Seduction Game

by Pamela Clare

“Where’s my bra?” She glanced around.

  He tried to remember. “I think it’s back in the living room.”

  “Oh. Right.” She darted out of the bedroom, putting on her panties as she went, a sight that was both amusing and arousing.

  He didn’t know a person could do that while running.

  She found her bra and quickly put it on, then retrieved her dress, which was now wrinkled from a night on his floor. She drew it over her head then went in search of her shoes and purse.

  He bit his lower lip. “Holly, honey, your dress is inside out.”

  More pounding on the door.

  “Holly, it’s Marc! Open up!”

  Nick shouted back. “Shut the hell up! We’re coming!”

  Poor choice of words.

  They both laughed.

  “It’s not funny.” Holly struggled out of her dress, turned it right side out and shimmied back into it. “They’re going to know.”

  “I hate to break it to you, honey, but I bet they already know, given that they’re knocking on my door and not yours.”

  A look of comprehension dawned on her face, followed by one of resignation. “That’s freaking fantastic. I’m going to get lectured. You don’t know these guys.”

  Actually, he knew a lot about these guys—probably more than she did.

  “Hey, you’re over eighteen. It’s your life.” He walked to the door, hoping to open it before the two men beat it down with their fists. “You ready?”

  She grabbed her purse, slipped her feet into her sandals, and nodded.

  Nick didn’t have the heart to tell her that her hair was a tousled mess—or that she smelled like sex.

  He opened the door to find Darcangelo and Hunter on his doorstep. They glared at him, their gazes softening when Holly stepped into view.

  “Sorry! I—”

  “I kept her up all night watching old movies,” Nick said.

  He knew neither man would buy it, but if it saved Holly embarrassment and kept them from beating his face in . . .

  “How fast can you get ready to go?” Darcangelo said. “We don’t want to lose our range time.”

  “Just give me five minutes.” Holly dug in her purse for her keys, then turned back to Nick, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Thanks for everything. Tonight?”

  “Yeah.” He caught her and kissed her, nice and slow, just to piss off the two men.

  Then she unlocked her door and disappeared inside her own home, and Nick found himself, alone and shirtless, facing two big guys who looked like they really wanted to beat his ass.

  “Nick Andrews.” He held out a hand, and they shook.

  “Marc Hunter.”

  “Julian Darcangelo.”

  “So . . . you guys part of Holly’s security team?”

  Hunter nodded yes.

  Darcangelo shook his head no.

  Then the two of them looked at each other.

  It was Hunter who finally spoke. “We’re the guys you’ll get to know really well if you do anything to hurt her.”

  Five minutes later, when three SUVs pulled away from the curb, Nick found himself wondering what these guys would do when they found out the truth about the woman they were trying so hard to protect.

  Chapter Nine

  Holly sat in the backseat of the SUV, fighting to keep the smile off her face, her body still singing. No one spoke as they made their way toward I-70 and the DPD’s private shooting range on the edge of Denver. The silence gave her time to think, her mind filled with memories of last night.

  Nick carrying her to the bedroom. Nick catching her and flipping her onto her back. Nick going down on her—not once but twice. Nick shaking apart in her arms as he came, all that muscle tensing beneath her hands.

  Don’t tell me that’s all you’ve got.

  She inhaled, his scent still on her skin, the taste of him still on her tongue.

  She couldn’t remember the last time a man had challenged her in bed. He’d put her through her paces, but he hadn’t been selfish. He’d given every bit as much as he’d taken—and then demanded and given more. He was fun, had a sense of humor, and an incredible amount of self-control.

  And, oh, how the man kissed! He knew how to tease her lips, knew when to deepen the kiss, when to back off, when and how to use his teeth, his tongue. He was a five-alarm-fire sexual fantasy of a man—and he was her next-door neighbor.

