by Black, Incy
Fray pulled the car to a stop but left the engine idling at a low purr. “You cover this entrance, Zac,” she said, having twisted to glare at him over her shoulder. “Once I’ve handed off Angel to Will, I’ll cover the north gate. That should fence in that bugger Rhys if he’s using wheels to get about.”
Zac, tight-lipped, unclipped his seat belt. “I know what I’m doing,” he snarled, slipping out of the car.
Fray, heaving an audible sigh, turned to her. “Know that if you make one wrong move between now and when I hand you over into Will’s charge, I will shoot you dead. As far as I’m concerned, you’re as guilty as that bastard brother of yours. So just give me an excuse, any excuse. Please.”
Rather than answer, Angel focused on a thick stone plinth, the bronze plaque affixed to it listing the names of those long gone. Soldiers, probably, given the poppy wreaths slowly decaying at its base.
Fray set the Daimler back into motion. Four, maybe five hundred yards later, she cruised to a halt at the top of a slope and killed the engine.
At the small hillock’s hem, mourners Angel was damn certain she didn’t know milled respectfully around a deep, brown slash in the ground. Obnoxiously large wreaths, fat with orange and yellow chrysanthemum heads, stood on upright stands beside her grave.
Gross. She couldn’t fault the Service’s expertise in putting on a convincing show, but she hated, hated the colors orange and yellow.
But Rhys? Yes, he’d believe the unfolding theatricals. He’d mistakenly thought her popular, and she’d never had the heart to correct him.
“It’s rock and roll time,” Fray said quietly as she exited the car and opened the rear passenger door.
Angel stumbled slightly when sliding from her seat. Fray reached for her elbow, but it was the sight of Will Berwick—Butters looking shocked at his shoulder—that steadied her. His face expressionless, his eyes hidden behind dark aviator glasses, he looked in control of the drama she’d no doubt he’d masterminded.
She’d soon fix that.
Shaking free from Fray’s grip, she dashed the short gap separating her from the man she despised.
The right hook she delivered knocked Berwick to his ass.
Butters hit the ground a split second later, the left half of his head blown away by a gunshot that must have come from the copse of trees sharing the same shallow dell as her gaping grave-mouth.
Urgent shouts to take cover erupted from farther down the hill. Mourners, the black of their clothing emphatic, scattered and tripped like drunken exclamation marks.
Stunned motionless, Angel watched as chaos unfolded in slow motion and then ripped apart at the seams as agents kicked into uncoordinated, damage-control mode and headed for the fringing trees, weapons drawn.
Her survival instinct took command. She spun and made a bid for freedom.
Using the Gothic monuments to the long dead for cover, she zigzagged her escape. Rhys, what the hell have you done? What kind of stupid person brings a rifle to a funeral? What kind of insane person uses it to kill the acting Head of Black Ops? If his actions hadn’t already sealed their fate, offing Butters had. No one got to take out a member of the Intelligence club without facing retribution…of the permanent kind.
The outline of thick woodland reared up in front of her. If her legs, lungs, and feet held out, she stood a chance.
Thorns and tangled briars hooked and pulled at her clothing. She thrashed them aside. Bruised from bouncing off the trunks of trees that had seeded too close, she broke into a fast sprint when her feet finally hit a bark path.
The force came from behind with the weight of a truck, lifting her high then throwing her down, her arms too slow in coming forward to brace her against a breath-snatching collision with the ground.
The weight eased, but a restraining boot between her shoulder blades pressed her into the dirt. She waited for her lungs to re-inflate, then chest heaving, she swiveled her head.
Berwick. She should have known he’d run her down. Bastard.
Perversely, she noticed his long fingers splayed above his hip bone, pressing deep. Concern shot through her. Tilting her chin, she searched his face. Unnaturally wan. A study of pain.
“You okay?” he growled, lifting his boot and stepping back.
“I think you may have broken me,” she said between strangled breaths.
“Serves you right, because I know you’ve half killed me.”
