by Amy Jarecki
“You noticed?”
He grinned, his white teeth contrasting with dark, masculine stubble. “Who wouldn’t?”
Things suddenly went quiet, amplifying their shoes squeaking on the tiled floor. Olivia rubbed the outside of her arms, awkwardly aware as if she were a schoolgirl being walked home from her first date. Regardless of the alcohol swimming in her head, she felt like she should be wearing heels and holding hands. But that was plain wrong.
They were both wearing t-shirts, workout pants and tennis shoes—the off-duty, casual dress. There wasn’t anything sexy about t-shirts, except perhaps the way Logan’s stretched across his pecs. Lord save her, the man could make a sack look hot.
Nearing her door, she slowed her pace and turned. “Thanks. It’s not often a real cowboy sees me home.”
“Ma’am.” He tipped his fingers to his forehead. “Unfortunately, I left my hat and spurs at the ranch.”
A new rush of heat shot between her legs. “Spurs?” She leaned against the wall for balance.
“Yes, ma’am.” He rested his hand beside her head, one hip shifting to take his weight.
“Chaps, too?” God, she shouldn’t have asked. The mere thought of Logan Rodgers wearing nothing but a cowboy hat, chaps and a pair of snakeskin boots with spurs set her knickers on fire.
“Mm hmm,” he growled with a hint of a drawl. He picked up a lock of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers. “This your natural color?”
“That’s nothing to ask a lady,” she said, willing herself to conquer her damned lust.
“It’s pretty.”
“Oh…,” was all she managed to say as Logan’s gaze shifted to her lips with a flutter of long, black eyelashes. Before Olivia could object, soft lips met hers together with a brush of the rugged stubble she’d been admiring since he stepped into the lounge.
Everything melted. Her body responded with a surge of desire she’d been bottling up for months. Not months. Two years. Overwhelmed with a flood of passion, she slid her hands to his waist and pulled his body flush with hers.
Hard maleness pressed against her. Logan’s cock was rigid and straight up and like a steel rod rubbing right above the place where she needed him. The one place on her body she might have trouble controlling after a few gin and tonics and a hot sex between the sheets. Worse, she wanted him. Thick and fast and deep. Holy hell, fast and freaking deep. Now! If only she didn’t need to bend down for the retina scan, she’d open the door, yank down her pants and fuck him before they made it to the bedroom.
Pinning her to the wall, Logan kissed like he’d been starved for a good romp as long as she. A deep rumbling moan rolled through her mouth while she rubbed against him harder. Frantic. Good God, she wanted to come, to give in to her own desires for once. She needed a real man. For chrissake, the last man she’d made love to was a terrorist.
A noxious beast.
Fuck!
In a nanosecond, Olivia froze.
A chill shot across her skin.
Her eyes flew open with her gasp as she regarded the American while ice replaced the fire that had been pulsing through her veins. “I can’t.”
“What?” his voice ratcheted up. “Is there a rule—?”
“You know as well as I, work and play don’t mix.” She hastily used the scanner, her hands shaking.
“Yeah, but…” his voice trailed off.
“Night.” She slipped inside without looking at his face.
“Olivia?” he growled through the door. “What’s wrong?”
Ignoring him, she ran for the bathroom.
By the time she flipped on the light, tears streamed from her eyes, making black mascara bleed down her cheeks. Her eyes stung as she clenched her teeth, trying to regain control. To push the demons to the locked recesses of her mind.
Dammit, who was the woman staring back in the mirror?
Olivia Hamilton was passionate and vibrant and a seizer of opportunity. A confident twenty-nine-year-old woman who saw what she wanted and went after it. She wasn’t a victim. All her life she’d taken charge, regardless of the circumstances. All her life she’d been at the top of her game, calculating, risk taking, spying and winning.
But she’d just freaked out. One goddamned memory flash and she’d turned into an ice sculpture.
All along on the last mission, she’d sworn she’d lost her soul, living a lie in Kahlil’s clutches. But it was over. He’d been blown to hell and it was time to bury the past in a lead box where it no longer haunted her. She couldn’t lose it like that. Not ever.
