by Judy Jarvie
Dan stares at me. Gray eyes probing. Why am I such a sucker for pale-gray eyes and cow-like curly dark lashes on men? Ooft—loser. Maybe it isn’t helped by the rippling muscles, the gun in a chest holster, like all my sexy action guy movies morphed into one man, and the fact that I watched him go to work like a crime-cracking ninja earlier before my very boggling eyes.
With the best pecs and tightest ass ever witnessed.
It’s sexy. He’s sexy—but I shouldn’t let myself be affected. He’s lied, he’s cheated. He’s probably going to be the cause of me doing awful things. I start breathing rapidly. He’s seen me on the plane so he must know that this is a sure sign I’m about to spring a sob leak.
“Do not cry,” he says. He’s holding my hand and stroking the skin on the back of it. It soothes. But I wish he wouldn’t do that.
“Why are you trying to be my friend when you’re the one who got me into this shit?”
“Maybe I care how this works out for you.”
I’d love to believe him. I really would. Especially when the way he says ‘Katie’ causes an entirely new enticing and comforting experience to skitter down my spine. This is new—scarily new. But I go over the top because it’s too late to stop. “Stop being nice, you police bastard.”
Dan raises his eyebrows. He’s bulletproof to my insults and hissy-fits. I couldn’t have expected anything less. “Katie suits you and I like it.” He stops to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear. “By the way. I really liked it when we kissed. More than liked. You carjack my mind. That’s a fucking bad thing.”
“Shame. All I want to do in future is kick you hard in the privates.”
No smiles, but again those eyebrows say what words wouldn’t. “C’mon then. Give me your best shot.” He doesn’t flinch or move aside. Just stands there wearing his black gear and high-necked sweater, with weapons on show as if to say—my cojones are made of steel, come and have a go if you think you have the mettle.
I figure I don’t. I can’t even shoot a water pistol straight at a pool party, never mind a gun. These expensive running-shop acquired training shoes were crap for walking in the woods, never mind testicle disabling. I’m a crap shot with the remote control, let alone something with ammunition trajectory capacity.
He’s out of my league. I’d do well to admit it.
“I’m not going to kick your balls, Dan. Much as I’d like to.”
“Thanks. There are other things I’d much rather you did to them.” Fuck, he’s blushing beet-red, but at least he had the bravery to say it out loud. For a hard ass he’s way too bloody shy.
I grin. “In your dreams, pal.”
Dan reaches out, and traces the side of my face with his thumb. “You will be. Oh Katie, what you do to me…you send me fucking wild and you don’t even see it or try. I never cross lines at work.”
This, I really did not expect. “What would Havana say? She’s hot for you.”
“Who the fuck cares? There’s only one woman who’s driving me crazy right now. You.”
I narrow my eyes to block the flattery assault. “She wants to rub privates with you, Bullet Man. License to thrill.”
He’s closer than close. I feel his breath on my cheek. “No dice with Havana. But open offer stands for further investigations with you. Do you copy that, Joseph? I’m game if you are?”
Shit, wow and how the hell did that just happen? He’s skimming my cheek with his fingers and making something go melty and warm in a very special place called my lady bits. Really, I should have left that particular pussy at home in Blighty in a cattery, under lock and key, if it’s going to betray me so badly now. It’s so hungry and lust-fogged it’s almost mewing to be stroked. Or given a catnip and kapok-filled sausage.
Dan’s only touched my face, for fuck’s sake. I only have one set of undies. These ones are damp at his hand and hot as the wrapper of a takeaway steak sandwich.
“I want more. I want it all. All the ways we can think of.”
“Don’t touch. Breakages must be paid for.” Why did I say that? Brain fart. Booze blip. Why did I bloody blurt that? Brandy. Vodka. Shit. There I was thinking I was bad on Sambuca.
“I’d break you, all right. But you’d want every single stinging second,” he brags.
I have no bloody clue why I say the things I do around him. It tends to be the first foolish, trite thing that pops into my head, and I just blurt it like a ratty drunk at a cab rank at midnight.
“Okay. Let’s pencil that in as a future possible, shall we?”
