by Nina Bruhns
“Roll it down,” Frankie said, jerking his hand toward the window. “You know you want to.”
“I’m fine.”
Frankie arched a dark brow. “That I know.”
God, how she’d resisted him during the last leg of their trip, she’d never figure out. Probably came down to the fact that they hadn’t had one moment to themselves since Elise Barton-Ryce had been deposited at an unnamed port at dawn the next morning after her outburst in Ian’s office and she, Frankie, and Max had set about to perfect the plan to retrieve Jessica Perez without further distraction. She and Frankie had memorized every minute fact about the Toscas from their preferred beverages to the bloody path they’d swept through the criminal underworld.
They’d learned about their childhoods in Castro’s Cuba, including Rogelio’s stint in the dictator’s army. He’d passed his knowledge of explosives, learned in the service, to his wife, a clever communist spy with her own dark credentials. They’d defected young and with contacts to the mob made in Havana casinos, had started their own murder-for-hire business. With high fees and a keen investment strategy, the couple could have retired as multimillionaires years ago. But they liked their jobs—and had paid for that passion with their lives.
Marisela was determined not to make the same mistakes. If experts could blow themselves to kingdom come, she wasn’t about to get cocky when it came to C-4. When she wasn’t working out with Frankie or reviewing procedures with Max, she’d been studying the properties and weaknesses of the explosives until she could recite every word in her sleep.
She wasn’t going to screw up. She wasn’t going to end up in a million pieces. At least, not this early in the mission.
* * *
The quality of their hotel room left a lot to be desired, but Marisela figured if living in a hovel for a couple of nights was the worst thing she had to deal with on this mission, she was coming out on top. Musty-smelling and decorated with flamingo-themed bedspread and artwork—if the word “art” could be used to describe several ill-framed posters featuring flocks of pink, long-necked birds dancing down South Beach’s Ocean Drive—the room contained all the paraphernalia they’d need to complete the final preparations for their mission. In the closet, she found two duffel bags. One contained stylish, but dark clothes in her size that wouldn’t seem completely out of place at a top-dollar marina, a collection of high-tech gadgetry, and Marisela’s favorite 9 mm Taurus, complete with her old shoulder holster, which she lovingly strapped under a spangled black tank top.
“You could have requisitioned a new harness,” Frankie said, snapping the worn leather that cut across her shoulder blade.
She swung around and shoved him back, though with a playful grin. God, she was pumped. Adrenaline seemed to accompany the presence of her weapon and with the night darkening and the time for the rendezvous nearing, she wasn’t sure where her fear started and where the excitement ended. Even Frankie’s smart-ass comments couldn’t bring her down. “I like this one. It molds perfectly to my body.”
She twisted seductively to prove her point and true to form, he grabbed her waist and tugged her flush against his taut silk T-shirt and slim black pants. His sex jutted hard against her belly and despite the ravenous look in his eyes, she knew not all of the lust coursing through him was because of her. She knew, because she felt it, too—the oncoming rush from what they were about to do.
Her senses were like trigger devices, sensitive to the slightest touch, primed to unleash an explosion of sensation at the least provocation. She tilted her neck and in seconds, Frankie’s lips were on her, biting a sweet path of need from just below her ear to the corner of her mouth.
As much as she’d been avoiding their attraction over the past few days, she couldn’t deny him any longer. She ran her hands up his back, then down so she could squeeze his amazing ass and hear him groan with appreciation.
“Is it always like this?” she asked, breathless.
His mouth quirked up in a half-grin. “Usually.”
With tongues battling, they kissed until the sparring of lips wasn’t enough. He dropped to his knees and placed his mouth directly over the crotch of her thin-fabric pants, firing her with his hot breath, teasing her with his fingers as they traced the tightening seams. She tore her hands through his hair, marveling at how silky the strands felt against her skin, how the air seemed rich with the musky scent of man. Crouched on his powerful legs, he’d started his ascent toward her breasts, his hands folding up the beaded blouse, when his watch beeped.
Fifteen minutes and counting to the first contact.
She slipped out of his grasp, panting.
“Later, vidita?”
She licked her lips, which still pulsed from their hungry exchange. “Will the rush last?”
His grin lent a sparkle to his shadowed eyes. “Depends on if we blow ourselves up. Sex is so sweet after you’ve faced death. And won.”
Ignoring a brief sting of jealousy—wondering just who Frankie had been with when he discovered this little snippet of wisdom—Marisela turned back to the duffel bag, her nerve endings sizzling and her heart racing at a pace at least a half a beat faster than normal. A layer of perspiration had formed at the back of her neck, but she dispatched that telltale sweat by sweeping her hair into a tight ponytail. Behind her, Frankie rechecked his spare clips before shoving them into a belt he’d wear hidden beneath a custom leather blazer. She couldn’t help but watch him dress. Down to his low-heeled boots and snug T-shirt, he looked every ounce the dangerous secret agent about to blend into the night.
“Who are we meeting again?” Marisela asked. Dion had briefed Frankie in the car, but she hadn’t paid close attention. She’s been too focused on the lure of the city.
“Dion and his partner, Pan.”
“Don’t these people have normal names?”
Frankie snorted. “Those aren’t their real names. We’re working with Titan operatives. They all have code names.”
They’d briefly touched on that topic during their training, but since neither she nor Frankie were official agents, they hadn’t bothered to take on Titan monikers.
“Can’t they pick better names than a fifties rock star and a little boy who flies to Neverland and never grows up?”
Frankie tossed Marisela a small leather pouch. “That’s not what the names mean. Dion is short for Dionysus.”
That rang a bell. A school bell. “From mythology?”
“You paid attention in English class?”
She shrugged. “The teacher was a hottie.”
Frankie shook his head and chuckled. “All the operatives for Titan have names from Greek or Roman mythology. It’s a tradition or something.”
She perked up, interested. “What’s yours?”
“Don’t have one.”
“Come on,” she said, disbelieving. “You’ve worked with this group before. You’re telling me they never got around to giving you a name?”
Frankie dumped his pouch on the bed. Several miniature electronic devices spilled out, with hair-thin wires and feather-light power packs dangling from the ends. Marisela recognized the communications apparatus and slid onto the bed beside Frankie.
“I don’t want a name,” he answered.
“Why? Is Apollo already taken?” she quipped. She didn’t remember much about mythology except the teacher had been a major hunk and the girls had taken to calling him Apollo because he was the god of hunks or something.
“Who?”
“Don’t screw with me. If you know Dio-whatsis, you know Apollo.”
“Dionysus. God of the vine.”
“Does this agent drink?” she asked, concerned.
Frankie chuckled. “After a successful mission he might down a few, but he came from the wine country in Italy. He collects wine. That’s his claim to fame.”
“And Pan?”
Frankie’s brow scrunched. “Don’t remember. Something about getting into a lot of trouble.”
“Do al
l the names reflect the agent’s personality?” she asked, wondering if the Greeks or Romans ever conceived of anyone as screwed up as she was.
“Nah. There’s a female agent named Nike and she runs like a duck.”
Marisela laughed. “What’s Blake’s code name?”
Frankie frowned. “Zeus, of course.”
“What was he, king of the gods?”
“Bingo.”
Figured. “Why didn’t we have to learn all these names?”
“It’s need-to-know. You’ll pick it up.”
She untangled a tightly knotted line on one of the power cords, then handed it to him to attach to the correct device. Glancing under her lashes, she wondered if now was the time to broach a topic she’d wanted to bring up for days. “Why don’t you work full-time for Blake? He seems to want you.”
“For this mission.”
Marisela shook her head. “No, I think he wants more. He acts all cool, but I think he wants you permanently on his payroll and that’s why he set you up for that arrest back home.”
