“You mean besides banging Cash?”
And, back to her casino-worthy poker face. She would’ve smacked Sugar if there was anything to be gained by it. Nic felt Sugar analyze her reaction for a lightning strike of jealousy and knew she’d given nothing up. Thank you, CIA.
“What’s the deal with you two anyway? Last name’s Garrison. You were married? He doesn’t seem like the type.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Not going to explain anything?” Sugar asked.
“We’re old news.” Nicola shrugged through her lie.
“Not according to that I’m-dreaming-of-lights-out look he gave you. Anyway. You left this in my office.” Sugar held out the listening device. Odd that she could pick it out. It looked like any other tube of Clinique gloss. It was also more than noteworthy that she transitioned from Cash without batting a false eyelash.
“You don’t care about Cash and me?” Nic asked.
“Not really. Cash and I were just fun. Nothing special. But I did like trying to make you squirm.”
“You certainly made him.”
“Fun, right? I like fucking with him. Keeps his boots on the ground. He’s a cool dude. I didn’t pick him for a one-gal kinda man, but what do I know?” Sugar cracked her gum again. Annoying habit. “Back to your super not-so-secret bug. Spill it, and I might give you something on the ammo.”
“It was the best I could do when you stonewalled me. I hadn’t planned to be here anyway.”
“And?” Sugar raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.
“And?” Well, shit. She had to give Sugar something, or this was pointless. “And I’m tracking Antilla Smooth. Cash isn’t necessarily thrilled that I’m on the hunt. He’d rather handle it for me.” Word hadn’t hit the street yet that Smooth was six feet under with a clean shot above his nose.
“Macho prick.” Sugar smiled.
Nicola laughed. “Indeed.”
“Good in bed though.”
No, she didn’t. “And back to Cash. You sure it’s all, ‘I’m cool, he’s cool, we were just having fun’?”
Sugar studied her. “You play by some kind of rule book? Don’t kiss and tell? Don’t leave home without a bug?”
As a matter of fact, nope. She was flying by the seat of her Seven jeans. “Maybe it’s more a matter of decorum.”
“Well, decorum this: that man is good with his hands. And his—”
“Sugar!”
Sugar shrugged, laughing. She extended the lip gloss tube. “You’re cool, Nicola Garrison. This shit’s expensive. You can have it back. I like the ballsy move, and I hate getting messed with. If I sold Smooth ammo, and it sounds like I might’ve, let’s just say, I believe in retribution.”
Retribution, Nic could work with. Maybe even Sugar she could work with. Cash wouldn’t like this, and Sugar wouldn’t follow any kind of plan. Nic could tell. This was one of those the-higher-the-risk-the-greater-the-reward moments.
Nicola pocketed her Clinique bug. “What would you say if we smoked the bastard out together?”
Sugar blew a bubble and chewed in silence, bright red lips pursed in thought. In the background, someone fired through a magazine. Nic pushed her sunglasses into her hair and stared back at Sugar.
Finally, Sugar smirked. “I could do that and stomach you.”
“Marvelous, Sugar. So glad to hear it.” Just when Sugar’s bitch level dropped below intolerable, she pumped it back up. “I have to work an assignment out of the country, but I’ll get a hold of you. And as a matter of good faith, I won’t listen to whatever you said in front of this.” She held up the lip gloss.
“Doesn’t matter. I have a jammer. You didn’t get crap.” She jutted a hip, planted a hand on it, and grinned like she saw Nic coming straight from Langley.
Sugar had a jammer in her office? What else did that woman sell? Nicola looked at Sugar’s outfit, thought of Cash, and decided she didn’t want to know. “I’m going to regret this.”
***
David had no time or patience for the hand-holding required to secure his financial future through the new and improved Smooth Enterprises, sans Antilla Smooth. They still moved illegal weapons. They still supplied the ammunition to half the world’s terrorists. Nothing but the leadership was new. But his client required it, just like he required code names. Maybe Mister Mars was afraid to jinx their project. Whatever the reason, David still had to answer when called Mister Nero, and he still had to kiss ass until the final exchanges were complete.
