by Rosette Lex
“Well, I've never heard of anywhere called Jarillia.” The shopkeeper tells them, taking their money.
As the pair leaves his store, Timmons realizes what is wrong with the huge man. He doesn't look to have any hair. No eyebrows, no stubble and as he watches them leave and cross the road, the giant takes off his hat to reveal the strangest tattoos Timmons has ever seen.
***
Undercover Alien
Rosette Lex
Copyright 2015 by Rosette Lex
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced
in any way whatsoever, without written permission
from the author, except in case of brief
quotations embodied in critical reviews
and articles.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any
person, living or dead, event or place, is purely coincidental.
First edition, 2015
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1: Grant, Alan Grant
The party started at nine on the nose, which meant that by ten PM the crowd was thick enough to move through unnoticed. Alan arrived at 10:15, one of the few men without a date on his arm, but dressed to blend with this illustriously wealthy crowd. He had a little trouble not standing out, though he had developed a trick or two to offset his rather memorable appearance.
He blocked the whole doorway momentarily as the bouncer let him in, linebacker’s build balanced by his imposing height. He had a long, well-carved face, nose just a touch overlarge, his coffee-colored hair swept back from a patrician forehead, and his eyes an almost silvery gray that flicked around the room to take in every detail.
His hand-tailored stormcloud-gray suit and black tie glimmered with threads of silk and fine wool, his shoes held a high polish, and gold cuff links glittered at his wrists. If he wanted the attention of someone in the room, he could step up and address them, and they would see the full impact of his countenance and carefully-chosen wardrobe.
But right now, and most times when he was on a job, he exuded an air of quiet nondescriptness, his expressions closed and his gaze turned inward. His body language and everything else he could put into the act told passers-by, nothing to see here.
In this way, a very memorable gent strode unremembered through the crowd of wealthy sybarites, interacting only to swipe some champagne from a passing tray and wink at the temporarily dazzled server.
“Careful, darling, you’ll spill your drinks,” he said breezily to the pigtailed redhead, who swallowed and stared after him wide-eyed, like a teen with a crush.
She would forget him soon enough, and that was best. Alan wasn’t here to flirt. He wasn’t here to make contacts among the party-goers, who were mostly drug-seeking one-percenters enjoying the hospitality of one of the most successful dealers in Hollywood.
He wasn’t here for the nose-candy, which was being sampled out at its own table near the front. He didn’t much care to make deals, or buy drugs, or hire one of the cage dancers writhing on their little suspended platforms around the room. No. Alan Grant--whose mother had given him an entirely different name before his government employers got involved--was here looking for a woman.
A specific woman. He had memorized her description and her photograph before coming, and ran the information through his head again as he scanned the crowd. Five six to five eight. Athletic, buxom, generous through the hips, probably dressed to accentuate her body. Wavy black hair, brown eyes, slightly olive skin. Full lips...quite lovely, actually.
Though he didn’t have time to consider such things. Unlike certain men in his line of work, Alan knew his primary task was the protection of his country from security risks, not the indiscriminate bedding of attractive human females.
That sort of thing would inevitably lead to...complications, and he would rather avoid any. He had work to do. And he had never considered breaking hearts to be part of his job description, no matter what his masculine urges might try to dictate.
He sipped the champagne, a decent Cristal, and kept making his circuit, looking for his target. The woman in question was bad news, like several in this room--but in her particular case, she also possessed an awful lot of information needed by his employers to bring down her gang.
The Serbians were making their play for Southern California, loosening the Mexicans’ hold, and made up for their inferior numbers with sheer brutality. With buildings in Los Angeles going up in flames and a rocket launcher fired in Hollywood a week ago, Control had called Alan and his team in to get them the details they needed to pick apart the gang at the seams.
The lovely lady that he was looking for was the lover of the Serbians’ current leader, Alexei Bogdanovic, who apparently had a bad habit of confiding in his women.
His job was quite simple: escort the good lady to his safe house, interrogate her, and turn her over to his team, who would give her the choice between turning state’s evidence or an awful lot of prison time.
Alan didn’t think much of a woman who would sleep with a drug-slinging crime lord, let alone do it so much that their pillow talk turned to drug smuggling routes, gun shipments and the locations of unmarked graves. But what did he know of romance, anyway? Perhaps Bogdanovic had other charms.
The cage dancers distracted him more than they should have. The Serbians had good taste in women, at least. Lots of variety, especially given that they were in the plastic surgery capital of the planet. Voluptuous, slender, petite, Amazonian, blondes, brunettes, every race and for that matter, every cup size. He kept having to look away from them. Especially that one gyrating in the gilded cage over by the cocaine bar.
Normally, the red-sequined-pushup-bra look didn’t really do it for Alan, even in the middle of a sexual fast he’d kept since puberty. This time, however, coupled with all that wavy dark hair, and full lips painted the exact same color, he found himself staring.
He blinked. I need to keep on target. And yet he didn’t move, didn’t turn his eyes away, not from her. The crowd parted, and he moved forward, toward her, barely noticing where he was going, barely remembering to breathe.
