Flames danced, filling the sky. He heard the telltale whoosh. The cracking and slamming that echoed as walls fell and fire engulfed buildings. Ignoring the ache in his shoulder and twisting in his lower back, Ford rolled to his side, scanning the area for signs of life. For West.
The shouting in his ear registered as he spied West struggling to balance his upper body on his elbows. Ford tried to call out but his voice didn’t register above the din.
“Report.” Harlan’s yelling and the rumble of noise in the background on the com wiped out the sounds of the raging fire. “Ford!”
“We’re here.” Sirens wailed in the distance and lights flickered on all around the area. People stood in huddled, hugging groups. A few brave souls tried to rush into the crumbling hull of what only seconds ago had been a grand house, only to get beaten back by flames licking through the structure. The fire spread fast and wild, overcoming the houses on either side, which now burned with abandon.
West shook his head. “What the hell?”
“Not just a fire. It was an explosion.” Ford expected a fuck-up but this exceeded any anticipated problem. There would be bodies. Innocents caught in the cross fire. Questions it would take meticulous piecing together to answer.
And then someone would need to explain why their intel was so piss poor and who warned the bad guys they were coming.
“Target and other buildings on fire,” West filled in as he turned over and shuffled on his elbows in the grass, to drop next to Ford.
The com went silent. No background noise. Not even a hint of Harlan’s usual Brit bullshit. Ford was on the verge of demanding new orders when Harlan broke in again. “Transport at RAF Mildenhall. Rendezvous back here at the Warehouse in forty-eight hours. Cutting communication.”
Then nothing. Even the subtle hum of the mic in Ford’s ear cut off.
West sat up but kept his body low as they blended into the smoke-filled night. “We could just go to the London field office.”
Alliance stayed mobile but did have set offices, one of which was nearby on the Thames. An imposing white and blue building, referred to as Legoland, housed the British secret intelligence, and deep inside sat a nerve center used by Alliance. From there, they had the ability to spring into action when international security threats popped up around the world.
But this order adhered to protocol. No matter where they were, operatives reported back to the Warehouse rather than remain in the field when an assignment blew up. The brief time delay from disaster to meet-up allowed for separation between the people in charge and the people who risked everything—them.
Ford knew the drill. Drop IDs, hide weapons and evidence, pick up alternative travel documents. If someone meant to terminate him, it would happen now and headquarters could maintain deniability. “This is a full field op fuck-up.”
West swore under his breath. “And we’ll be blamed.”
History suggested yes. “We need to get back before Harlan hangs this around our necks.”
West took off his knit hat and shoved it in one of the utility pockets of his pants. “Fucking Brits.”
About time someone agreed. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”
2
SHAY ALEXANDER heard the dueling sounds of off-key humming and a blaring radio as she entered her first floor condo. Closing the door shut out the traffic noise and mumble of conversation from people walking by on the sidewalk, but the bad singing remained.
Town houses and stately old homes converted to apartments and condos lined this street in the Dupont Circle area of DC. The Metro sat a few blocks away, and the prime real estate location kept the prices high, which was good since she managed the building and two others for her uncle. She lived alone in the Beaux Arts–style place that had served as a home to one family in the forties and had since been divided into a twenty unit complex.
Her small one-bedroom came with the job. The perfect size for a single person, but she’d been fitting two of them in quite nicely on and off for the last three weeks. Which brought her mind back to the not-really-singing thing happening at the back of her condo.
The deep male voice lured her through the family room to the kitchen that ran along the side of the old building. From the doorway she noticed half of the contents of the navy toolbox lay scattered over her tile floor. A can of soda and open bag of chips sat on the edge of the sink. She didn’t know where the snacks came from because buying chips inevitably resulted in her hoovering the bag in one sitting, so she never stepped one foot into that aisle in the grocery store. That was as far as her chip self-control extended.
The radio, set to deafening, sat on the small table pressed up against the opposite wall. She spied the sneakers next and tiptoed, careful not to tramp down too hard with her boots. There was no need to give away her position. Not when she could steal a moment of looking at him.
Legs, long and lean, stuck out from under her sink. A sliver of bare trim waist peeked out from the space where his faded jeans and the bottom of what looked like a T-shirt should meet. The unexpected sight of a guy on the floor might scare another woman, but not her. Not those legs and surely not the impressive male body attached to them.
She winced over a particularly rough note and reached over to turn the radio down. The chips were right there, so she grabbed one. Then two.
“You’re back,” she said, munching over the salt and fat frenzy in her mouth.
Tools clanked and something thudded. An impressive string of profanity came next. “Shay?”
“Who else?” She still hadn’t seen that hot face, with the dark scruff around his chin and those intense green eyes. The guy was of the pure Tall, Dark, and Oh-So-Hot variety. She hated to admit she could stare at him for long periods of time. Look, and totally miss whatever he said.
