by Karen Rock
The woman shrugged her shoulders, which were swaddled in a bright yellow wrap. “She has to choose to obey. I don’t treat my animal companions like slaves.”
The nearby tables fell silent, and a few pauses in her targets’ speech signaled they had noticed the commotion, too.
Crap.
Erica yanked at the strap, but Fifi only dug in harder. The dog had to be part shark. “Isn’t she a trained service dog?”
Fifi’s owner sniffed. “I bought the vest online so she could eat with me in public. She gets along with everybody…usually.” The young woman narrowed eyes an unnatural shade of lavender. “Nice people, anyway.”
Nice.
Who the fuck cared about nice?
Preschool teachers, Red Cross workers, and scrapbooking crafters. Erica’s gun fired 9-millimeter bullets, not hot glue.
Another loud growl erupted from Fifi as Erica stared down her six-pound opponent, weighing her options. She reached behind her, grabbed a breadstick, and waved it beneath the dog’s nose. “Here, Fifi….”
Fifi released the purse and snapped up the breadstick.
“Hey, she’s gluten-free,” protested Fifi’s owner.
“Then let’s hope she ‘chooses’ to obey,” Erica drawled. Swiftly, she donned her scarf and knotted it below her chin.
The two weapons suppliers had resumed their steady stream of conversation.
“Let’s call the dancers,” one said.
Erica’s cell vibrated on the tabletop a moment later.
Shit.
“She’s not picking up,” said the man holding his phone to his ear.
His partner shook his head. “Then call another. Who cares?”
Erica snatched up her cell and averted her face. “Hello,” she whispered.
“Patel here. We spoke about hiring you to dance at our event Friday night.”
Erica reached down to tie her slip-on Converse’s nonexistent laces. “What’s the address?”
“We’ll pick you up at Dallas Heat.”
Her heart sank. She’d hoped to case the spot beforehand so she wouldn’t be going in blind. “It’d be easier for me to meet you.”
“That’s not possible. If you don’t agree, then—”
“No,” Erica cut him off. “I agree.” Traveling with terrorist associates to an unknown location wasn’t ideal, but it was worth the risk to infiltrate the group. “What time?”
Fifi reappeared, barking. The sound startled the passing waiter. His tray dropped, and plates smashed to the pavement.
“Are you in a restaurant?” the man on the phone asked.
Erica peered from beneath the table and spied the two men standing and scanning the patio.
Her heart stumbled in her chest. “Just dropped my darling Fifi’s bowl. You’re a good Fifi, aren’t you?” she cooed quietly, groping for another breadstick. The Chihuahua snarled in answer.
Shit.
When Erica chanced another glance, the men had disappeared. The edges of a few green bills, trapped beneath a water glass, lifted in the wind.
“Hello?” she asked, straightening in her chair. “Hello?”
“Yes,” the man replied, his voice decidedly cool. “You are available?”
When she agreed, he rattled off the time, sounding stilted to her trained ear. Anxiety spiked.
Had she been made?
And would she be walking into a trap?
Her promise to Ryan returned to her. He’d asked her to contact him when the Jabhat al-Nusra associates phoned her. Sure. Relaying the information via phone was an option. But she needed a face-to-face meeting to press her case. Ryan had to include her in his investigation.
And the way he’d looked at her the other night suggested he might be open to persuasion….
Ten minutes later, she bounded up the stairs to Ryan’s motel room and knocked on his door. She strove to steady her rapid pulse at the remembered heat in his golden eyes.
Not that she’d lead with her looks.
After a quick glance at her worn jeans and T-shirt, she tightened her low ponytail, raised her fist, and pounded on the door again.
No. She had a better bargaining chip in mind.
As a disgraced former CIA agent out for redemption, she had a lot to prove. No backing down until Mr. Protocol agreed to use her as a field asset. Her gut said she was on to something, and it rarely lied.
Except when it came to Ryan….
The door wrenched open, and she drank in the sight of him. Wet locks of dark-brown hair fell over his forehead, brushing against his equally dark, arched brows. His cheekbones were broad and high; eyes slightly tilted at the outer corners were a dazzling blend of gold and amber that gave his gorgeous face a near inhuman quality. Those lips, with their fuller bottom one, were currently parted.
The muscles in his jaw tensed as an unreadable look flickered across his striking face, and she momentarily forgot her mission. He seemed bigger than she remembered. Taller. Harder. He’d been handsome before, but now…now after missing/fantasizing/longing for him these past couple of years?
Now he was extraordinary.
Six-three and all muscle, with a chiseled, lean, don’t-mess-with-me body clothed only in gray sweat pants. His shoulders were as broad as ever, and so were his muscular thighs and biceps. Droplets of water clung to his defined chest, and the dips and planes of his stomach put the Dallas Heat dancers to shame. It looked as if someone had pressed their fingers into the skin next to his hips, leaving behind indentations. A towel dangling from his hand suggested a recent shower.
“You.” His posture was ramrod-straight, his presence commanding. Years living in tough conditions—always looking over his shoulder, wondering if the next bullet, explosion, knife had his name on it—had sharpened his good looks, ripening his masculine appeal.
