Anthology - Kick Ass

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

  The thing was, Jake liked to keep the fantasy alive. He wanted others to believe that his was a glamorous, high-danger, high-excitement life. Hell, he himself 'wanted to believe that. So, yeah, when he finally did get assigned an op that looked as though it had come right out of the script of a James Bond movie, he felt pretty fucking lucky. What red-blooded American male wouldn't?

  He looked around the room, from the disheveled sheets on the bed to the empty rum bottles lying on their sides on the nightstand and the silky women's panties draped over a rattan chair near the French doors leading out to the beach. Jake eyed those panties and sent up a silent "thank you" to his partner, Race. It was only because of Race's girlfriend, Aimee, that Jake had been assigned this job. Or rather, because Race's girlfriend Aimee had a supermodel for a sister.

  Jake had been photographed standing on Aimee's porch chatting with her sister just often enough for the tabloids to hint that Jake and Lauren were more than just casual strangers. Two days ago, when Jake's boss suggested they exploit those rumors to provide Jake with a cover story for this op, Jake had nearly whooped with joy. He'd been trying to get up the nerve to ask Lauren out for months, but something always held him back.

  Unfortunately, Jake knew exactly what that something was—fear. He was as confident as the next guy, but he wasn't about to toss his ego down in front of a supermodel and watch her stomp all over it with her five-inch heels.

  He'd been astounded to learn that Lauren worked undercover with the Agency, but he supposed he shouldn't have been so surprised. As a supermodel, she traveled extensively and got to meet heavy-hitters from all over the world. And because of her looks, she no doubt got treated like arm candy a lot, which meant no one worried about saying something in her presence that she might actually understand.

  "Never underestimate the treachery of a woman," Jake muttered as he crossed the room to a desk in the corner. He didn't know where Lauren was—probably off sunbathing somewhere in an incredibly small bikini. Just the thought of seeing her nearly naked made Jake hard, but he tried to remind himself that he had about as much chance getting laid by Lauren Devlin this weekend as did the bellboy who'd offered to take his bag when he'd arrived.

  Women like Lauren didn't pay much attention to guys like him. Not in the real world, where government salaries were part of the public record.

  Still, that wasn't going to stop Jake from enjoying his fantasy to the fullest.

  When his boss had told him his mission was to provide backup to an informant on the CIA's payroll, Jake hadn't thought much of it. He'd done this many times before: providing support to a highly placed official in a hostile government or relaying information for an agent who had gone deep undercover. He'd never had a model as an informant before, but Jake sure as hell wasn't complaining.

  And it wasn't like Lauren was a real agent. According to her handler, Martha McLaughlin—a smug, egotistical woman Jake had come to dislike over the years—Lauren had been recruited by the Agency to do nothing more than provide low-risk intel. Who attended so-and-so's party? How many armed bodyguards does Prince such-and-such travel with? What time and from which airport is this suspected drug dealer arriving? That sort of thing. She'd probably never so much as picked a lock during her "career" with the CIA.

  On this op, Lauren had been sent in to see if she could discover who was funding Rafael Santos's army. Unfortunately, the CIA had just uncovered evidence that the rebel army was gearing up for an attack, so Jake had been sent in to take over the case. He had to find some way to trace the source of Santos's funds and stop the flow of money to the rebel forces. If he could stem the tide of money, a coup attempt could be averted, and thousands of lives could be saved.

  And that was what his job was really about. Not glamour or excitement or fun, but saving lives. Most of the time, it was downright boring. But at least his partner on this op would be easy on the eyes.

  Jake sat down at the desk and pulled open a drawer to find some paper and a pen, then chuckled to himself when he realized that Lauren had taped a manila folder to the bottom of the drawer.

  "Great hiding place." He snorted, tugging the file loose. He flipped it open to find satellite photos of the island along with a map and pictures of the key players in Isla Suspiro's political arena. Jake had been given a duplicate file, but he'd studied the information and then destroyed it before coming to the island.

  Jake pulled a piece of resort stationery out of the drawer and quickly penned a note to Lauren just in case she returned to the room before he found her. He'd left a message on her cell phone after getting off the plane from Miami giving her his ETA at the resort, but she hadn't called him back. He wrote down his cell number again and told her to meet him in the lobby at one o'clock if she got his message. Then he started whistling again he crossed toward the French doors that opened up onto the white sand beach. The first place he was going to look for her was down near a cluster of palm trees where the Isla Suspiro Rum photo shoot was supposed to be taking place.

  Oh, yeah. Babes in bikinis, here I come, Jake thought as he pulled open the door and stepped out into the sunshine to find his new partner.

  Lauren winced as the hairdresser's comb jerked to a stop at the knot in her hair.

  "I'm sorry, Miss Devlin," the woman apologized as she gingerly picked at the tangle.

  This was the fourth time in less than two hours that Lauren's hair had had to be blow-dried, and the spray-on detangler was no match for saltwater. What she really needed was to go back to her room and condition her hair, but the psychotic photographer kept insisting that he was only one click away from getting the perfect shot. In the meantime, Lauren's hair was being systematically destroyed by the combination of sea air, sand, and blow-drying. Not to mention that, even with the water a balmy 85 degrees, her nipples were killing her from rubbing against her cold, wet swimsuit. But the client was paying for a surf shot, so a surf shot they would get.

  Lauren sighed as she exited the hair and makeup tent. The caterers had brought a cooler full of bottled water and sodas in addition to the sandwiches and salads that were always ordered on photo shoots but that no one ate. Lauren didn't know any models who would actually eat in public—some because they had serious eating disorders, like bingeing on doughnuts and fried chicken and then throwing it all up, and others because they were uncomfortable with the scrutiny they were under when they ate. Lauren didn't eat because she'd had her fill of cereal, fresh fruit, and rum that morning after the sadist from the spa had come to rip her hair out by its roots. She didn't typically drink alcohol for breakfast, but sometimes a girl had to do what a girl had to do.

  And right now, she had to get back into the water, spread her legs, and act as if she were making love with the surf, chafed nipples, crispy hair, and all.

  Right-e-o.

  "Lauren, there's a good girl. Hurry up now, will you? I'm going to lose my light," the photographer said as soon as he caught sight of her emerging from the tent.

  Lauren rolled her eyes heavenward. Brad Klein was from Cleveland, but he insisted on using a fake English accent and acting as though every photo shoot he did was of the utmost importance. Like what they were doing really made a difference. Not that Lauren had anything against advertising or models or even sadistic photographers. They just weren't exactly saving the world here.

  She sighed as she stepped into the surf and felt the bathtub-warm water lapping around her ankles. She couldn't wait for this shoot to be over so she could get back to her real mission. As soon as her backup arrived, she wanted to head out into the jungle to gather more intel on the rebel troop's movements and see if her hunch was correct that a coup attempt was imminent.

  She didn't know who the Agency was sending in for backup. She'd been told the agent would contact her when he arrived on the island, but cell service here was spotty, and it wasn't like she could pack a cell phone in the tiny bikini she was wearing. Last time she'd tried to check her messages, she couldn't get a signal. Hopefully,
this photo shoot would be over soon and she could go back to her room and get in touch with her contact.

  "Okay then, back into the water, love," the photographer said.

  Lauren grimaced and started to lower herself into the sea, but stopped when a familiar voice said, "Lauren, baby. Why'd you run out on me like that back in Atlanta? I've missed you."

  Huh? Run out on who? And what was with that baby crap? She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun's rays as Jake Haven sauntered toward her with the usual wiseass grin plastered on his face.

