The Stealth Commandos Trilogy

by Suzanne Forster

  “Randy—”

  She kept walking.

  “Ranndeee—”

  Sighing, she turned back to his roguish smile.

  “Great ass,” he assured her, his laughter shimmering with husky masculine nuances. “I was going to suggest that you park it on a chair in my office next door. You’ll be safer there.”

  His office, roughly the size of a large walk-in closet, looked as if it had been decorated by teenage vandals. There was no receptionist in sight, no typewriter, no file cabinets, and no place to sit. Randy couldn’t have parked her “great ass” if she’d wanted to. Even his desk chair was piled high with mercenary newspapers, gun catalogs, maps, telephone books, and the requisite girlie magazines.

  His filing system consisted of stacked boxes full of folders. Fortunately, she wasn’t hiring him to do clerical work. A busy mercenary probably didn’t have time to file, she conceded, trying to be charitable as she surveyed the posters on his walls—of guns, of naked women, of naked women with guns. He wasn’t shy about his personal preferences.

  Randy felt less and less charitable the longer she waited for Geoff Dias, and by the time he strolled in, some forty-five minutes later, she was exasperated.

  “What took you so long?” she asked.

  He hooked a thumb in the ripped-out sleeve hole of his sweatshirt. “I wanted to look presentable.”

  Presentable, indeed. He was wearing the same sweats he’d had on when he entered the gym, but what she hadn’t noticed then was the way they hung on his body, loose here, clinging there, especially to his lower torso. Nearly threadbare in places, the cotton material seemed to have formed a permanent attraction to certain parts of his muscular thighs and backside, accentuating every ripple and bulge.

  For Randy, who preferred cerebral types like Hugh, Geoff Dias was one of the most blatantly physical men she’d ever encountered. And easily one of the most sexual, she admitted reluctantly. It was almost impossible to be in his presence without envisioning naked, flexing muscles and gleaming flesh. She even found herself imagining feverish sounds—virile grunts and moans, gasps of gratification. Weight lifting, she told herself. That’s all the naked muscles were doing. Pumping iron!

  “What can I do for you?” he asked amiably.

  “You can quit playing games,” she said, more irritated by the way her thoughts were straying than by anything he’d done. Every encounter with him was a tug-of-war, and she felt as if she were constantly losing ground.

  “I don’t have time for such nonsense, so let’s get down to business, shall we?” She opened her purse, took out a stack of twenties and set it down on his desk. “This is twice your fee for one week’s work. Are you going to take the job or not?”

  He settled himself on the desk, then picked up the stack and thumbed through it, counting the bills. It was a lot of money, and Randy could only hope that a man of his seemingly modest means would be reluctant to pass up such a windfall.

  “Twice my fee?” he said, glancing up. He set the money down, drew a twenty off the top and began to roll the bill into a tight cylinder. When he finished, he slipped the twenty between his fingers as if it were a cigarette he was about to bring to his lips. “That’s a lot of cash,” he said softly.

  Randy resisted the urge to back up as he rose and walked toward her. She couldn’t imagine what he intended, but she grew very still as he touched the rolled bill to her mouth lightly, then increased the pressure, denting the fullness of her lips. She wanted to turn away, but fascination kept her from doing it. Her senses were thrumming with anticipation. Her mouth had gone dry, her palms wet.

  What was he going to do?

  A whisper of cool air answered her question. With a soft jolt of alarm, she realized he’d slipped his index finger inside the neckline of her wraparound dress. He was lifting the silky material away from her skin. She glanced down as he exposed her breasts to his view, creamy half-moons swelling from the cups of her black lace demi-bra. Erotic glimpses of pink aureole were also visible. A pulse began to tick in her throat.

  His breathing deepened as he studied what he’d exposed. His hesitation gave Randy a twinge of satisfaction. She had no idea what he’d expected to see, but apparently it wasn’t black lace and partially exposed nipples.

  Unfortunately, he regained his composure quickly.