This fucking cannot happen.
Without a goddamned shrink, she’d taught herself to compartmentalize the nightmares. Bomb blasts no longer shut her down. She could overcome this, too. Kahlil was dead, and she had to take charge and regain control. To-freaking-day!
Worse, Olivia liked Rodgers. The man was cracking hot. Beyond that, she respected him. Maybe she even admired him. For the first time in eons, she actually liked someone who was her equal—even better than her equal, someone who could handle her and her domineering quirks.
She gaped at herself in the mirror and thrust up a finger. “No, no, no!”
Christ, she couldn’t deal with working with a man she liked. Her life was a cocked-up mess. Rodgers could be nothing more than a colleague.
No more kissing, and no more knock-out cocktails.
She ran hot water into the basin and doused a facecloth. Rubbing off the smudges, she ground her teeth with renewed resolve. Her entire life centered around the job. Being a spy defined her, gave her purpose. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
***
After the door shut in his face and Logan listened to Olivia’s footsteps hasten away, the realization of the magnitude of his mistake sank in. He dropped his hands to his sides and leaned his forehead against the wall. What the hell was he doing? He’d gone to the lounge for one beer, dammit. He never should have allowed Olivia to make that godawful drink. The last thing he needed was for the duchess to rail against him before their first mission.
He glanced to his crotch. He’d been hard for weeks, and things weren’t getting any easier with Miss Universe shooting him pouty looks every chance she got. They all needed to get out of ICE and around some normal people. Logan had seen Stephan and another recruit talking a few days ago and, come to think of it, they were standing pretty darned close.
If he didn’t watch out, the place would turn into a soap opera. The US Navy had a gazillion regs forbidding coworkers from dating, yet it still happened. Humans still behaved like humans regardless of the rules.
Heading for his suite, he decided he’d have a word with Garth in the morning. Olivia needed a turn at a psych farm and there had to be some scumbags out there Logan could nail. Mike Rose was still in the field chasing the load of uranium—that’s what the sit room updates were about every morning. Maybe the Scot needed help. Maybe they needed someone like Logan to establish some priorities.
With luck, he might even get to blow up some shit.
Chapter Seven
“Commander Rodgers, report to the sit room at once!” Garth’s voice echoed through Logan’s bedroom.
Not certain if he’d been dreaming, he opened one eye and regarded the speaker on the ceiling above his king-sized bed. “Sir?” he croaked, shifting his gaze to the clock: 0530.
“You heard me.”
“Yes, sir.” Rubbing his eyes, Logan hopped out of bed, ran a damp cloth over his face and under his pits and shoved a toothbrush in his mouth. He needed a shave, but “at once” meant one thing—now. And with luck, Mike Rose needed help securing that uranium shipment. Today.
In five minutes, Logan pushed through the sit room doors.
Asa put a cup of coffee in his hand. “Good morning.”
“Mornin’.” He half-saluted with the cup. “Thanks.”
Olivia arrived on his heels and received her cuppa joe. “You’re a lifesaver,” she said, closing her eyes, inhaling and then sip
ping like the coffee was manna from heaven. Even without makeup, the woman could make the slightest gesture sexy. In fact, she looked better without the makeup.
“Take a seat people,” said Garth, motioning to the head of the table where Anders Lindgren sat.
Electricity fired across Logan’s arms. Something just hit the fan.
“What’s up?” Olivia whispered, sliding into the seat beside him—a surprise after her knee-jerk rejection from the night before.
“No clue.”
Garth tapped a laser pointer in his palm. “I’m sure you’re all curious as to why I called you so early.”
“I need a team in Lyon straight away,” Anders interrupted.
With no more information than that, Logan and Olivia raised their hands, exchanging head-shaking, disparaging looks.
“I need to get out of here more than you, cowboy.”
“I doubt that.”
“I’ve been here longer.”
“Ahem.” Anders cleared his throat. “You’re both going.”
“Whether you like it or not,” added Garth.
