License to Love (An Agent Ex Novel)

by Robinson, Gina

  Rock’s frown turned into a scowl. “Cocky bastard. He really thinks I’ll come?”

  “He knows you recognize a good business opportunity when you see one. And with that bait, how can you refuse?”

  Rock’s look remained murderous for an instant before he smiled. Like the devil.

  Lani didn’t trust him. “Rock.”

  He smiled at her.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” she said.

  “Stupid.” He laughed. “What do you mean?”

  “Like trying to upstage him during his show. Like performing some magical feat. Or sabotaging a trick.”

  “Now why would I do that?” Rock sounded too innocent. “It’s not like he’s putting a move on my wife.”

  Lani tried not to flinch under Rock’s steady gaze and hard tone.

  “Or trying to ruin my career and life or anything,” Rock continued.

  Tate intervened. “Kids. Play nice.” He turned his attention to Lani. “Did you find anything out from Sol?”

  “Not yet.” She looked frustrated. “But I’ll get him to talk.”

  Rock’s eyes narrowed as if he was suspicious of the way she was going to get Sol to talk.

  Tate nodded and yawned. “It’s late and we have plenty of work to do”—he glanced at his watch—“today. Time for some shut-eye. This is a two-bedroom suite. I have the master bedroom. Lani, you take the second bedroom. And Rock, the pullout sofa is yours.”

  “No, thanks. I think I’ll head home to my own bed.” Rock pulled his keys from his pocket.

  “Not tonight.” Tate grabbed Rock’s arm. “Too dangerous to be out. Take the sofa. In the morning we’ll regroup and go over strategy.”

  * * *

  Plush pillows, scads of them. Thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets. The bed in Tate’s suite was as close to heaven as a bed on earth got. As she sunk onto the mattress, Lani could only imagine the scrumptiousness of the master suite. If it outshone this one, it must have simply been the highest level of paradise, like sleeping on a cloud next to the angels.

  Tate really was the luckiest agent on earth. Born into money, he got the most expensive, most exotic, most everything cover of any spy in the service. It would serve him right if he did get assigned the cover of a dishwasher.

  Not that it will ever happen, Lani thought. Tate Cox was too high-profile and recognizable for the mundane. Still, Lani would pay to see Tate live like the rest of us.

  Although many would say that her cover as a magician’s assistant wasn’t too shabby, either. There was the excitement, the danger, the prestige, the fabulous costumes, the fancy hotel rooms, the money, the fame. Better than being a dishwasher, right?

  She flipped off the light and stared at the ceiling. She’d been prepared to spend the night and had brought her skimpy cotton lace nightgown. The hotel provided soft cotton robes. The nightgown was one of her favorites, but she couldn’t deny her subconscious had somehow picked it knowing she’d be close to Rock.

  And then there’s Rock. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t scrub him from her mind.

  She’d never expected to find the perfect man and fall in love. Rock wasn’t perfect by any means, not at all. But he was right for her on every level. That is, he would have been right if she were an ordinary woman and not a spy, a spy who’d made the mistake of falling in love.

  On the one hand, her attraction to him was completely understandable—women all over the world fell for Rock. He was athletic, built, exotic, tall, and exuded a cute sense of danger. Cute because Lani knew real danger and saw through Rock’s façade. On the other hand, Lani dealt with really dangerous men on a daily basis. Well-built, handsome, powerful, cunning men. And none of them, not even the good guys, the NCS agents, thrilled her like Rock did.

  For these past two years while she was fruitlessly trying to forget Rock, she’d tried to analyze it. If she could pinpoint what made Rock special, she could develop a counteroffensive on her feelings. That’s basic operation training and it may work for love as well as counterterrorism operations.

  Rock made her feel part of a group, made her feel like she really belonged somewhere. That was certainly part of it. But so did the Agency. They were a group of like-minded people, thrill seekers and adventurers, who admired and envied her exotic mixed-race ancestry that gave her chameleonlike qualities. So that wasn’t the whole thing with Rock.