  Withdrawing his hand, he cupped her chin and brought her head up slowly, challenging her to meet his gaze. Weakness washed over Randy. His emerald green eyes were catlike, rich and hypnotic. Again, she had that flash of déjà vu, even more powerful than the day before. Why did she feel as if she knew him from somewhere?

  “Have we met before?” she asked. The question evaporated in a rush of sensation as he began to stroke her cheek with his thumb. The pleasure of his touch was so intense, so unexpected, that Randy couldn’t move. Her legs felt weighted, her ankles unsteady. She was aware of several things at once—the heat of his skin, its sensual pressure, and the edge of his thumbnail, gently abrading, sharply pleasurable. Deep in her stomach, muscles tautened.

  She had no idea how long he held her spellbound that way, caressing her face while he touched her with the tightly rolled bill in more and more intimate ways. His lingers grazed her skin as he drew the money down her throat and over her collarbone, raising a flushed trail of excitement on her pale flesh. When his hand reached the trembling warmth of her cleavage, it stopped. He stared into her eyes, smiling.

  “I thought I told you, sweetness,” he said. “You can’t afford me.”

  He tucked the bill deeply into her bra, brushing his knuckles up against her taut nipple, caressing her naked flesh and generally taking lewd and unfair advantage of her frozen astonishment to his heart’s content before he released her. Randy’s reaction was a choked protest. Before she could manage much else, he’d removed the offending hand and stepped back.

  She watched in bewilderment as he walked to the desk, picked up the telephone, and jabbed a number as if she weren’t there.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Making a phone call.”

  “Couldn’t it wait? We’re having a fight!”

  “A fight about what?” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “You made me an offer. I turned you down.”

  “You fondled me!”

  “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” His irreverent gaze came to rest on her breasts.

  “Stop that! You perverted—”

  He waved her silent. “Buenos días, Rico! Cómo está usted?” he shouted as whoever he’d been calling came on the line.

  Randy felt as if she’d had a bucket of cold water thrown in her face. She could hardly believe the arrogance. If she’d had any doubts about Geoff Dias’s go-to-hell attitude, the back of his sweatshirt answered them when he turned full around. Printed in neat block letters were the words UP YOURS, AMIGO. Apparently, he’d read the book on guerrilla management tactics too.

  She was too angry even to consider the intelligent solution, which would have been to cut her losses and leave. Her competitive instincts had been triggered yesterday by the first glint of his green eyes. By now they were armed and ready. She had no intention of giving up her quest to hire him, but her anger at the moment had more to do with salving wounded pride than with failed business negotiations. Outrage didn’t seem to have the slightest affect on him, and as much as she might have wanted to snatch the phone out of his hand and carry out the instructions on his sweatshirt, she couldn’t let herself. Cool heads prevailed, she reminded herself. She had to collect her wits and be as cool as he was. Cooler.

  Her chiropractor had given her some breathing techniques for eliminating tension, but she needed something faster, something foolproof.

  “E ... N ... O,” she murmured, mentally reciting each letter as she said it out loud. “O ... W ... T.” Counting to ten might work for others, but like a high-performance race car, Randy’s temper required more sophisticated braking power. Years ago she’d started spelling the numbers backwa
rd as she counted. It required sufficient concentration that she often forgot what she was angry about before she got to ten.

  She was on ytnewt-enin as Geoff hung up the phone.

  “I’d like a moment of your time,” she said politely.

  “Try me tomorrow.” He punched out another number.

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear me.” But her protest fell on deaf ears. He was already immersed in another conversation.

  “Y—T—R—I—H—T.” Staring at his back, Randy pronounced each letter of the number slowly and through clenched teeth. Cool heads be damned, she thought, glancing up at the posters on his wall. If any of those guns had been real, Geoff Dias would have been a dead mercenary.

  By the time he hung up, she’d abandoned counting techniques and regressed to thinking murderous thoughts. Only her voice was cool as she spoke. “What do I have to do to get your attention, Mr. Dias?”

  “Are you still here?” he said, glancing her way.

