by Alison Kent
From that very first night, he'd been entranced by her mysteriously seductive air. The way she wore her clothes, held her chin high, lowered her lashes and spoke with her eyes, had aroused both his lust and mistrust. A reasonable reaction considering another so much like her had sentenced him to die in a bamboo cage. No. That wasn't right. Because Malena was nothing like Natasha.
He'd come to that realization the night Natasha had told him she loved him. Those words . . . He blew out a long slow breath and thought of how many times he'd replayed them since in his mind. She'd taught him to laugh, when he never thought to have reason to, blown him away with her fun-loving spirit, her caring, selfless nature.
"She's something else, isn't she?" Hank said, moving in stealthily from wherever he'd come from to stand at Christian's side.
"Sure is," he answered, knowing full well they weren't talking about the same she at all.
"She's a might happier these days, too, without that stink smelling up the barn," Hank added with a snort.
Christian chuckled. Peter Deacon had long since been transferred from the vault beneath the stables and left bound and unconscious in Dr. Wickham Bow's Polytechnic office. An obvious case of a double-cross gone down.
Or so it had looked once Tripp and K.J. finished setting Deacon up, leaving the evidence, and getting the hell out with no trace of the Smithson Group left behind.
"One down," Christian said with a sigh. "Too many more to go."
"One bad guy at a time, son. That's the best we old soldiers can do."
Christian chuckled again, realizing he'd been doing a lot of that lately. "You might want to watch who you're calling old."
With two fingers, Hank snagged the cigar he held in the corner of his mouth. "You're getting there right on the money, boy, but you are sure wasting a lot of time along the way."
Well, now, wasn't this interesting, Hank gearing up for a lecture. Christian turned from the track to face the man who had saved his life. He crossed his arms over his chest and glanced down. "Spit it out."
Hank arched a thick white brow in return and gestured with the cigar. "Figured you would've sorted out a few things by now. That you might be feeling a bit restless. Lonesome, even."
He was talking about Natasha, of course. "I have been. A bit."
For the several seconds that followed, Hank looked into Christian's eyes, his own growing misty until he turned back to the track with a clearing of his throat. "I don't talk much about my Madelyn, but not a day goes by that I don't think about her."
Christian glanced down at the last of the green grass hugging the posts of the fence, shoved his fists into the pockets of his jeans, and nodded silently. This sure wasn't the lecture he'd been expecting.
He knew a lot of what Hank took on and doled out to his operatives was in a big part to keep himself busy, his mind sharp, his thoughts occupied. And as much as Christian couldn't get Natasha out of his head but for minutes at the most, he understood. He understood more than he'd ever thought possible, this compelling need driving a man to one woman.
Hank pulled his cap from his head by the bill, smoothed back his thick shock of white hair before settling it back in place. "It's hard to think that I might never have had those forty-one years if I hadn't stopped thinking a woman like her was a lot better off without having to wrestle a hardheaded sonofabitch like me."
Christian felt the corner of his mouth twitch at the same time he realized that was exactly why he hadn't gone to Natasha. That he thought she'd be better off without him, considering who he was and what he did. He didn't want to let her down. Couldn't bear it if he did.
"Anyhow," Hank said after several quiet moments, slapping Christian on the back as he turned toward the house. "I just wanted you to know that there is always a method to my madness. You remember that now, come morning."
Christian watched him go, frowning at what had to be a reference to an upcoming mission. Or so he thought until a frisson of awareness skittered down his spine. He didn't even have time to turn before she spoke.
"Hey, spy boy. What's cooking?"
What's cooking? Spy boy?
He only made it halfway around before he heard her running footsteps. And he barely managed to open his arms and brace himself before she launched herself bodily forward.
He wrapped his arms around her and spun in a circle where they stood, his face buried in her hair because he wasn't sure he could look her in the eyes without choking up. His heart was lodged firmly in his throat.
Warm sweet honey and spiced harem flowers and everything good in the world. That's what she smelled like, felt like, and finally what she tasted like when he pulled back and brought his mouth down on hers. He kissed her with weeks of built-up frustration and need, and she kissed him right back, her hands roaming over his head and neck as she held him still.
"Oh, Christian. I have missed you so much," she said, long, hot moments later, tendering tiny kisses all over his face.
No way in hell had she missed him half as much as he had missed her. "What are you doing here? How did you get here?"
She slowed her kisses and stepped away, her eyes shining with unshed tears but her smile starting to falter. "The helicopter. Mr. Briggs brought me. Hank didn't tell you?"
Christian shook his head, brushed her hair back from her face, which was the last thing he wanted to see every night before falling asleep for the rest of his life. "Not until two minutes ago."
"That sneaky bastard," she said with a growl and a stomp of her foot.
"He's definitely that." God, but she was beautiful. She was generous. She was gorgeous and courageous—this woman who had risked her life for his, reducing the memory of his bamboo cage to ashes.
And she was so very damn much a part of him now that he didn't know why he hadn't gone to her weeks ago.
She frowned in the direction of the house. "He told me you needed me."
"I do need you."
"You do?" she asked a few seconds later, blinking curiously.
He loved that about her. One of so many things. And he nodded. "Hmm, well. He makes a better spy than you do, then." She shoved sassy hands to sassy hips and flipped back her hair.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because he found me. You didn't."
"Natasha, listen—"
"You listen first, spy boy." She poked him in the chest. "I know who you are and what you are." Poke, poke. "How could I not? I've seen you in action"—poke—"at close range"—poke—"and I hate that someone, that anyone has to do what you do. And, yes. I'll be scared to death while you're away—"
"Wait a minute." He grabbed her hand, squeezed her fingers. "Away from where?"
"Away from me, silly."
He was through playing games. From now on, it was brutal honesty time. She was here and she was his and he'd live the rest of his life in Thailand before he ever let her get away. "And what are you going to be doing while I'm gone?"
"Oh, darning your socks." She shrugged, lowered her lashes demurely, toyed with the mother-of-pearl snap on his shirt, and monkeyed her finger around until she found his bare chest beneath. "Stuff like that."
He tossed back his head and laughed. "You are so full of crap."
"Oh, Christian. No, I'm not." She looked up then, her eyes brimming, tears spilling and running down her cheeks. "I'm full of love. For you."
And, at that, he had no choice. He gave up his heart and soul into Natasha's safekeeping. "Natasha, sweetheart. Oh, sweetheart. I love you, too."
">share