout his life, but something about Reagan Jones was electric.

  Combustion.

  AC/DC’s song “Thunderstuck” began to play in his head. Yeah, that about summed it up.

  And he needed to quash it. It’d help if she’d stop being so damn endearing. Because when she was, he became completely undone, letting his guard down, and wanting her to know the real him—to like him, even. Then he ended up doing stupid shit.