  She pictured him towering above her wielding a chainsaw as she lay strapped in a box ready to be sawed in half. The stage lights dancing and highlighting the hard planes of his face, the dark eyeliner, the excited light in his eyes. The music blaring. The sense of danger. There was always a chance something could go wrong. And the very real sense of magic that exuded from Rock. Rock the showman who could make magic happen.

  And then he’d look at her and the corners of his lips would turn up in the slightest private smile just for her, totally at odds with the hard look of concentration on his face for the audience’s sake. And it struck her—Rock was the only man she’d ever truly trusted. She didn’t worry that he was a double agent, or an enemy spy, or an agent who had his own career aspirations first and foremost in mind and would sacrifice her if need be.

  As he lowered the saw and began cutting through the box, he worked with the utmost, gentlest care. He wouldn’t slip. He’d never hurt her. Rock would sooner saw off his own arm than scratch her.

  She wouldn’t put herself in a vulnerable, unarmed position for anyone but Rock. Trust. Utmost loyalty. Those were qualities she couldn’t buy, couldn’t manufacture, and almost couldn’t fathom. And that’s why, she thought, I love him.

  She hadn’t been looking for more than a fling. She hadn’t been doing more than her job. And then Rock had changed everything.

  When she auditioned for the part of one of his assistants, he’d grinned at her and her heart melted. “Don’t look so scared. I don’t bite.

  “I saw women in half and lock them in with tigers. I cuff and chain them. I set them on fire. And levitate them and disappear them. But I don’t bite. Despite my somewhat gory reputation, I’m really a very sweet guy at heart.”

  “Maybe I’m not scared,” she’d said. “Maybe I’m just excited by the thought of all those dangerous situations.” And she was.

  He laughed and snapped his fingers. A Monarch butterfly appeared sitting in his hand, delicately perched and absolutely gorgeous and calming.

  She’d gasped and stopped just short of clapping like a small girl. He really was a marvel. “It’s beautiful.”

  She loved butterflies, loved watching them in her grandma’s butterfly garden. Butterflies were beautiful and girlie. They were black and white and yellow and tan, just like her. They floated on fragile wings that a single touch could destroy. She often felt like that herself.

  But they fought like true warriors. Swooped and defended their territory. As strange as many people might find it, butterflies were her mascot. Rock couldn’t have known that, but it was as if he somehow had read her mind. He’d materialized the very thing that was guaranteed to calm and impress her. This man known for his piercings and tattoos, for cutting his skin in his act and appearing to draw blood, for his heavy metal music, was at heart a true gentle spirit and romantic.

  “Is it real?” she’d asked.

  Rock had held his hand out to her. The butterfly fluttered.

  She was sure her eyes went wide. “It is.” She looked deeply into his eyes, her voice full of wonder. “But how?”

  Rock had grinned. “Magic. Come.” He nodded toward the stage door. “Like all of us, it deserves to be free.”

  She followed him past the stage, through the lobby, and outside. He lifted his arm, gave his hand a gentle flip, and the butterfly flew off in the sunshine toward the bubbling fountain. As the butterfly drifted toward light and water, Lani began falling in love with Rock. And now the question was, how did she fall out of love? What magic spell would release her?

  A grunt followed by a thump as if
someone was thrashing around and struggling cascaded over the soothing hum of the air-conditioning.

  Rock!

  Lani grabbed her gun, threw the covers back, and bolted out of bed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rock struggled and thrashed against the bonds of his sheets wrapped around him securely enough to bind him. He finally broke free and sat bolt upright on the sleeper sofa, breathing hard, his pulse racing, sweat beading on his brow as he tried to come to grips with reality.

  The nightmare. The damn recurring nightmare again.

  He punched his pillow and fought for breath against the strong involuntary response to hyperventilate. His lungs burned, still held hostage by the emotional power of the dream. Drowning again. An illusion of his mind’s own making as potent as any he performed on stage.