  “Am I still—” The last word jammed in her throat. Something about his profile stopped her. From that angle he looked suddenly, frighteningly familiar. Was it his jawline? The ridge in his broken nose?

  “You never answered me,” she said suddenly, urgently. “Have we met before?”

  He merely smiled, that same infuriatingly sensual flicker of amusement that implied everything and revealed nothing.

  As he turned back to the phone. Randy saw red. “Are you going to answer me, dammit?” Without giving a thought to the consequences, she walked over, snatched the phone receiver out of his hand, and slammed it into the cradle. “I’m talking to you, Mr. Dias. And I want an answer!”

  His emerald eyes caught fire as he turned to her. Gripping her by the arms, he whipped her around and backed her up against the wall in one swift, heart-stopping movement. Before she could catch her breath, he had her arms raised above her head and pinned to the wall.

  “Are you crazy?” she gasped, straining against him.

  “Certifiable,” he said. “But at least I’m not rude.”

  “Rude?”

  “You didn’t say please.”

  He kissed her before she could say please or anything else, kissed her with such shocking force and potency that all the air in her body seemed to get trapped in her lungs. She couldn’t breathe for several seconds, and then she forgot all about needing to breathe. The heat of his mouth enveloped her, melting her unwilling lips, stroking and shaping them to his, mastering her responses. She knew that if he had his way, he would ultimately master the rest of her as well.

  He was a big man, but it wasn’t just his size that made her feel helpless. The instant his mouth touched hers, she was lost in the kiss. It was hot and heavy and punishing, an act of conquering, as if he was determined to prove something, to force her to acknowledge him. Why? she asked herself frantically. Who was he?

  She tried to move, but he pressed her to the wall with his hips, forcing a soft moan out of her. He wanted something more than a stolen kiss, Randy realized with shocking clarity. Even more than the physical act of sex. He was calling for unconditional surrender. That awareness swirled through her senses as feverishly as hot steam.

  Again she tried to move, and again he reacted swiftly, bringing her arms down, anchoring them alongside her head. He pressed his forearms to hers and held her fast, easily subduing her efforts to escape.

  “Temper, temper,” he said, his voice husky with passion. He grazed her mouth lightly with his, but instead of kissing her, he nipped the flesh of her lower lip.

  Randy recoiled at the stinging pleasure. Why was he doing this to her? And why was she responding? She wanted to resist. She was trying to resist, damn him! And yet everything he did sent urgent thrills spiraling through her. The feel of his body flush up against hers melted her defenses, making her feel weak and heavy, weighing her down with sensations. The heat of his thighs seemed to flow into hers, and the power of his arms made her dizzy.

  “Open your mouth,” he murmured.

  No, she thought. Never! She meant to tell him that, but as she parted her lips, he stole into the warmth of her, sweeping deeply into the vault of her mouth with his tongue. Randy’s legs nearly buckled with the pleasure as he began to stroke into her rhythmically, his tongue repeatedly penetrating the soft barrier of her lips. If he hadn’t been holding her, she would have sagged to the ground.

  It was all so shockingly exciting.

  It was all so terribly familiar!

  “How does it feel, Randy?” he asked, whispering against her mouth, then breaking the kiss to search her face. “After all these years?”

  She didn’t answer him. She couldn’t, not with her senses spinning wildly. He held her gaze with his eyes and pinned her to the wall with his lower body. He was aroused, hard enough to commit sin on a Sunday, and he wanted her to know it.

  “Remember, baby?” he said softly, grinding his hips into hers.

  Randy swallowed an anguished sound and slumped against the wall. Her stomach clutched as he pressed himself into its quivering softness. The motion of his hips was slow and grindingly sensual, as if he meant her to feel every twitch and throb of that one part of him. Lord, she did! He felt huge against her, and beautifully hard. He was forcing her to think about the act of lovemaking, about how all that rigid male flesh would feel inside her!

