by Liz Maverick
His fingertips moved lightly across her wrist, and Jane wanted to melt. She was hot everywhere, sweat sliding between her breasts. The new blouse suddenly felt like a sweater. A sweater she wanted to yank the hell off before body-slamming Nick Dawes to the floor. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll check in when I get home.” She gave him a tight smile, suddenly not sure what to do with all the parts of her body. Poor body, so confused. She wanted to shake hands with her boss and call him sir and then stick her hand down his pants and get him off.
Nick likewise seemed a little overheated. “You know, Jane—” he began.
“I know! Right? It’s so goddamn hot in here.” Jane looked randomly around for a thermostat, her heart slamming around in her chest. And then she made the mistake of looking back at Nick. He was watching her, a little curious and a little intrigued. She could see it all there in the slightly incredulous tilt of his smile, the one from Bianchi’s on interview day. He’d wanted her that day, and she’d gotten this job.
He wanted her now.
“Jane,” he said again, his voice throaty and stern, in the good sort of way, like he thought she needed a good talking to. Or a good—oh, god, I am so turned on right now. What is wrong with me? He’s my BOSS. Red alert! Red alert! Abort mission! Do not pass go! Hold the door, for fuck’s sake, Jane. HOLD THE DOOR!
Nervous and aroused beyond any past experience she’d ever had, Jane stood up and shoved the mail at him, saying, “HERE’S YOUR MAIL, MR. DAWES, SIR, SIR, SIR,” in a voice that was entirely too loud, and then, of course, accidentally toppled the pile of envelopes and bumped the package off the table with her elbow.
They went for it at the same time, meeting on the floor on all fours, their faces an oxygen molecule apart.
If chastity was the goal, “on all fours” was apparently the worst configuration a body could make when it came to designer blouses with massive cowl necks. The folds of her fabulous new top instantly dropped away from her body; Jane froze, realizing he had a view of—oh, Jesus, what can’t he see?
Jane managed to move her gaze in time to watch Nick’s lips part just slightly. His eyes moved oh so slowly, from her face to her neck and down her shirt. She could feel her nipples harden, the wetness sliding between her legs as she shifted.
The air was so thick she couldn’t breathe. He didn’t say anything . . . his tongue moistening his lips. He looked up, a foggy look in his eyes. He can’t believe I’m not fixing this. He can’t believe I’m still here half under the table, my tits falling out of my bra for his personal appreciation.
And though you’d never be able to call him a gentleman for it, Nick Dawes was certainly appreciating what was being offered.
But he didn’t move. He didn’t make it all stop, and he sure as hell didn’t run. He looked like a wild beast, ready to strike, but playing it smart. She could see the tension. He was the epitome of self-control. But it was touch and go, you could say. Like he . . . Just. Might. Not. Be. Strong. Enough. If she . . .
I’m just going to see if I can put him over the edge, Jane thought wickedly. In the alternate reality version of my life, I just crawl toward him on all fours—it’ll only take two crawls, say—and I just . . . barely rock forward . . . and right there, his mouth, the one he keeps licking, the jaw he keeps clenching . . . I could just sort of touch my mouth to his and see if he loses his fucking mind . . .
Jane crawled toward Nick, who looked like he was in the middle of a very good and amazing dream. And then she leaned in, noticing that he seemed absolutely mesmerized by what she was doing, and she touched her lips to his.
Instantly, Jane panicked. “Sorry! I . . .”
The dampness slid in her panties as she stood up, wobbling, and she crushed the corner of the package under her shoe. “Oh, shit! Sorry, look—”
She was silenced by the sensation of Nick’s warm palm moving to the side of her head. Now both palms. Cradling her face.
“Jane, we’re good. Calm down.”
“I . . .” Yesyesyesyesyesyesyes, please.
“I know,” Nick said. And then he smiled a wicked, wicked smile and tilted his head.
Jane’s eyes locked on his. And then she slowly lowered her lashes as the delicious pressure of his mouth crashed down on hers. Nick’s tongue seared the seam of her closed lips, and she opened for him. When his tongue swept in, her entire being surrendered to his heat, to his wet . . . to his heaven.
