A Kiss to Kill

by Nina Bruhns

She looked at him, confused. “What?”

  “My name,” he demanded forcefully. “What is it?”

  Then she realized what he needed to hear.

  He’d had amnesia the whole time he was a prisoner, hadn’t known his real name. In his dreams, she would use a different name for him every night. But never the right one.

  “It’s Alex,” she said with a moan as the tip of his cock slid past her slick opening. “Christopher Alexander Zane.”

  When she breathed his name, low and needy like a prayer, it was like something broke free within him. His shoulders notched down and he let out a half-growl, half-laugh. “Thank God, it is you. Jesus, Rebel, I’ve waited so long for this. For you.”

  With that, he scythed into her, thrusting all the way to the hilt.

  She bowed up, crying out his name once more, wrapping her legs around his waist and meeting his driving thrust with her own. He was thick and hard and filled her completely.

  Stars burst across her vision. She gasped, close to coming apart again.

  And that’s when she realized why he felt so amazingly, sinfully good. She grabbed his arms, tried to stop him. And herself. “Alex! Wait,” she panted.

  He pulled out nearly all the way. Opened his eyes to narrow slits, fighting with the effort of control. He hung there for an endless moment as he drilled her with a look, conflict running through every straining muscle. With a muttered curse, he said, “Don’t worry, baby. It’s okay. You’ll be all right.”

  She teetered on the edge, wondering what he meant, why he suddenly looked so angry. “But—”

  “Will I?” he asked.

  She gasped a nod, knowing he must mean Wade. “I’ve . . . a-always been careful.” Until now. “But, Alex—”

  His whole body shook as he pistoned into her again, heavy and deep. She felt the jolt of pleasure clear to her toes.

  “Please. Just trust me, angel,” he rasped out.

  She was so close, so needy for him. And knew he had a clean bill of health from Haven Oaks. What could she do but as he asked? So she let herself go. Surrendered to the feelings and sensations that swept over her, giving herself over to the rushing climax that claimed her body a second time as he rammed into her again.

  And again. And one last time.

  With a strangled roar, he followed her, shooting his hot seed deep into her body.

  Unprotected.

  Dear lord. What had she done?

  EIGHT

  BASED on a bit of inside info from his confidential informant Tommy Cantor, Gregg was seated at the counter of a greasy spoon diner located just a block from a midtown NYPD precinct, waiting for his 1:30 meeting to show. The place was filthy with blue uniforms and men in ill-fitting suits with bulges under their armpits. But what the hell, Gregg needed more excitement in his life.

  He’d come prepared, though, wearing an NYPD baseball cap and navy blue Windbreaker with POLICE stenciled in big gold letters across the back, worn over his untraceable but standard police-issue Beretta under his armpit. Yep, just another one of the boys. Hell, what were they going to do, throw him in the slammer for impersonating a police officer? He should be so fucking lucky.

  Still, one thing about cops, they tried their damndest not to shoot innocent people. That could work to Gregg’s advantage today. This was the safest place he could think of for an encounter with Colonel Frank Blair.

  Yeah, call him crazy, but it was high time the two of them had another little tête-à-tête.

  Gregg was pretty sure the man was involved up to his steel-gray eyebrows in Gina’s kidnapping and Gregg’s own frame-up. So Tommy had arranged this meet-and-greet, under the pretext of Blair meeting with a snitch who was willing to give up Gregg’s whereabouts for a price.

  The old bastard was nothing if not punctual. At 1:30 p.m. on the dot, the colonel walked into the diner. Or rather, marched in. Naturally, Blair didn’t see him at first. Which gave Gregg the opportunity to study his adversary in the mirror above the wait-station.

  His former commanding officer hadn’t changed one iota in the seven months Gregg had been AWOL. No shocker there. The bastard hadn’t changed in the entire dozen-plus years Gregg had been with CIA covert ops. Ex-uniformed army officer and fanatically conservative, Blair was the kind of old-school, piss-and-iron, by-the-book commander that the brass loved and the grunts hated. Blair despised anything that smacked of weakness, and severely punished those who displayed it. You had to respect the old man’s vast experience as a leader, but few in ZU actually liked him.

