by Dianna Love
If the situation were different, he would take her up on her offer. The real one she was hiding between shower and clothes. He’d peel that dress off her beautiful body and mainline her instead of his favorite dark roast.
The thought made him dizzy, especially after that kiss, and he shook his head, more to clear it than to tell her no. “I have to follow the uniforms. Make sure they don’t inadvertently screw up Londano’s booking. Can’t have him getting off on a technicality after all your hard work.” He put his thumb and his pinky between his lips and whistled, signaled to Thomas up on the boardwalk, and waved him down. “T-man’ll run you home so you can change.”
Celina piqued one eyebrow at him as Thomas ran down the boardwalk steps toward them, nearly tripping over his feet. “Gee, thanks,” she said, so totally not thankful Cooper again had to stifle a chuckle.
He picked up her high heels from the sand and handed them to her. Damn things had heels long enough to skewer a steak. “As soon as you’re cleaned up, meet me at headquarters. I want to debrief you before the upper echelon chiefs get their hooks into you.”
Quarters cleared his throat in that demanding way he had. “I will be in charge of debriefing Celina.” He held out a hand to her. “Congratulations, SA Davenport. I’ll be happy to escort you home so you can change.”
Ignoring the man and his outstretched hand, Celina put her hands on her curvy hips. “What about Starbucks?”
Cooper’s last moral hovered an inch above his mental trash can. Coffee at the local and very public coffee house wouldn’t be that bad. Screwing over Quarters would be a bonus.
But looking at Celina wrapped in his sweatshirt, and remembering the soft touch of her lips against his, sent his libido into overdrive. Which sent a clear message to his brain.
You cannot lead her on in any way, shape or form.
Could not, would not, lead himself on. She was too young and she was in his care as a new agent. He’d already risked her life by letting her go undercover to trick Londano. He would not risk her career or his because of a silly, school-girl crush. “I don’t do Starbucks, Celina, and even if I did, there’s no Starbucks in our future.”
Message sent.
Celina’s mouth curved down and she started to say something, but Thomas arrived, accidentally kicking sand on her. She sent Cooper a please, don’t leave me with him look as Cooper took her elbow and handed her off to his buddy. “Take her home, T.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, all smiles at Celina. She didn’t smile back, didn’t even glance at Thomas. Instead she shot daggers at Cooper. “Where’s Bobby? Why can’t he take me home?”
Quarters sighed over the noisy crashing waves. Cooper almost sighed with him. Celina constantly used Bobby Dyer to worm her way around Cooper’s resistance. Dyer was Cooper’s best friend and second in charge of the SCVC taskforce. “Dyer’s in L.A., covering a few things there. I’m sure he’ll want to hear all about your takedown as soon as he gets back.”
He left her standing there, hands on hips, but she still had to get in the last word.
“I’ll meet you in your office in one hour,” she called to his back as he crossed the sandy beach toward the boardwalk. “And I’ll bring the Starbucks.”
Cooper, head down, let go of the chuckle he’d been suppressing, glad it was muffled by the sound of the waves. “Plain, black and hot,” he called over his shoulder, and then he added, “kid”, emphasizing it just to make sure he pissed her off royally.
Message dittoed.
Chapter Four
Six months later
Des Moines, Iowa
Cooper Harris put his eye to the sniper scope in the upstairs bedroom window of 1621 Boylston Avenue and looked up the street to a pigeon-gray duplex he was surveilling. The house was a mirror image of the one he was standing in except the perp’s girlfriend’s needed a new front stoop. The concrete steps were crumbling and beginning to sag from the landing. The wrought iron railings on each side of the stairs leaned out like a pair of woman’s legs. He would have to remember to watch his footing when he and his teammates rushed the house.
Cooper and his group of DEA agents had been tracking Dickie Jagger for the past thirty-six hours. This particular SoCal criminal had a rap sheet as long as Cooper’s leg, including armed robbery, drug trafficking, rape and assault. He also had information Cooper needed about an upper level lieutenant in the Palermo-Londano operation who’d managed to escape arrest. Like most of the criminals Cooper went after, Dickie considered himself above the law.