  She loved how he’d stood up to Julian and Marc, not an easy thing for any man to do. He’d kissed her in front of them, more to goad them than anything else. But there’d been a possessive edge to that kiss, too, and it had her looking forward to tonight.

  But right now, she needed to focus on other things.

  She ran her hand over the rough black plastic case of her Glock, the weapon and its magazines locked securely inside. “I really appreciate this.”

  Julian glanced back over his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

  “How much do you know about that guy?” Marc asked.

  Now came the lecture.

  “Javier ran a background check on him, so I know he’s clean. He served with Delta Force in Afghanistan and Iraq, was injured in combat, and now he’s writing a book about that. He’s funny and intelligent and amazing in the . . . kitchen.”

  They wouldn’t want to hear the rest of it.

  For a moment, there was silence.

  Marc looked over a Julian. “What did you mean by saying ‘no’? You made us look like idiots.”

  Julian turned to look at Marc over the top of his sunglasses. “You did that all by yourself. You’re the one who started making shit up. I answered truthfully.”

  “I just figured the dude would have a little more respect if he thought we were strapped and part of the CIS team.”

  Julian shrugged. “If he doesn’t take us seriously, that’s his grave mistake.”

  “Guys, it’s okay,” Holly said, interrupting them. “He’s not a threat, and I’m not sixteen. You don’t need to worry. I’m sure he found you both very intimidating.”

  Men!

  They arrived at the DPD shooting range fifteen minutes later—not a moment too soon—and Holly followed them inside. They led her down a hallway, past vending machines offering soda and junk food, around a corner, stopping at a counter beside a heavy set of double doors.

  “It’s the Dynamic Duo,” said an older man behind the counter. He caught sight of Holly and smiled. “Well, hello there. Who are you?”

  “She’s with us,” Marc answered.

  “Right.” The smile left the man’s face. “You’re in lane seven. What’re you firing?”

  “Let’s start with a hundred rounds of nine mil,” Julian said.

  Marc and Julian signed in while Holly filled out a visitor’s registration form on a computer screen. From the other side of the thick bulletproof wall came the muffled sound of high-caliber weapons fire. There was a large sign on the door that read, “Eye and ear protection required beyond this point.”

  Holly wondered if she should tell Marc and Julian, then decided against it.

  This was going to be fun.

  She pulled out the shooting glasses and hearing-enhanced earmuffs she’d picked up when she’d bought the Glock—both flaming pink—and slipped them on.

  “You’re going to need ear and eye pro . . .” Julian said, his words dying off when he turned toward her and found her ready to go. “Oh. You brought some. Great.”

  Both men had custom ear protection, their shooting glasses tinted yellow.

  She followed them through one set of doors, and then another, onto the range. It was a low-light range with twenty lanes, the firing line divided into stalls with adjustable lighting and what looked like a sophisticated target carrier system.

  They settled in, and she listened while Marc and Julian went over basic gun safety. She’d been taught all of this, of course, but it never hurt to hear it all again. A mistake with a handgun could be deadly, and no one was so expert a shooter as to b
e above a refresher.

  “Above all, never put your finger on the trigger unless you’re willing to destroy whatever is in front of that barrel. Got that?”

  She nodded.

  They explained all the features—a simple thing on a Glock—then showed her how to load a magazine.

  She inserted five rounds, slid the mag into place, and racked the slide.

  “That’s great,” Julian said. “You’re doing great.”

  Marc set the target for a distance of seven yards. “Let’s start simple.”

  Julian showed her the stance. “Stand with your feet about hip-width apart, and lean slightly forward, supporting the pistol with . . . Yeah. Perfect. Just like that.”

  Marc, a decorated sniper who’d once held the US record for confirmed kills, talked her through sighting on her target. “It’s good to keep both eyes open if you can. You want to focus on the front sight. It should line up with your target, but the target should be a blur. Go ahead and fire a few shots when you’re ready. Just squeeze the trigger nice and—”

  BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

  Holly squeezed off five quick shots, found herself staring at a two-inch group at the center of the target. Not bad, but far from her best at only seven yards.