  Ever since they'd met, she and Jake had had what could be termed an "interesting" relationship. He tried to charm her with his tales of danger and adventure as a CIA operative, and she discounted about 85 percent of everything he said. After all, she'd been trained at The Farm just like he had, and she knew bullshit when it was plated up and shoved under her nose, even though Jake tried to convince her it was filet mignon.

  She was certain Jake hadn't known she was CIA before now. If he had, he never would have tried to convince her that his outlandish tales of adventure overseas were true.

  But there was only one reason he could be looking for her on this beach—he'd been sent here as her backup. Which meant they were ready to roll. Which also meant this photo shoot was now a wrap. But how could she end it? She squinted, trying to recall if the Secret Agent's Handbook her handler had given her after her training was complete had any advice for such a situation. She didn't think it had, so she supposed she was on her own for this one.

  "My gosh, I'm feeling dizzy," Lauren said, dramatically fluttering the eyelashes her makeup artist had just finished lengthening to twice their original size. Then, as artfully as possible, she sank into the sea, being careful to fall forward onto her knees so as not to get her hair wet again. She couldn't take another bout with the blow-dryer.

  Although Brad had been the one standing closest to her, Jake was the first to reach her. Through half-closed eyes, Lauren saw the tips of his brown boots digging into the sand as he squatted down on the beach. Then she nearly forgot herself and opened her eyes with surprise when, in one smooth move, he scooped her up out of the water with one arm under her knees and the other beneath her shoulders.

  "Someone get her some water," he ordered in the most serious tone Lauren had ever heard him use.

  She kept her eyes screwed shut as Jake carried her toward the hair and makeup tent. His grip on her was surprisingly firm, as was the chest her right cheek kept banging against as he walked.

  "Lauren? Are you all right?" he asked once they were under the shade of the tent.

  "She probably just needs some food. These silly models are always fainting from hunger," she head Brad say from behind Jake.

  Asshole, she thought. She wondered how he'd like to lie out there under the sun for two straight hours with nothing covering his head. Not to mention having people whisper behind his back that he was getting fat if he happened to gain half a pound.

  But, hey, if it would get her out of this photo shoot, she didn't mind if Brad thought she was some delicate flower. Give them what they expect. That was her motto.

  Her eyes fluttered open, and she found herself staring up into Jake's dark green eyes. She'd never really noticed his eyes before, but they were quite nice, fringed with golden brown lashes a shade darker than his hair.

  "Are you okay?" he asked softly, shirting his weight back onto his heels and holding her even closer to his chest.

  Lauren pulled her bottom lip into her mouth to moisten it. She was so close she could hear Jake's heart beating slowly and rhythmically and could smell the faint traces of laundry detergent still clinging to his black T-shirt. It was interesting how you could know someone for months and then suddenly be smacked in the head with this awareness that he might be something different—something more—than you thought.

  "I'm fine," Lauren whispered, their gazes still locked together. Then she closed her eyes, shook her head. "No, I mean, I feel so weak," she corrected, louder this time, so Brad could overhear what she was saying.

  The photographer came over with a bottle of water and held it out to her. "Here, drink this," he said.

  Lauren gave a disappointed little sigh and forced her hand to tremble as she brought it to her throat. "Oh, not that water, please. It has an aftertaste."

  Brad scowled at the bottle in his hand and then at her. Lauren heard him mutter something about "freaking spoiled models" as he went back to the cooler and rummaged around in the half-melted ice to find her another brand. "How's this one?" he asked, holding up a different bottle.

  "Maybe… could you find the kind with the electrolytes?" she asked shakily and felt Jake's chest rumble beneath her right ear as he coughed.

  Brad finally found the brand of water Lauren had requested. She waited for Jake to put her down, but he seemed perfectly content to continue holding her. Since that made her look even more weak and helpless, Lauren didn't protest. Not that she really wanted to. His hold on her was startlingly comfortable.

  She twisted the cap off of the bottle and took a tiny sip as if she couldn't force herself to drink any more than that. Then she nestled her head back against Jake's chest as if even that small effort had exhausted her. "I don't think I can go back out there," she said in a breathy tone.