He surveyed his notes, smiling at his anticipated profit. David’s decision to pad his pockets while Smooth Enterprises experienced a turbulent changeover was risky but had a huge payout. He studied the stacked boxes of products piled in his home office. Ammunition and automatic rifles were the easiest to sell. No one had noticed that he’d removed the high-powered inventory. How uncomplicated had it been to steal? After all, most everyone within the organization had thought he was a butler. Butlers organized. They cleaned. They directed. They did trivial tasks, and no one paid attention to them, especially as he had box after box loaded onto a truck and driven to his home.
Every cent he made selling Smooth product was one hundred percent profit. Those gun show rednecks had bought everything he’d tried to sell on his first venture into the local market. They couldn’t pass his prices. He needed to troll the local papers and see where the next meet up would be. All he had to do was forget to shave in the morning, slap on some POW paraphernalia, and he was legit. Morons. Every last one of them.
But the biggest bunch of morons? Titan Group and their ridiculous reputation. Big money. Big guns. Big balls. Just a big load of bullshit. David would kill the fucker who’d punched his face. The blond-headed asswipe. That man would get his due.
David clicked through the address book in his cell. Nicola. She’d get hers too. That bitch. He hit okay, and the line rang.
Voicemail. A generic message given by a robot operator.
He cleared his throat. “This is David. I’m excited to work with you and clear the past between us. Misunderstandings happen. We’ll move on. Turkey is fabulous, and this will be an easy in-and-out. Our flight leaves tomorrow morning. But I’m sure your handler has filled you in. Looking forward to this job. Good-bye.”
Their assignment was basic. Transport a document, and while in Istanbul, arrange for a run-in with an undercover needing a back story confirmation. That would be simple. A quick, “howdy, how are the kids?” The undercover would have another layer of history. The undercover’s contacts would think the run-in happened by chance, and David would have a way to find out what the CIA knew about Smooth Enterprises.
Damn if this wasn’t getting easier. There were so many opportunities to diversify his portfolio, with a much better return than a 401(k). How smart the Farm boys thought they were. They didn’t have a clue.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When Nic bounced back into Cash’s ride, she wasn’t the woman he’d left with Sugar. She had a glimmer in her eyes that warned of trouble. She pushed past her seat, grabbed him by the shirt, and nailed him with a kiss that might’ve peeled the leather off his boots. If he hadn’t been positive there was a security camera aimed at his truck, he would have undressed her and gotten down to business in less than twenty seconds. Hell, less than ten.
Making a dumbass excuse to himself for not fucking her in the parking lot, Cash hit the road. With Nicola tucked under his draped arm, he needed to focus on anything but the swell of her breasts. She hadn’t moved far when he’d said they had places to go. Even now, her hand traced invisible patterns on his thigh.
She smelled of burnt gunpowder mixed with the flowery scent of her shampoo. Who didn’t like a woman who could hit a shot three hundred yards away with an unfamiliar long gun and still remind him of the shower where he’d made her moan his name?
“Was that your peace offering?” He had to know what brought about the smoking kiss that still burned on his lips.
She paused her f
inger on his thigh, and Cash wished he hadn’t opened his mouth. “I thought we weren’t fighting. Peace offerings aren’t needed for work disagreements.”
Her laugh made him want to pull her closer. “I don’t care what you call it. As long as you do that after every I’m-right-you’re-wrong moment.”
Nic laughed again. She went back to connecting imaginary lines and dots on his leg, and he sent up a prayer of thanks. With her under the crook of his arm, the radio playing some summertime tune, and the open road reaching away from the outskirts toward the mountains, Cash was sure this was what people wanted in life.
Life was a long-assed time. Since Nic had tumbled into his line of sight, his clusterfuck of broads and blowjobs seemed pathetic. What’s done is done. This was one of those fuck it and drive on moments. He had to let go of that lost time and embrace life with the safety always off.
He’d given up the idea of a woman to kick it with lifelong when she’d died, when he had that ring and no one to give it to. Was it even possible for him to think long-term, or rather, think about someone other than himself long-term?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
He’d boxed up that part of his brain ten years ago and shipped it off to some unknown address.