  For a moment, there was silence.

  Marc looked over at Julian, then down at her. “I think you’ve done this before.”

  Holly smiled. “It’s been ages since I’ve held or fired a gun. My dad was a brigadier general. He made sure his little girl knew how to shoot.”

  It was a lie. Holly had learned to shoot during her training at Langley. She’d rarely seen her father, and when she had, he’d told her how pretty she was—and barely listened to a word she said. Except when he’d been drunk.

  Then he’d said things she wished she could forget.

  Julian grinned. “Let’s see what you can do.”

  They moved the target back to ten yards, then twenty-five, then put her through a series of tactical drills, eventually joining in and finishing with moving targets as Holly worked out the rust and got used to shooting with the Glock. By the end of their hour, she felt confident, prepared, and was shooting almost as well as the two of them.

  “You’ve got fantastic trigger control,” Marc said, a wide grin on his face, as they made their way back to his SUV. “If we worked a little on your grasp, I think you’d manage the recoil better and get back on target faster.”

  “Thanks for letting me get in some practice. I had a lot of fun.”

  Julian opened the vehicle’s door for her. “Hey, any time you want to come shooting with us, just let us know.”

  * * *

  Nick stood back and looked at the whiteboard, unanswered questions running through his mind. How had Dudaev known when the guns were set to ship and where to find them? How had he gotten the drop on Nick’s team? Why had Dudaev made a special effort to go after Dani? The bastard hadn’t just shot her, after all. He’d entered the warehouse, exposing himself to enemy fire, in order to shoot her at point-blank range, while walking past Carver and McGowen, both badly wounded, and leaving them alive. Clearly, he’d wanted to make certain Dani was dead.

  The analysts had answers to these questions, answers that had been part of his original debriefing two years ago. The official record of the event stated that one of the men in the Georgian police, known to be infiltrated by Dudaev’s men, had betrayed them, and Dudaev had made a point of killing Dani because she was the officer in charge. It was his way of sending a message to Langley. But those answers had never sat well with Nick. Now that he knew an internal investigation was underway, he knew they didn’t sit well with someone high up in the Agency, either.

  If Nick could figure out what had happened that night, he might be able to uncover what was really going on. He’d hoped the encrypted files would tell him what he needed to know, but that was taking too long. He had half a dozen CPUs running twenty-four-seven, and he still hadn’t cracked the password.

  Somewhere, a clock was ticking. He could feel it.

  So he’d spent the past few hours shut in his office doing his best to re-create the events of the night Dani had died down to the smallest details. He’d listed all the players, drawn the warehouse and pier, noted everyone’s positions. He’d written down the chronology of the orders he’d received and those he’d given.

  And he’d come to one conclusion.

  His entire world was a goatfuck.

  The SAD was turning itself inside out. Most of the officers who’d been involved in the op that night were either missing or dead, forever silenced. Of those who’d had boots on the ground that night, only he and Nguyen remained. Rumors were making him out to be some kind of rogue operator. And he was starting to have serious doubts about his chain of command—and his mission.

  Meanwhile, he was here in Denver, trying to decrypt classified files he’d stolen—certainly the actions of a rogue operator—and running an op against a US citizen, yet making little progress on either front, apart from developing an emotional connection to the very person he’d been assigned to bring down, which was not only counterproductive but extremely dangerous and fantastically stupid.

  Did that about cover it?

  Sucks to be you, Andris.

  He needed to clear his mind, get a fresh perspective.

  He hit the weights, pushing it until he’d maxed out, then did a quick five-mile run on the treadmill, endorphins easing some of the tension. He paused the treadmill at the five-mile mark, stepped off, and headed through his bedroom toward the master bath, his body sweaty, his mind on a hot shower.