  He cursed as he gasped for air and willed his pulse to slow. He wasn’t some two-year-old in the throes of night terrors, but it sure as hell felt like it. Ever since that accident on the lake when Sol had saved him after he’d been knocked unconscious by his skis, and now with Sol back in Rock’s life and Rock’s suspicions about just how Lani was planning to get intel out of Sol—

  The door to the guest room burst open. Rock jumped and looked up. Lani appeared wearing a gossamer white cotton nightgown that showcased her gorgeous long legs and creamy cappuccino skin.

  Damn. There goes my pulse again.

  And that was before he saw her nipples budding and poking through the thin cotton. And the gun.

  From the top of the stairs, she studied the exits, traced the room with her pistol and drew a bull’s-eye around his crotch.

  “Geez, Lani, don’t shoot! I’m unarmed.” He held his hands up as if surrendering. He wasn’t about to give her any reason to fire. Especially not at the jewels.

  She moved off target and kept the gun up, poised to shoot any intruder as she glided down the stairs, a beautiful, lethal white moth lit by the neon light filtering in from the city below through the open curtains.

  He supposed he should have stopped her, told her there was no need for her precautions. But he was too intrigued by her spy routine and the sight of her body beneath the thin gown as she cased the room and peeked behind furniture.

  “All clear. Are you all right?” She lowered her gun and sat on the edge of the sleeper sofa way too close and tantalizing for his own good. She smelled of his favorite perfume and her hair was tousled as if she’d just woken up. One strap of her nightgown slid off her shoulder and exposed her luscious breast, stopping just short of her nipple.

  He forced himself not to stare at it and looked at her gun instead. Then at her, itching to touch her, kiss her, take her to bed.

  “I’m fine. I hope you had the safety on.” His voice came out hoarser than he’d intended. Hell, he hadn’t intended any hoarseness at all.

  “Safety?” Her voice was soft and concerned, seductive. “There is no safety, Rock. Not in my world.”

  Or his, either.

  “Live with the safety on and you end up dead.”

  He could have told her she was living with the safety on against their relationship, that she should let herself love him and damn the consequences because keeping them artificially apart would kill them both. But creating magic was all in the timing and the timing wasn’t right. Yet.

  She held the gun in her right hand as she braced herself against the mattress with her left. “You called out for me?”

  “Did I? For you, specifically?” He pushed her for the truth. He couldn’t remember calling her name. But then he’d been dreaming, so maybe he had. Maybe he was worse off than he thought.

  “You called out for help. I’m help.” She sounded disappointed.

  So he hadn’t screamed her name. And she wished he had. Good.

  “Can’t a guy have a nightmare around here without getting the third degree and having people react by bringing out the heavy guns?” He looked her in the eye and slid closer to her.

  She stared back him, but didn’t retreat. “Heavy guns?” She hefted her pistol, but neither of them looked at it. “This? This is nothing. This is a flyswatter. You should see my rocket launcher.”

  No, she should see his. Which this very minute was gunning to be deep inside her.

  She frowned ever so slightly as if struggling to remember something. “The drowning dream?”

  As he nodded, his hair fell over his eyes. Before he could brush it out of his eyes, she set her gun on the bed and, with a touch as light as a butterfly’s, swept his hair back off his face. It was a gentle, loving, intimate gesture, like that of a mother comforting a child. Or a woman who couldn’t resist touching her lover. The latter is what Rock wanted to believe anyway.

  “It still haunts you? I’m sorry.” Her touch trailed down his cheek to his jaw until she realized what she was doing and retracted her hand as if scorched. In the old days, she’d have held him in her arms, cooed to him, told him funny stories to put the dream in perspective. Not now.

  Her lips were inches away from his, so close he could feel her breath as she spoke.

  “And that wasn’t the third degree,” she said as if she was trying to create a diversion and take his attention away from the intimate way she’d just touched him. “A simple question isn’t the third degree.”