After rubbing the salt from her fingertips on her jeans, she crouched down, balancing on the balls of her feet, and tried to get a peek at his T-shirt of the day. The graphics ranged from ridiculous to innuendo-filled. None could be classified as appropriate for outside the home. She had no idea where he got them, but she sure enjoyed the ongoing show.
“Hey.” He lifted his head and clunked it off the side of a pipe. “Shit.”
“Smooth.”
He rubbed his temple. “I’m seeing two of you right now.”
The scruff was thicker than usual, and wasn’t that the sexiest thing ever. “You deserved that.”
“Hey, I’m fixing your leak.” He slid out. The move rolled his shirt up his torso and showed off skin . . . and muscles . . . Yeah, forget the T-shirt.
Minor handyman tasks fit in with her job description, but ever since he moved into the two-bedroom across the hall, he’d volunteered to help out. He worked as an IT specialist, handling computer systems for large companies and always on call. But, man, he looked good with a wrench in his hand. She liked him best bare-chested and fixing something.
His smile reeled her in, but she pretended to be immune, or at least a little in control. “You’re a plumber now?”
“Want to see my tools?”
The eyebrow wiggle almost did her in. “Wow, that was terrible.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.” With one hand wrapped around the lip of the sink, he pulled his body up and stood, stopping only for a quick kiss on her mouth. He extended a hand and brought her up beside him before her mind could take in every amazing inch of his six-foot frame. “It was the only line I could think of after a few hours of restless plane sleep and armrest wrangling with the guy in 15B. Give me a few minutes and my moves will catch up to the time zone jumps.”
He traveled all the time. In and out, always grabbing a duffel bag and heading off to fix some emergency. Sometimes texting her at one in the morning to announce he’d gotten back, then knocking on her door to come in for a visit. He’d moved in three weeks ag
o. The sex started about two days after that.
The relationship—or whatever it was—ran on fast forward from the first day. She’d seen his T-shirt with the piglet playing poker on it, and for some reason her control nosedived. Never mind that it was then October and cold and any sane person would wear a jacket or at least a sweater. He claimed DC was the South and warm. She guessed that meant he grew up in the Midwest or Vermont or, hell, even Canada. Somewhere cold. Not that he’d shared any part of his past with her . . . yet. His body, yes. The basic information, no.
She pushed the nagging thought out of her head and ran a finger over the prickly scruff on his chin. “How was the conference?”
“Long and tedious.”
“I imagined you hanging out in a bar talking computer code over beers.”
He snorted. “More like security measures. Firewalls and rotating IPs.”
With that, her already limited interest in the subject of computer tech fizzled out. Him putting his hands on her waist didn’t help her focus one bit. She ran her hand over his shirt and smoothed it down over his torso. Today’s version featured a cigar-smoking rat.
Of course it did.
“That is something else.” The graphic, the abs . . . the comment worked for both.
He backed her up until her backside balanced against the counter. “Yeah, I’ve been subjected to some pretty boring lectures and bad conference chicken.”
She kicked the wrench rocking under her heel to the side and lifted her arms to circle his neck. “You poor thing.”
“And my bed was very cold.” He shook his head, even pouted, as he delivered the statement in his most pathetic poor-me tone.
“Are you looking for pity?” She slipped her hand into his hair, as she always did. Something about the length, as if he were growing out a military cut, appealed to her as she wove the softness through her fingers.
His eyebrow lifted. “If that would work.”
“You’re getting there.”
She’d been so sure he was former Army—or something—and asked him about it the first week. Nothing in his renter’s agreement talked about military service, but she got the vibe. Service members moved in and out of DC all the time. She got the routine, and recognized the straight stance and assured conversation. And he had the confident walk and toned body down.
He’d listened to her assessment and laughed it off, insisting his smartass ways would have gotten him kicked out on the first day. She pretty much agreed with that.
“I’m willing to do almost anything to lure you into bed,” he said in a heated voice.
“Interesting.” And more than a little tempting. After all, he was an expert with that tongue, and not just for talking.
He pulled her in closer, wrapping her in his arms and pressing his chest against hers. “Next time we’ll have to schedule in some phone-sex time while I’m gone. Imagine me ordering you to touch yourself. Pretty damn hot.”
Her heart did a little jig at the thought. Saying “next time” meant whatever they had wasn’t going away. For now, knowing that but little else was enough. Soon she’d need more. “You gotta tone down this sweet-talking or it will go to my head.”
Before she could laugh, he lowered his head and treated her to a welcome home kiss that had her wanting to tie him in a chair to keep from leaving again. Hot and firm, he took control and dragged her under. His hands rubbed up and down her back as his mouth crossed over hers. When that sweet tongue slipped inside and met with hers, she dug her fingernails into his shirt. Almost bit through the cotton to hit skin.
He pulled back just far enough to stare down at her. The room spun and she held onto his shoulders to keep from falling down as babble filled her brain. “What?”