  Remember, baby? Was that what he’d said? She couldn’t remember anything but the steel heat and power of the man’s body. She couldn’t remember anything but the crazy pleasure of hard, deep lovemaking. The rocking of his hips had touched into some primitive female response and left her in a state of whimpering helplessness.

  Remember, baby? Surrender, baby ...

  He picked her up and carried her to the desk, sweeping the papers and debris off it as he laid her down. He was going to make love to her right there on the desk, and Randy wasn’t sure she had the power to stop him. Maybe she didn’t want to stop him!

  She waited for him to join her, but instead he stood beside the desk, his golden hair swirling forward, falling across his face as he looked down at her. He combed the hair back with his hand, revealing the unbridled sensuality in his features, the fever-brightness of his eyes.

  He looked hot, hungry, ready to devour any woman who stepped in his path. The cords of his neck stood out, and the muscles of his biceps were thick with tension. He was too much man for her, she realized. Far too much.

  A sound shook on her breath, sweet, sharp.

  He reached down and slipped his hand inside the neckline of her dress, daring her to stop him as he caressed her breast. She couldn’t stop him. She couldn’t! Everything he did sent paralyzing currents of excitement through her. Her body reacted to the stimulation as if it were addicted, quivering with anticipation, trembling for more.

  His green eyes bored into hers, forcing her to find the answer she’d been searching for. “Do you remember me now?” he asked, breathing hard. “Dupont Street, around midnight. The guy on the motorcycle.”

  Randy let out a soft shriek and scrambled off the table on the opposite side from him. “Oh, my God!” she said, staring at him, narrow-eyed. She began to back away as the realization hit her full force. “You couldn’t be him! You couldn’t.”

  Three

  “YOU’RE HIM?” RANDY WHISPERED, horrified. “The one on the bike?”

  “How quickly they forget,” Geoff said. “I’m hurt.”

  “But it couldn’t have been you,” she insisted, refusing to believe it even though her churning stomach told her it was true. “His hair was short—military short—and he was wearing those damn sunglasses. I never saw his eyes.”

  “You saw my eyes, Randy. You gazed real deep. You just don’t remember. It was the middle of the night and you were flying high.”

  “I was not high. I was upset. I was crying.”

  “You were hotter than a smoking pistol.”

  “Stop it!” She turned away from him, shaken. She’d put out of her mind that ghastly night
ten years ago the morning after it happened. But she had never come to grips with what she’d done that night, or forgiven herself for it.

  Geoff Dias. He’d never even told her his name. Hearing it now gave her the chills because it made him real. It made what happened between them real ... a forbidden encounter with a beautiful drifter on a motorcycle, a man with no name. That entire night had been wanton and surreal, the darkest kind of fantasy imaginable. Up to now it had been easy to pretend that it had all been a bad dream.

  She swung back to face him, searching his features, still trying to convince herself it wasn’t him. His hair was different, longer and biker-wild, a shotgun blast of white and gold, but his features held undeniable similarities. He was ten years older and his face was craggier, but he was still arrestingly attractive. If anything, he was more appealing. He was unquestionably more dangerous!

  But how had he found her after all this time? “Why did you answer my ad for a soldier of fortune?” she asked him. “What do you want?”

  He gazed at her a moment before answering. “Isn’t it obvious what I want?” His voice was low, male. “I want some more, sweetness.”

  She glared at him, incredulous. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Shall I explain it to you?”

  “No!” she said with an explosion of anguish. This can’t be happening! Randy thought, averting her eyes from his slow, insinuating smile. It wasn’t fair! She’d made one mistake and now she was going to have to pay for it the rest of her life?

  She touched her temple, which was already throbbing with the promise of another tension headache. She’d been out of her mind with heartbreak that night. Otherwise, she would never have done the things she’d done—starting with getting on the back of a stranger’s motorcycle. Maybe if she hadn’t been jilted by her fiancé, maybe if she hadn’t been so distraught, it wouldn’t have happened. She wouldn’t have been on that road late at night, stumbling around in her wedding dress, an open bottle of champagne in her hand. But it had happened—