The air had gone suddenly electric. He watched her slow display of herself, dancing in place with her platform heels braced on the gilded platform, hips shimmying in a matching loincloth made from many near-transparent panels of silk.
His eyes slid up her body as she gripped the cage bars and turned back against them, bringing one leg up and dragging it slowly down the length of the cage. He could see her face. He could see her eyes. And suddenly, she was all that he could see.
The champagne glass slipped through his fingers and shattered on the marble floor; he stepped over it, barely noticing. His reaction surged up through him with volcanic strength, every instinct calling on him to toss the mission, cross the floor, tear her out of the cage and take her away with him, killing anyone who got in his way. It went beyond attraction and straight into a savage, demanding need, completely primal: like air, like water.
Nothing in the entire universe mattered more than getting her alone with him and ending the celibate phase of his life as enthusiastically as possible.
He was certain of it, as certain as when his late father had told him the basics of what to expect from puberty. This was what he had been told he might experience some day. This all-encompassing thirst for someone; this certainty, as he stared at her, that that one is mine.
He was so affected that he was halfway across the floor before he realized something that made his chest tighten with sudden apprehension. She wasn’t just the most stunningly attractive woman he had ever encountered in the flesh. This woman was also...the one in the photographs he had memorized.
Damn it! He paused, torn. But his team was counting on him, and so was his country. The Serbians were killing people in the streets, and their idea of collateral damage involved the take-down of city blocks. She might be amazing, but she was also the target. His mission was clear.
His mission absolutely had to come first.
He turned, heading for the bar. The cage dancers could be hired for private dancing in a series of dim rooms off the main dance floor. It was steep--a thousand dollars cash for half an hour--but he was carrying twice that as flash to draw in the useful.
The bartender, a dark-haired bruiser who looked to be smothering in his suit and tie, looked up tiredly as he approached.
“If you want drugs, they’re at other table,” he rattled off as if he’d had to say the same phrase a thousand times that night.
“No drugs.” He pointed at the woman in the cage. “That one.”
“Oho, now you’re playing with fire, my friend.” The bartender’s smile showed all his teeth.
“That’s the boss’s girl. He likes to show her off so other men can see what he gets to go home with for free. You’d best not leave a mark on her! Two thousand.”
“I see.” He reached inside his suit jacket and passed over the entire wad, not even looking at it.
“Done.” The bartender riffled through it quickly, then sent one of his assistants to fetch the woman.
“Here’s the key. It’s room three. Remember, she touches you, you don’t touch her. Right?” The man’s thick fingers dangled a key ring, and Alan snatched it impatiently.
He turned on his heel and headed for the door to the private rooms. It was painted red, with brass fittings, and a guard stood at the door who could have been the bartender’s twin. The man nodded him through, arms folded, and he passed through into a dim hallway lined with doors.
The key fit the lock to room three. Alan checked the almost darkened room beyond: burgundy plush carpet, matching leather bench seats lining the walls. It was so stereotypically like a strip club’s champagne room that he chuckled slightly and shook his head, some of the tension wearing off.
He crossed the room and flopped down on one of the benches, his position deliberate. He had examined the schematic supplied by Leo, his team’s entry man intensely before entering the building, and knew that the main vent for the air conditioning system was directly above his head.
It was large enough for him to slip through, even carrying her limp form. Bogdanovic had apparently liked the ducts for the industrial look they gave everything, but he was a fool for doing so.
They made the perfect entry and exit points. All Alan had to do now was disable the security system, then get the woman to come close enough that he could drug her and escape with her. Five minutes, tops, and he would be out.
Really, this was ridiculous. Why had he allowed himself to become so distracted by her before? The woman was the enemy. Plain and simple.
The door opened, and he heard a woman’s soft voice raised in mid-protest. “...nobody said anything about my doing private--!” And then she was shoved through, tottering slightly on her too-high heels, which made her breasts bounce softly in their sequined confines. Alan’s head snapped around and his eyes fixed on her, and that strange sense of the rest of the world falling away returned again to distract him.
The woman hesitated in front of the door, pushing her tousled hair from her face and looking around worriedly. When she saw him she froze, surprisingly soft brown eyes widening as she took him in.
He saw her swallow, and draw a shuddering breath, like a nervous dancer at an audition. Her ruby lips parted slightly, and he saw her chest heave again, more gently, and her bare belly flutter just over the sequined belt that held her filmy panel skirt to her hips.
“Hi there,” she managed, putting on a smile that looked a little too innocent and nervous for a woman in her position. Unless he was somehow mistaken? But no, she was too close to the images he had been given for it to be a coincidence. She wasn’t an innocent. She was Bogdanovic’s gun moll.
“Hello there,” he replied, keeping his tone playful. There was more lust in it than he had intended, however, and she smiled slightly and lowered her lashes, almost...yes, she was, she was blushing. Flustered.
