A Kiss to Kill

by Nina Bruhns

  “Get dressed,” he ordered gruffly, mastering his need. Just as he’d mastered everything else in his life. “I’ll make you some lunch.”

  He didn’t wait for her response, but went to the galley-style kitchen and opened a can of soup. French bread, a hunk of cheese, and steaming, fragrant tea completed the meal. He set it on his small kitchen table. When he looked up, he saw she’d dressed in the clothes he’d given her, and was clinging to the bedroom door frame, watching him.

  “Come and eat,” he said.

  She shook her head. She put out her bare foot and raised the hem of one leg of her sweatpants to show the silver heart and chain he’d fastened around her ankle. “What is this?”

  “A gift,” he said after a short hesitation. How could he explain the complicated feeling behind the gesture? The powerful surge of possessiveness that had rushed through his veins, the protectiveness he’d felt as he’d locked the chain around her limb and claimed her with his talisman? And the sense of relief knowing that within the curve of the silver heart nestled a tracking device that he could activate if he ever needed to—providing she didn’t take a hacksaw to the thing and throw it out the window. “A symbol of my good intentions.”

  She gazed at it suspiciously. “It doesn’t have a clasp.”

  “No,” he said. “Let it be a reminder that I’ll always be with you. Not to hurt you. To protect you.” He didn’t add “even if you don’t want me there,” but it was clear in her face that she understood that much. But it was a pretty trinket, one he’d known she would like, and he could also see her uncertainty about its ultimate meaning.

  She lowered the pant leg. “There’s a tracking device in it, isn’t there?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “I know. But do you really want to take a chance on no one finding you when the bad guys show up next time?”

  She just glared.

  “Now come and eat,” he repeated.

  “I don’t think so,” she said without moving.

  He controlled the annoyance that wanted to rise. “What? You think I’m going to drug you? Poison you?”

  She gnawed on her lower lip, silently eyeing the food. Obviously, she did.

  “Fine.” He bent to spoon up a mouthful of soup. Then another. He swallowed it down and tore a hunk of bread onto which he sliced a sliver of cheese, and ate that, too. He drank half the mug of tea, then refilled it from the same pot. “Convinced?”

  “Protection from whom?” she asked, avoiding the question.

  He regarded her. “Come over here and sit down and I’ll tell you.” He backed away from the table, all the way to the kitchen counter, and leaned his butt against it, folding his arms over his chest so he wouldn’t reach out for her.

  She still didn’t move.

  “Sweet thing, if I’d wanted to hurt you, I’d already have done so,” he said reasonably.

  Her eyes cut up to him from the table. “Don’t call me that.”

  He stifled a sting in his heart. She used to like it when he called her sweet thing. So did he. Because she was. Incredibly sweet. Sweet sounding, sweet tasting, sweet smelling, sweet looking. She was the sweet and soft to everything hard and bitter inside him.

  Even now, with her beautiful dark eyes filled with such loathing and suspicion, she was still the sweetest thing he’d ever seen.

  “Whatever you want,” he said dispassionately, and pointed to the meal. “Now, eat.”

  “When you’ve answered my question.”

  Even though she still clung to the door frame, in her refusal he saw a glimmer of the old, strong, and stubborn Gina, and was gratified. He wanted her fighting, not cowering.

  “All right,” he conceded, rewarding her. “Protection from the al Sayika thugs who tried to kill you this morning, and all the others that will follow, now that you’re out of Haven Oaks. They must think you can identify them. And they’ll keep sending assassins until you’re dead. I have to protect you.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t even try. I know you’re al Sayika’s paid dog. You were there with them this morning! Besides, STORM is protecting me.”

  He ground his jaw at the insult. Controlled his anger. “And a first-rate job they did, too.”

  She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, dismay crossing her face. “You killed him. Dez Johnson, one of the STORM agents. You only wanted me. Why did you have to kill him?”

  He stared at her. Told himself it didn’t matter that she believed he was firmly on the side of evil. The truth was, her would-be assassins had distracted the more seasoned STORM guy and set a trap for Johnson, who’d been just new enough at this game to fall for it. Gregg hadn’t gotten to him in time.

  “I didn’t kill him,” he said evenly. “But I did kill the terrorists. If I hadn’t, you’d be dead now, too.”

  She stared back at him, then turned away with a shiver. She couldn’t very well deny the truth of it. She’d been there. Seen the attacker’s gun pointed at her forehead. And her own knife planted in his chest.

  Which apparently convinced her Gregg wasn’t out to kill her. Not yet, anyway. Evidently, he had to rape her first.

  She edged toward the table and warily sat down. He held himself very still, though God knew why he bothered.

  “You’ve been following me,” she said, hesitantly picking up the spoon. There was only one, and they both realized in the same instant that he’d already eaten from it. She set it down again.

  Clenching his jaw, he pulled a new one from the drawer. “Yeah. Ever since you were rescued in Louisiana,” he said, holding it out to her.

  He held it steady as she regarded him, comprehension slowly dawning in her eyes. “Ever since . . . then you were at Haven Oaks.”

  He nodded. “Got a job there as a groundskeeper.”

  “But how? STORM security is . . .”

  He gave her a patient look. “I worked CIA undercover black ops for over a decade, Gina. I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I couldn’t get past a little security check.”

  She paled, looked from him to the spoon in his hand. “I wasn’t hallucinating. I knew I’d seen you.”

  He gave up and set it on the table for her, then returned to his spot against the counter. “Yeah, I let you see my face a couple times, hoping . . .” He pressed his lips together, remembering the look of abject terror on hers each time he had. Fuck.

  She picked up the spoon, put it down. Picked up the bread instead. Put that down, too. “Why? Why watch me?”

  “I told you. To protect you.”

  Her eyes filled again as she shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why sell me out and then protect me? Out of guilt?”

  “I told you, Gina. It wasn’t me who sold you to those monsters.”

  He could see her struggle desperately against the assertion, unable to reconcile his denial with what she thought she knew.

  A tear trickled down her cheek. “You drove me there, Gregg—to the place the terrorists kidnapped me. You said it was Zero Unit’s northeastern headquarters, but how do I know it wasn’t a complete setup? That you weren’t part of the plan all along?”

  Thinking about that day sent liquid rage streaking through his veins. She was right; he had driven her to ZU-NE on the back of his motorcycle that afternoon, at the request of his commanding officer, Colonel Frank Blair, ostensibly to identify the body of a missing friend she’d been searching for. When they’d arrived, Blair had immediately handed him marching orders, sending him OCONUS on a three-week mission to Kurdistan. It wasn’t until Gregg returned that he’d learned Gina had vanished. And another week until he’d put all the pieces together. And realized he’d been used.

  Blair had denied it, of course. Even after some fairly persuasive questioning.

  And that’s when Gregg had gone AWOL. From Zero Unit, its handlers within CIA, and the whole damn world. It had been a setup, no doubt about it. But he’d been the one set up, to take the fall if Zer
o Unit’s involvement in a prominent American scientist’s kidnapping was ever discovered. If caught, there was no doubt in his mind that he’d fall victim to CIA’s usual tactic for ridding itself of an inconvenient operator—he’d disappear without a trace, to rot his life away in some stinking foreign political prison without the benefit of a trial. He’d seen it happen before, and it wasn’t pretty.

  He must figure out who was really behind this. And soon.

  “I guess you can’t be sure I wasn’t involved,” he admitted. “But I’d hoped you knew me better than to believe it.”

  He’d spent the entire three remaining months she was missing trying to find her. Which hadn’t been easy. He’d been branded a deserter—though technically he wasn’t, because Zero Unit was not part of the military—and worse, the terrorists’ accomplice. Even now his face was plastered across every MP and law enforcement office’s Most Wanted board, not to mention every ZU operator, CIA officer, and Interpol agent in the world was looking for him. Tough to move around under those circumstances, even with Tommy and his other CIs helping him.

  In the end, when he’d finally found a solid lead on who might have taken Gina and where she was being held, he’d been forced to phone it in anonymously to DHS because his own hands had been so severely tied. He hadn’t wanted her to spend one more minute with those al Sayika scumsuckers because of his own inability to mount a rescue.

  Head bowed, she studied the bowl of soup before her. “How can I believe anything you say?” she quietly asked. “You’ve lied to me about everything—everything—from the moment we met.”

  His heart squeezed. He opened his mouth to deny it, then snapped it shut. Lying was a way of life when you worked for the Agency. They’d met because she’d been his assignment. He’d been sent to stop her asking some very inconvenient questions about a woman who’d disappeared in conjunction with one of their covert operations. But once he’d seen her, talked to her, kissed her, made love to her . . .

  “Our intimate relationship was not a lie,” he denied tightly.

  She looked up. Accusation again swam in her big brown eyes. “Wasn’t it?”

  “No.”

  He pushed off the counter angrily, and she jumped, knocking her chair over as she surged to her feet and backed away from him in fear.

  Fuck it. He couldn’t take this another minute.

  He stopped, exhaled, and said, “Eat your soup before it gets cold, then get some rest. I’m going out for a while.”

  He felt her eyes on his back as he retrieved his spare weapon—a Beretta with the serial numbers filed off—from the bedroom and tucked it into an ankle holster. His SIG Sauer P226 Elite was already in its usual spot—in the front of his waistband under his T-shirt. Sliding on his black leather jacket, he grabbed his keys and went to the door. “I’m locking this from the outside,” he said. “There isn’t another key, so don’t bother tearing the place apart searching. But help yourself to whatever else you want.”

  With that, he left the apartment, turning the key in the lock behind him with a firm snick.

  Christ.

  It took him all four flights of stairs going down to the street to master his anger. Not anger at her. Anger at himself. That he’d gotten into this ludicrous situation in the first place. If he’d only just done his job—seduced her to shut her up as ordered, then walked away when the deed was done—and not gotten emotionally involved. Not let himself fall for her body and grow dependent on her adoration, not start to think maybe, just maybe, he’d finally met a woman whose warmth and love could banish the perpetual coldness in his heart . . .

  Fuck it.

  None of that mattered now. His foolish, uncontrolled foray into the realm of emotions was over. All that mattered was keeping Gina safe from those who would harm her.

  Hell, he should have brought her here days ago. With her safely hidden at his place, he wouldn’t have to follow her 24/7, trying vainly to protect her while she left herself ridiculously exposed to attack just to lure him out in the open. He’d been stupid, stupid, stupid, letting meaningless emotion influence his decisions. He knew better. Knew better. He’d spent his whole life ridding himself of those irrational impulses.

  It wasn’t going to happen again.

  But now he had to work fast. Everyone involved thought he was a traitor. Gina’d just confirmed that. Thanks to the witnesses after the attack, they’d know he was the one holding her now. No stone would be left unturned in the search for her—and him. If the real traitor found him and he disappeared, she’d be left out there all on her own.

  He knew very well that STORM Corps was only using her as bait to bring down the al Sayika mole. He’d listened to enough of their conversations back at Haven Oaks to leave no doubt of their strategy. So if they believed the traitor had been caught, they’d assume she was safe, and cease their surveillance.

  Gregg didn’t want to think what might happen to Gina without him to protect her.

  He had to find the traitor before he found them.

  Both their lives depended on it.

  “SO, I’ll see you later tonight, Detective McPhee?”

  “Looking forward to it, SAC Montana.”

  Sarah watched the disturbingly sexy FBI agent walk purposefully to his car and climb in. It was a late-model BMW. Dark blue, of course, God forbid he break the FBI dress code even in his choice of vehicle color. Though it was a convertible. A peek of rebellion . . . or vanity?

