Course of Action: Out of Harm's WayAny Time, Any Place

by Lindsay McKenna

  Even without the body scan, she drew admiring attention. Her mink-brown hair was swept up to reveal shell-shaped ears, and her cream-colored turtleneck molded her breasts. A primitive possessiveness Duke never knew he had in him curled his hands into fists. He was a half step way from punching out the lights of the leering cop when a terse order from Yallin ended the display.

  Anna lowered her arms and reclaimed her purse. Not bothering to disguise her icy disdain, she skewered the voyeur with a look that said she hoped he’d enjoyed the peep show. Duke guessed the caustic remark she subsequently addressed to the man put that sentiment into words.

  Her zinger flustered the cop so much he almost forgot to wave Duke into the scanner. Another sharp exclamation recalled him to his duty. Duke dumped his phone, loose change and folded knife into a plastic tray. He’d reached the scanning booth before the cop even noticed the knife rattling along on the conveyor.

  His startled exclamation brought two associates rushing over. They snatched the tray off the conveyor and engaged in a heated debate with Yallin. The counterterrorism agent finally cut it off and motioned Duke through the scanner with an impatient gesture.

  “Why did you bring this?” he asked in his thick, guttural English as he returned the folded blade.

  “Same reason you’ve got a holster tucked under your left armpit. We’re both after a killer. One Ms. Solkov has not only seen, but spoken to. And right now she’s the only one who can ID him.”

  “The Ukrainian authorities are well aware of that!”

  Still irate, Yallin made a visible effort to rein in his temper.

  “Not all of us in the Ministry of Internal Affairs agreed with the decision to ask the Americans for help in this matter,” he admitted. “My division is responsible for the capture of Nikolai Varno. It is our number-one priority.”

  “Understand. And Ms. Solkov’s safety is mine.”

  Yallin accepted the comeback with a curt nod and led the way down a tiled corridor.

  Chapter 9

  Anna and Duke spent the entire morning at the Ministry of Internal Affairs. The first two hours involved an exhaustive review of the events at Elena’s place. Blurred jurisdictional lines magnified the number of participants in this session. Nine officials—eight men, one woman—of different ranks and different areas of responsibility sat in. Some were military, some were police officers. Two were civilian with vaguely defined political jobs. Yallin and his associate from the Interpol Bureau had flown in from Kiev, which didn’t sit well with the Odessa locals. Most of the attendees spoke basic English, thankfully. Where there were gaps or questions, Anna acted as translator.

  As the session went on, the size and diversity of the group nagged at Duke. His Moscow embassy tour hadn’t left him with a warm fuzzy, as the bureaucracy had grown to such power during the heyday of the USSR. Graft was a way of life among civilian officials, the police and the military. The Russian mafia operated with near impunity.

  He didn’t want to ascribe the same systemic weaknesses to the Ukrainians. They’d admitted they needed help nailing Varno. Had requested that the U.S. set up this covert op. Still...

  Duke looked around the table, studying each face, listening to their questions and opinions on what options to pursue at this point. All the time, he kept trying to gauge where their loyalties lay. The discussion of the accident that killed Elena’s husband caused a sharp rift in those loyalties.

  One of the civilians at the table was a rep from what Duke guessed was the Ukrainian equivalent of the U.S. Department of Commerce. The man apparently served as a midlevel flunky in the division that monitored the construction, operation and maintenance of the pipelines that cut through the Ukraine. Heavyset and red-faced, with a thatch of salt-and-pepper hair and bushy white eyebrows set above protruding eyes, the bureaucrat became defensive when Anna related Elena’s contention that her husband’s bulldozer had hit an unmarked feeder line.

  “It was not so! We investigate that explosion, yes? The fault was the operator’s.” He beetled his brows and scowled at Anna. “When you say otherwise you insult my department.”

  “I didn’t say it,” she replied coolly. “Elena did. She was convinced the Russian company that owns the pipeline cut corners to increase their profits.”