  Gregg’s cell buzzed. He tapped his earpiece. “Yeah.”

  “You’re good. He’s alone,” Tommy said, and the line clicked off.

  Arrogant SOB. Blair would think he could take a young whippersnapper like Gregg with his hands tied behind his back.

  Then again, that’s what Gregg was counting on.

  He saw the instant in which Blair recognized him; the colonel’s back went up like a ramrod. But a quick glance around at the diner full of cops convinced the other man not to reach for the weapon Gregg was sure he carried under his green Vietnam-era army field jacket.

  Blair marched up, looked at the stool Gregg had deliberately held vacant for him, and sat down with a disgusted sneer.

  “You’ve got some fucking nerve, soldier. I’ll give you that.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, coming from you,” Gregg returned evenly.

  “What do you want this time, van Halen?” Straight to the point as always. “To turn yourself in? Tired of running like a coward?”

  He decided to do the same. “I want to know why you’re working for al Sayika.”

  “Same old tune, eh?” The old man’s face betrayed nothing, a perfect slab of cement. “Told you last time. I work for the President of the United States,” Blair said disdainfully. “Not terrorists.”

  “Bullshit,” Gregg growled. “You’re the one who ordered me to bring Dr. Cappozi to ZU-NE the day she was kidnapped there, then sent me out of the country so fast I wouldn’t notice. You’re also the one who made damned sure I was blamed for it.”

  “That’s because you’re guilty. A goddamn traitor,” Blair growled back.

  They glared at each other. It was déjà vu.

  Several cops close to them turned to see what the fuss was about, so they both spun away from each other and stared straight ahead. The air around them pulsed with animosity.

  Gregg had to admit, Blair was pretty damn convincing, now as before. But then, he would be. He’d worked black ops and told lies for CIA since way back in Cambodia in the ’60s. Probably couldn’t even tell the difference between truth and lies anymore.

  But the big question was, why would he be helping terrorists?

  Had Gina been right? Was it simply for money? A slice of the millions’ worth of blood diamonds Gina had accused Gregg himself of taking from al Sayika? Gregg had a hard time believing greed would motivate a man like Colonel Blair any more than it did him. But what else would? That’s what he needed to find out.

  “What say we take a walk,” he suggested. “Outside.”

  Blair didn’t object. Wordlessly, he stood and marched for the door. Yeah, definitely arrogant.

  “Around the corner in the alley,” Gregg directed him when they hit the sidewalk. Blair didn’t object to that either. By the time they rounded the corner of the building, Gregg had his Beretta out. He pressed the barrel into the base of the man’s skull.

  Blair just laughed. “Put your weapon down, soldier. You’re not going to kill me and we both know it.”

  “I’m wanted for treason,” Gregg said. “The way I see it, I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “Not if you’re guilty,” Blair pointed out with uncanny intelligence. Gregg may have underestimated the fucker. “Besides, you pull the trigger and every cop in that diner will be out here in under three seconds.”

  “Just walk,” Gregg ordered, pushing the cold steel into Blair’s cervical vertebra, steering him deeper into the alley p
ast where Gregg had parked his Harley. “Okay, hold it. Now talk.”

  Blair turned. “I’ve got nothing to say.”

  “No?” Gregg pulled a silencer out of his Windbreaker pocket and began screwing it onto the Beretta.

  Blair’s eyes narrowed and he drilled him a penetrating look. “You really gonna play it this way?”

  “I really am.” Gregg aimed the silenced pistol at the colonel’s kneecap.

  Blair pushed out a breath. “I told you. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Captain. Those orders came straight from Washington.”

  At last, something new. “Which orders?”

  Blair gestured impatiently. “The ones to bring in Dr. Cappozi to identify the body of her friend, and for your mission to Kurdistan.”

  “Please. There was no body. Rainie Martin wasn’t dead,” Gregg said impatiently. “Even I knew that.” His assignment had been to stop Gina from asking questions about Rainie’s disappearance because it involved a sensitive and highly covert CIA mission. A simple honeypot operation—with Gregg as the honey. At least that’s what he’d thought at the time. Since when had he gotten so dumb?