Whatever. Nicola wasn’t going anywhere. She also needed to chill out, completely forget about work, and he’d make sure that happened. Downtime was a Cash Garrison specialty. He intended to make sure she knew the full reach of his getting down skills.
The sun sank into the Virginia hills. His truck powered and growled around another bend. The straight-to-the-skies incline disappeared into a green canopy of trees. Truth: he loved this truck almost as much as he loved his new digs. Not that his last place was bad, but the new one was badass.
He flicked a glance down at Nicola. A pang of pride exploded in his chest. When he’d bought the place, he had no idea she’d ever see it—her being dead and all—but now she was about to and that was… unexpected. It was pretty damn cool.
They hit the driveway. Gravel spun in the wheel well. She’d been sniper quiet, her finger tracing stopped, exhausted into a simple hold. Her gaze fell absentmindedly out the windshield. That private Sugar convo must’ve been a heavy one. Or a bitchy one. Nothing telling either way.
Finally, they arrived. A world away from Winters’s madhouse, Tyson’s Corner, and Sugar’s House of Guns.
“This isn’t your folks’ place.” She looked out the window. Her eyes were wide, her tongue flicking over the bottom of her lip.
“Nope. It’s not.”
His house hid tight in the thick, green woods. The area looked untouched, but he’d had Titan ’n Boys hotwire the thing NSA-style. Breaching this place would be like burrowing through the impenetrable layers of the Pentagon with a pencil sharpener. Here, if a deer so much as sneezed, Cash could check a readout and know what time and why.
They were alone. This wasn’t just a man cave, it was his man castle. Him and her, and nothing to do… but relax. Relax. That was the point of this trip. Nothing to do with that teasing tongue and lips that made him want to jump out of his hide. Nothing to do with that drop-and-get-me-naked kiss in the parking lot that made his blood surge even now. Cash took a breath, trying to resuscitate his voice of reason.
He stopped at the gate, entered a code, and pressed his finger on a scanner. The high-and-wide swung open.
Shifting under his arm, Nicola took another sweeping glance from driver to passenger side. Her hand brushed dangerously close to his cock. “This isn’t where Titan bunkers down?”
“Nope. Guess again.” He had a sense that she knew where they were when her hand caressed him. That her innocent act is anything but. Yeah, they’d end up in bed together. He had no doubt. But seriously, he had to show a little something besides an interest in banging her. Right? A little restraint.
They weren’t strangers. They were far too familiar. Yet here he was, hoping she liked his digs, wondering how much was too much. All things he knew nothing about. Things that meant he was totally feeling her.
They crunched over a few rocks. The front side of his house came into view. It was a log cabin on steroids. All timber façade and picture windows. As broad as it was tall. He’d had no idea what he was supposed to do with all that space. For now, Miss Betty had a room to spread out in, and the living room rocked a billiards table and fully stocked wet bar.
Oh, and the hot tub on the back deck. Maybe he’d convince Nic to take a dip. Her hair might be piled on top of her head. Her cheeks might be flushed. And alone in the woods, hot water bubbling around them, there wouldn’t be a hint of clothes. Her full breasts bobbing on the water line, her toned arms wrapping around him. Thoughts of her in there with him, the sway of the trees, the sun going down behind her, made Cash shift in his seat. His cock wanted out of his jeans, hardening with mental images of Nic in his arms.
Not yet.
He hit an overhead button. The middle garage door rose.
“This is your place?” Her voice had a twinge of holy shit, and his chest swelled with an old fashioned, “hell yes.”
But instead, all he offered was a nod. “Yup.”
The garage door shut behind them as he turned the ignition off. Florescent lights flicked on. Nothing but space to fill. A whole lot of potential. If they didn’t make it into the house, if he had her up against the hood of his truck, their voices would echo around them. Their names. Their breath. The sounds would bounce empty wall to empty wall, screaming their satisfaction back to them. He realized his fingers were trailing up her sun-kissed bicep and the slope of her neck.
Nic met his gaze, now not looking at all like they had the same thoughts. She eyed him, a splash of confusion on her face. “Between this place and Winters’s… did you guys win the lotto or something?”
