Anthology - Kick Ass

by Maggie Shayne, MaryJanice Davidson, Angela Knight, Jacey Ford

  "Sorry I hurt you."

  He gave her a tight smile. "I got you back. I sicced the three-hundred-kilo Tevan on you."

  "Mmm." Alina bent low over him and licked one of his nipples, her gaze on his. "And yet, I feel the need to atone."

  Baird drew in a breath as she gently nibbled. "Well, if you insist."

  She smiled, spreading her hands over the warm, muscled ridges of his chest. Licking, suckling, she stroked her way gently downward, exploring the tight line of his abdominals. They flexed as he gasped. Tenderly, she raked her nails through the thick ruff of hair on his chest. She inhaled, drinking in his scent.

  One of his hands slipped between their bodies to cup her breast. He squeezed gently, then rolled her nipple between his fingers, sending sweet pleasure radiating through the peak.

  But this was for him, so Alina drew away and moved lower down his body. His cock curved over his belly, thick and silken, more of that thick hair covering his balls. She cupped him with one hand, and the big shaft leaped in anticipation. "Hi, there," she purred, bending over the silken head.

  "Hi, yourself." His voice sounded hoarse with need. A bead of pre-come gathered on the tip of his cock, silent testimony to his hunger.

  She flicked it off with her tongue, enjoying his moan, then circled the thick rod with her fingers. Angling him upward, she took him into her mouth, slowly, taking her time. His skin felt slightly nubby against her tongue as she swirled it back and forth. Tightening her lips, she began to suck in deep, slow pulls.

  "Goddess, Alina!" Baird gasped. One hand came up catch the back of her head, fingers tunneling through her hair.

  Smiling around his width, she slid him deeper, slowly, a centimeter at a time, spinning out the pleasure as long as she could. At the same time, she cupped him, stroking his heavy balls through the velvet skin of his sac.

  He twisted under her. There was something so delicious in his arousal that she felt her own cream gathering. Baird wasn't a passive lover; she knew it wouldn't be long before his control snapped.

  He lasted longer than she expected under her slow, delightful torment. But when he finally broke, there was no doubt about it.

  "Enough!" Baird sat up, grabbed her around the hips, and rolled her under him. She spread her thighs eagerly as he settled between them, wrapping them around his backside as he lifted himself just enough to aim his cock for her slick core.

  He entered in a single hard, deep thrust that took him all the way to the balls. "Goddess!" When he threw his head back, the cords stood high and stark on his powerful throat.

  "Oh, more!" Alina writhed in mingled pleasure and joy as he began to shaft her in long, hard strokes. Each deep entry raked her clit with sweet friction, while every withdrawal pulled her inner flesh.

  Her climax began to gather like a hot offshore storm, building every time his hips slapped hers. In the instant before they blew into pleasure, Baird's golden gaze met hers. "I love you."

  "Yes! Goddess, Baird, I love you!"

  The fire poured over them, blinding and hot, slinging them into sweet, dizzying heights. When the pleasure faded, he collapsed panting beside her, then promptly pulled her into his arms.

  She lay across his hard chest, listening to his heart pound a fierce rhythm her own echoed. Her mouth drew into a sleepy curl. "It took me twenty years, but I'm back where I belong."

  Baird's strong arms tightened, drawing her even closer. "We both are."

  * * *

  Painkillers

  JACEY FORD

  * * *

  To my editor, Cindy Hwang.

  Thank you for everything!

  * * *

  CH@%!*R 1

  Lauren Devlin knew the pain was coming and tried not to tense up. She was familiar enough with this particular brand of torture to know that would only make it worse. She shivered as expert hands pinned her legs down so she couldn't move.

  God, this was gonna hurt.

  A ripping sound rent the air and Lauren flinched, knowing the pain was only a split-second away. Then it was upon her. Her legs spasmed, trying to clench together protectively, but the firm hands on Lauren's thighs held them apart. She gritted her teeth and tried to blink back the tears in her eyes, but couldn't stop them from falling.

  Even worse, she knew this was just the beginning. Her torturer wouldn't let up until the job was finished.

