by Misty Evans
Donovan was smart. He dropped the umbrella and ran.
Ten minutes later, Brigit shouted at him when Michael came through the door.
“You!” She jumped out of the chair like a crazed woman, her face flushed and her eyes bright. She held up her thumb and forefinger as she marched toward him. “I was this close to nailing him.”
Sweet relief at seeing her alive and ready to take him on buzzed Michael’s nerve endings. Kinnick, Flynn and Vaughn all moved reflexively forward to intercept her before she could take a swing, but Michael held up a hand to stop them and handed the umbrella off to Flynn.
Brigit promptly punched him in the arm. The slight sting almost made him laugh, but the sincere fury on her face kept his amusement under wraps. He rubbed the spot as if it hurt to give her some satisfaction, but couldn’t hide the teasing annoyance in his tone. “You were that close to getting killed again. I showed up earlier like you told me to do and this is the thanks I get?”
She punched him again with more force, and he was sure it was because of his smirk. “You aren’t supposed to be here, you big lout.”
He gripped her elbow, steering her away from the other men’s eyes and into the adjoining bedroom, lit by a single lamp. He kicked the door shut and turned her to face him.
Not done lashing out at him, she kicked his shin. “You ruined everything.”
“Ow,” he said, pushing her back out of kicking range.
She wrestled in his grip. “Peter is mine to take care of, not yours. And then you have that Lawson guy show up and kidnap me right in the middle of leading Peter into my trap. He picked me up and carted me off like a sack of potatoes. Scared me to death. And…and…”
Realizing he was smiling smugly at her attempts to break free, she stilled and narrowed her eyes at him. Took a deep breath, assessing him. “You’re hurting my injured arm.”
Since he was gripping her forearm and not her upper arm, he was pretty sure she was lying to get him to turn her loose. Instead of complying, he pulled her in tight, hugging her to his chest. “You put on a good show.”
Being shorter by at least six inches, she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. Frustration still darkened her eyes, or maybe it was the low light of the room, but she sounded sad when she spoke. “It’s not a show. I don’t want you involved in this. It’s my mess. I clean it up.”
She smelled like the pub…fried food, boiled onions and dark ale. The pink in her cheeks set off her doll eyes. Her lips, even set in a firm line, beckoned to him. “What if I can take care of the mess and get your father back?”
Brigit’s pulse hopscotched under her skin. Not because Michael had mentioned her father or offered to take out most of her problems in one grand slam. It was the way he was holding her and looking down at her, like a kid with a secret so big, he was ready to burst.
In the hospital, he’d made the emotional walls between them fall like they were constructed of thin sticks. She’d confessed too much and now wondered if he felt the same way.
Yet, if there was any awkwardness, she couldn’t tell from the way he was hugging her against his body. His beautiful, powerful, hard body ignited a hunger inside her. All her anger, frustration and common sense dissolved like the Irish fog when it met sunlight.
As his eyes, devilish with amusement, invited her to ask about his plan, she tried to unscramble her brain. A nanosecond later, she gave up. Forget the plan. “I think I want to kiss you.”
Michael’s intensity ratcheted up a notch and Brigit had to remind herself to breathe. They stared at each other for a long moment, his gaze as intimate as the hand stroking her spine. “Now that’s the kind of thanks I was hoping for.”
She moved on him, going up on her toes and sliding her hands up his broad shoulders and solid neck to pull his face down to hers. Without resistance, he matched her boldness, taking her mouth with the same self-confidence he did everything else.
A knock made her jump back out of his arms. Conrad Flynn’s voice was muffled through the door. “We’re going to get food. You coming?”
The predatory look in Michael’s eyes made Brigit swallow hard and take another step backwards. The set of his jaw, the way he stalked toward her as he answered, continued to cause havoc with her pulse. “Bring us something back.”
Seconds passed as the men left. Michael was nearly on top of her, and the instant the door latch clicked, he wrapped a hand around the back of her neck and brought her to him again.
Talk about crossing lines, sucking face with the Deputy Director of the CIA could only bring her more grief, but as his demanding lips parted hers, she didn’t care.
For this moment, grief was far away. Guilt and responsibility too. He made her feel sexy and alive like she’d never experienced, and damn if she didn’t want even more.
Enjoying his sensual lips on hers, she used her tongue to taste him. Coffee and a hint of spearmint. Power and control.
He returned the favor, meeting her tongue with his as he shifted her body around to press her against the wall. She sucked in a breath, amazed at his gracefulness, but he mistook it for pain and broke the kiss. “Is it your ribs? Did I hurt you?”
Brain muddled from an overdose of his lips, she shook her head in confusion. “My ribs?”
Michael’s fingers grazed her rib cage, sending an electrical charge through her chest. “Your bruised ribs, remember?”
She giggled, the sound almost a whisper. Had she really just been sticking her tongue in his mouth? “Oh, that, no. You didn’t hurt me.” Touching him in the same spot, she watched his eyes darken with desire. “I’m in tiptop shape.”
“You were almost blown to pieces two days ago.”
Two days ago was another lifetime she didn’t want to talk about. She didn’t want to talk at all. She wanted his tongue back in her mouth and his body pressed up against hers, trapping her to the wall. “I’m not done thanking you for today.”
