“Listening is the first step. Things will change for them, thanks to you.”
She swallowed a second gulp and looked up sharply. “Hang on, I thought the gold-mining industry was an irredeemable evil. I’d love to think I’ve sold you on the power of corporate social responsibility, but I’m struggling to believe you’re that easily swayed.”
He leaned back in his chair. “I still think profit will always trump people. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have faith in you, specifically.”
She ran her finger around the rim of the glass, unable to acknowledge his flattery. “How’d you become such a cynic, anyway? It’s not like Copley Ventures is any worse than the rest of the diamond miners.”
“It’s not any better, either.” He shrugged. “Moments accumulate over the years. Overhearing my father and grandfather congratulate each other on the insanely cheap price they’d paid to a chieftain, taking lifetime mineral rights on his land. Seeing my uncle on television, testifying in a bribery scandal. All those years of boarding school, never having the right accent in the right place at the right time, too English for South Africa and too South African for England. When I came home I wanted to live on my terms, not stuffed into some corporate matrix where my surname guaranteed annual promotions no matter how badly I performed. I’d been complicit my whole life, fed and housed and educated by diamond money. Accepting it in paycheck form was a step too far.”
“So you have nothing to do with it now? No shares, no income?”
He shook his head. “My sister bought me out when she turned eighteen. She says she’ll sell my shareholding back to me if I ever want it. Market rate, of course.”
“Fair enough.” She smiled. Warren was sexy as hell when he was in high-alert danger mode, and his brooding, intense silence in the face of Roger’s offensive banter had become the highlight of every dinner. But this was her favorite side of him, she decided. Relaxed, thoughtful, hard-won self-disclosures slipping off a whiskey-loosened tongue.
In fact, now that she thought about it, she would very much like to lick the lingering flavor of barley off his lips. And his teeth. And his tongue, for good measure.
She spun the glass on the table, took a bolstering but unneeded sip. She’d never been afraid to go after what she wanted.
Right now, she wanted him.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“I wouldn’t be in the habit of kissing meddling corporate types if I did. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Like you, I’m not really the unfaithful type.”
“Tell me about the last guy you dated.”
“That would be Anton, the Swedish wealth manager working in London. Interests included rock climbing, fusion cuisine and political memoirs. Tendency to wax lyrical on whatever he’d read in the paper that morning, but the dry sense of humor and killer blue eyes made up for it.”
He arched a brow. “What did he do to get relegated to the ‘ex’ pile?”
“Nothing, really. I was traveling a lot, he was house hunting, we both worked long hours. Neither one of us was ready to get serious, so we parted over the phone and had a fun, friendly dinner the very next week. I feel like my breakups have always been pretty amicable—isn’t that the case for most people, at our age?”
He laughed, a sound as rare and thrilling as spotting a rhino deep in the bushveld. “No, it’s not.”
Before she could reply he reached for the whiskey bottle, replacing the cap. “It’s late. I have to finish the risk-assessment report on the settlement tomorrow, and you have that videoconference with Roger and the regional director first thing in the morning.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“I could’ve sworn you were about to yank me out of my chair, shove me against the wall and kiss me.”
His hand froze over his glass, gray eyes shining as they met hers. “Really.”
“Maybe I misread you.”
“Maybe I didn’t think you’d appreciate such an aggressive approach.”
“Aggression I can handle. It’s timidity I hate.”
“And I hate being told what to do.” Briskly he stood, gathered up the bottle and carried the empty glasses to the sink.
Nicola fought to keep her jaw from hitting the table as she watched him rinse the glasses, stow them in the dishwasher and dry his hands on a folded tea towel. Had he just blown her off?
She was halfway through her list of reasons why Warren wasn’t really as hot as she’d first thought when he turned around, arms crossed.
“Come on, I’ll walk you back to the cabins. I’ve got a pack of spare flashlight batteries in my suitcase. Take a couple.”
She stood with deliberate nonchalance, pushing her hair over her shoulder as she crossed the room. If he thought she was going to make her move a second time, he had her all wrong. He missed his chance, and he would just have to—
He was on her before she realized he’d moved. Her back hit the wall, his hands gripped her shoulders and her gasp of surprise was lost to the pressure of his mouth.
Even though she’d invited it, the swiftness and extent of Warren’s response surprised her. In an instant his palm found her waist, and his lips moved against hers with a pent-up passion she hadn’t imagined he harbored. She returned the contact avidly, parting her lips and then suppressing a moan as his tongue urgently sought hers.
He pulled back for a moment, raising his fingers to touch her cheek as he regarded her, eyes glazed and dilated with desire. “You taste like whiskey.”
There were too many questions, too many words lapping at the edge of her mind, and she knew if she spoke they would all come tumbling out. Instead she surged back into the kiss, willing herself to block out everything and truly inhabit the moment. She let her hands explore his body, traveling the widening breadth of his torso from his narrow, denim-clad hips up the hard, muscled contours of his chest, finally reaching up to thread her fingers through the thick black hair at the base of his skull.