  The sight of his rumpled sheets stopped him. He found himself standing next to the bed, the pillow she’d slept on in his hands. He held it to his nose, breathed in, the lingering scent of her perfume filling his head.

  Holly.

  She was everything he could want in bed—playful, intensely erotic, feminine. From the tips of her manicured toes to her bare pussy to her full breasts with their soft, pink nipples to her angelic face, she was good enough to eat. But more than that, she was fun. She’d made him laugh, and it was a long time since he’d laughed with a woman.

  Last night had blown his mind. She had blown his mind.

  Strange that he hadn’t thought of Dani once.

  What the hell was he doing? What was he thinking?

  He ripped off the pillow case, tore the sheets off the bed, then carried them to the laundry room, tossing them into the machine with detergent and starting the wash cycle. For a moment, he stood there, watching water pour into the washer. Then he dropped the lid and turned away.

  He shouldn’t waste time thinking about last night. Holly was nothing but a job he had to do. Fucking her had been part of a covert operation. Yeah, he’d enjoyed it. Any red-blooded heterosexual man would have. But it didn’t go beyond that. He could not allow himself to lose his objectivity and develop feelings for her.

  And, hell, no, it wasn’t too late.

  He was in control of his feelings, and there was no room in this for emotion—especially not the tenderness he’d felt for her when she’d been asleep beside him.

  He headed back through the bedroom without looking at the bed and hit the shower, hot water washing away sweat and the scent of sex. He soaped up, tried to focus on the sensation of water on his skin.

  But one thought wouldn’t leave him—and it had nothing to do with the Batumi op or the Agency or decryption.

  Holly didn’t act like a woman with a guilty conscience.

  Nick had met plenty of traitors in his time—men and women who would do anything for a buck, including sell out their governments, their leaders, their families. Whether Russian, Ukrainian, Georgian, Chechen, or American, they were unhappy people, sociopaths and misfits twisted by bitterness and driven by agendas that were written on every choice they made. A five-minute conversation was enough to reveal the rottenness inside them.

  Holly was nothing like that. She also had none of the red fl
ags that indicated someone ripe for coercion. She wasn’t in debt. She didn’t need money. She never expressed a single political opinion. More than that, she had the untroubled eyes and the bright smile of someone whose conscience was clean.

  In Nick’s experience, not even the best sociopath could fake that for long.

  The only time Holly’s smile had wavered was when he’d asked her about Dudaev. She’d said she hadn’t really wanted to go out with the man, and Nick believed she’d been telling the truth. But then why had she done it?

  Why the hell was he spending so much time worrying about it?

  Whatever doubts he might have about the Agency, his mission, or Holly, he knew for certain that she’d broken into that safe and downloaded those files with Dudaev in the next room—a demonstration of tradecraft. He knew from repeated searches of her place that she no longer had the special cell phone or the stolen files, which meant she’d somehow managed to make a drop under everyone’s noses. That was also tradecraft. Add to that her skill with firearms. Yeah, he’d been listening in via her hacked cell phone and hadn’t been surprised at all when she’d shot like a pro.

  Nick wasn’t thinking clearly when it came to Holly. She’d already bested him once. He needed to trust Bauer on this. And yet the pieces of her didn’t add up somehow, leaving him with misgivings he couldn’t seem to shake.

  It was time Nick quit fucking around and took a more direct route to getting answers from her. Bauer had chewed Nick’s ass off once already this week, and Nick had the encoded files and his own survival to worry about. He needed to wrap this mission. He’d have to be careful. Once Holly knew what he was after, all she’d have to do to bring those armed CIS men through the door was scream. And now that she was armed . . .

  Well, that certainly made the game more interesting, didn’t it?

  He needed a way to remove her from her condo without the CIS team noticing. He’d already spent some time considering this, building blueprints in hand, and he had a good idea how to go about it.

  He stepped out of the shower and toweled off.

  It was time for a trip to the hardware store and the start of a little home improvement project.