He was half-way to inserting his earpiece when her claim arrested his attention.
“How did you know that?”
“I didn’t.”
“You guessed?”
“Seemed logical. Blake loves to show his power, like he did with me when he shanghaied my parents. You were about to tell him to shove his job offer up his ass, so he had you arrested just to show you who was boss.”
“Yeah,” he said with a grimace, then inserted the earpiece and connected the line to a power pack he then attached to the back of his collar. “He showed me, didn’t he?”
She shrugged. “You still would have beat the rap because the charges were bogus. Even if his attorney hadn’t gotten you out, your parents would have mortgaged their house a third time to hire a lawyer to spring you.”
“They didn’t bail me out when I got arrested the first time in eighty-nine.”
“You were guilty then,” she pointed out.
“Good point. Blake is power-hungry, Marisela. He’s good at what he does, but his need to be in absolute control makes him dangerous to his agents. Remember that.”
Marisela chased off a chill while she connected the wires of her earpiece to the power pack she’d stick in her bra. The last thing she needed right now was to doubt the man calling the shots only minutes before she departed on a potentially deadly mission.
“He’s run Titan well so far,” she ventured.
“He doesn’t run Titan.”
“Of course he does. Lia and I checked him out. He’s all over the Boston and New York papers and trade magazines, accepting awards, testifying in court.”
Frankie completed his communications task and turned to organizing his ammunition. “He’s the top dog in the States, but his sister oversees the entire operation from Europe. The major action is across the ocean, babe. Don’t let Ian fool you. If he screws up, Brynn will jerk the whole shebang out from under him without a second thought.”
“No love lost?”
He shrugged. “They get along okay. But they’re competitive.”
Marisela couldn’t imagine what kind of ball-breaker this Brynn would have to be to match her brother’s intensity, but she decided she wanted to meet this chick someday. Maybe she could give Marisela some tips. Or vice versa.
“And you know all this…?”
Frankie glanced sideways, a nearly imperceptible shift of avoidance. “I keep my ears open.”
Yeah, and she was a natural blonde. Frankie had some personal connection to Ian Blake, possibly his sister, too. Maybe a love affair between him and Brynn? That sure would explain the animosity arcing between Ian and Frankie during nearly every interaction she’d witnessed.
“You only signed on with Blake this time because of me.”
“Yeah, you’re irresistible,” he quipped.
“There is that,” she agreed, “but you’re the one who gave him my name, so you felt responsible for making sure I got out of this alive. Am I, right?”
Frankie grunted in response.
“I can take care of myself, you know.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“So you’ve seen. You’ve trained with me, Frankie. All week. And you’ve known me practically all my life. I don’t want you going into this mission tonight thinking its your responsibility to save my ass. It’s not.”
“You’re wrong, Marisela,” he snapped, taking the rest of his equipment and heading to the wobbly table and chair beside the door. “It’s my job to save your ass and it’s your job to save mine. That’s why we’re partners.”
Marisela grimaced. She’d obviously made some sort of secret agent faux pas, and with tensions running so high, there wasn’t much she could do about Frankie’s sudden anger. She checked the watch Max had given her, which had a mini-GPS system and tracking device inside. They had less than ten minutes before their ride to the marina arrived. She’d best concentrate on preparing her gear instead of chatting over old times.
She clipped a speaker to her neckline, constructed with the same beads that decorated her spangly top. The credit card-thin power pack attached to a line that edged her bra strap and then tucked beneath her cleavage. As she worked, she replayed the mission plan in her head. Ochoa and his family—his third wife and toddler son—were scheduled to leave Miami for Boca Raton in an hour with a small, four-man crew and three bodyguards. Two bodyguards and the wife and child, who had been visiting the woman’s family in Ft. Lauderdale, would be detained shortly and held by Titan until the entire mission was complete. Ochoa and his personal bodyguard, however, were another matter entirely.