He laughed, definitely not thinking about the hood of the truck. “Private sector always pays better, babe.”
“Oh.” Her hands smoothed across the top of her long legs. “Your house is gorgeous.”
He took a stabilizing breath and tried shake the lust from his voice. “I promised you normal stuff, and I intend to pay up. You should see my DVR. I’ve got great taste in TV.” He got out of the truck, hating the cold sensation when he left her side, and she followed him through the garage.
Maybe he should’ve parked in the front and got out under the wall of pine trees. The needled-scented breeze always made this feel like home. Maybe next time.
They walked into the living room. He slid his keys onto the table and unholstered the concealed .38 from his waist. “There was a Die Hard marathon last week. I have to squeeze in my yippy-kay-yay motherfucker fix. Probably a few episodes of—”
“Cash?” She glided around the kitchen, one finger trailing over the granite island that separated the kitchen and living areas. Huge leather couches wrapped around the great room. Her eyes bounced from corner to corner, while his snaked from her melt-his-heart gaze to the legs he’d die to have wrapped around him.
“Yeah?” The urge to christen his kitchen pulsed under his skin. He moved behind the couch, keeping his erection to himself. Normal stuff, he chanted silently. Movies and reruns. Popcorn and frozen pizza.
“What do you think of our two projects converging in Maine? Your team? My team?”
Work. She wants to talk shop. He cleared his throat and tried to ignore thoughts of what she’d look like naked in his bed and how damn close they were to his king sized mattress. His new king sized mattress, that’d only slept him, alone.
“I think no good decision ever came from bureau chiefs creating plays from their swivel chairs while drinking no-foam lattes.” He was rambling. That was a lot of words to say the bureaucrats fucked shit up, and it didn’t make him think any less about his empty bed.
“Not what I meant.” She locked eyes on him. “Do you believe in…” Her gaze, so intense, so goddamn gorgeous, almost brought him to his knees. “Point me to your bathroom.”
Believe in w
hat? He sucked a breath and focused on powering down. “Down the hall, to your right.”
He believed in the power of bourbon. He needed a drink to quick-cool his fired up impulses. Jumping her in the kitchen wasn’t the right move. Just like it hadn’t been in the parking lot this afternoon.
Wining and dining. Fancy party dresses and cocktail hours. She might’ve been a spy, but working the Smooth angle had been all high society and hobnobbing. The tuxed-out men making moves on her had buffed fingernails and chauffeurs. He was nothing but a man with a reputation that’d make a sorority girl blush and a hard-on that all but had Nic’s name tattooed on it.
Maybe he’d nix the Die Hard marathon and find something more like Sleepless in… Cincinnati? No, that wasn’t right. NYC? Los Angeles? No, that was some lawyer-cop show. Maybe he’d find that ‘had me at hello’ movie about sports agents. Didn’t Tom Cruise rappel out of a skyscraper in that? That’d be cool and wouldn’t have him begging for a kiss.
Shit, he shouldn’t have thrown away that Netflix advertisement.
Cash poured the shot of Jim Beam and swallowed it. Assessing his boots, jeans, and t-shirt, he decided to hate Nicola in the field even more. All those Gucci-clad GQ fuckers could kiss his trigger finger. He went into the field, covered in camo and caressing Miss Betty. Nic worked an entirely different angle. He thought of her in the gold dress, hanging on Antilla Smooth, and his stomach turned.
Another shot poured. Another shot down the hatch. He slammed the shot glass on the bar, more than a little jealous that some—
“Hey, I’ve got a better idea, Cash.” His cowboy hat hung on her head. Too big. Tilted to the side. She wore a too large, barely buttoned shirt. His shirt. And that was all he could see. The tease dancing across her face made the room spin sideways.
Goddamn, if she didn’t have him at hey. Screw Tom Cruise and Sleepless in South Carolina.
She was freakin’ gorgeous. All tan and legs and flashes of red lace lingerie. He nodded like she’d asked a question and tried to swallow, but his throat ignored the request. Like the rest of him, it froze in place. His pulse quickened, and somehow the heat in the room flew up a couple degrees.
The Titan Series 1-3 Boxed Set Page 42