“Have you told anyone that your injury is still troubling you, Berwick? Or is that something else you’re dealing with on your own? And don’t deny it. I’ve seen you wince when you jar your body. Often enough to know I’m not wrong.”
Reaching down, he seized her wrist and yanked her to her feet. “I’m fine, though I’m likely to have a bruise on my chin the size of Australia tomorrow. Who the hell taught you to throw a punch like that?
“Rhys. He also taught me this.” In an instant, she’d swept his legs from under him with a low roundhouse kick.
Straddling his hips, she held the barrel of the gun she’d swiped from where it had been tucked at the base of his spine, dead center to Berwick’s forehead.
Chapter Nine
And damn if Berwick didn’t have the temerity to laugh. Low and deep, its slow vibration rumbling the length of his hard, honed body. Which, given she sat astride his pelvis, his hips bones digging into her inner thighs, hit her dead center, little flames licking her intimately.
Her vision flickered. Oh my God.
She tried shuffling backward to escape the press of his thickening bulge.
Will’s cock misinterpreted her wriggle as encouragement and responded impressively.
She froze.
Berwick slow-grinned her. She tried lifting her hips. He spanned her thighs with his firm, wide palms and brought up his knees, trapping her in place.
The weapon she pointed at him tripled in weight. Her arms wavered.
A nanosecond later, she was the one flat on her back in the damp woodland matter, and he was the one in the saddle, his Sig nesting in the leaf mulch five feet away, knocked from her hand.
He pinned her arms high and firm above her head, and the bastard didn’t even try to hold back his weight. Rather, he widened his grin to a lazy smile and brought his mouth close. Close, closer, closer, only at the last moment veering away from full lip contact. “Maybe Rhys should have warned you about the dangers of distraction, sweetheart,” he breathed against the column of her throat.
She tried twisting onto her side. Failed. Tried bucking her hips. Failed. Tried wrenching free her wrists. Failed. Kicked, combining all four actions simultaneously. Failed.
Berwick appeared to enjoy her struggles, so, chest heaving, she quit. “You did that deliberately.”
He transferred her wrists to one hand and used the other to clear a passage through the deep tangle of hair covering her face. “Nope. I’ve been told I’m gifted, but even I can’t pretend to have control over that particular part of my anatomy. Hardly my fault you were embarrassed when you realized where you were sitting. I’m flattered by the way.”
“Fuck you, Berwick.”
Lightning fast, he sealed her lips between his thumb and forefinger in a gentle-ish pinch. “I don’t know why, but it burns my gut when you use ugly words. Don’t do it. Not around me. Okay?”
Stunned by the ferocity behind his words, she could only nod. He released her, smoothed his thumb across her lips with unexpected tenderness, then thrust upright, and, shoulders rigid, stalked to his gun.
Still flat on her back, her heart yet to find a rhythm on the safe side of a heart attack, she watched him crouch, dust down the Sig, then cock and release the mechanism before returning it to its home at the base of his spine, his movements sharp and abrupt.
Fine white lines traced the contours of his tightly drawn lips. Jesus, he was furious. No, livid. With himself, she realized. For allowing her the tiniest glimpse of the effect she had on him.
Christ, she really didn’t have a ha
ndle on this man. And she needed one. This undefended moment he was having seemed opportune. “Berwick, just so you know, while I’ll watch my language if it offends you, the sentiment still stands,” she pressed.
His eyes flashed the harsh green of the Northern Lights. “I figured as much. Now get up. Go.”
Go? At a loss, she watched him stalk back toward her… And, then step right over her as if she were something unpleasant best avoided.
Rolling onto her stomach, she watched him walk away… For all of five seconds. “Berwick?”
He didn’t look back. He didn’t even break stride.
Scrambling to her feet, she bolted after him. Hauling on his arm, she dragged him to a halt. “Seriously? You’re just leaving me here? What am I supposed to do?”
“Run.”
“What?”
His eyes grazed over her, his examination critical. “You need to do something about your hair. Dye it, cut it, whatever. There’s a credit card for one of my shadow accounts sewn into the lining of that coat. You’ve got 50k. Disappear.”