“Want breakfast?” She shoved a bag of the café’s pastries at him, then slipped into the room’s modest interior.
As she passed him, the spicy musk of his body and the warmth of his bare chest snatched her breath.
“I could take you in for trespassing,” he charged in that deep, rich-as-dark-chocolate voice that sent a wake of shivers up her spine. “Breaking and entering.”
“You opened the door. And what’d I break exactly?” Erica asked with all the cool aplomb and calm control she could muster. Inside, she was a quivering mass of nerves and anxiety.
A muscle jumped in his jaw as he stared at her, mute.
Was his answer the same as hers…his heart?
She’d convinced herself she’d embellished their affair. That it was only a fuzzy memory of attraction born from proximity and convenience. But here, now, feeling the raw, aching chemistry again, she’d clearly downplayed it.
What was she going to do? She needed to properly investigate a credible terrorist threat and redeem herself. But she’d never bargained on needing Ryan’s help, on feeling like this; for a split second, she imagined fate working against her the way her mother always claimed.
“Don’t play outside. You’ll catch cold,” her mother had warned. Or “A driver’s license is the first step to an accident.”
Erica’s chin lifted. After a stifling childhood under her anxious mother’s thumb, she’d vowed never to let fear rule her.
This meet-up with Ryan was sheer, miserable bad luck.
Or destiny, whispered a voice in the back of her mind. The one she wanted to strangle.
Either way, she wasn’t running.
“Why are you here, Erica?”
The sharp-edged light in his eyes and his pointed tone of voice suggested he wanted to say more. The CIA had disciplined him to hold his tongue and taught him to hold his emotions in check, too.
But Erica had undergone the same training, could conceal her emotions and hold her tongue as well as he coul
d. She might be reckless and whatever else he wanted to call her, but she wasn’t a fool. She’d never open her heart up to Special Agent Ryan Arnell again.
Or her body. It didn’t rule her mind. Ryan was hot, but she was no slave to her desire. And attraction was just what it was. “You have a problem with me being here?”
“Quantico relays messages.”
“Not as well as I can.”
“That’s debatable.” His chin hardened.
She eyed the stark, impersonal room. Generic watercolor prints hung from cheap, wood-paneled walls. Not a single dish, pot, or cutlery piece littered the spotless galley kitchen. The TV remote was aligned perfectly with the channel guide on an otherwise empty coffee table. Her throat constricted when her gaze drifted through an open door to a large bed covered by a stretched, starched coverlet.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” she drawled. Ryan had the emotional flexibility of an armadillo and had erected walls, just as scaly and thick, to buffer himself from his emotions. Once, she’d known how to coax him from a black mood. She needed to relax him so he’d be more receptive to her plans. “Interesting decorating choices.”
“You think?” Amusement lightened his eyes and set off flocking butterflies in her chest. “I was wondering if the crying clown print was a bit too avant-garde.”
She pressed her lips together to ward off the oncoming grin. “It lends the place a certain…je ne sais quoi.”
He headed into his bedroom and called, “Meaning?”
“This place has the personality of a stale saltine.”
He returned wearing a fitted black T-shirt. His lips—lips that had burned themselves into her memory—curled into a smirk. “So you like it.”
“It suits you.” She sat on the saggy couch and edged away from a brown stain that made her wish for a black light and luminal.
“Don’t get comfortable.” The humor had faded from his features as he faced her, arms now folded across his chest. Crap. That journey into happy town was short-lived.
“Around you?” she scoffed. “Impossible.”
“That wasn’t always true.” He was staring at her with the same kind of intensity he’d had in her dressing room, but there was even more heat behind his golden eyes. As he continued to stare, warmth curled low in her belly, especially when his tongue slipped out and glided over his upper lip.
Her skin flushed. She didn’t like what was starting to go on inside her body. And she didn’t like that he was staring at her, that he even felt as though he was allowed to at this point. And she sure as hell didn’t like the breathlessness invading her chest. “Stop staring at me,” she ordered. “And do you really want to go there?”
He shocked the hell out of her by dragging his gaze up, the concentrated power behind his irises searing her skin. A moment passed and then he spoke. “No. I’ve got enough to deal with—”
He cut himself off like the other night, piquing her curiosity. Why had he come home to Dallas? He never talked about his family, though the one time she’d met them, she’d sensed distance. Sadness, as well… “To deal with…” she prompted.
Ryan cleared his throat. But when he spoke, his voice was still deeper and rougher than normal. “Let’s get down to business.”
He dropped into an armchair, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his knees. His rounded biceps looked like they’d been carved out of granite and buffed with Armor All. “What’s your message?”
“The weapons dealers called but didn’t give an address. They’re picking me up at Dallas Heat Friday night.”
Red pooled beneath Ryan’s cheekbones. “The hell they are. Too dangerous.”
She laughed. “Since when has that ever been a factor?”
He opened his mouth then clamped it shut.
“Besides,” she continued, “how else are we going to see what they’re up to?”
“I’ll follow them.”
“You won’t get inside the party.”
“Not your concern.” Ryan’s voice was authoritative. Commanding. A shiver tripped along Erica’s skin.