Attending a meeting in a well-guarded safe house, Ochoa and the bodyguard would remain untouchable until they boarded the boat. Intercepting him before that point would arouse the suspicions of Perez and his men, who were, reportedly, monitoring the Toscas’ work from a safe distance. Though the crew of the Sharp’s Destruction had already been replaced with trained Titan operatives—all of them former Navy SEALS—taking down Ochoa and the bodyguard would be up to Marisela and Frankie. The crew had to concentrate on piloting the boat a safe distance from the marina, before she and Frankie blew it up. Once Ochoa and the bodyguard were neutralized, they would hand the pair off to Dionysus and Pan, who would transfer them to individual small watercraft that could jet away undetected.
She and Frankie would remain aboard to set the charges, giving the Titan crew time to make a getaway. Frankie and Marisela would then board the Sharp’s Destruction tender and depart, using a remote device to detonate the explosives. With the right timing, the explosion would cover the escape of the crew. Ochoa and the bodyguard would be transferred to the same safe house where the wife and child were being held and the mission to infiltrate Perez’s inner circle would be complete.
Frankie’s watch beeped again.
“Got everything?” he asked.
She checked her weapon, her ammunition, and her communication devices. Frankie went into the bathroom and they tested the equipment one last time.
“You there?” she whispered, talking into her neckline. “I’ll always be here, vidita,” Frankie answered.
She grinned. Good. He wasn’t pissed anymore. She didn’t want to go into the operation with things left unsaid or tense between them. When he emerged from the bathroom, one look told her she had nothing to worry about.
“Let’s do it.”
* * *
“The wife and child are secure,” the agent reported, causing a quiver in Marisela’s stomach. It had begun.
“Casualties?”
That voice Marisela recognized. Ian Blake. He and Max were coordinating the mission from the Oceanus and monitoring the conversation over their communications link. Funny how much sexier Blake’s voice sounded when he wasn’t in the room with her, looking at her with eyes that implied, ever so slightly, that she didn’t measure up. She didn’t know exactly where she got that impression—if he didn’t think she was good eno
ugh, he never would have hired her. And yet, she couldn’t shake the insecurity, no matter how much she hated it.
Hopefully, pulling off this plan would put her anxiety to rest…for good.
“One bodyguard wouldn’t come along quietly and he got off a round before the darts took effect.”
“Anyone call the cops?”
“Negative. We intercepted on the deserted highway as instructed. The body will be found by morning.”
There was a pause, then Ian responded, “Forget about him. Ochoa considered him expendable, we’ll do the same.”
Marisela winced at the cavalier words, but she wasn’t naive enough to think Blake was exaggerating. These gunrunners and arms dealers were ruthless people. For all anyone would guess, the guy was popped by his own people.
“Frank, what’s your ETA?”
Frankie glanced out the window. “We’re entering the marina now. Where’s Ochoa?”
Another pause then Max’s voice. “You have ten minutes on him.”
Frankie acknowledged the information, then looked at Marisela with piercing eyes. “Ready?”
God, was she? Her heart suddenly leaped in her chest and lodged in her throat.
She managed a nod.
Frankie fisted his hand over his communicator. “You sure?” he whispered.
God damn him. Why did he have to be so frickin’ concerned?
Again, she only nodded. If she spoke, either her voice would crack or she’d say something she’d regret later.
“Marisela, I’d like to hear your affirmation for myself,” Blake said.
“Ready,” she managed.
“Good.”
The car pulled to a stop behind a small outbuilding just inside the marina. Frankie unloaded first, then came around to Marisela’s side, opened her door and took her hand. With a large smile, she slipped her palm into his and exited the car, straight into his arms. She planted her lips on his and though their tongues clashed and Frankie slipped his hand around her waist and pressed her flush against his body, the kiss lacked intimacy, expectation. But to anyone watching, seen or unseen, they were two ravenous lovers headed for a carnal rendezvous on any one of the luxury yachts moored at the high-priced marina.