Fortunately, Dan smiles. “You’ve no idea how cute you are when you’re half-scared, half-angry and fit to throttle me. The brandy and vodka vibe suits you too.” He goes into his pocket. “Here. Suck this mint. Don’t want the boss man smelling booze.”
He pops the mint between my lips. Then softly puts his mouth over mine and slides his tongue inside it. My agent just gave me a minty candy. He really likes me—he does, he does. He’s promising rude trysts for randy stuff in my future. Talk about winner!
Then, fuck me backwards with a pitchfork, but his lips descend on mine and he’s kissing me again—hungrily. I’ve a mint in my mouth, but neither of us care. He’s eating my mouth with nips and demands and entreaties by tongue. Yes, Sir. His lips are warm as toast that’s been left for just the right amount of cool down—I’m a toast fan, so sue me. Believe me, his don’t need butter or jam to get sweeter. He’s like sherry wine plus tequila shots merged into one beautiful, oral mind bender.
I open my mouth under his and let his tongue tantalize like only a multi-skilled Interpol guy, who’s qualified in the oral kissing alchemy module of his police work, can.
His tongue demands. His ramped breathing makes my vagina walls do rampant, undulating things. The touch of his fingers and the feel of his arms around me is a sexual curveball that every nerve ending responds to with a big flag emblazoned with the neon words yes, more.
And my sex drive is screaming like a siren to sign up for the course, if this is a taster. If kissing was a commando, he’d be the one made into a statue and honored on a yearly basis by passing troops.
I’m kissing back furiously and pushing into his body. My nipples are talking to his chest one-on-one in a language all their own. I’m almost purring with avarice at his attentions. I’m guessing if I looked up an online dictionary, this would be my personal definition of displacement therapy? But when it feels this good in your sex parts, why not?
“Christ, you make me do bad things,” he groans as he pulls away, acting as if I’m a bloody snake charmer with a flute, and he’s some defenseless reptile. “I’m at fucking work here. This is breaking every code.”
“If you wanted your mint back you only had to ask.”
He emits a wry chuckle. “You are some suck tease. I love it. I want to make you pay.”
“Now I’m the bad one? Who kissed who? Who lied to who?”
“Do you know they say witches used to wear lipstick to tempt men?”
“What are you saying here?”
“You always reapply that damn lipstick—I’ve watched. You even have it back on now, is it in your pocket or something? Are you some kind of temptress? You and that Roseberry lip pencil thing. You override my better judgment with your lip black magic.”
I shatter his ‘sexy witch’ accusation by doing bug eyes at him. “Doh! Not wearing any lipstick now. Not even gloss. How did you know it’s Roseberry?”
“Interpol, sweet cheeks. How tough could it be? You smell great too.”
I pull myself up, getting haughty. “I’m not wearing deodorant presently. Does body odor and the smell of fear usually turn you on?”
His hands tell me yes when they slide over my butt in a firm, slow caress.
“I wish you weren’t wearing underwear,” Dan says. I gasp. His tone is pure grizzly bear in need of a lumberjack snack. It knocks me for a cricketing century. “It’s a thong, right, tell me that’s a thong…”
I step back. “Given that I hav
e no luggage, no hotel, no remit, no clue how the fuck to proceed—there’s every chance I’ll be knickerless by the end of the night. Happy now?”
He winks. His eyes sparkle with chemistry unleashed into fireworks.
“Hey Bullet Dick, LoserBrain,” someone calls after a long whistle has split the air—and my eardrums. “They’re waiting for you. What’s keeping ya—other than your hard-on?”
“Rocco,” Dan says behind closed teeth, then yells to him. “Beat it, numb nuts.”
“Bugger,” I mutter. “This kind of interruption never happens in the movies. I think you need to tell the scriptwriters and put them straight. You’re supposed to surprise the girl and have uninterrupted, if overly fast and passionate, but mutually satisfying sex, then move to the next scene. You’re not fulfilling the promise.”
“I’m not a spy, Katie. I’m a cop.” His gray gaze makes a stark promise to prove it. “Do I kiss like a guy who wouldn’t fulfil?”