  “Cut corners?” the official blustered. “What is this cut corners?”

  “They sacrificed safety to save money. Or,” she added with a bland expression, “perhaps paid bribes to Ukrainian inspectors to look the other way at shoddy workmanship.”

  The man’s eyes bulged as if they were trying to jump out of their sockets. “This is not so!”

  The other female at the table gave a snort, which she quickly converted to a cough. Two of the uniformed officers exchanged openly sardonic glances.

  “Were there other workers killed in this accident?” Anna asked.

  “Two,” the bureaucrat conceded stiffly.

  “You have their names? The names of their family members?”

  “I do not carry them in my head,” he huffed.

  “You might want to look them up. We suspect Nikolai Varno was attempting to exploit Elena’s grief and recruit her as a suicide bomber. He may try to do the same with someone else who lost a loved one in that explosion.”

  The civilian started to bluster again. Special Agent Yallin cut him off with a curt comment in Ukrainian and addressed Anna directly.

  “Making bombs and convincing women to strap them on is indeed Varno’s area of expertise. We will obtain the names of the other men who died in the accident and talk to their families.”

  The session broke up soon after that. The civilian charged with overseeing the Russian pipeline left red-faced with anger. Eyes hard, Yallin watched him go before turning to Anna.

  “We have a—how do you call them?—a graphics artist standing by. Will you work with him to provide a picture of what Varno looks like now?”

  “Of course. He may have changed his appearance since I saw him, though.”

  “We must hope he has not had time.”

  * * *

  It was past noon by the time Anna and the police artist assigned to work with her had produced an image of Nikolai Varno. Yallin immediately had it digitized and sent it with an alert to every national and international agency involved in the hunt for terrorists.

  “You must take a copy, too, Ms. Solkov.” He handed her a printed version of the alert along with his business card. “Look at the image again later, with fresh eyes. If you wish to add anything or make a change, please notify me at once.”

  Anna slid both the image and his card into her purse. “I will.”

  “We cannot thank you enough for your assistance in this matter. And you, Sergeant Carmichael.” He gave Duke one of his cards, as well. “Perhaps you will allow me to take you to dinner as a small gesture of my government’s gratitude.”

  “Thanks, but that’s not necessary.”

  “Please, I insist. We should fix a time. When do you return home?”

  “We haven’t arranged that yet.”

  “I understand. You must wait for termination orders to come down through your chain of command. You will receive them shortly. Now that we know what Varno looks like and that he’s most likely here, in Odessa, my government has instructed me and my department to assume full responsibility for his capture.”

  Yallin’s polite expression gave no hint of what he thought about the decision, but Duke suspected politics had played a major role in it. The Ukrainian government had asked the U.S. to conduct a secret, undercover op in their country to help ID and, hopefully, take down the vicious but elusive Varno. Now that the noose appeared to be tightening around the bastard, the Ukrainians obviously wanted to take full credit for the kill.

  Duke hated the thought of being yanked off the op at this crucial point. Elena’s burned body cried for justice. It was the Ukrainians’ call, however. If they wanted to pick up the ball at this point and run with it, Duke would get word soon enoug
h.

  And there was Anna to consider. As she and Duke followed Yallin down to the exit, he found himself hoping to hell the stand-down order came soon. He’d worried that Varno might target Anna to prevent her from ID’ing him. Now that she’d provided a description, there was the revenge factor to consider.

  The faster Duke put an ocean between her and the terrorist, the happier he’d be. And once he had her home, he thought with a sudden tightening in his belly, the two of them had some unfinished personal business to take care of.

  * * *

  Various methods for taking care of that business occupied Duke’s mind during lunch at the hotel’s restaurant. Anna spooned down a hearty potato soup. On her recommendation, he feasted on Kiev-style fish cutlets cut into fine strips, served with green beans and potatoes. They followed the main courses with coffee and a dessert Anna called vergun.