  "I swear, I am never going to do another swimsuit shoot," she grumbled, pressing her palms into her eyes to stem the tears.

  The spa employee who was doing Lauren's bikini wax just nodded blandly and continued slathering hot wax on Lauren's tender parts with a Popsicle stick. Lauren figured anyone who voluntarily took on this job must have worked in a Nazi concentration camp in a former life, because they seemed to enjoy inflicting pain on others. She'd never met a waxer who didn't, at some point in the process, assure her that "This won't hurt a bit." Yeah, right.

  Before the woman could tear another strip of Lauren's hair out by the roots, she held up a hand and said, "Wait a sec." Then she reached over and grabbed a tiny bottle of Isla Suspiro rum from the nightstand in her hotel room. She twisted off the metal cap, took a deep breath, and chugged half the bottle in one gulp.

  "Okay, go ahead," she said to the resort employee, who put one firm hand on Lauren's knee before grabbing the edge of the strip of cloth she'd smoothed over the hot wax and ripping it off.

  There were days when being a supermodel was anything but glamorous, Lauren thought as she peeled off a packet of aspirin that was attached with a rubbery adhesive to the bottle of rum. She was down here on Isla Suspiro—Island of Sighs—shooting an ad for the rum named for the island. Some marketing whiz at the company had decided to package their beverage with aspirin as a promotional gimmick. "A rum so good you'll be tempted to drink the whole bottle. But try to restrain yourself," the adline read. Apparently, the aspirin was for those who could not resist that temptation.

  So much for encouraging moderation.

  Lauren took another swig of rum as more hot wax was applied to her crotch. The sweet liquor burned going down, but at least it was an effective painkiller. The next strip that was ripped off didn't hurt quite as much as the last one had.

  The photo shoot for Isla Suspiro Rum's print ads started today, hence this morning's torture. Lauren had already checked out the location for today's shoot—a beautiful stretch of white-sand beach here on the tourist side of the island, with swaying palm trees and water such a clear blue that it almost hurt to look at. Sadly, the tourist areas on this island had to be protected by machine gun-wielding security guards, and travelers were advised not to leave these secure locales without proper protection. Most U.S. tourists who visited the island remained cloistered within the concrete walls of their all-inclusive resorts, but even they were sometimes accosted by drug runners on Jet Skis who peddled their pharmaceuticals to anyone who swam far enough from the beach.

  Lauren, however, had no intention of remaining on Paradise Resort's property during her stay on Isla Suspiro. Not because she had a hankering for mind-altering drugs, or even because she believed that her status as an international celebrity afforded her any more protection from crime than a regular tourist.

  No, it was because Lauren had come to Isla Suspiro on a mission.

  Because aside from being a supermodel, Lauren Devlin was also a spy.

  "Did you know your American friends have sent an agent here to Isla Suspiro?" Emilio Santos asked quietly in his second-story office at the Isla Suspiro Rum Company. He kept his back to his brother, his hands clasped behind him as he pretended to watch the activity on the production floor below. Instead, he studied his older brother's reflection in one of the windows overlooking the first floor.

  Tomas Santos—a ruggedly handsome man who had clawed his way to power two years before, after an election fraught with allegations of fraud, blackmail, and bribery—frowned at his brother's back. "Are you certain?" he asked.

  Emilio kept his gaze focused on the
floor below, where employees in dark brown Isla Suspiro Rum Company uniforms scurried around like so many cockroaches. Emilio knew his presence at the factory made the workers nervous, but he didn't care. Not in his company would the mañana attitude that was so pervasive elsewhere be tolerated. When he demanded that something be done, he expected it to be done. Now. Not tomorrow—not mañana. Not in his factory.

  "Yes, I'm sure," Emilio answered his brother's question before turning to walk back to the large mahogany desk that dominated his office. Tomas was seated across from the desk in a dove gray leather chair, his large tanned hands resting in his lap.