“The hell it’s not.” She shoved to her feet and paced. “If there’s a chance Al Monitor is here, I’ll—”
“Kidnap him like you did the Jordan embassy bomber?”
“I didn’t kidnap him,” she snapped, halting.
“The Jordanian government gave us forty-eight hours to interrogate him before turning him over.” In a nanosecond, Ryan was on his feet. “You took him to our safe house when your time expired without following proper channels. Without my permission.”
“Would you have given it?”
Frustration hardened his eyes, pinching at the corners of his mouth. “Hell no.”
“I was on the brink of turning him!” Pent-up frustration exploded like a cannon blast, rocking her. “I couldn’t let him go, not when I was so close. He said Khalid was working with a US government official.”
A single dark eyebrow rose. Skeptical. “Who?”
“I didn’t get to ask since you barged in and called the Jordanian authorities.”
His glare matched hers. “I had no choice.”
“You oversaw the mission.”
“Exactly. And I follow procedure. Your impulsive, unsanctioned detainment nearly caused a breakdown in diplomatic relations and called my leadership into question.”
Erica held up her thumb and index finger. “I was this close to unmasking the traitor in our government.”
“The desperate ravings of a man bargaining for more time.” Ryan swatted the air. “He was playing you.”
“I know the difference,” Erica fired back, stung. “I’m the best interrogator in the field.”
His stare turned pointed. “Were.”
The impact of his words battered her, loosening her knees so they dipped. “Excuse me?”
“You were the best interrogator in the field.” He planted his hands on his hips.
“If you’d defended me—” She bit down hard on her lip, keeping the angry sting in her eyes at bay. Emotions weren’t a terrible thing, but they could be damn inconvenient.
“This is my shot, Ryan,” she insisted when he remained silent, willing herself to keep fighting, to wear him down. No easy feat when squaring off against a venerable opponent. “And I’m taking it. With or without you. If it’s with you, then I’ll text you the weapons dealers’ cell number to access their phone records.”
“And if I don’t agree?” Shock deepened his voice.
“Then I’m going to the party anyway. Without you.”
He didn’t say anything, but a tortured, pinched look crept across his face.
“Besides,” she spoke fast before he formulated another argument. “Think of the access I’ll have. The clues I might uncover about Al Monitor. Al-Nusra.”
He scowled. “The trouble you might cause.”
“Haven’t you ever wondered if the intel I got in Jordan might be true?”
“Yes.” He exhaled deeply as he rubbed a hand along his jaw.
“If there’s a chance an attack is being planned here…in Dallas, while you did nothing…missing one again…”
He held up a hand, his expression stark. “Enough. I’ll give you one chance, but don’t make me regret it.”
On impulse, she grabbed his face and brushed his mouth with hers, then flew out the door before he changed his mind.
“You won’t,” she called over her shoulder.
Inside her car, she tipped her head back on the seat and traced her tingling lips.
She’d promised him no regrets.
Could she make herself the same vow?
Chapter 3
The familiar scents of pot roast, lemon cleaning spray, and cherry pie wafted from the kitchen window beside Ryan’s parents’ rear door. Jangling wind chimes matched th
e edgy nerves jittering his gut. Grabbing the doorknob, he flattened his twitching mouth, a childhood tic that only appeared around his family.
More particularly, his father.
Someone clapped him on the back, and one of his older brothers, Drake, crowded him on the brick stoop.
“You just gonna stand out here or what?”
Ryan stared down his thick-necked brother. Like every Arnell except Ryan, Drake had followed their father into the Marine Corps fifteen years ago. “What.”
“Smartass.” Drake’s grin revealed white teeth big enough to bite straight to an apple’s core. “Mom made cherry pie. You always were her favorite.”
“Didn’t have much competition.” Ryan yanked open the door and ducked inside, his brother’s bray of a laugh following him.
Why’d he enter through the back? The front door, an elaborate glass combination with an imposing columned portico, admitted only honored guests. Dignitaries. VIPs…not lowly youngest sons hazed by older brothers and a drill sergeant for a father. Growing up, put-downs had peppered him like sniper fire, delivered, according to his lieutenant colonel father, to make Ryan tough. Strong. A machine. Just like him.
The fuck he’d ever be like his old man.
Like any of them.
“Hey, it’s Cryin’ Ryan.” His other brother, Doug, sauntered by, his cleats clattering on the tiled breezeway. He hung his ball cap on a brass hook.
Ryan bit back a pointless retort at his old nickname. Twins Drake and Doug, older than Ryan by seven years, had lived to break him down. Once, he’d been sensitive, easily hurt, quick to cry before learning how to lock down his emotions.
And to be ashamed of them.
Ryan ignored his siblings and the dull ache flaring behind his eyes. He’d come home for his mother’s sake, not to make nice with Tweedle Dumb and Dumber.
“Incurable pancreatic cancer,” his mother had whispered when she called a couple of days ago, as if speaking dirty words. “He’s on hospice care. We don’t know how much time he has left.”
Ryan had instinctively bitten his tongue. It was a reflex action to control a scream, but the scream had been bred out of him long ago. What was left was a quick, strangled intake of air.