Dizzy in all the right ways, every sense amplified, Jane reveled in the trail of heat left by his hands sliding from her face to grip her shoulders and pull her close.
But now, with his lips leaving hers, moving to her neck, the relief of finally acting on the coiled passion that had built up between them gave way to the discovery that they both wanted more. Bucking and pulling at each other, plundering mouths and pulling away just to tease . . . with this much electricity, this much heat, Jane knew they’d just opened a door.
Only the tick, tick of a clock served as a soundtrack to the most mind-blowing kiss of Jane’s existence; she could scarcely breathe.
“Jane, are you wearing a watch?” Nick suddenly asked.
Jane blinked, foggy with lust. It took her a second to process his question and wonder if this was Nick purposely trying to change the subject from we-clearly-want-to-take-our-clothes-off territory. She immediately pulled herself together. “No, you are,” she said, wrapping her fingers around the massive gold piece that circled his wrist like a handcuff.
But Nick was apparently done being relaxed. Jane opened her eyes wide and saw that he did not look the least bit like a Scottish Highlander in the throes of unbridled passion. He’d gone on high alert.
“My watch has silencing technology,” he said.
Tick, tick . . .
Nick surveyed the room, uber-focused, uber-intense. He and Jane looked down simultaneously; the package she’d crushed was sitting on the floor like a lopsided cake.
“Go!” Nick yelled, pushing Jane in the direction of the back door. She hesitated long enough to see him grab the package and hurl it to the other end of the hall in the front end of the apartment.
She turned and ran for the door, but there were so many locks and knobs. Breathing heavily, Jane whimpered, forcing herself not to panic, forcing herself to focus on being logical about the hardware. Don’t give up. Be smart. Think straight. Turn knob left . . . pull chain . . .
An explosion rang in Jane’s ears; Nick’s body covered hers, slamming her against the door just as the locks turned. It was the last thing Jane processed, for a while.
CHAPTER 18
Something was on fire, and Nick Dawes was lying on top of her. Jane’s face was crammed into the side of his neck, and Nick’s arms were around her head.
She pushed on his chest until he uncoiled himself, and the two of them sat up on their knees, debris still settling and smoke still oozing from the opposite side of the apartment where the bomb had destroyed pretty much everything.
Nick actually looked spooked, and it was really disconcerting. I don’t ever want to see that look on you again, Jane thought.
Of course, he’d protected her with his body and had therefore taken the brunt of the debris field himself. Jane gave herself a pat down, wiggling her limbs and running her hands over her body to confirm that everything was still attached and nothing was bleeding. Nick did it to her all over again, as if to prove to himself she was okay, even though she figured she’d already proved it.
“God, I thought you might be seriously hurt,” he said, and that awful look in his eyes faded a little.
She had to point to get him to notice the cut on his own face. It looked fairly small but was bleeding like hell down his cheek and all over his collar. Judging by the number of cuts and bruises Nick Dawes had accumulated in the fairly short span in which Jane had known him, he was having what could reasonably be described as The Worst Week Ever.
Confirming that they were alive and well didn’t change the fact that they were still inside an unstabl
e, smoldering building. This seemed to hit Nick at the same time. He leaped to his feet and held out his hand, yanking her up next to him.
FDNY was apparently on the case; a siren wailed in the distance, and as her hearing cleared up—until it started clearing, she hadn’t realized it was actually a little screwed up—Jane could hear people talking from outside the apartment.
“Anybody in there?” someone called.
Nick put his finger to his lips; Jane frowned but remained silent.
Nick finished unlocking the back door and waved at Jane, indicating she should exit through it, but Jane wasn’t going anywhere without him. She watched him pull a small Swiss Army knife from his pocket, walk back toward the half-exploded living room, and use the screwdriver to remove a plate from the wall that, if she’d even noticed it, she would have assumed was just an intercom device—or given what she knew about Nick’s world—a surveillance camera.
