by Heather Long
Yeah, it was the perfect height. Nestling his hips between her thighs, he rubbed his cock right against her slick entrance and she chuckled. “This doesn’t mean I agree with you.”
“Sure it does,” he murmured, still turning what she said over in his mind. “It means you agree we’re hot together.” He cupped her breast, then rolled the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Her lips parted on a gasp and he savored the reaction. When she gripped his cock though it was his turn to moan. A gentle stroke, followed by another centered his pleasure everywhere he came into contact with her.
“We’re definitely hot,” she said, shuddering. “FYI, I have an implant. Pregnancy isn’t an issue.”
The image of that toned body swelling with his child was a hell of a lot more provocative than he would have imagined. Fuck, no wonder the guys went down like dominoes for their women. He was right on the edge and jumping in without a solid idea of what waited for him.
“Yeah,” he managed to exhale as she rubbed all the way up his length, then cupped his balls. “I’m clean. Had a checkup two months ago…and as unmanly as it might be to admit, I’m not into cheap dates and fast fucks anymore. Got over that years ago.”
“Well, I’ve had my share.” She looked him in the eye. “I’m no virgin as you’re well aware.”
“I don’t need chastity,” he said brushing his lips to hers. “But I’m starting to need you.”
“We’ll finish talking about Wagner after.”
Then she was caressing his cock and he didn’t give a flying fuck about Wagner. “Don’t mention him again…not like this. Here? When we’re skin to skin—there’s you and there’s me.”
Coco considered him for a long moment. “Is that an order?”
“Yes.” Then he added, “Do you have any for me?”
A squeeze almost had him crossing his eyes as she guided him to her channel, it was hotter and wetter than before. Condoms reduced sensation and all he could feel was her wet heat enveloping him. His brain was about to turn off. Then she hiked her hips to his and he slammed home.
Lips pressed to his ear, she whispered, “What do you feel?”
“You,” he pledged, and fuck it all. “You and you’re all I want to feel.”
She sucked on his earlobe and his hips jerked forward. The loss of control transporting him back to his teen years. All he wanted was to pound into her, feel her come apart in his arms and then dry her off and start all over again. “Yes, sir.”
The acquiescence sent a bolt down his spine.
“Yes, sir—just you. Just me.” Then she added, “Only you.”
And he forgot words as he lost himself in pleasuring them both.
An hour later, they were dressed and arguing. “Are you sure we can’t go back to naked, soapy, and fucking against the wall?”
“Stop it,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “No using sex as a weapon.”
“Babe, I would never use sex as a weapon. I would use sex as a way to work off all this restlessness until we’re too boneless for an argument.” Unfortunately, his joke landed like a cold, wet towel in a locker room. Sighing, he pushed away from the counter. Clean clothes, hot sex, and freshly washed didn’t make her anymore amenable. “You want to take out Percival, because you think he’s directly related to the attempts.”
“Right,” she said, folding her arms. Though she tried to hide it, she winced. Her shoulder had to hurt like a bitch, but she refused pain meds. The woman was nearly as stubborn as he was.
Nearly.
“But we don’t have confirmation,” he reminded her. A sad fact of life. “I have no problem eliminating genuine threats, but you want to return to a hostile field potentially endangering more innocent lives to remove one potential threat we don’t have confirmation on.” Nor did he plan to fight fair. Her flinch cost him. He was being a jackass, but he would do what was necessary to keep her safe—even from herself. “Compile that with the idea we know agents are being targeted, and you seem to be a lynchpin. I might have doubted Wagner, but the attempts on you seem to confirm that a, someone is targeting agents and you are one, and b, you may very well have the information we need.”
Instead of retaliating, she went mute. Yeah, he would pay for driving these points home later. Truth be told, he’d rather have her around to make up with than losing her on a righteous crusade, even if he agreed with her points.
Percival needed to be gone.
But Coco needed to survive.
In a weight versus weight game, he’d choose her.
“You suck,” she snarled and he allowed himself a small measure of triumph. “Fine. We’ll take the train to London. But what if they come after us there?”
“I’ve got us covered, so will Tex and the others. We know what they’re willing to do now and you mentioned wigs and disguises.” Now came the part of the plan he disliked. “I’m pretty sure they’re looking for you specifically, and maybe for both of us.”
“So?” She lifted her mug of coffee as he stared at her speculatively. Maybe the answer was as simple as changing the dynamic entirely. The original cover had been wedding rings—what if they took it a step further. Coco lowered her mug without sipping. “What?”
“I’ve got an idea.”
Six hours later, they walked into the Gare du Nord with the IDs Wolf provided, fresh clothes and fresh disguises. “Have I mentioned you’re beautiful?” Jacko asked as he rode down the escalator in front of her.
“I feel off balance,” she complained. Though when he didn’t look directly at her, he’d seen the smile.
Placing his hand over the extended belly she wore, he smiled up at her. “I love it.” Sure, they were playing parts, but he could get used to this.
24 hours, dude. It’s been 24 hours. The last reasonable line of defense shunted aside at the wild possessiveness flooding his system. Twenty-four hours or twenty-four days or twenty-four weeks—the timing didn’t matter. Coco did.
The short black wig she wore, framed her face and gave her a really European look. She moved gracefully, despite the belly. It was shaped perfectly and gave the illusion of pregnancy, about six months or so. The illusion worked as women smiled at her, and a few men, too. One guy stared a little too long and Jacko glared at him.
He’d endured dying his hair a much darker color and applied a goatee. It wouldn’t work for long but should suffice to get them to London. The only thing he hadn’t been able to do was change his glasses. Next time, he’d have some spares. Coco was right, different glasses would shape his face differently.
Still they moved through the port area and boarded the train without incident. He would have preferred a private car or compartment, but settled for seats in the back of a train where he could put her in the corner and away from the windows while keeping their backs covered.
The gun laws here meant he couldn’t carry one and they didn’t risk it to get one down here. After the shooting at the other station, security was on high alert. Heavily armed forces patrolled the area, a visible presence. Coco settled her hand against his thigh when the train departed the station.
The next two hours crawled by even as the train raced across France, then under the Channel to emerge in England. Every minute ticking by seemed to ratchet him tighter while Coco remained cool. They chose not to speak, there were other people in the car and most were working or reading or playing on their devices. He kept all of his stowed.
If anything happened, he wanted to know ahead of time. Fortunately, his head cooperated and the normal buzzing after effect of his headache had diminished to a barely audible hum. They’d have to investigate if sex was a true curative.
Coco shifted in the seat next to him, and he split his attention and studied her expression. “You okay?”
“Just got a bad feeling.” She spoke so low, and barely moved her lips. Her attention riveted on the other passengers, skipping from one to the next as if trying to decide what direction the threat came from.
“We’re
going to be fine,” he reminded her, covering her hand with his. “You trust me, right? I have your back.”
“You keep asking me that,” she said, almost smiling.
“Because it’s the one thing I can truly control,” he admitted, though he would be loathe to say it to anyone else. “Shit happens. We can assess what others may do given a set of circumstances. There are some I can say I trust with impunity. I know exactly what they will do. Then there’s the variables, the unexpected and the undefined. But I can’t control anything except myself.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder, and closed her eyes. The act so full of absolute trust, he felt a thousand times his size. More than any word she could have expressed, the act humbled him. Smiling, he kept watch and let her sleep even if it was only a short nap she could use it. Hell, she’d been shot at, beaten, grabbed, and nearly killed.
If Jacko could let her rest, then hell yeah he would.
When they finally arrived at the King’s Cross St. Pancras, he almost hated waking her. Her smile though, when those eyes fluttered open filled him pride. “Hey,” she said, stretching and then halting when she pulled on her shoulder.
“Hey, we’re here. Ready for a pint?”
“Or twelve,” she admitted, and he chuckled.
Hand in hand, he led her out of the car. The heavy security presence reminded him of France, and was likely in response to that incident. That didn’t surprise him.
Coco hesitated next to him, and he jerked his head to see what grabbed her attention.
Wagner stood there with a dozen men, and more filed in around them. All heavily armed.
“Coco Adler?” A man inquired, his suit nearly as impeccable as his accent. Jacko could practically smell the MI6 rolling off him.
Locking gazes with Wagner, Jacko glared. “You son of a bitch.”
“Sorry, man. Has to be done.”
Coco released his hand. “I’m Coco Adler.”
“Ms. Adler, you’re under arrest for suspicion of espionage.” He produced a pair of handcuffs. “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
Without a word, Coco turned, hands behind her back. A crowd of people leaving the train were ushered away as the security forces closed around them. Coco refused to look at him as the cuffs were placed on her.
They patted her down, and removed one of the knives the sheath inside her jacket sleeve. They also took possession of her tote bag. Jacko transferred his attention back to Wagner. Ned held up his hand as if asking for patience.
The MI6 officer nodded to one of the security forces and they took her arm.
“Be careful, she was shot in that shoulder, and I know every fucking mark on her, if I find new ones…I know who to look for.” He memorized their faces, and then had to just fucking stand there as they marched her away.
The forces kept the area contained and Wagner turned to him. “Good work.”
“Was this the plan all along? Send me to bring her here so you could arrest her?”
“It’s complicated,” Ned said. “We’re having to play nice…and…”
“Was. It. The. Plan?” It was the only answer he needed at the moment.
“It had to be done.”
Not good enough. Jacko took a step as though he were walking away to follow, then swung and caught Ned square in the jaw with an uppercut. The blow took the man off his feet and he hit the ground. One of the Brits moved forward but Ned waved him off.
Rising slowly, he dabbed at the blood on the corner of his mouth. “You get one shot, you ready to listen now?”
“Only if it involves going where they took her.”
The hesitation was all the answer he needed.
Fine, he had a way to find her. He turned and headed for the exit. When one of the Brits got in his way, Jacko met him stare for stare.
“You’re a stubborn SOB.” Ned groused, then cut in front of him. “He’s with me.” Then over his shoulder he said, “Come. But give me your word you won’t interfere.”
Like hell he wouldn’t, but he’d agree to shave his junk at the moment if it got him to where they took Coco. “Fine. Lead on.”
Chapter 9
Coco said nothing during her escort to an undisclosed detention facility. Riding in the back of a windowless van gave her no landmarks to track her location. Wagner didn’t join her and her last view of Jacko was the outrage in his eyes. That and that alone let her keep it together.
He genuinely hadn’t been aware of the trap he escorted her into and she used that as succor against what was likely to be a long an arduous interrogation. They’d stripped her of her clothes, and the faux belly. A physician inspected her wound, and categorized the others all while asking her questions she refused to answer.
Once finished, they provided her with an institutional jumpsuit and escorted her to another room featuring a table, two chairs, and a large mirror. Two cameras were angled on the table, giving a full view of the room. They were both flashing green lights. They removed her shackles and left her.
Seated, she clasped her hands together and waited.
It could be hours or days before they began, she knew the drill. Trained for it in fact. Everyone broke, the longer it took the greater chance what she knew would no longer be relevant. A glimmer of light caught the ring on her left hand. Of all the things they’d taken, they’d left the ring.
Strange.
Covering her left hand with her right, she twisted the ring around her finger. Where was Jacko right now? Hopefully ringing Ned Wagner’s neck. If she’d had any idea that he’d had this planned… Why the hell couldn’t the man have just picked up the phone?
Ninety minutes after they left her in the room, the door opened admitting a man she was less than surprised to see. Eric Percival. Arms dealer. Dressed in an expensive suit, he carried two file folders and gave her tight, if polite smile.
“Ms. Adler. Welcome to the UK. I hope you enjoyed you stay in Monaco.”
Coco didn’t smile, nor did she respond. Eric Percival—MI6. Interesting turn of events.
He opened the first folder and pulled out a photo of her on the beach outside the hotel in Monaco. “This is you.” A second photo, this time of her inside the beach house he’d been renting. “As is this.” She had been in his bungalow to verify he was still in residence. She no longer planted bugs as the image suggested, though she had periodically over the intervening months at different locations but his security sweeps always seemed to locate them. “And this one.” The photo showed her at a club in Berlin.
“And this one.”
It was going to get boring if he pulled out photos of her from all over Europe.
“As you’ll note, in many of these photos…you’re not alone.” Then he gestured to figures in the background. In most, the image was a blur, but that was when he opened the second folder. This contained wider shots, and the man in the pictures was revealed to be Yuri Rochenko.
Glancing up from the images, she met Percival’s cold, cruel smile. He was terribly pleased with himself. “The Berlin photos were taken in November, a week before Thanksgiving.” She recalled the night specifically. “Yuri Rochenko was in Moscow, attending a party for his brother and his nephew. The brother had just gotten out of the army and was seeing his son for the first time. It had some significance for them.”
The smirk on his face faltered.
“The image at the Belgian café took place in January, just after a winter storm…there’s no snow anywhere near Rochenko, but there is a rose on his table. That particular restaurant changes their flowers with the seasons. They never put out roses in winter.”
The glare in his eyes grew.
“The photo you claim to be me in your bungalow in Monaco—was actually taken in Prague. That was the last time I planted a listening device. You have built a clever house of cards, Mr. Percival. Though
you are tying all these together with locations where you made large arms sales. Are you implicating MI6 in your actions?”
Staring the man in the eye, she felt nothing but cool disdain and the urge to dive across the table. If she snapped his neck it would be over—and she might spend the rest of her life in prison.
“You are not the one asking the questions, Ms. Adler. I will advise you again, you have no responsibility to make a statement.”
“I’m aware of my responsibilities, Mr. Percival. Are you aware that the weapons from the Prague sale were used during an outbreak of violence in Northern Syria against British Forces in the region? Or that the weapons procured during the Berlin meetings found their way to France, and most recently to a certain train station incident?” The last was a guess, but she didn’t doubt for an instant where they came from.
“Ms. Adler, I will…”
“You’ll what, Mr. Percival? You sent a sniper in Monaco. Five men to a shop in Nice, three of whom likely ended up in a morgue.” Two for certain, she’d killed them. “The shooter in Paris, another gift? What are you going to do now that I’m sitting across from you?”
A vein throbbed in his forehead. He’d walked into the room holding all the cards. But she was the house—and in this case the house wasn’t going to lose.
“Would it interest you to know how many of your transactions I’ve seen over the years? The names of your buyers? The numbered accounts in Switzerland as well as the Cayman Islands, and the properties under holding companies in Portugal, Belize, Brazil…”
He slammed his fist onto the table.
“Perhaps it’s the number of meetings you’ve taken with Yuri Rochenko, the sales you provided to his associates in the United States.” Having the information and proving the connective tissue had been the only reason she’d stayed on Percival as he continued to move. Ewan knew they had something, but they couldn’t prove it.
“Ewan mentioned you had a thing for brunettes, it’s why he wanted me on your case.”