Given that something impressive and loaded is pressing against my leg, and I’m still quivering for more of his kissy kiss stuff, he has a point. I’m still spinning in the aftermath of satisfaction interrupted. Dan has a spark, oh yes, and how. A spark that blasts through my ballsy barricades and leaves me covered in the rubble of yearning.
“We better move our asses.”
I widen my eyes and follow him. Again I’ve no choice—dragging motion, big, strong boy who has me by the hand, you get the picture.
And while I’m following, all my brain sees is Dan’s behind and I’m hypnotized. It is a very pretty backside. In the throes of passion it will be like smooth skin-covered steel. I bet he has muscles in that behind like an Olympian. In my mindscape it’s a thing of beauty. Worthy of a whole life-drawing course all on its own.
And I’m being held by the business end. About to be dragged before his big, bad boss of doom—slightly drunk, plus a measure of blurt-happy dangerous.
* * * *
“The movies don’t lie, do, they?” I’m taking it all in and clambering over my dumbstruck awe. Checking it out—blinking some more. Knowing that after my brief adventure in Black Ops Wonderland I’ll never relive this kind of experience again. Thank God.
It’s techno flash-tastic.
“What movies?” Dan asks. He’s so annoyingly blasé about his top drawer devil-may-care gun-carrying-license-holding Tom Cruise-ness.
“Bond. Spies. Agents. Doing the do. Mission Impossible.” I motion around us. It’s more James Bond than a James Bond sound stage, with an orchestra playing the big brass theme tune, while Connery shushes his s sounds.
Dan doesn’t answer. Which I take as a macho silent I’ve no idea what you’re on about, woman. Hell he probably never goes to the movies—he’s too busy polishing his guns.
“I’m saying, your day job is what the little boys dream about. All this is a movie backdrop—with me in it.”
We’re surrounded by high-tech bleeping gadgetry and more flash kit than a flagship Apple store in space. Dan says he’s police, not spy league—I’m thinking otherwise from the stuff on show. I’m hazarding all these gizmos aren’t for recording CCTV tapes or watching live sport over a beer and peanuts like the cops did back on my news patch. There are surveillance TVs to fit an entire wall and there is lots of activity being monitored on them by black ops minions.
“Wow,” I breathe. I turn around to take in the admin agents at desks, manning monitors, with headsets and rapt attention. Like the highest spec badass call center ever. Call A Kill? Murder Dot Com? I defy anyone—even with my lack of IT ken—not to be bowled over at this, the pinnacle of all crime capture dojos worldwide.
“Just tools of the trade for catching hard nuts. These days policing is tech. Hardly a big surprise.”
Then a profound thought occurs to me—it doesn’t happen often, but sometimes I do have Einstein moments, and this is one. “With all this stuff, how come you were caught out when Tavi got shot?” See. I am a reporter for a reason—just call me Jeremina Paxman, I thank you.
“The villa security system was overridden. Bastards pulled a coup. Boy, are they gonna pay. Every system is fallible, Katie. Even the best of the best.”
He’s just popped my air balloon of wisdom, but I let out a low whistle at the impressive stuff that’s going down here anyway. Which is probably the uncool response I’m not supposed to let myself make.
A shadow at the far wall in front of a stadium-sized screen turns with full drama. I can sense this must be the moment. He must be the boss. THE BOSS. It’s almost worthy of a theme tune and a scantily clad dance troupe in silver leotards.
But a bizarrely normal voice says, “Welcome, Kate Joseph. I see our search party finally found you.” The voice may be normal. The attitude is as commanding as an honored sea captain in a turbulent high winds squall.
I chance a peek at Dan for a steer on how to play this but his Iron Man countenance is fully in place. The ‘what kept you’ comment has me wondering if he’s seen us snogging? Let’s face it—he has tech. Wouldn’t be a stretch for a snog cam. Then again, this man has bigger mad murdering fish to fry. Or does he? Does snogging on company time trump all sins in this subterranean spy world?
Will I or won’t I get reamed out for not running to Bigman’s summons and dallying with Draven’s tongue temptations?