He spread his hands on either side of her ribcage, and as his thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts she couldn’t stifle her pleased exhalation and pulled him in tighter. An urgent, guttural sound rumbled in his throat, and she brazenly slid one hand down to the tight curve of his rear end, angling him even harder against her.
He pulled back again, more firmly this time, holding her at arm’s length. She sighed her exasperation.
“You’d better not be about to tell me we should call it a night because you really have to write your risk assessment.”
“I was going to suggest we make our way back to the cabins. Although, now that you mention it, that report won’t—”
“Let’s go.” She linked her arm through his and started toward the door.
Back at the cabins, Nicola paused to peer at him over her shoulder, the door half-cracked. “You’re not getting lucky, you know.”
“I already have.”
“No kidding.” She nodded him inside, then closed and locked the door behind them.
Warren’s breathing quickened as he took in the few yet endearingly feminine touches that distinguished her room, which was otherwise identical to his. Cosmetics in pastel packaging clustered on the desk. A purple sweatshirt draped over the back of a chair. Impossibly small shoes poking out from under the bed. And the scent that hung in the air, a whole host of summer fruits with a hint of vanilla, as sweet and alluring as any he could remember.
“You should know that my vetting process is usually much longer; however given the circumstances, I’m willing to negotiate.” She dropped into the only chair in the room and crossed her legs, giving him a cool, assessing glance he bet she normally reserved for hiring interns.
“What circumstances are these?”
“A gold mine in the middle of nowhere. Threats of violence from unknown corners. The sexiest man I’ve met in a
very long time standing inches from my bed.”
“I thought you said I wasn’t going to get lucky.”
“I said we could negotiate.” She folded her hands on her knee and he could picture the tight pencil skirt and tailored blazer that would usually accompany that posture. He shifted his weight, futilely trying to relieve the sudden pressure in his jeans.
“Since it’s your first time, I’ll make the opening bid.” Without dropping his gaze, she unbuttoned her long-sleeved linen shirt and shrugged it off, exposing the black tank top she wore underneath.
She watched him expectantly. “What’s your counteroffer?”
“Is everything a transaction with you?”
“Only the important stuff.”
He hesitated. This whole situation was too strange, too dangerous in its unfamiliarity. Occasional losses of temper aside, his life was a series of one closely examined, calculated decision after another. He wasn’t spontaneous, and he sure as hell didn’t take unnecessary risks—in his line of work that quickly equaled a blown-off leg, or worse. The same was true when it came to dating, where his innate skepticism meant he evaluated potential relationships even more meticulously than he examined ticking time bombs.
So why was he giving serious consideration to which article of clothing to remove?
Because Nicola was like an explosion, an unforeseen, unstoppable flare of energy and light and heat from which he couldn’t look away. He barely knew her, yet he knew all he needed to. She was clever, she was brave, and she wasn’t afraid of him, not even a little bit. She robbed his vocabulary and left his jaw hanging slack. She thrilled him into recklessness, into utter abandon.
He began to unbutton his shirt.
The overconfidence left her expression as her eyes tracked his fingers, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. He suppressed a satisfied smile as he slapped his holstered Glock on the desk and let his shirt hit the floor. Finally, he’d recovered some ground.
“Your turn.”
“You’re catching on. But you need to raise the stakes.”
He held out his arms. “This isn’t enough?”
“We’ll see.” She grabbed the hem of her tank top and yanked it off in one swift jerk, then tossed it behind her and leveled him with a challenging gaze.
At least, he thought it was challenging. It was hard to be sure considering he couldn’t stop staring at her perfect, luxurious cleavage.
He swallowed. Tried to speak. Couldn’t remember a word in any language.
Nicola laughed, and when he managed to look at her face he found a playful smile.
“Sergeant Copley,” she remarked, “are you shy?”
“Not usually, no.”
“But now?”
“I’m trying to figure out how to close this deal.”
“First rule of business.” She stood and flopped onto the bed, stretching out on her back in a distinctly feline move. “Sometimes you just have to take what you want.”
“Sold.”
He’d run from gunfire more slowly than he covered the short distance to the bed, dropping onto the mattress and scooping her into his embrace. She smiled up at him and for a second he paused, taking in this beauty in his arms.
Then he kissed her.
She tasted different from any other woman—sweeter, bolder, stronger. Like opening the curtains to let in the first bright rays of a summer morning. Like popping the cork on a chilled bottle of champagne after a long Saturday on the boat.
“This is how it works with me,” he murmured when he managed to pull his lips away. “I ask where I can touch you. You say yes or no.”
She nodded, eyes glimmering under the overhead light.
He shifted onto his side, trailing his fingers over her smooth skin to find the soft swell of her breast. “Can I touch you here?”
In answer she reached behind her back, unclasped her bra and tossed it over his shoulder.
Suddenly the cabin seemed short on oxygen, and his breathing quickened as he surveyed her lavishly plump breasts, their rose-colored peaks proving he wasn’t alone in his excitement. He lowered his face to take each one between his lips in turn, his tongue coaxing her flesh to rigidity.
He closed his eyes, luxuriating in the taste of berries and vanilla, letting her throaty moans of pleasure resonate through his body. When he raised his head her gaze locked with his, her lips slightly parted, her cheeks flushed.
He slid his hand down her stomach, enjoying the way her eyes widened. Deftly he unbuttoned her jeans, then inched his fingertips beneath the lace-edged waist of her underwear.
“Can I touch you here?”
She crossed one arm behind her head, propping herself up to watch. She parted her thighs, running her tongue over her lips. Then she nodded.
His moved his hand lower, his eyes never leaving hers. His fingers crept over her sloping mound, trailed through the curls whose softness rivaled the silky cloth brushing his knuckles. With his index finger he traced the indentation signaling the entrance to her most intimate place, and his heartbeat stuttered at the dampness he found there.
Nicola’s teeth pressed into her lower lip. Keeping her gaze leveled to his, she brought her hand to her breast and caressed it, pinching her nipple between thumb and forefinger.
His mouth went as dry as the Kalahari, a remarkable contrast to the warm, wet valley beneath his hand. As he pressed his finger deeper between her soft folds, he lowered his thumb to rest as lightly as possible on her hot, swollen nub.
“And here? Can I touch you here?”
“Yes.”
It was more a plea than a confirmation, and he was happy to oblige. He drew slow circles with his thumb while he let his forefinger slip inside her folds, teasing the inner lips that were slick with moisture.
A soft moan escaped Nicola’s throat, and though her eyes narrowed and her gaze lost its focus, she didn’t look away. He had to smile. He loved her insistence on staring him down, on letting him see exactly what he was doing to her and almost daring him to push her further. It was as endearing as it was sexy, and he marveled again at the remarkable woman beneath his hand. He was in control, but only because she’d allowed him to be—and she wanted him to remember that.
He’d remember, all right. And in the meantime, he planned to take full advantage.
He changed rhythm, moving faster but at intervals, stopping completely in between. He savored the resulting increase in the rise and fall of those outstanding breasts and the glimmering sheen of sweat that broke out across her creamy skin.
She widened her legs, thrusting against his hand, as if silently begging him to push her over the top. For several minutes he resisted, maintaining his deliberately taunting motion, denying her the completion she so clearly sought.
But he couldn’t hold back for long. She was too delicious in her hunger, too tantalizing in her desperation, and he was overwhelmed by a desire to give her everything she wanted, everything he had.
He leaned over, cupping the back of her head with his free hand and pressing his lips to hers, unable to resist one more indulgent, quenching taste of that sumptuous mouth. Her fingers tightened in his hair, insistent with need, demanding he kiss her harder, longer.
He pulled back and licked his lips. Kissing her was fast becoming his favorite pastime, but he wanted to see her—wanted to watch her fall over the edge of his making.
He increased the pressure of his thumb and plunged two fingers inside her.
The sound that ripped from her was more beautiful than any birdsong, any symphony, any crashing ocean waves he’d ever heard. Part release, part ecstasy, it was the sound of whole-body fulfillment. For the first time since they’d hit the bed her eyes squeezed shut, and she arched her back and clamped her thighs against his hand and grabbed his wrist, her fist tightening as though it were the lifeline tethering her fast-esca
ping spirit to her shuddering body.
He knew he wore a broad, satisfied grin, but he couldn’t seem to tone it down. Her muscles relaxed, freeing his hand, and he stretched out beside her trembling form. She rolled over and pressed her face into his chest, flattened shaky palms against his skin. He held her close, pushing a few strands of copper-colored hair off her forehead and brushing a kiss over the place they’d vacated.
When she finally glanced up at him her expression was sheepish. “We’re both still wearing our jeans.”
“And our boots.” He nudged his toe against hers.
“I didn’t mean to be so selfish. Do you want me to—”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m good.” Actually he had a hard-on that would rival some of the diamonds that came out of his father’s mines, but that wasn’t her problem. Watching her enjoyment was worth fifty politely obliging hand jobs. His pleasure could wait until next time.
If there was a next time.
“Are you sure?” Her hand found his belt buckle, snapping him out of his momentary diversion into maudlin thinking. Of course there’d be a next time—neither of them would be leaving anytime soon, not until they got to the bottom of the increasingly complicated Hambani story. And after that, well—they’d cross that bridge when they came to it.
“You’re a talented man, Sergeant Copley.” She slipped the leather strap out of the metal buckle and plucked at the button beneath. “I’m not usually so, not normally that…” She paused, forehead creasing as she searched for the word.
“Wanton,” she declared eventually, tugging open his fly. “In fact, most of the time I—”
This time her sentence was interrupted by an almighty yawn. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she blinked several times as if waking herself up.
“You’re exhausted. I’ll defer your end of the deal—with interest.”
“You’ve got a deal.”
He started to sit up, but she tugged him back down to the bed.
“You don’t have to run off. Stay a while. Let me enjoy having a man in my bed.”
Short Fuse: Elite Operators, Book 2 Page 9