  Where Emilio was small and wiry, both his older brother, Tomas, and his younger brother, Rafael, had the same broad shoulders and tall frame as their father had before his death. Unfortunately, Rafael also shared his oldest brother's hunger for power, a trait that had gotten him exiled two years ago to the primitive jungle that blanketed the wet southern coast of the island. Emilio made certain that Tomas never underestimated their younger brother's ambition. According to Emilio's frequent reports on Rafael's activities, banishing the youngest Santos son to the jungle had not stifled his desire to rule. Instead, it had merely provided Rafael with the isolation he needed to begin recruiting and training his own army—an army he would use to overthrow Tomas once Rafael had become powerful enough to attempt a coup.

  Emilio suspected that Tomas wasn't as troubled as he should be by the threat Rafael presented, because he believed that the U.S. government looked favorably upon Tomas Santos remaining in power. Under his rule, the island was relatively safe for American tourists to visit. Crimes against U.S. citizens were taken seriously, and the perpetrators of these crimes were always promptly found and harshly punished. And if sometimes the wrong man was jailed for another's crimes? Well, once America felt that justice had been served, their eyes turned quickly to other matters.

  In order to keep their relationship on stable terms, the United States had intervened several times in the past two years—quietly and without much fanfare—on Tomas's behalf. A suspicious bank account would mysteriously be frozen, a dissenter's camp would suddenly disappear. Emilio knew the only reason Rafael had survived this long was because he had his own powerful allies that helped him keep one step ahead of both Tomas and the CIA. Plus, Emilio guessed that no one but him suspected how strong Rafael's army had become.

  And Emilio, who was as intelligent and power-hungry as his brothers, had no intention of sharing that information with his older brother. At least, not until the time was right.

  He sat down behind his desk and slowly sipped a cup of the rich coffee the island was famous for. "Why would the CIA send an agent here without arranging for him to meet with you?" Emilio asked, as if truly perplexed by the question.

  Tomas's eyes narrowed, and his hands tightened convulsively in his lap. "I don't know. Perhaps the agent is simply here on vacation," he suggested, obviously resisting the idea that the CIA might turn against him.

  "Or perhaps he's meeting with Rafael instead? Perhaps the Americans are unhappy with the job you're doing and wish to remove you from power," Emilio countered.

  Tomas's gaze flicked to the busy production floor below. "Surely they don't expect that I can right a lifetime of wrongs in two years? Building better lives for the people of Isla Suspiro will take time. I can't increase spending to build much-needed roads and improve our port and airports until our people can support the higher taxes. It will take years—probably decades—before things begin to improve. There's no quick fix to our problems. Not unless the Americans are willing to send us more money than they already have."

  "And if they do, you will be perceived as a puppet for the United States," Emilio said. His brother was in an impossible situation, and they both knew it. Tomas—fool that he was—was committed to doing what was best for the people of Isla Suspiro over the long term. That meant he would not resort to selling illegal drugs for a quick inflow of cash, which would have assured his popularity with the people and cemented his position as leader of the island. Instead, he was trying to get the fledgling rum and coffee industries off the ground, as well as building new schools to help educate the people and prepare them for better jobs. Only, these things took time, time Tomas wasn't certain he had—not with both his youngest brother and the CIA watching for the slightest sign of weakness.

  "It's possible this agent is only here to observe conditions on the island," Tomas said.

  "And it's also possible he's here to kill you," Emilio responded, his voice eerily devoid of emotion.

  Tomas sighed heavily and rubbed the back of his neck with the air of a man well acquainted with adversity. "Yes, that's possible," he admitted.

  "You know the Americans are impatient. If I can prove that their agent is meeting with Rafael, will you finally take my advice and do something to defend yourself against him?"

  "He's our brother," Tomas protested softly, looking up at Emilio with his sad, dark eyes.

  "He's your adversary," Emilio corrected. "One who would like to remove you from your duly elected position with violence, uncaring about the wishes of the people of this island."

  Silence hung heavily in the air between the two brothers. This war had begun long ago, with Tomas's insistence that the only way to lead Isla Suspiro out of poverty was to work within the system for change, while Rafael argued with equal ferocity that the system itself was the problem and must be overthrown. Emilio just stood back and let his brothers argue. He didn't have the charisma to inspire people to follow his leadership. He knew that his only hope to obtain the power he wanted was to win it by default. And so he had stealthily laid his plans, waiting for the right moment to close his trap around both of his brothers.