“Apologies for the delay. I’m a bit frazzled to be honest,” I tell him. “Good to meet you at last Mr…er…I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”
Dan looks at me. His cheek is vise-clenched. I’m guessing this is not the way to talk to the Commanding big knob.
But the boss gets closer and smiles, affable charm personified. “Rich Redman at your service, Agent R. Sorry we’ve kept you waiting so long. But you realize we’ve had developments on the ground since your arrival. It’s made a deep impact—but you’re here now, good. Draven—try not to detain our guest repeatedly, won’t you?”
He’s seen us. I don’t need to see Dan’s expression now to know it. But what’s done is done so I play brazen and straighten my spine. “Very pleased to meet you, Sir,” I realize I sound exactly like Bridget Jones employing her ‘faking professional voice’.
Renee Zellweger doppelganger. “And very pleased to be alive and not dead at this present moment. Alive, even if underground and with no idea what I’m doing here, is very much better than having no heartbeat to work with.” See—full Bridget on parade. Complete with foot in mouth medals and a side of brain dead.
Both men are staring at me. Do I blame them?
I do a Wallace and Gromit slice of smile, knowing they’re likely thinking I’ve been on the sauce, which I have, including buckets of coffee chasers.
My hand is squeezed—a definite signal from Dan to shut the eff up. So I do. After all, his job’s on the line. I give him a look that says ‘I’m done now, take it from here, Mr. Snake Hips Special Ops’.
The Big Boss before me is not what I expect of Interpol’s Top Rank Supremo. He walks fully forward into a pool of light, and he’s blond with a buzz cut do that wouldn’t be out of place on a young and trendy vicar. Somewhat petite and dressed in a dapper fashion, with a tie and round spectacles. More like an insurance man than the big cheese responsible for all the licenses for killing peeps. Rich would fit right in at a University Challenge Final.
But then his smile halts. I notice the slightly crazed, Jack Nicholson staring eyes when he’s thinking. Now I see why they’re running shit-scared. In a second the mad look fades as fast as it came. But it’s left a stark brand on my heart. New psycho boss on the block.
“Shall we move into the meeting chamber for privacy?” He directs us, and we follow his lead. Inside is a table and chairs and we cozy down. As much as you can with Interpol top brass in an underground stone lair with steel furniture and no tea and biscuits.
“So we meet at last. I’m sorry you’ve had such a stressful introduction. I’d hoped to do this with rather more finesse, at your leisure, but it sadly was not to be.”
I stare at Dan’s boss, thinking—frightened of him? Really—it’s a bit like being frightened of the effeminate Geography teacher with the mismatched suits and spotted hanky habit.
Then he throws me like a boomerang by sitting back and crossing his hands behind his head. “So for the nuts and bolts of our operation, you, my dear Ms. Joseph, are key to our plans.”
The screen behind me flashes up a face that sends my innards into freefall, because it’s the last face I expect to see. Not here. Certainly not now.
“Oh God no!” I exclaim in dismay.
“Grey Donaldson,” says Rich softly. “Though I don’t need to tell you who he is.”
Dan says nothing. Nor do I.
The air is redolent with the smell of raw shit that’s hit at full speed mother of all fans.
Rich clears his throat. “Your AWOL, presumed-dead father.”
The man doesn’t beat about the bush. Even long-hidden gooseberry ones.
“I know who he is.” Just would’ve preferred not to have a reminder flashed up on a screen. Did they have to create a PowerPoint for my destruction? Plus, I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this whole me being here at all thing.
“You see, Ms. Joseph,” he says, and I recognize his smooth Brit Received Pronunciation tones are worthy of a National Theatre Actor, “what you perhaps are not aware of, given your estrangement from your father for many decades, is that he is Katsaros’ key henchman. His partner in crime. His most vital ‘plan-hatching’ partner, nay, the very linchpin to this operation here in Santorini. He is not dead as you were told. The death was faked after he was released from prison. He is now a man who requires a joint Interpol task force and this elaborate base to trap. You are the woman we need on board to make this possible.”
I have no words.
And right now I feel as if my intestines have melted inside me. In a sticky, ugly fashion. If I stand up my stomach might slide out of my knickers and puddle on the floor.