  Blair bristled, almost convincingly. “I was told she’d died in a plane crash.”

  Gregg was getting mighty tired of all the lies. He adjusted his aim and started to pull the trigger.

  “Wait!”

  Gregg halted and met the man’s eyes. To the old man’s credit, he didn’t look the least frightened. What he looked was even more impatient than Gregg. “I’m listening,” he prompted.

  “I don’t know what you’re playing at, van Halen, but if you really insist on going through this absurd charade, contact Washington yourself. Confirm that the orders were sent.”

  “I need a name.”

  He rattled one off. “He’s at the Pentagon.”

  Anger swept through Gregg so thoroughly he nearly pulled the trigger just on reflex. “You really expect me to believe someone at the Pentagon is involved in a treasonous conspiracy to abduct and torture a U.S. citizen and set off biological weapons on American soil?” His voice grew hotter and louder with each syllable. With a jerk, he shifted the aim of the Beretta up to Blair’s heart. “How fucking stupid do you think I am?”

  Blair stood his ground. “No more stupid than you thinking I’m buying any of this innocence crap. You were the only other person who knew Dr. Cappozi would be at ZU-NE that day.” He leaned over the gun and into Gregg’s face. “You’re the one who set her up, Captain. And you’re the one who’ll hang for it.” He emphasized the word hang.

  The indictment echoed down the alley like a shot. Gregg clamped his jaw. He should have known this would be a fucking waste of time. He waved the gun at Blair. “Get the hell out of here.”

  With that, he managed to surprise the other man, whose face registered a millisecond of shock before it went stony again. Then he turned on a boot and marched out of the alley.

  The fucking Pentagon. Jesus fucking Christ. And for this he broke cover?

  Shit. He should have shot the delusional bastard while he had the chance. God knew, this lapse of judgment would surely come back to bite him in the ass.

  GINA paced back and forth across the thick Berber carpet in Gregg’s apartment. Where was he? It had been nearly four hours since he’d left. Her mind waffled madly between being anxious for him to come back and immense relief that he hadn’t.

  God, was she messed up.

  But he would be back. There was little hope of him leaving her here to starve to death. Miraculously, he’d managed to convince her he wasn’t going to kill her—which made sense, when she thought about it. She wasn’t valuable to him. But she was to the terrorists he was helping. He’d said it himself . . . maybe one of them thought she could identify him. Or they wanted revenge for her foiling their plans to wreak mass destruction on this country. Gregg could be out there at this very moment, negotiating with al Sayika to return her to them. So they could kill her.

  Oh, God.

  How much would they pay him for her this time around? The price on her head was half a million in illegal diamonds. Maybe they’d tack on a nice bonus if he did the deed for them and just brought them proof she was dead? Or worse, did they want her to finish the perverse bioweapon project that she’d sabotaged during her captivity?

  She slapped her hands over her mouth, convulsively swallowing a cry of despair. How had this happened? She’d trained so damned hard with her knife. She’d been so ready for him. Ready to rid the world of the bastard for good.

  Or so she’d thought.

  Visions of the bloodbath on the sidewalk this morning rushed through her mind, pushing out every other rational thought. The strangled cry that was stuck in her throat emerged as a low wail.

  “Oh, God!” She doubled over in anguish, her eyes filling with hot tears for the dozenth time that day. “God, help me.”

  As she was leaning over, she spotted the silver heart peeking out from below her sweatpant leg. The anklet. Anger surged through her. A gift? A tracker for her own protection? Who was he trying to kid? She didn’t want his damned protection. Or the reminder of him, however pretty. Didn’t want his jewelry touching her body. She ran into the narrow kitchen and yanked open drawer after drawer searching for something she could use to cut it off. She found a pair of sturdy shears. The kind they showed on TV cutting through pennies. Those would do. She knelt down and grabbed the pretty little heart and pulled it away from her skin, jamming the scissors around the chain to clip it in two.

  Suddenly, there was a scratching noise behind her. She spun, and the shears clattered to the floor. Gregg was back!

  But it wasn’t him. The noise wasn’t coming from the door at all. It came from the opposite end of the narrow galley kitchen.