  Okay, that was weird.

  Not the car. The dinner invitation.

  The whole setup had Sarah’s internal red flags whipping back and forth, doing tricks worthy of her niece’s high school color guard.

  Still. The guy was totally gorgeous. Who was she to turn down a date with the most attractive man she’d met in years just because there were probably more strings attached than in her grandpa’s tackle box? This wasn’t a date, it was a fishing expedition. That much was pretty obvious.

  She started up her ancient Chevy with a grin. Yeah, well, two could play at that particular game. She couldn’t wait to see how far he’d actually go to get what he wanted from her.

  Whatever the hell that was.

  For the past half hour they’d sat in her car eating the Angry Whoppers he’d brought, sipping Cokes, and making small talk . . . while he’d danced around the real topic of his interest—the dead woman in the alley. He’d asked what Sarah knew about her, nodding politely when she’d told him she knew pretty much diddly.

  “Why are you so interested in this victim?” she’d asked.

  “Sorry, can’t tell you,” he’d cited with that smug FBI twinkle in his honest blue eyes. “Ongoing investigation.”

  God, she hated that. She’d really wished she had something she could hold out on him with. Unfortunately, she really did know diddly.

  So they’d moved on to other subjects, including the murdered guy in the lily pond, about whom she knew even less since they hadn’t run his prints yet. That’s when Montana had surprised her with the dinner invitation. Good grief. You couldn’t get much more blatant than that. Which was why it shocked the hell out of both of them when she’d accepted.

  His blue eyes had fought not to grow speculative, but slowly he’d smiled. She’d smiled back. With the confidence of a woman having years of experience dealing with this sort of Neanderthal chauvinism. She could work these guys in her sleep, with one hand tied. Hell, sometimes with both hands tied.

  Wade Montana was nuts if he thought he could manipulate information out of her by using sex. She’d tell him what she wanted, when she wanted, if she wanted. And if he didn’t like it, well, he could just go twinkle those sexy blue eyes at someone else.

  ALEX Zane stared pensively across the water as he steered the Stormy Lady, the cabin cruiser that STORM had provided for him and Rebel, out of Norfolk harbor and onto the Chesapeake Bay.

  Goddamn it.

  He couldn’t believe Dez Johnson was dead. Murdered in cold blood, his throat slit from behind w
hile defending Gina Cappozi from an assassination attempt—Gina, who had once again been kidnapped. This time not by the terrorists themselves, but by the traitor who worked for them. The man they were now all hunting—Zero Unit operator-gone-rogue Gregg van Halen.

  For the first time in months, van Halen had actually been spotted, his identity confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt. From what STORM had been able to piece together from the clutch of frightened-out-of-their-wits witnesses, after Gina and Dez had managed to neutralize three of the would-be assassins, van Halen had killed Dez, swooped down and knocked out Gina, then made off with her unconscious body—in a taxi, of all fucking absurdities.

  God, what a fucking clusterfuck.

  Alex had heard that Kick was in a lethal rage. Kick had been Dez’s partner this morning. While Gina was buying flowers, Kick had gone to check out a suspicious individual who’d ducked into the building next door. When he’d come back, Dez and three others lay dead on the street and Gina was gone.

  Kick blamed himself big-time for falling for the decoy. Which was bullshit, of course. If the threat had been real and he hadn’t investigated, the outcome would have been just as bad. It was a no-win situation, either way.

  Now the team was galvanized. Out for blood. And Alex desperately wanted to be back up in New York with them, helping to run van Halen to ground. But Commander Quinn insisted someone had to investigate the sunken yacht, and that someone was Alex. The yacht might hold evidence about the rumored attack on Washington, D.C., Quinn had argued, and possibly clues as to where van Halen was holding Gina. Not to mention the illusive “trigger.”

  Alex slashed his hand through his hair. He hated being the invalid, deliberately kept away from the action. He needed to do something. Tackle someone. Shoot someone. Hell, anything.