  “I used to help my babushka make these,” she commented as the waiter deposited a platter containing spears of braided and fried dough dusted with powdered sugar. “We had them every Sunday after we got home from church.”

  “They look good.” Duke bit into one of the still-warm pastries. He tasted honey and rum and butter. Lots of butter. “They are good.”

  Anna took a bite, savored the taste and rendered judgment. “They’re okay.”

  “Just not in the same league as your babushka’s,” he teased.

  “Not anywhere near the same league.”

  She polished off her pastry. Duke did the same and would have reached for another if the sight of Anna daintily licking her fingers hadn’t sent his thoughts zinging back to their unfinished business.

  He was hungry all over again when they left the table. Even hungrier when the elevator doors closed behind them and he spotted a trace of white on her upper lip.

  “You’re sporting a sugar mustache.”

  “I am?” She swiped her fingers over her mouth. “Did that get it?”

  “Not quite.”

  He cupped her chin and brushed his thumb across her lips. Once. Twice. And again, more slowly.

  Anna’s eyes widened, and the air between them suddenly went static. Like electrical charges that needed grounding, the unseen sparks leaped from her lips to Duke’s thumb and shot straight to his groin.

  He flattened his free palm against the wall behind her head and tilted her chin with the other. He had to have a taste of her. Just one.

  “Anna...”

  He’d waited too long. The damned elevator glided to a stop before he could make his move. Smothering a curse, he dropped his hand, waited for the doors to ping open and did a quick visual of the hall.

  She didn’t say a word as they walked to their suite. Duke keyed the door and entered first. After a quick sweep, he gave her the okay. She crossed to the overstuffed sofa and dropped her purse. A flush rode high in her cheeks when she faced him with arms crossed.

  “I thought we decided last night to put this...this...whatever it is between us on hold.”

  “More or less,” he agreed.

  “So what was that about in the elevator?”

  “That was the less.”

  The laconic reply didn’t satisfy either of them. She frowned, and Duke scrubbed a palm across the back of his neck.

  “Turns out I’m having a harder time keeping my hands off you than I thought I would,” he admitted ruefully. “I’ll work on it, sweetheart.”

  He’d have to work hard. Damned hard. Starting now.

  “I didn’t have time to shave or shower this morning. ’Scuse me while I go take a long, cold one.”

  * * *

  Anna remained where she was for long moments after he’d retreated to his bedroom. She heard him moving around and picked up the faint zip of the duffel followed by the drum of water against the shower stall.

  A calm, rational corner of her mind said she’d done the right thing by putting the brakes on last night. The rest of her screamed with the need to strip off her clothes and join him in the shower to finish what they’d started.

  She went with the need.

  Duke was just reaching into the glass shower stall to adjust the temperature. His discarded clothing lay in a heap on the bathroom floor. His shaving kit sat open and ready on the marble counter.

  “Duke.”

  He spun around, his muscles tensing. His narrowed eyes did a lightning sweep of her face, her hands, the room behind her. Whatever he saw—or didn’t see—relieved some of his tension but put a sharp edge to his voice.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve been thinking...”

  Too much, she realized. She’d been thinking too damned much. When all this time she should have been listening to what her body and her heart were telling her.

  “I don’t want you to keep your hands off me.”

  His shoulders went taut again. It was a different kind of tension this time, and Anna’s pulse began to pound. He seemed unconcerned or oblivious to the fact that he was naked. She was neither, however.

  Her greedy gaze roamed from his face to the snake coiled around his biceps to the still-healing scar on his hip. Neither the tattoo nor the scar could detract from the symmetry and sheer male beauty of his body. What had he said? Healing was a slow process, and some scars took longer than others to fade.

  Anna knew now that hers had healed. She would always hold Jeremy’s memory in her heart, but he was her past. Duke Carmichael was her present. Possibly her future. The absolute rightness of what she was feeling made her whole body shiver with anticipation. Slowly, she reached for the hem of her turtleneck and tugged it upward.