  Now. Now was the time.

  Soon, the presidency would be his.

  Finally, Tomas nodded and stood to leave. "All right. Prove to me that this CIA agent is working with Rafael, and I will attack. I cannot allow our brother to gain any more power, not if he's already managed to win support from the United States."

  From across his desk, Emilio nodded his approval, although he knew his brother neither wished for nor cared about his endorsement of his decisions. In politics, Tomas Santos would do what he felt was right, and to hell with what his younger brother thought about the matter.

  Fortunately for Emilio, however, his brother did not show the same concern about the rum business. If he had, Emilio could not have let him live as long as he had.

  No, Tomas left the running of Isla Suspiro Rum entirely to Emilio—a wise decision that was validated as their profits continued to climb. Of course, that also meant that Tomas had no idea why their income had increased so sharply in such a short amount of time, but Emilio figured that it was none of his brother's business. As long as the money kept coming in as expected to fund his own pursuits, Tomas left Emilio alone.

  Emilio waited until the sound of his brother's footsteps faded before making certain the hallway was deserted. Then he closed and locked his office door and hurried back to his desk. From a secret compartment under the top drawer, he removed a key and unlocked a larger hidden compartment in the bottom drawer to his left. He pulled a cell phone out of the drawer and checked the scrambler before he hit redial. The call was answered on the first ring.

  "The CIA has sent someone to interfere in your business. It would be in your best interest to stop him," Emilio said without preamble.

  "Do they know about our plans for Sunday?" the man on the other end of the line asked, his voice clipped and abrupt.

  "Not unless one of your men leaked the information. I just spoke to Tomas and it's clear that he does not know. At least, not yet," Emilio added ominously.

  "It's possible, then, that this agent is here to tell him about our plans," Rafael Santos said, then paused, as if considering what to do next.

  Emilio impatiently tapped his fingers on his desk, willing his brother to come to the conclusion that Emilio himself had when he had first learned
of the CIA's presence on the island.

  "I must stop him from reaching Tomas," Rafael said finally.

  Emilio had to resist the urge to clap, as if his younger brother were a trained seal at a circus that had performed its trick well. "Yes. But you must make it appear as if he came to you willingly. That will confirm Thomas's suspicions that the Americans have turned against him."

  "Yes. Yes, you're right," Rafael agreed. "I will have my men take care of it immediately. Where can I find this American spy?"

  "Paradise Resort. I was not able to get the man's name from my source, but he did tell me it was someone who arrived on the island this morning and is staying at the resort. The rest, I'm afraid, I must leave up to you." Emilio didn't like leaving so much in the hands of his brother, but he couldn't call the resort to try to get more information without risking Tomas finding out. His older brother had spies everywhere.

  This game of playing brother against brother was becoming tedious, but as Emilio hung up the phone and replaced it in the secret compartment in his desk, he allowed himself a small smile. In a short time, the game would be over and he could just imagine Tomas's and Rafael's surprise when they realized who had wrested their power away from them.

  Yes, it wouldn't be long before Emilio had it all—the money, the power, and the admiration of the people of Isla Suspiro. Too bad his satisfaction at seeing his brothers defeated wouldn't last long. Once Emilio had what he wanted, they would both have to die.

  * * *

  CH@%!*R 2

  "Haven, you are one lucky bastard," Jake Haven muttered to himself as he opened Lauren Devlin's hotel room door and caught a glimpse of the turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea lapping away at the beach outside. He stepped inside the room, put his bag down on the marble tiled floor, and whistled. In the movies, spies always stayed at posh resorts and got laid by gorgeous women. In real life, however, CIA agents were government employees who did not have unlimited expense accounts and were more likely to be holed up doing surveillance in their rented Ford Tauruses than snuggled in at the Ritz. And as for the women… well, let's just say there was fantasy and there was reality and, although Jake talked a big game with the support staff, he spent more time alone than he cared to admit.