With slow smugness, he smiled and slid his face so his cheek was next to hers and his mouth was by her ear. “What were you doing hunting Peter by yourself? I told you we would come to Belfast together.”
His low tone, the sound of pure sex in his voice, made her shiver. How did he do that? Talking about a terrorist and undressing her with his voice at the same time?
She struggled to form coherent words. “Killing Peter would ruin your career.”
He kissed a spot under her earlobe. “What about your career?”
“Gone already.” Leaning her cheek against his, she breathed in his clean-smelling aftershave and hoped it would rub off on her. “No career. No family. No life.”
“I told you”—he nibbled her lobe—“I’m going to get your dad back.”
Sinking her fingers in his short hair, she sighed. “How?”
“Peter’s the key.”
“Peter will be dead soon, or at least very, very sick.”
Michael’s lips stopped nibbling. “How do you know?”
Shut up, she told herself. You’re ruining everything. But she couldn’t ignore his question, nor could she lie. “I poisoned him.”
“What?” Michael put his face in front of hers so they were nose to nose. “How?”
She let her hands fall to his chest. His sculpted-like-a-Roman-god chest. Now she’d blown everything. “The umbrella.”
Michael stepped back and held up his hands, looking at them as if they were diseased. “You put poison on the umbrella?”
“No.” She shook her head in earnest. “In the umbrella. It’s a Cold War technique. You use it like a gun to inject a poison pellet into your target.”
His brows drew down and then he strode out of the room, clearly irritated, taking all his magnificence with him.
Brigit slumped against the wall, deflated. Her luck hadn’t really changed after all. She didn’t belong with Michael any more than she belonged with her father or her sister or anyone else. She was alone. Totally alone.
“Show me.”
Her head snap
ped up at Michael’s command. The umbrella was in his hands and he was holding it out to her.
Taking it apart, she laid each piece on the bureau and answered his questions about how it worked. Keeping her focus on the umbrella, she tried to let his annoyance roll off her back, but his obvious disappointment in her couldn’t be ignored.
When his silence stretched into the painful zone, she peeked at him from the corner of her eye. He was staring at her with an unreadable expression, arms crossed over his chest. “You built this?”
Returning her attention to the umbrella, she swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yes, and I followed Peter to the bar and injected him with rat poison. Got him right in the calf.”
Silence again. Unable to stand it any longer, she turned to face him. “Say something.”
A light had entered his eyes. He rubbed his chin with his fingers and thumb. “I think I’m turned on.”
Relief slammed through her as he grinned wide, perfect teeth showing. In an instant, she was in his arms again. She wrapped one leg around his muscled thigh as their mouths found each other, and the next second he lifted her and swung her around to sit on the top of the bureau—umbrella parts scattering—all without breaking their kiss.
Her legs instinctively parted to allow him access, and he slid her to the edge of the bureau where their hips snapped together. The bulge in his pants teased her as mercilessly as his lips.
“I didn’t think you had it in you,” he murmured against her mouth.
“I don’t normally,” she said, feeding him short, hot kisses. “But every time I think of Ella and Tory and what Peter’s taken from me, I hate him. I hate him so much I want to kill him a hundred times over.” She pulled back and checked his response. “Sounds terrible, doesn’t it? That I hate my brother enough to kill him? Holy Virgin, I’m fucked up.”
“You have every right to feel mad, Brigit. Blood doesn’t mean shit in this case.”
God, she loved him for saying that. Leaning into him again, she teased his lips. “Thank you.”
He responded, speaking through her kisses. “Dangerous to go after him alone, though.”
“I laugh in the face of danger.”
One of his hands went under her sweater, raked her stomach. “Jesus, you’re my kind of woman.”
She arched into the thumb now rubbing her nipple through her bra’s lace. He kissed her cheek, her chin, her neck. “No I’m not, but I don’t care as long as you don’t.”
His chuckle was deep and seductive. It made her smile. He leaned his forehead against hers and cupped her breast under the sweater. “How long does Peter have?”
Wrapping her legs around his waist, she brought their already impossibly close lower halves even closer. “Why?”
His other hand slid under her sweater and over her head the wool went, landing on the floor with the umbrella’s guts. “I need him alive for my plan to get your father back.”
He gazed at her breasts, running his fingers over her cleavage. His touch was so soft and so opposite of the conversation they were having, Brigit’s breath stuck in the back of her throat. Interrogation by seduction, that’s what this was. A sweet, exquisite torture.
Two could play at that game. “Exactly what is the plan?”
“Not telling.” Michael dipped a finger inside her bra and scooped out her nipple. “I don’t want you running off again trying to save my career.”
Damn him. Refusing to be outmaneuvered, even in her hormone-induced stupor, she undid his belt, ran the zipper down and slid her hand inside.
Contact. Hot skin, stretched to the max, met her touch and she gasped. “No knickers?” She couldn’t control the giggle that escaped her mouth.
The moment she’d touched him, he’d gone still as marble. Now his voice came out strained as he scanned her face with annoyance. “You find that funny?”
Not funny at all. Just…surprising…and sexy. “I think I’m turned on.”
He laughed, the deep, full sound echoing in the small room. