Hard Edge

by Clare, Pamela

  “Oh, and you can relax. The Agency shared the basics about you with Cobra. You were at the Mission to gather intel about Luis Sánchez and his ties to the Andes Cartel.”

  She was surprised the Agency had shared that much. Dylan must have top-secret clearance after all. It was a relief. “Yeah, well, being abducted put a premature end to that operation. What’s the plan?”

  “There is no plan—yet.” He lifted the backpack, set it down on the table, and opened it. “It’s a sensitive situation. We’ve been ordered to stay put for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours while things cool down, and Cobra and the Pentagon pull something together.”

  That wasn’t what Gabriela had expected, but it made sense. “Okay, but please don’t sleep on the floor. It’s a king-sized bed. I trust you to keep your hands to yourself—especially now that you know I can kick your butt.”

  “You?” A dark brow arched, but he grinned. “Kick my butt? Not a chance.”

  As Gabriela brushed her teeth and got ready for bed, mind and body aching from fatigue, she had to admit to herself that there were worse scenarios than being stuck in a hotel room with a sexy operator.

  11

  Dylan stood looking out the window at the city lights and the street below. He couldn’t tell from here that the country was in dire economic straits or that there were people down there who were starving.

  Behind him, the bathroom door opened.

  He glanced over his shoulder, saw Gabriela kneel next to the bed. “That wasn’t an act, huh? You’re religious in real life?”

  He immediately regretted his tone of voice.

  You’re a dick.

  Her gaze met his. “You respected Sister María for her faith, but you doubt mine? That’s funny. I pray, if that’s what you’re asking, and I hope that God hears me.”

  He turned back to the window, gave her privacy, her prayer silent.

  The bed creaked as Gabriela, done praying, crawled beneath the covers.

  “You could have escaped those bastards on your own. When you brought that key out to us, you could have run off, but you went back inside. Why?”

  “They had two US citizens, good people who were terrified. I was able to use my position as a religious sister to make their lives a little easier. I got them blankets, regular meals, water for drinking and washing. I couldn’t just abandon them.”

  “You guilt-tripped the kidnappers into taking better care of them?” He could imagine that.

  “More or less.” The sheets rustled. “Do we have to talk about this now? I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep since this began. I’m so tired I can barely think.”

  “That bastard I shot, the one who hit you—you could have taken him yourself.”

  “I tried. I’m out of practice, and the skirt was too narrow. I couldn’t manage a good… kick.” Her words trailed off, became a yawn. “He had a firearm. I didn’t. I decided not to get shot on the way to my rescue.”

  That made sense to Dylan. “Smart.”

  “I’m glad you approve.” Her tone of voice said she didn’t give a damn what he thought. “If you’ve got an extra firearm, I want it.”

  It went without saying that an Agency officer could shoot.

  “I’ve got a spare Glock you can carry.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Good work today, by the way—saving my leg, finding that shortcut, getting us across the bridge. You had those bastards wrapped around your finger.”

  “It’s their balls—men’s balls make them stupid.”

  “I can’t argue with that.” Especially given his response.

  Gabriela had been through an ordeal and had done all she could to protect the other hostages, putting their safety ahead of her own, aiding Cobra’s mission. She’d also done her part to help with the rescue and to get the two of them safely to the hotel tonight, stopping that bastard from hamstringing him, taking them on that shortcut.

  So, why was he behaving like an asshole?

  She had violated his trust. She had lied to him. Yeah, she’d had good reason, but that didn’t change the fact that she wasn’t who he’d thought she was.

  Get over it, cabrón. Your anger isn’t about her at all. It’s about Valeria.

  The truth of that sank in, stirring emotions he’d thought he’d left behind—hurt, grief, anger. He’d trusted Valeria, and she’d brought his world crashing down.

  Fuck Valeria.

  He shouldn’t give her any space in his head or waste another moment thinking about her. She didn’t deserve it.

  Just like Gabriela doesn’t deserve your attitude.

  An apology on his tongue, Dylan turned to find her sound asleep, dark lashes against her cheeks, one hand tucked beneath her chin, her breathing deep and slow. Even with bruises on her face and a split lip, she was beautiful.

  Jesus, he was an idiot.

  Even knowing who and what she truly was, he couldn’t help the sense of protectiveness that welled up inside him—or his attraction to her. It had been one thing to ignore his desire when he’d believed she was a nun. But now…

  Now, nothing had changed. He needed to focus on his job. She was a client, and it was his mission to bring her to safety, not to get inside her. No, he wouldn’t go to hell for having sex with her—not that he believed in hell—but he might lose his job. Worse, he might get distracted and get the two of them captured—or killed.

  He brushed his teeth, made sure the door was locked, checked his pistol, and set the weapon on his nightstand. Then he got into bed, staying on top of the covers and as far away from Gabriela as he could.

  He closed his eyes, willed himself to relax, images of her drifting through his mind. Sister María telling him to pull the trigger. Gabriela stepping out of Laura’s bedroom, all sweet curves in a T-shirt and jeans. Gabriela turning the men on that bridge inside out.

  He fell asleep with a grin on his face.

  * * *

  Gabriela rolled over in her sleep, snuggled against something warm, a pleasing scent filling her head, rousing her from sleep and arousing her at the same time.

  She opened her eyes, saw that she lay with her face pressed against Dylan’s side, her head tucked into his underarm. She scooted back, sat up, his scent still with her.

  God, he smelled good—salt, skin, man.

  He lay shirtless and still asleep, one arm stretched over his head, his face turned away from her, anatomy that had teased her through his T-shirt bared for her to appreciate. Pecs dusted with dark curls. Flat dark nipples. A furrow bisecting his six-pack. Obliques that disappeared beneath the waistband of his ACUs. A trail of curls that led straight to his zipper.

  Damn.

  It was like waking up next to a real, live Greek god. None of the other men she’d slept with had looked like this.

  But there were scars, too. A deep groove in his left pec. A jagged line on one hip. A long surgical scar on the right side of his abdomen.

  It was a record of combat, of battles fought and won, of survival.

  “Like what you see?” His sleepy, deep voice startled her.

  She did her best to cover her surprise—and embarrassment. “You’ve been hurt.”

  “It’s part of the job description.”

  “How did you get that?” She fought back the urge to touch him, pointed to the groove in his pec.

  He glanced down at his chest as if he couldn’t quite remember what was there. “I was grazed by an AK round near Jalalabad.”

  “And that?”

  “That came from the tip of an old bayonet.” He spoke about it without swagger or machismo, just giving her the facts. “Some kid wanted to impress his daddy.”

  Gabriela didn’t want to know what happened to the kid or his daddy. “And this?”

  “I took a round to the gut a couple of years back on assignment in Mazar-e-Sharif. We were ambushed at the airport while trying to get a client out of Afghanistan. I came close to bleeding out on the tarmac. Army surgeons in Kabul fixed me up
.”

  “I’m sorry.” Without thinking, she reached out, ran her fingers over the scar on his belly, the heat of contact rushing through her.

  His muscles jerked, and he sucked in a breath. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t pull the trigger.”

  She drew her hand away and then wished she hadn’t. “I know your job comes with terrible risks. I’ve just never seen scars like these on a man’s body.”

  He grinned, sat up. “I take it you don’t date military men.”

  At least he no longer seemed angry with her.

  She shouldn’t care about that, but she did. “I don’t date—full stop. I’ve been a nun for a year and a half, remember?”

  God, did that sound like a plea for sex? Was it a plea for sex?

  Maybe.

  She couldn’t imagine a better way to end a year and a half of chastity than crawling between the sheets with Dylan. Just the thought made her belly flutter and left her hot in all the right places.

  Just stop! You’re on the job.

  Besides, she wasn’t into casual sex.

  Maybe that should change.

  “What about before that? You must have had lots of boyfriends.”

  Was he asking her about her sexual past?

  Gabriela got out of bed, found the brush he’d bought for her, started running it through her hair. “Before that, I was in training at Langley—”

  Hands on his hips, he stared at her. “This is your first mission?”

  She hated to admit that. “My first solo mission, yes.”

  “Damn, girl. When you jump into the deep end, you jump.” He picked up a printed menu. “I hope they’ve got good room service.”

  Gabriela ordered perico—scrambled eggs with peppers, onions, and tomatoes—along with arepas, fruit, and coffee. Dylan ordered coffee and cachapas, a kind of corn pancake folded around cheese and shredded pork.

  While they waited for the food to arrive, Gabriela took a shower, shaving her legs and underarms with Dylan’s razor, something she hadn’t done in eighteen months. God, it felt good to be completely clean and silky soft again.

  She heard a knock at the door.

  “Room service!”

  She stayed in the bathroom until room service had gone, washing her panties in the sink and hanging them on a towel rack to dry. She and Dylan had agreed that she shouldn’t let the hotel staff see her, given that her face was all over the news. She’d already been seen by the receptionist when they’d arrived last night.

  She stepped out of the bathroom, going without panties, to find Dylan wearing his shirt again—damn it—and breakfast on the table. “Dios mío, that smells good!”

  She sat and poured them each a cup of coffee. Then she dug in, the buttery taste of the perico making her eyes drift shut.

  Bliss.

  When she opened her eyes again, she found Dylan watching her, a lopsided grin on his face. “What did you eat at the mission?”

  She dabbed her lips. “Mostly rice and beans. Sometimes plantains. It was a very plain diet with little variety. We distributed food to the poor there. We tried to live with the same poverty as those we served. How could I think about food when so many families were going days without eating anything?”

  His brows drew together in a frown. “You never thought to sneak out to get some chocolate or pizza or a beer?”

  “Sneak out—and risk destroying a cover that took so long to build?” She shook her head, reached for her coffee. “I’m stronger than that. Besides, I had no money, no credit card. Nada. I didn’t take vows, but I lived exactly like the other Sisters.”

  “I’m impressed. I don’t think I could live like a priest for that long.” He laughed, shook his head, as if the idea were absurd. Then he lifted his gaze to hers, regret in his gray eyes. “I’m sorry for being an asshole last night. You were doing your job. I just don’t like being tricked, and I overreacted. I know it wasn’t intentional.”

  Oh, yeah. She could get naked with him. “Apology accepted.”

  * * *

  Dylan was trapped in a tiny hotel room with a sex goddess.

  Gabriela wasn’t even trying, and still, everything about her screamed sensuality. The sound of her voice. Her scent. The way she moved. Her sweet face. Those lethal curves. The way she moaned when she tasted something delicious. Those big, brown eyes. Her dark, silky hair.

  How had he ever believed she was a nun?

  While he sorted through the gear in his backpack, she sat on the bed, legs crossed, watching the news for any updates about their situation and taking notes. And she wasn’t wearing panties. He knew this because he’d found her panties drying in the bathroom and had ended up half hard just looking at them.

  Tiny, pink bikini panties, for God’s sake.

  NVGs. Body armor. Helmet. M4 rifle broken down. First aid kit. Spare ACUs, socks, and underwear. A billfold full of cash. Condoms left from their black-market op. A bag of coffee beans. One more pack of smokes. Rain gear. Emergency blanket. Emergency food rations. Water filter. A hundred rounds of 5.56×45mm NATO. A hundred rounds of 9mm. The Glock 19.

  He checked it, held it out for Gabriela. “It’s loaded—fifteen rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber.”

  “Thanks.” She checked it. “Is there any spare ammo?”

  He held up a box of fifty. “There’s another fifty in my backpack.”

  She tucked the Glock under her pillow, then got to her feet and stretched, her T-shirt riding up, exposing her belly.

  ¡Coño! Damn.

  He should go back to thinking of her as Sister María. She might go by Gabriela now, but he could treat her the way he’d treated her before—with respect and distance and no hard-ons. Yeah, he could do that.

  There was no way he could do that.

  Her gaze shifted back to the television. “They’re not saying anything new, which tells me they don’t know anything specific about you—not yet.”

  He needed to rein in his hormones, get sex out of his head, so he retreated to familiar terrain. “Have you ever shot to kill?”

  “I’ve had firearms training, but I’ve never fired at a person before.”

  “Do you think you can do it? That Glock won’t help either of us if you hesitate. You have to be able to react and pull the trigger before the bad guys do.”

  She seemed to consider his question. “I guess I won’t know for certain until I’m in that situation, but I have no moral qualms about killing to save my life—or yours.”

  Dylan kept his gaze on his gear as he repacked it. “We should have an escape plan in case they catch up with us here.”

  “I’m all for that.” She sat beside him, hands in her lap—close enough for him to smell the sweet floral scent of her hair.

  Dylan glanced around the room. “If they catch us in here, we’re fucked. I wish we had some kind of cams on the lobby or the elevators, but we don’t. Apart from our view of the street, we’re blind.”

  “Cobra might be able to hack the hotel’s security camera feed. They could tip us off if the National Police or Sánchez’s Guachimanes show up.”

  That was a damned good idea.

  “I’ll check in and ask. In the meantime, we’ve got the elevators and the stairwell not far from the door.”

  “Neither of those will be useful. The elevators have cams, so they’ll know right where we are. They would probably anticipate our trying to escape via the stairway and might lock it down or come up that way.”

  She was sexy—and smart.

  Why did she have to be sexy and smart?

  But she wasn’t done. “Our best bet for a quick escape might be to break into an unoccupied room or a supply closet and wait them out.”

  “How do we know which rooms are unoccupied?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—maybe we knock?” Her lips curved in a smile that turned him inside out. “Housekeeping!”

  It would be so easy to kiss that smile off her face, to push her back onto the bed, to peel off her clothes a
nd—

  He shot to his feet, set the backpack down in the corner. “I’m going to the gym.”

  “The gym?” She seemed to sense his frustration. “Is something wrong?”

  Ah, shit. She’s probably reading you like a book, cabrón.

  He turned his face away from her. “I need to work off some of this stress.”

  What he needed to work off was his pent-up sexual energy.

  He grabbed his key card and headed toward the door. “I won’t be gone long.”

  She didn’t seem afraid to be alone. She almost looked relieved that he was leaving. Or maybe he was imagining that. “Have a good workout.”

  He stepped into the hallway and drew a deep breath, then rode the elevator down to the third floor. The gym was empty apart from a lone attendant, its weight machines ready for him. Then he noticed the sign on the door.

  Running or gym shoes only.

  He looked at his feet. He’d run in combat boots plenty of times. He opened the door, walked inside.

  The attendant saw him. “Señor, I’m sorry, but you must have the right shoes. Did you not see the sign?”

  “My luggage was lost in Paris. Boots are all I have right now.”

  “I’m so sorry. Maybe the concierge can help you shop for new shoes.”

  “Right.” Shit.

  He took the elevator back up to the ninth floor, let himself into the room, the TV playing some telenovela.

  And there on the bed was Gabriela, eyes closed, naked from the waist down, her shirt and bra pulled up to bare her breasts, one hand between her parted thighs, the other stroking a puckered, brown nipple.

  ¡Coñoooo!

  Dylan’s heart hit his sternum, blood rushing to his cock.

  She opened her eyes, shrieked, and sat up, jerking the covers over her. “I… I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Obviously.” He was hard as a rock, his cock straining against his trousers. He turned off the television. “Were you fantasizing about me?”

  “You?” Her eyes went wide, and her cheeks flushed a delicious shade of red, answering his question. “It’s been a year and a half—no sex, not even with myself. This is the first time I’ve truly been alone in months, and you have to walk in—”