  It sounded again. Scratching. Like someone at a window, trying to get in. What was he doing? Or was it the terrorists who’d come for her?

  Her heart pounded out of control. Frantically, she looked around for a weapon. She picked up the shears. Dropped them again. Too blunt.

  She jumped up and leapt for the counter. Grabbing the coffeepot from the drip machine, she raised the glass to smash it to a razor-sharp edge.

  Then all at once she saw who was at the window. Or rather, what. She stopped in mid-motion. And let out a hysterical sob of relief.

  “Omigod.”

  Sitting on the outside windowsill was a little tabby with fluffy, copper-colored fur. It meowed, blinking at her with big, amber kitty eyes.

  She hiccupped, and lowered her makeshift weapon. How in the world had it gotten this high up, outside the apartment?

  As it turned out, there was a metal fire escape running down the side of the apartment building right next to the window—the window with metal bars over it.

  The cat meowed again. On the counter, Gina suddenly spotted a small double bowl and a short stack of canned cat food.

  “You can’t be serious,” she murmured incredulously.

  Captain Terrifying had a cat? That sounded totally unlike the control freak she knew Gregg to be. The man always had a carefully thought-out plan for everything, which was then always meticulously executed. His closet and dresser could pass boot camp inspection, and she’d once caught him ironing his T-shirts, for crying out loud. When they used to make love he’d insisted on complete control over her; more often than not he’d handcuff her wrists to the headboard so she couldn’t take charge.

  Not cat person behavior. Gregg van Halen was most definitely a dog person through and through.

  Gina was the cat person. She loved the independence of cats, and their feline discrimination. Unpredictable, moody, proud, they were indomitable. Masters of their universe. Woe betide the human who tried to tame a cat’s spirit.

  And yet, here was hard evidence staring back at her plain as day, not just from the window, but also from the kitchen counter. The cat was Gregg’s. Or rather, he was the cat’s.

  She walked over and slid the casement up enough to let him in
.

  Make that let her in. Yeah, that figured.

  “Hey, catnik,” she said with a smile when the cat bounded in onto the tiny kitchen table, and stretched up to greet her in that furry, rubby, archy way cats had. After a few neck scratches, it meowed, decided that was enough affection, and jumped from the table onto the counter, sitting pointedly in front of the can opener with tail twitching.

  Gina laughed out loud. The unfamiliar sound startled the hell out of her. She stared in wonder at the cat. She hadn’t laughed aloud in eight months.

  Stepping over to the counter, she gathered up the tabby in her arms and gave it a long hug, which in its infinite cat wisdom, it sank into, giving her cheek a tiny lick with its little sandpapery tongue.

  Gina’s heart swelled. It was so nice to feel a soft, warm body against hers. One she knew intended her no harm. Since her rescue, other than hugs from her nurse and best friend, Rainie, she hadn’t let anyone else close enough to touch anything but her hand.

  The kitty finally pulled away, and she opened a can of fish-flavored food and scooped it out into the bowl. She could swear the feline smiled at her before digging in.

  Seeing the animal eat reminded Gina that she probably should, too. Not that she was hungry. She’d lost her appetite eight months ago and hadn’t gotten it back. She opened the fridge. Good thing. There wasn’t much in it. Mostly water and beer. A variety of condiments, including three types of salsa. Eggs. A few cartons of leftover takeout. A bag of salad. Milk. Gregg liked cereal for breakfast, she recalled. And eggs for dinner. With salsa. But only if he didn’t want to take the time to go out to eat. Mainly when they were in bed and rumbling stomachs disrupted the flow of whatever they were doing, making them laugh.

  Stifling the too-potent memory of that long-ago laughter, she found a bunch of bananas on the counter, broke one off, and ate it while stroking the cat’s soft fur as it licked the bowl clean then had a long drink of water. After giving her fingers another tiny lick, it bounded off to the main room, jumped up on the fat arm of an easy chair sitting next to a small round table with a lamp on it. There was no TV in the apartment, but a book lay facedown on the table, next to a coaster. Gregg’s favorite spot to sit and relax . . . when he wasn’t in bed.