She blinked. Run? Shadow account? 50k? Where the hell had he got his hands on that amount? Had to be a trick. She felt like a puppet with its strings abruptly cut. Nothing directing her. Nothing holding her up. Cut adrift. “What?”
“Focus, Angel.”
“What?”
Berwick heaved an aggravated sigh. “Christ, you mess with my head.”
“What?”
“Stop saying what. And, stop looking so bloody bewildered,” he ordered. “I don’t like it.”
He reached forward and tugged free a twig caught in the heavy fall of her hair. “You know, you’re a hell of a lot less scary with your hair down.”
Bugs weren’t! And the woodland debris in which she’d been rolling had to be a haven for all kinds of creepy-crawlies.
She hoped a dignified, but violent, toss of her head would dislodge any unwelcome guests and calm her instinctive panic. It didn’t.
Uncaring of what Berwick would make of her, she tipped her head upside down and raked frantically. Satisfied that no insect could have survived her vigorous finger-tsunami, she straightened.
“Nope, can’t see anything moving,” he said, his lips twitching. “You know, when you’re not waving a gun in my face, or on the defense, or ranting, you’re actually pretty hilarious.”
Good to know she entertained him, the unfeeling bastard. Not twenty minutes ago, she’d witnessed Butters drop dead at her feet, half his head blown away, very possibly by her brother who already had a kill-order pinned to his chest.
She invoked ice. “You do realize flattery and misplaced humor is commonly used to suppress issues a person doesn’t want to confront.”
The naughty gleam in his eyes faded. “You, do the world a favor and stay out of people’s heads. Mine, in particular.”
“You,” she shot back, “stop punishing me.”
He reared back. “What?”
And he’d thought she’d looked bewildered? She used her fingers to count off his crimes. “One: You resented me delving for some insight to help you, so you made my job impossible by refusing to engage. Two: I red-flagged you for that, so you looked to humiliate me by accepting an order to fuck me. Three: You had me arrested and locked up because I skipped out on having sex with you—”
“Nope,” he interrupted, arms folded across his chest. “I had you locked up so I couldn’t fuck you, because I sure as hell wanted to.”
She lost focus. “What?” she whispered breathily.
“I haven’t got all day, Angel. I left word that I’d cover this segment of the woods in the search for you, coming across your fucking brother if I was lucky so I could shoot him. But that’s not going to be enough to hold back other agents scouring this area forever. Finish the countdown of my apparent misdemeanors.”
She pulled out of her haze. “Four,” she snapped. “You used me to try and entrap Rhys—”
“Yes, I absolutely did,” he confirmed without a hint of remorse. “And would do so again in a heartbeat. Rhys needs to be brought to account for what he did. I’m just not sure how that equates with punishing you.”
“Rhys will have seen me at the funeral, uncuffed and at your and Butters’s side, because he misses nothing. You deliberately orchestrated it, so he’d think I had betrayed him.” She lifted her hand and tapped the scar her brother had scored. “You knew him believing that would tear me apart.”
She thought it physically impossible for a man as stunning as Berwick to look ugly. But right then, he came damn close.
“You want to tell me how else I was supposed to get you out of that fucking cell without getting my arse arrested? I was counting on you taking the first opportunity to run, so what are you waiting for? Go.”
She’d thought seeing a man shot and her sprint to get away had neutralized the alcohol in her blood. Clearly not. His explanation made about as much sense as taking the anti-Christ to church. “What?”
“Jesus. Just go.”
She planted her hands on her hips. She was going nowhere. Not until she had a solid grasp on what the bloody hell was happening. “I tried that. Taking off while everyone was distracted by the gunfire. You came after me. Why?”
He leaned in close. “I don’t know, but damn if I’m not beginning to regret it.”
Rude, but then that was Berwick all over when cornered. “I think you do know. And I’m not moving until you tell me. I’ve got Rhys’s safety, his life, to consider.”