Logan gave her a smug look. The idea of heading out on assignment with Olivia wasn’t entirely unpalatable, though he had concerns about her psychological wherewithal. Before she’d disappeared into her suite last night, he’d caught the look of terror in her eyes. One kiss and she’d totally freaked out. It didn’t take Dr. R to tell him the woman had PTSD. Commander Hamilton needed R & R and a turn at Bellevue. Sooner or later she’d crash, and that couldn’t happen in the middle of a mission. He crossed his arms, ready to throw in an objection.
Anders picked up a remote and gave it a click, bringing up a blurry picture of a dark-haired man leading a teenaged girl by the arm. “One of our informants in Lyon took this picture yesterday.”
“Who’s the guy?” asked Olivia.
“Suspected jihadist, Taaha Kahn. Someone we’ve been watching.”
“al Qaeda?” asked Logan.
“We’re not sure,” said Garth. “Since the US nailed bin Laden they’ve dispersed—have loyal supporters everywhere.”
“But they no longer control septs of population, right?” asked Logan.
“It’s worse,” said Olivia. “They have the backing of the population in more Arab states than anyone realizes. And they’ve been flocking to ISIS. Europe’s becoming a hub for recruiting jihadists, and they’re all joining forces. It doesn’t matter if you’re Taliban, al Qaeda, ISIS or whatever’s the flavor of the month.”
The room fell silent for a moment while Anders’ expression turned grim.
“They’ll rise again.” Olivia looked around the room. “And when they do, it will be an apocalypse.”
“That’s why ICE was formed,” Anders agreed, cutting her off. “We aim to stop them.”
Logan sensed they’d gone off topic. He leaned forward on his elbow. “So, what’s the deal with the girl and the suspect?”
“I ran her picture through the database. Her name’s Mathilde Petit.” Asa took a seat across the table. “Turns out she went missing a week ago, walking home from school. The picture doesn’t show it, but from the angle of her arms, my guess is her wrists are bound.”
Logan didn’t like where this was heading. “Isn’t kidnapping something the local police should handle?”
“Ja, I notified them as soon as Asa ID’d the girl, but that’s not why I want assets in Lyon. We need to look at the situation from another angle.” Anders took Garth’s laser pointer and steadied it on the perp. “Why would a jihadist risk bringing attention to himself by being seen in public with a pretty white girl whose face has been all over the news?”
Logan peered closer. “Looks like he was escorting her into the van in the background. My bet’s he wasn’t in public for long.”
“Probably not,” Garth agreed.
“Have there been any more kidnappings of girls in Lyon?” asked Olivia.
“We’re not sure if it’s a kidnapping. Asa’s only guessing that Mathilde’s wrists are bound.” Anders chopped his hand through the air. “What I’m interested in is finding out what’s going on between this girl and jihadists and determining if it is something we need to spend ICE resources on. I want to know what they’re up to. I want you to spend some time blending in with the locals—put your ear to the ground.”
“I can set up a search macro and throw it at the wall,” said Asa. “See if Mathilde Petit has been seen with other suspected terrorists. Delve deeper in to Kahn’s activities, as well.”
“Good.”
Garth placed his palms on the table. “Both of you have told me you’re going stir crazy. This is a good place to get your feet wet.”
“I assure you, I am not in need of a beginner course on fieldwork,” said Olivia.
Garth gave her a sober stare. “Didn’t say you were, but neither of you have worked together before.”
Biting his lip, Logan shot a dubious glance to his new partner. “So, how will this go down?”
“As you’re aware, I’ve been filling the pipeline with chatter about your dossier as an arms dealer under the alias of David Mason,” Garth said. “It’s time we make use of it.”
Anders looked between them. “Go in as a couple. Hamilton speaks the lingo. She’ll pose as a Muslim, and Rodgers will act as her converted British husband—a thug.”
“Why not American?” Logan asked, wondering how the hell Olivia was going to pull off the spouse part without trying to murder him.
“It’s more believable if you’re from England, and you’d better be able to affect the accent.”