Cooper felt it was his duty to show the guy otherwise.
“Heads up, Coop,” Thomas said. He was sitting in a chair next to Cooper with binoculars growing out of his eyes. “We’ve got company.”
Cooper took his eye away from the scope and squinted through the gauzy curtain at the street traffic. The only thing that stood out was a turd-brown Ford inching its way down the street. Cooper grabbed Thomas’s binoculars. “Local or Feds?”
Thomas stood and grabbed his flak vest off the chair back. “The only people in Des Moines who’d be caught dead in a POS Fairmont are Feds. Even the poorest of drug dealers wouldn’t drive that.”
“Suits?” Cooper lowered the binoculars. “What the hell are they doing here?”
Thomas secured his vest and pulled on his black windbreaker. DEA was spelled out across the back. “Must have gotten your bulletin that Dickie was in town. I’m sure they want to talk to him as badly as we do.”
“Yeah, they want their fingers in the pie.” Cooper swore under his breath and raised the binoculars. The Fairmont turned into the driveway and he saw the driver hesitate a moment before opening the door.
A pair of red leather boots and jean-clad legs finally emerged. A second later, the rest of the woman materialized and a warning bell rang in Cooper’s head—instant certainty, he knew this woman.
Petite, with long, dark hair, a hint of mocha in her skin, and curves in all the right thank-you-Jesus places...
Cooper shook his head. It couldn’t be her; had to be someone else. Probably not even a Suit. Probably just another of Dickie’s gun-toting, get-away-car-driving girlfriends.
The woman hesitated again, eyes glued to the front of the house while she stood behind the open car door. Cooper scanned her backside looking for the bulge of a weapon. Her hair spilled down the back of her red jacket. The hair and the jacket ended just above a very nice heart-shaped ass.
His gut flashed a wave of certainty even though her backside was devoid of a tell-tale bulge. “No way,” he grit out between his teeth. “No goddamned way.”
“What?” Thomas asked, his eyes bouncing between Cooper and the Fairmont.
Cooper stood silent as he watched the woman’s gaze leave the house and then, very discreetly, scan the street. Yep, gun or no gun, she was definitely FBI.
Celina.
The Fed of Cooper’s nightmares.
Time magazine’s “New Face of the FBI”.
Thomas leaned toward the window. “Is that who I think it is? Isn’t she supposed to be laying low?”
Media darling or no, Celina Davenport didn’t know how to lay low. Wasn’t in her DNA.
“Shit, shit and more shit.” Cooper tossed the binoculars on the nearby bed, picked up his radio from the dresser. “FBI has joined the party,” he said, alerting his other men scattered throughout the house and down the street. “Deal’s going down now. Everybody in position.”
As he led Thomas out of the bedroom, Cooper grabbed his own flak vest and black jacket, running the scenario of the next few minutes through his mind. He’d get his man, all right.
And maybe if he was lucky, he’d find the opportunity to shoot Special Agent Celina Davenport right in her perfect ass.
“Take your gun, Davenport.” Chief Forester’s voice was low and ominous, rising out of the back seat of the car where he was hiding. Not an easy thing to do, Celina figured, with so much body mass.
Bending down, she motioned at her partner Ron
ni in the passenger seat and shucked off her mittens. “Give me your bag.”
Celina rarely carried handbags to work. She hung her badge on her belt like her male counterparts and carried her ID in her back pocket. Her gun was always in a shoulder holster. Now her gun, ID and badge were lying on the Fairmont’s floor. “Avon ladies don’t carry guns,” she murmured to her boss. “At least not in Iowa.”
Ronni handed Celina her brown leather purse and the Avon catalog. “Right behind you,” she said, giving her a wink.
“Take. Your. Gun,” the chief ground out again. His voice carried as much threat in its low volume setting as it did at its ear-piercing level. “You want to end up a goddamned hostage?”