  “Is that right? You mean I could have fired a few more at you?” Like why she was fighting what was between them.

  She was so near it wouldn’t take much to close the gap between them and he was tempted. Tempted to the point of frustration.

  She shook her head and smiled. “Don’t tease, Rock. The third degree is a spy term for a particular kind of interrogation and you know it.”

  “Is it?” He inched closer until their arms brushed. “Maybe you should teach it to me.”

  She laughed softly. “You want me to give you the third degree? You really think you can withstand my methods? If I torture you, you’ll be at my mercy.”

  Maybe that’s what he wanted, a little sweet torture. “Who says I’m going to be the victim?”

  Her breathing became shallow and, even though the lighting was dim, he thought her eyes dilated even more. “You don’t even know what it is.”

  “Then tell me,” he said.

  “You shine a very bright light in the subject’s eyes as you question them. I’m very good with a light.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Rock said.

  She was good with a lot of things.

  “But I’m a pro, too,” he said. “I face bright, hot lights on stage during every act. I know how to handle myself around them. Lights don’t sound like torture to me.”

  “They are if they’re used properly.” She held his gaze and damn if he didn’t see desire flicker there.

  “Anything can be torture if applied with the right technique.” Like being so near her again and not touching her. Flirting like they used to.

  Her lips moved a fraction of an inch closer to his. “I can teach you the proper technique.”

  He curled his fingers around her wrist. “As long as I get to be the interrogator.” He shifted his weight on the bed as he put his arm around her. The gun slid into him. He picked it up. “It’s a good thing we don’t have children. This would scare the hell out of them. A simple glass of water is usually considered the best remedy for a bad dream.”

  Lani froze and a look passed over her face so quickly the average person would have missed it. But not Rock. She feels guilty about something. The mention of children upsets her.

  As maybe it should have since the odds of them having any now were about nil.

  “You’re right.” She took the gun from him and, without breaking eye contact, set it on the table next to the sofa bed. “But this isn’t your average situation. You’ve already had one attempt on your life and there’s a dangerous terrorist cell that wants you dead. Extra precaution seems warranted.”

  She was covering. Expertly. But still covering.

  “Dreams of drowning aren’t really about
drowning,” she said. “They usually mean you feel your life is out of control or your problems are figuratively drowning you.” She traced a pattern on his arm and his breath caught. “I’m sorry, Rock. I am. You have to believe me—I didn’t want to come back and disrupt your life—”

  He cupped her face. “I’m pretty sure this one is a memory from the time I really did almost drown.”

  She continued to hold his gaze. “Yes, you told me about that. But not the details.”

  And he wasn’t about to start now and give away that he owed Sol his life. “I never talk about the details. They aren’t important.” He cradled the back of her head, put an arm around her waist, pulled her close, and kissed her.

  * * *

  There wasn’t much harm in a kiss, was there? As the saying goes, a kiss is just a kiss. Lani had played femme fatale and used her charms to get intel throughout her spy career. She’d started that way with Rock in the beginning of the Hoover Dam caper. Before she’d lost her professional control and fallen in love with him.

  She walked a thin line. String him along just enough to get him to trust her again and keep him cooperative, but not get so close that he’d guess the secret she was keeping from him. And damn, how did she keep a son a secret from one of the world’s best mentalists? Neither RIOT nor Rock knew about Stone. She couldn’t risk her baby’s safety by letting Rock find out he had a son. Both he and Stone would be at risk, and the country as well.

  Being this intimately close to Rock was a supreme test of her spy capabilities. In the past, in a situation like this, she locked up her heart and concentrated on the lust, the animalistic physical pleasure. The private, vulnerable Lani was far away. The spy Lani was in control. To the spy, the man didn’t matter except as a means to an orgasmic end and the intelligence she wanted. But Rock had never let her get away with resorting to impersonal animal instincts. Only he had ever penetrated her soul.

  Rock slid her nightgown off her shoulder, exposing her breast fully.