With the plate removed from the wall, it now looked like he was bearing down on some sort of pipe or metal strip, and whatever he was trying to get popped free. Then he jammed what looked like computer parts into the tote bag full of smoking mail, used his jacket to protect his hand while he picked up pieces of the exploded package, and headed back toward Jane.
Still not talking, Nick grabbed a piece of bent metal, pulled open the iron grill, and batted out some remaining glass shards from the panes that had blown out of the back door.
Her heart pounded uncontrollably as she processed the damage behind them, noting what an incredibly lucky escape Nick had made from serious injury, given that he’d jumped on top of her to protect her. Jane touched his back as he worked, somehow needing to confirm that he really was in one piece. Or maybe, in truth, just to make sure her anchor was still there.
The sirens were getting louder. Some neighbors outside were debating whether or not to come in to look for survivors. Jane wanted to call out to them that she and Nick were fine and that they should look out for themselves, but Nick’s finger pressed against her lips, and he shook his head.
He pushed her through the back door onto a landing that was only accessible via a fire escape.
Jane wiped a bunch of dust off her face with her equally grimy arm. She stared at him for a beat—oh, god, he’s bleeding again—and then got her ass in gear, making quick work of the three flights of rickety metal fire escape. Only once did she slip, and it was kind of worth it just to see that adorable, overprotective look kick into Nick’s eyes.
They made it to ground level and ducked down the adjacent alley to reach the street, staying out of sight, since they were covered with dust and blood, until Nick dashed out and flagged a cab. He called Rothgar from the backseat and gave the boss an abbreviated report.
Jane stared at her hands and closed them both into fists so Nick wouldn’t see the fine tremor telegraphing her fear. We could have died. She looked over at him, still on the phone. His jaw was set; the look in his eyes was all business. You could have died protecting me. A shocked sound slipped from her lips, but Nick didn’t hear it, and Jane quickly pulled herself together. Somehow, even though he wasn’t looking at her, wasn’t talking to her, his hand found one of hers, and he uncurled her fingers and took her palm in his.
Jane let out the breath she was holding and relaxed.
Nick was still holding Jane’s hand as they left the cab and walked, covered in dust, through the less populated perimeter of the neighborhood concealing the Armory property. Nick didn’t talk. Didn’t look at Jane. Just moved with dogged purpose to the check-in points and then finally through the last set of Armory doors.
CHAPTER 19
The Armory was a blur of activity, with that crisp, focused vibe that said the Hudson Kings were already all over this thing. Good. Nick could focus on making sure Jane was okay.
Chase was on comms, barking at Flynn. From the sound of things, the explosives expert had been dispatched to the burned-out safe house to intercept any investigation Manhattan’s fire and police departments might have launched.
Shane was headed for the door, tossing his car keys, game face on. “Glad you crazy kids are safe,” he said as he passed. Nick wanted to get Jane to his room and tend to whatever she needed—hell, whatever she wanted—but there was Rothgar with his phone pressed to his ear, beckoning to him through the door of the war room.
He glanced at Jane’s pale face. She produced a smile and said, “Your boss is calling.” Nick sighed and led her into the war room with him. Missy glanced up, catalogued Jane’s relative okayness, but squinted at the blood-streaked mess of Nick’s face and clothes. She muttered something about the first aid kit before tossing her papers to the desk and disappearing in the direction of the medical cabinet.
Still clutching Jane’s hand in his, Nick watched Dex’s fingers whirring over his keyboard, clicking through a series of live streams assembled on the video cam hub and scribbling notes on a legal pad. He was probably combing through video of the safe house. Romeo and Geo were nowhere to be seen; they were likely out in the field too.
Rothgar hung up the phone and then crossed his arms over his chest, an island of calm in a sea of tense. His eyes took in Nick and Jane standing silently, hand in hand, confirming their safety with his own eyes, and then he said, “I’m putting together a mission that I think might contribute to shutting down this shit you’re wading in once and for all. It’s intel collection for the team’s Russian sleeper-agent mission, but since Sokolov’s part of that world, I’ve also got my eye on picking up something that might go toward getting him off your back.”