  Duke stood like a rock. Steam curled out of the shower behind him, unnoticed and unimportant.

  “Are you sure about this?” he growled.

  “I’m sure. I told myself...and I told you that the adrenaline rush of the mission was what made me feel alive again. That I could ride the high and use you for sex, then we’d go our separate ways.”

  She unzipped her jeans. Shimmied them over her hips. Saw his blue eyes flame.

  “I discovered several problems with my analysis,” she said, her voice husky. “First, our mission’s over. According to Yallin, his government has the stick now. And yet my adrenaline’s still pumping.”

  She bent her arms behind her and unhooked her bra.

  “Second, I don’t want just sex. I want you, Duke. You make me feel alive again. You make my blood pound and my heart sing and my...”

  That was all she got out. All she needed to get out. In the next instant, his hands were at her waist. One swift move disposed of her panties. Another planted her bottom on the cool marble of the bathroom counter.

  “I can’t even begin to tell you what you do to me, little Anya.”

  His mouth came down on hers, hot and hungry. The bristles on his cheeks scraped hers. His hands raked into her hair, anchoring her for his kiss.

  Anna thought briefly about suggesting that he turn off the shower. Then he nudged her knees apart and she had no thought for anything but this moment, this man.

  She opened for him, spreading her legs wide. She could feel him rock-hard against her thigh. Feel the heat scorching his skin as she hooked an arm around his neck and returned his kiss with greedy hunger.

  She was panting with need when she wedged her other arm between their straining bodies. Her fingers closed around his jutting erection. She slid her hand up, down, up again, feeling him pulse with each stroke, then cupped his tight sac.

  Grunting, he pulled out of her hold. “Hang on a minute.”

  “For what?”

  He answered by reaching over to grab the shaving kit he’d tossed on the counter. Moving at the speed of light, he dug out a condom, ripped it open and sheathed himself.

  “Now,” he said, angling her hips so he pressed hard against her hot, wet center, “where were we?”

  Wiggling, she increased the pressure. Her breath came in quick, eager pants.

  “Right...”

  She wiggled aga
in and felt a spasm of pure sensation.

  “About...”

  She twisted her arms around his neck and locked her ankles around his hips. With a thrust of her hips, she pulled him into her.

  “Here!”

  Anna had made the initial thrust, but Duke set the rhythm. Slow at first. Maddeningly slow. She tried to increase the pace but he delivered an exquisite torture. Stretching her, filling her, lifting her half off the counter with a bunch of his powerful thigh muscles. Then pulling out an inch, two inches, four. All the while he used his hands and his mouth on her throat, her breasts, her nipples. And when he pressed a thumb against the tight, aching flesh at her center, he drove Anna to a spinning, screaming climax.

  She stiffened, riding the wild waves, slowly drifting down. Then the thrusts got faster, harder, and she soared again until his neck corded and his body went rigid.

  When she opened her eyes, steam from the shower was curled around them. Every mirror and glass surface in the bathroom had fogged, and the counter beneath her was slick to the touch.

  Smiling, Anna stroked Duke’s whiskery cheek. “I think your water’s hot.”

  “Looks like,” he agreed with a grin. “Want to scrub my back?”

  “I’m not sure I can stand,” she admitted ruefully, “much less scrub.”

  She slid off the counter and discovered getting her legs to hold her upright was, in fact, an iffy proposition.

  “I need time to recover,” she told Duke. “Take your shower. And shave those bristles,” she added when she noticed a prominent whisker burn on her left breast.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She gathered her clothes and left him whistling happily in the steamed-up glass cubicle.

  She made a quick trip to her bedroom and emerged wearing clean underwear and the comfortable, cherry-red exercise suit with a short-sleeved white tank. She was tightening the drawstrings of the pants when the purse she’d tossed on the sofa table emitted a loud buzz.

  Startled, Anna fished her phone out and checked the digital display. It showed the coded number for Condor Main. Thumbing in the answering code, she jammed the instrument to her ear.