“Cheerio, mate.”
Beside him, his new work-wife snorted and rolled her eyes.
“We’re putting you in the midst of the Muslim population. Blend with the locals,” said Garth. “Get them to trust you.”
Olivia turned her coffee cup upside down. Finding it empty, she snatched Logan’s. “Bloody hell, that could take months.”
“We don’t have months.” Logan stopped the cup midair and pulled it back, then grinned when she gave him an evil eye.
“We’re making arrangements for you to pose as the new lessors of a small convenience store that caters to Islamic tastes,” Anders continued. “It’s your front for arms deals and is only a block away from where this picture was taken.”
“So, we’re supposed to be running a shop while we’re trailing bad guys and selling them guns?” asked Logan.
“Got to be seen as trustworthy before you start peddling,” said Garth. “Muhammed will run the shop. He’s legit. Works for NATO.”
“Not ICE?” Logan asked.
The corners of Ander’s mouth twisted. “Never forget that ICE does not exist outside these walls. Muhammed doesn’t have the right clearance.”
“That’s code for he’s not a kick-ass operative or a PhD,” said Asa.
“Thank you for your succinct but crude commentary.” Anders pointed his thumb at the map of the world illuminated on a screen behind him. “NATO has informant assets all over the globe who provide support when needed. Muhammed is trusted and vetted, and that’s all you need to know. And as far as he’s concerned, you’re a pair of NATO operatives on a fact-finding mission.”
Garth took charge of the remote. “So, ladies and gentlemen, you’ll be reporting directly to me…”
For the rest of the morning Logan and Olivia went over the plan. The flat where they’d live, their aliases, how long they’d been married, how they’d met, why they’d leased the shop, and where they were from. Once the plane touched down in Lyon they would assume the roles of David and Oma Mason, underground arms smugglers.
Chapter Eight
At the airport in Lyon, Muhammed Burke greeted Olivia and Logan by their aliases. The NATO operative was tall and slender and looked like he might be in his mid-thirties. He led them to an old Mini, of all things, and spoke English to brief them on the latest while driving like a lead-foot through the maze of Lyon. “The police stormed Taaha Khan’s apartme
nt last night. The place was empty.”
Olivia couldn’t believe it. Had they come all this way for nothing? She leaned forward from the cramped backseat. “Any sign of him or Mathilde?”
“They came up with nothing.” Muhammed regarded her in the rearview mirror. He wore a pair of dark sunglasses, looking the part of convenience shop attendant from his mussed black hair to white t-shirt to his canvas tennis shoes.
“You’re kidding.”
At passenger pickup, Logan had offered Olivia the front seat but was swiftly corrected by Muhammed. The SEAL might be an ace in combat, but he knew bugger-all about moving around Islamic society and Olivia had only been able to divulge so much before they touched down in Lyon. She wore a niqab complete with a veil across her mouth and brown contact lenses. There was no way on earth she would have taken the front seat. Such a mistake would have raised suspicion before their mission began, even if Logan’s role was that of a British national.
“Can you take us there?” she asked.
“Don’t you want to drop off your gear first?” asked the NATO operative.
Logan glanced back and gave her a thumb’s up. “Not while the trail’s hot.”
“I think it started growing cold when Khan escorted Mathilde to the van two days ago,” said Muhammed, turning on the blinker.
“What else can you tell us about him?” asked Logan.
The black steering wheel spun right. “Syrian, entered France illegally.”
“Why do you think he kidnapped Mathilde?” Olivia regarded the bridge spanning the River Rhône ahead, memorizing every landmark.
“Other than her being pretty?” Darting around vehicles in heavy traffic, Muhammed grinned. “I have no idea. Usually guys like Khan try to keep a low profile. Could be he’s just a freak.”
“What else do you have on him?” asked Logan.
“He became a suspect jihadist after the car bombing outside the Basilica Notre Dame, Lyon. He was one of the onlookers—that’s when we put a tail on him. Found out he was keeping company with a faction suspected to have al Qaeda and ISIS ties.”