Nick felt Jane’s confused gaze on his face. “At this point, I think that would be useful,” he said evenly, in order not to betray that he was going out of his mind. At this point, I think anything that keeps Jane out of danger would be useful.
Rothgar’s gaze moved back to Nick and Jane’s linked hands. “Go take care of her,” Rothgar said gruffly and went over to Dex.
Nick wasn’t about to argue. He quickly led her down the hall to his room, pushing her through the door so hard they nearly spun around.
“Okay,” Nick said. “First things first.” He took her by the shoulders and stared her right in the eyes. “Jane, are you okay?”
“Well, yeah, Nick. I have, like, one small cut,” she said calmly. “I think that’s more than okay given there was a bomb.”
“Yeah, a bomb, Jane. We just dodged a bomb. Are you okay?” Nick waited for hysteria. For her to slap him in the face. For her to cry.
Jane just looked at him. “You’re acting weird again. Are you okay?”
“You don’t seem freaked out.”
“Do you want me to be?” Jane asked.
“No. This is good. This is great. I know I owe you an explanation or two or three. So, what do you want to ask me about first?” Nick asked.
“Is this really your room?” Jane asked.
Nick blinked. He’d never met a woman this game. Jane was extraordinary; did she even know that? “Yes.”
Jane grabbed a tissue from a box sitting on the bedside table and blew her nose, absently noting the black grime that came out. “It’s really stark in here. Really depressing thinking of me living the high life in your penthouse, with you in what is basically a dorm.”
Nick gave the décor a cursory glance. “I’m free to fix it up if I want. But it’s temporary.”
“It doesn’t reflect your personality,” Jane said. “I used to move a lot, and for a while I thought it was pointless to decorate, until I realized it was critical to decorate. You need a place where you feel good. Where you feel like the best version of yourself. Well, that’s how it’s been in my experience.”
Nick shifted his weight impatiently. “I’m going to need to officially debrief with Rothgar soon, give him the details of what just happened. It sounds like you’re totally fine with the bomb.” He paused and waited for her to nod, which she did, and then he added, “Is there anything else you want to talk to me about?”
“
Like what?” Jane asked.
Nick put his hands on his hips and stared down at the floor, shaking his head. “So, we’re going to pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Oh, the mail bomb definitely happened,” Jane said. “You’re bleeding. Again. I’m going to start carrying a first aid kit just for you. And you’re really dirty. I don’t want you to get an infection. Didn’t Missy say she was going to get a kit?”
Nick cursed. She did not want to talk about the kiss. Did that mean she regretted the kiss? Because he did not regret that kiss. That kiss was fucking fantastic. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said. This is a classic “I don’t know what just hit me” moment. Except maybe I do know. I think Jane just hit me, and next to her, the bomb seems like a mosquito bite.
“Oh, I do have another question. What did you take from the safe house?” Jane asked.
“I just pried the hard drive that runs the security and surveillance system out of the wall, which is the only thing that can be traced to the Hudson Kings. I also preferred not to go out the front not just because we’d be crossing through a smoldering debris field but also because we’d be exiting in front of a bunch of folks gathered with their cell phones, ready to live stream whoever’s going to come out.” Nick sighed. “Listen. I think we should talk about the kiss.”
“Why?” Jane asked. “It was a thing. And now we’re on to the next thing.”
“Do you purposely start going vague when you’re uncomfortable or embarrassed?” Nick asked.
“What makes you think that?”
“Maybe you regret the kiss,” Nick pushed. He was beginning to feel the foreign sensation of bewilderment. I want to throw Jane MacGregor down on the bed to finish what we started, and she seems more like she’d prefer to watch paint dry.
Jane blinked. “That was a really great kiss, Nick.”
“I know, Jane.”
“I don’t think we need to analyze it to death,” she said matter-of-factly.
Nick tried to remember the last time a woman had him so off-balance. He could not come up with anything.