“Just as I’ve got yours to consider,” Berwick snarled.
Their silent, seething, mini Mexican standoff had to have crossed the three-minute mark before Berwick conceded. On the back of a low growl from the depths of his chest.
“Fine, here’s why. A week or so back, Zac reminded me that our actions have consequences, some of which can be unforeseen or unintended. I inadvertently put you in danger when I had you locked up. Breaking you out of containment was my way of putting that right, when I realized Butters had no intention of allowing you to leave that cell still breathing. Now will you do us both a favor and get gone?”
He flicked a broken leaf from the cuff of his suit jacket, brushed woodland debris from the other sleeve. “Because while Butters might be dead, those in the chain of command above him are not. And although I don’t know who they are, I sure as hell intend to find out. Consider yourself very much still at risk, and lie low, until I find a way to neutralize them.”
“And Rhys?”
His eyes locked on hers, flat and hard. “What about him? He needs to pay. For the part he played in the BT11 fuckup, and for shooting Butters dead. So yes, I’ll be hunting him down, too.”
She never had learned when to quit. “And yet me, you’ll just let walk away? Why? What is it you’re looking to atone for, Will?”
She knew she’d pushed him too far, when he laughed. Another of his go-to defenses—when rude just wouldn’t cut it.
Knew she’d pushed him not just too far, but over the edge, when his lips hit hers. Hard and fast and in a way that stole all breath from her body.
The sudden lack of oxygen didn’t stop her from biting down on his lip. Hard.
But nor did it halt his kiss, which instead, grew more insistent, more demanding and certainly more punishing.
He walked her backward. She didn’t—couldn’t—resist.
A tree trunk, gnarled but solid, kept her upright, its bark uneven and unrelenting, roughly caressing her spine as he pressed into her, one muscled thigh, hard and arousing, between hers.
She’d been kissed by those brave enough to risk it before, but she’d never responded like this. Why stretch and expose the length of her neck for his mouth to explore? Why the hell moan when he licked, nipped, and sucked? And what were her hands doing buried, not just under his jacket, but his shirt, her fingers hooked round the width of his shoulders, her thumbs feverishly exploring the deep dip of his collarbone? And, dear God, what sorry state of insanity induced her to ride his l
eg, to grind against him?
More pressure from his mouth, his tongue stroking hers, and her mind emptied.
His hand flexed around the back of her thigh. She didn’t just acquiesce; she seized his mute invitation. Hooking one leg high over his hip, she rode the friction his hard, thick ridge offered.
His lips still at her neck, teasing, sucking, he eased her back, one of his hands busy at the snap of her jeans, then the zipper.
In he slipped, his touch finding, toying, two long fingers sliding deep, his thumb flicking her clit.
So close…so close…so close.
She may have moaned. His teeth definitely nipped.
And, head thrown back, over she went. Into a long, hard, soul-snatching orgasm.
Boneless, trembling, her forehead tucked against the heat of his throat, his arms holding her tight, she heard him mutter, “Hot. Unbelievably fucking hot… And a complication I certainly do not need.”
Chapter Ten
Complication—the word penetrated, breaking her post-orgasmic haze.
Urgently unplastering herself from him, she twisted free, backed away from Berwick, and raised her hand to her lips.
Hands resting on his hips, the somewhat erratic rise and fall of his chest gave her little consolation.
Her body shivered a little after-tremor. She had a horrible feeling she was glowing like a beacon. Not from embarrassment, from blissful satiation. She felt not one slither of shame, though. He’d made her come, watched her come; she had no regrets. One of the advantages of being able to compartmentalize. If she pretended “the incident” had never happened—if he pretended “the incident” had never happened—she’d survive.
“Angel. Go. Disappear and be safe.” He ran a hand over the top of his head. “Meanwhile, I’d best get back. That mess back there, Butters down, Rhys the likely shooter, you on the run… I need to manage the fallout.”
A mess of her and Rhys’s making. Shit. She couldn’t let Will Berwick become yet another casualty in the MoD versus the Trehernes war.