  "She's had enough for the day," Jake announced decisively, turning toward the resort as if he intended to carry her across the beach and back to her room.

  "But what about my light?" Brad protested.

  "It'll have to wait until tomorrow," Jake said.

  Lauren let her hand drop to her side, leaving it dangling in the air as if she were too overcome to move.

  "Who are you, anyway?" Brad grumbled.

  "I'm Jake Haven. Lauren and I are, uh, friends," Jake said, pausing just long enough for Brad to get the idea that they were more than friends. "And I'm not going to let her go back out there and get sunstroke. Can't you see that she's dehydrated?"

  Lauren smacked her lips as if to prove Jake's point that she was parched. She was thirsty, but didn't want to swallow the entire bottle of water until Brad was out of sight. Better to let him think she was at death's door. Not that he had much say in the matter. That was one thing about being a supermodel—when you were in such high demand, you got to call the shots. At her level, diva-ish behavior was not only tolerated, it was expected. Show up late. Throw a temper tantrum if the room was too hot or too cold. Bitch about how awful the three-thousand-dollar-a-night hotel room was. Complain about the food, the photographer, the wardrobe, the hair and makeup people. You could pretty much make everyone around you miserable, and you still got callbacks because you had the look clients wanted.

  Some of the girls let it go to their heads, but Lauren had learned early in life that all this attention wasn't about her, it was about how she looked. Yeah, in the beginning, she'd thought she was pretty hot stuff. She'd led a charmed life in high school—always trying out for, and making, the cheerleading squad, always getting the extra help she needed in her classes, always getting the guy she liked to ask her out.

  Things started to change the first time she had sex with a guy. She'd waited until her eighteenth birthday. In the harsh light of maturity, she now saw that she'd been on a power trip. It hadn't been about waiting for the right guy to come along. It had been about proving that she was the one in control. So she picked the time, she picked the place, she picked the guy, and in the arrogance of her youth, she was convinced that she'd be the best he'd ever had.

  Only, she hadn't been. She'd had no clue what to do once the clothes were off and there was nothing between them but naked skin. And afterward, she'd realized that her partner hadn't been disappointed because she was all that bad in bed, he'd been disappointed because he believed that a woman who looked as good as Lauren did should come packaged with some sort of Super Vagina that would guarantee a guy the most incredible sex he'd ever had. With her, they expected multiple orgasms. Nonstop sex every five minutes for the en
tire night. Swinging from trapezes and God only knew what else.

  It had occurred to Lauren then that, underneath the pretty exterior she'd been blessed with, she was really just an ordinary person who was no better than anyone else.

  It was a lesson she would never forget.

  Which was why she didn't take the attention she received too seriously. She knew how meaningless it really was. But that didn't mean she was above using her power when it suited her.

  "All right. But don't be late tomorrow morning. Remember, we're meeting in the lobby at 10:30 to drive out to the rum company to do a shoot out there," Brad said, as if he were the one in charge.

  Lauren simply nodded in the photographer's direction as Jake started across the hot sand. Then she remembered something. "Wait, I need my bag," she said, waving toward the tent where she'd left her beach bag, which contained her Secret Agent's Handbook, room key, wallet, sandals, and a see-through cover-up to wear over her bikini bottoms. Jake detoured, effortlessly slinging her bag over his shoulder before heading back to the hotel.

  Once they were out of earshot of the crew, Lauren allowed herself a small smile and said, "You can put me down now. I'm perfectly capable of walking."

  "What? And ruin that Oscar-worthy performance?" Jake said with a chuckle.

  "Yeah, I was good, wasn't I?"

  "You were," Jake acknowledged. "I can see why you'd be effective at gathering intelligence."

  Lauren grimaced as Jake stepped into the cool lobby of the hotel. "People think models are weak and stupid. I just give them what they expect."