The demure look stoked his desires up to another painful peak, and his smile wavered as he slowly stood. His eyes narrowed. Focus. “Come here,” he said smoothly. “Let me look at you.”
She approached slowly, the platforms teetering her walk and drawing attention to her hips, but the rest of her strangely hesitant, as if she might cross her arms to hide herself if she didn’t keep them forced down.
He saw her shiver, and there went that blush again. She is either a master manipulator, or she’s fucking Bogdanovic out of sheer naiveté. If it’s the latter, it would be fortunate--an innocent in over her head will be easier to manipulate myself.
He smiled at her gently, letting her see a glimpse of his curiosity and desire, and then leaned back against the wall, folding his arms.
“Don’t worry, I won’t do anything to you. At least that you don’t want.” He winked, and saw her shiver. Inwardly he sighed in relief, feeling a modicum of control of the situation slip back into his hands.
“Shouldn’t you...sit down?” she asked softly, her San Francisco accent making her sound even more uncertain.
He smiled slowly, and lowered himself back onto the bench, spreading his arms out along its back, his legs spread insolently--and dear God, to give himself some room. The trousers flattered, but they didn’t leave him much slack when he became aroused. “Is this better?”
She came over, her hair hidden by her face, and he glimpsed nervousness in her eyes before she tossed her mane back over her shoulder.
“Yeah,” she said softly, and straightened, reaching up to tap instructions into the MP3 player set into the wall. The speakers let out a low thump, and he heard the back-beat to some exotic-sounding EDM track kick up.
She hated the platforms; it was terribly clear. She could dance, but not in them; as she started her routine he saw how they hobbled her, how her legs strained to pick up her feet, and gyrate, and pop her hips, with something tall as paint cans strapped to her soles.
Yet every movement of her body captivated him. She could have been painting a wall in battered jeans, and his eyes would have been drawn to every tiny movement of her hips, every toss of her hair, every lift of her breasts from her breathing.
She had grace and rhythm; she had even something resembling showmanship, despite her obvious nerves and the awkward footwear. He sat, low tremors going through him, a tingle from his groin spreading outward and his mouth going dry as she tottered around the small dance floor.
She drew near, until they were almost touching, and swept her hands up through her hair, stretching her body for his admiration as she writhed softly in time to the music. He could hear his heart, louder and louder until it drowned out the music.
The bench was wide and low. He could jam the cameras and pull her down with him. She would be soft, and warm, and fragrant, and she would blush and be flustered and maybe push on his chest. But not hard. She kept sneaking peeks at him through her eyelashes, and he knew she was having thoughts of her own.
Electricity ran between them. He panted softly, chest heaving, as she swung her legs over his thighs and settled onto his lap.
A low groan escaped him as she rolled her hips against his thighs. It took everything he had to keep his hands at his sides. He had to resist his urges. He wasn’t supposed to touch her.
If he did before the security cameras died and it was time to put her out of commission, there would be half a dozen angry Serbs in here with guns. He would survive, but the girl might not, and that idea horrified him more than usual. Even if she was screwing Bogdanovic, his instructions didn’t say anything about watching unarmed women get gunned down.
She relaxed as she felt him shiver slightly under him, her demure expression getting a tiny note of pride and excitement in it. As if she was gratified by what she aroused in him. As if she was thrilled in his presence as he was in hers. It can’t be what it feels like. It can’t be what my body is telling me. I can’t even think of the possibility. She’s the enemy.
“Closer?
” she asked, her soft voice going low and liquid: a coo. He gasped for air, then nodded mutely. She smiled, lifting a leg and turning around so that her warm, rounded rump started to brush against his groin.
He let out a low grunt, hands flexing, and dug his fingers into the leather cushions. Can’t touch her. Can’t touch her. He groaned, panting for air as she settled her weight over him more firmly, and heard her giggle girlishly.
Cheeky thing. Let’s see how she likes it when I pin her against that wall and tear off her halter top with my teeth. Let’s see how much cheek she has when I rid her of that skirt panel by panel until she’s wearing nothing but the belt. How much she giggles when I stuff her full of my cock and--
She was trembling.
His eyes flew open and he leaned forward, setting his face into the soft cloud of her hair, feeling her body moving over him. Her hands were propped on his upper thighs, bracketing his groin, as she nudged and bumped against him...but her breath was coming fast, and shaky, and kept catching when she ground against him. And that tremor again. And the faint sound of her whimpering breath. She was getting just as turned on as he was.
The idea that the desire between them was mutual drove him into a frenzy. He stared around at the blinking lights behind the two-way mirrors lining the walls, and activated the electrical suppression field. The music fuzzed out as well, and the lights flickered, but all those little red lights, blessedly, went off.
He caught her in his arms from behind, and she moaned and let her head fall back on his shoulder as he pulled her against him. His fingers brushed her hair away from her neck as she lay against him, chest heaving, trembling, doing nothing at all to resist.
Her hands slid over his arms, pulling them closer to her, encouragingly. He kissed her neck, breathing in her scent under her spicy perfume, and she gasped softly.