“I can spit-shine my lines until they’re clever but we both know you’re the gatekeeper.”
She wasn’t exactly sure what he was talking about but she liked the sound of it. “Damn right.”
“And I am your sex slave.” His voice dipped low until it skidded across her senses.
She clenched her fingers even tighter against his shoulders. Had to clear her throat a few times before finally spitting out a word. “Nice.”
Those strong hands slipped down her back to land on her ass. “The green light is totally in your control.”
His touch had her stretching up on the tips of her toes to brush her lower body against his. Not her most subtle move but then nothing about them being together was. They’d shifted from simmering to raging heat from the beginning. Skipped right over the get-to-know-you phase on the way to the bedroom.
She knew about his job and tried to keep a handle on his erratic schedule. His renter’s application included his social security number, which led to his impressive credit score and the glowing report from his last landlord in Virginia. The rest remained a mystery . . . except for the information she found in a few hundred Internet searches trying to make sure he wasn’t a wanted serial killer. Or married.
A woman had to be smart about these things. She refused to feel guilty about the dating recon after hearing one horror story too many from her friends. A guy with a hidden wife and an anger complex here. A guy who liked to wear women’s bikini underwear over there. Then there were the looking-for-money types. Yeah, no thank you.
Playing coy wasn’t her thing, and the attraction between them that sparked on the initial walk through the condo had burst into full flame by the time she handed over the keys. He’d asked her out a few weeks after. She refused. Two days later he brought pizza over and they’d been seeing each other ever since.
Seeing as in sex. Lots of sex. The guy might work with computers but he knew his way around a woman’s body. Hands, tongue, mouth . . . lord.
After a rocky last relationship, the physical play with him and limited dating contact due to his work schedule appealed to her. It didn’t matter that the need to know more about him kept picking at her. She’d vowed to turn off her preference for being prepared for anything and just let things unfold without trying to steer them.
In that spirit: “I thought you were blowing out my pipes.”
He chucked in the middle of nibbling on her ear. The sound was so rich and deep, so sexy it hit with the force of a superpower. “I would love to do that, yes.”
She felt his arms around her waist with hands caressing her ass and the back of her thighs through her jeans. The dual blast of touching and closeness had her breath stuttering in her chest. She inhaled and caught his scent, the same hint of black pepper she associated with his soap.
Unable to resist his face and that firm chin, she smoothed her fingertip around his mouth, letting the stubble of hair tickle her skin. “You should be resting from your boring conference and long flight.”
“That is not what I had in mind when I came over here.”
“My pipes, right?” She’d given him a key and the alarm code before he left on his latest trip. He’d been in and out working on the steps to the front door of the building. The argument about needing to get to the supply closet without tracking her down proved compelling. And the idea of him spending his first few hours back in DC fixing the plumbing problem she mentioned on his way out was just about the sexiest damn thing ever.
“Do your pipes need blowing?” He kept a straight face.
She had no idea how. “You make everything sound dirty.”
“Give me ten minutes and I’ll show you how dirty I can be.”
There it was, the flirty talk that drove her doubts away and had her handing over keys even though a little voice inside her head told her to be more careful. But there was no need to fight it. She didn’t plan to make him wait or work for it. Those days were behind them, and they had passed fast.
That left only one thing. “I have two words for you.”
One of his eyebrows lifted. “Which ar
e?”
She leaned in until her mouth hovered over his. “Green light.”
He pulled back as his gaze searched hers. “You sure?”
Since she’d been giving him the go sign pretty much from the beginning and he’d been speeding ahead with her, his hesitation now struck her as odd. But those knowing hands skimming along her sides let her know he was ready when she was.
The answer was now.
“Are you playing hard to get for, like, the first time ever since I’ve known you?” She pulled him in tighter, rubbing her body against his until his mouth dropped open and a sharp exhale escaped.
His hands clenched against her sides for the briefest of seconds then relaxed again. “Never.”
“You know . . .” She kissed her way down his throat to that delicious spot just above his collarbone. “I think there’s something in the bedroom that needs your attention.”
His fingers went to the button at the top of her jeans, then the screech of her zipper filled the room. Her mouth covered his just as his fingers slipped inside her underwear. Down and over her. Into her.
She held the back of his neck as her mouth slipped over his again and again. The counter dug into her lower back as his body rocked against hers. None of that mattered. Just his heat and those fingers and his warm breath brushing against her.
When he lifted his head again, he was on the verge of a full-fledged pant. Balancing his forehead against hers, he went to work on the white buttons of her oxford shirt. “What do you need in your bedroom?”
“Just you, Ford Decker.”
3
AS DIRECTED, exactly forty-eight hours later, after landing back in the U.S., Ford and West stepped through the doors of the National Counterterrorism Center in Mclean, Virginia. They passed through security check-ins and gates and an array of retinal scanners and other means of identifying the cleared humans from potential threats inside the massive facility known as Liberty Crossing.
Playing Dirty Page 2