That was her plan. Celina knew when she approached the door, Annie would immediately sense something was up. Something in Annie’s world always involved police. Celina could see no other outcome but a dangerous hostage situation. She doubted Annie would even open the door, but if she did, Celina was going to offer herself as a trade for Annie’s kids. Any mother, even an outlaw one, would look for a way to save her children. Celina was prepared to give it to her.
Slinging the strap of Ronni’s bag over her shoulder, she shut the car door, defying the chief’s direct orders. Not the best idea, but he’d stuck her in a no-win situation and therefore, Celina decided, she was calling the shots. For a split-second she wondered if he and Quarters would transfer her like Cooper had after the Londano case. Where would she end up this time? South Dakota?
Probably.
Not the end of the world. If I can get the kids out safely, that will be enough.
Shifting her shoulders, Celina forced her feet to walk up the cracked sidewalk toward the steps of the duplex. She loved her job, wanted to serve her country, but if there was anything she’d learned in the past year, it was that she didn’t always get what she wanted.
Ronni’s car door slammed and Celina glanced at her partner. Her hair was a bright apricot color, her skin darker than Celina’s but no less smooth. As they walked down the sidewalk, the sun popped out, glaring off the new fallen snow. Celina started up the stairs, shielding her eyes against the glare and trying to keep her breathing even. There were fifteen of her counterparts hidden around the block, watching the apprehension and scrutinizing every move she made.
Annie was one honest to God bad girl. Having been on the run for more years than Celina had been legal, Annie was an experienced fugitive. The woman had once shot her partner in his nether region in the middle of a bank robbery because he wouldn’t let her carry the bag of money.
Clearing her mind, Celina tried to think positive. Ronni was by her side and definitely carrying. Chief Forester was right behind her in the car for immediate backup with his Remington, and the other guys were scattered up and down the block. All had extensive training in marksmanship and deadly-force decisions.
Voices from a television filtered through the door. Muffled laughter drifted down from upstairs. Little girl laughter. She had to do this right, not to prove that she was as good as any of the men in the unit, but to keep those little girls safe.
Glancing at Ronni, Celina mouthed Ready? Ronni gave her a nod. Do it.
Celina knocked sharply on the door. “Avon calling,” she said, trying to mimic the singsong voice Ronni had used earlier when they’d decided to approach the house under this outdated guise.
At first nothing noticeable changed inside the house. Then the TV went silent and Celina heard a man’s voice, low but commanding. A man? No one had reported a man being inside the duplex.
Before she could consider who or what she was now up against, Celina saw a drapery move in the window to her right. Instinctively, she shifted her weight and her hand went for her gun.
And came up empty.
Before she could curse her poor judgment, the door handle turned and her eyes dropped to it. Watch their hands, the words of her Quantico instructor echoed in her head. Not their eyes. No one could shoot you with their eyes.
“Don’t want no Avon,” a man’s voice said as the door opened a notch.
A fragment of sun bounced off metal. Instinct had Celina moving before she could think. “Gun!” she yelled, pushing Ronni to the side.
The sawed-off shotgun boomed in her ears and the iron railing gave out as Ronni and Celina toppled off the porch and into the dead evergreens by the house. They landed with a thud on hard ground next to the concrete foundation. A thousand prickly evergreen needles showered down on them as they rolled in unison away from the porch.
Before the spent shells hit the concrete, Celina was hauling Ronni up by her jacket. “Run!” she yelled, hearing the distinctive click of the shotgun snapping back into place.
BOOM!
The sound sent her to her knees, but adrenaline had her back up in the blink of an eye, her legs moving like a runner taking off out of the blocks. More gunshots cracked through the air. Celina heard the Fairmont’s windshield explode.
Crouching with her arms thrown over her head, she ran for the edge of the house where Ronni had disappeared. She rounded the corner at full speed.
And ran smack dab into a wall.
Bouncing back as her feet scrambled for purchase on the late season ice and snow, she grunted when her butt hit the ground. Glancing up, black Magnum boots were in her line of vision. Big boots, laced military tight.
She hadn’t run into a wall. She’d run into a man.
A hulk of a man with very broad shoulders. Celina followed the line of his body up to his face. The sun was reflecting off the house and snow and blinding her. She could make out a few things: a black baseball cap with the letters DEA across the front pulled down low on his forehead, a mean-looking semi-automatic gun in his left hand. His scowl made her already-racing heart shift into warp speed.
When did the Terminator arrive in Iowa?
He shifted his gaze down to her and the look of disgust in it made her, if only briefly, entertain the idea of taking her chances with the sawed-off shotgun.
“Get up,” he ordered, and the sound of his voice and the impatient tone clicked in her brain, but her ears were ringing from the shotgun blasts and she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. He reached down and grabbed her by the knot in her knitted scarf. Hauling her to her feet, he pulled her with him as he backed up against the side of the house. Her legs wobbled and her feet skimmed on the ice. She lost her balance and fell face first into his chest.
His bullet-proof vest was hard, but under it, she sensed a wall of pure, solid muscle. Just like his arms and his legs and everything else hidden under his DEA-approved wardrobe. Celina knew once her adrenaline slowed down, she was going to ache all over, not from falling off the porch but from hitting the Terminator at full speed.
The machine-like DEA agent pulled her closer. “You all right?”
“Cooper?”
There was a spurt of gunfire from the street and then the sound of more glass breaking. Cooper drew her in tighter. She flinched at the sound of the shotgun booming again. It sounded like a small explosion.
But then Cooper pushed her away, pushed her against the house. She mimicked his position, wishing she could have stayed in the protective embrace of his arms and knowing why she couldn’t. Ronni was a few feet away, sitting on the ground, back against the house with her gun out. Leaning her head back against the siding, Celina let out a breath. They were both a little shook up, but otherwise unscathed.
The gunfire stopped and total silence descended on the street. No birdsong. No traffic noise. Cooper had his eyes on her, sizing her up from top to bottom. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”
On one hand, she was excited to see him. On the other, the tone of his voice and his general man-handling pissed her off. Celina knew the silence around them meant her FBI counterparts were regrouping, while they tried to figure out their next move.
“I was doing my job,” she said to him. She let her eyes run over him in the same sizing-up he’d given her. He looke
d good. Solid and handsome, and serious as ever. “What are you doing here?”
“Where’s your gun? Or do female Feds in Des Moines carry Avon books as weapons these days?”
Celina shut her eyes for a moment. She had fantasized relentlessly about her reunion with Cooper. Never had her fantasy involved the current scene. Ronni cleared her throat and Celina glanced at her. Her partner was watching the exchange and had a questioning look on her face. Celina mouthed Cooper, and Ronni raised her brows and nodded her nice, very nice look of approval.
“Dickie Jagger is mine, Celina.”
“Dickie Jagger? Annie’s ex-boyfriend?” Celina scanned her memory. Richardson and Jagger had been tight in the early 90’s, pulling off more than their fair share of petty crimes together before Jagger had joined a gang in L.A.. It was probably Jagger who’d fathered at least one of Annie’s kids. “That’s who answered the door?”
“You were expecting the Great and Powerful Oz?”
“I was expecting Annie Richardson or her mother.”
Cooper grunted. “You can have Richardson, but Jagger’s mine.”
Turf war coming up. The FBI and the DEA often overlapped each other’s jurisdictions with criminals, which is why taskforces like Cooper’s SCVC were created. But even though they were supposed to be working together, they were more interested in trying to one-up each other.
Think Big Picture, Dominic Quarters always preached. His Big Picture was now clearer to Celina. Her boss and her boss’s boss wanted jurisdiction over everything and they’d do whatever it took to keep all other agencies in the dark.
She wondered what Forester was doing in the Fairmont, and if he was okay. If he was, she was going to give him and Quarters a piece of her mind when this operation was over. They had sacrificed children and two agents in a hurry to beat the DEA to the house.
“I’m sure Chief Forester would like to talk to you about that,” she said, when what she really wanted to say was, “Where have you been? Why didn’t you call me?”
For months after her transfer, Celina had analyzed Cooper’s behavior out loud while on stakeouts with her partner. Ronni had put it in six easy to understand words: he’s just not that into you.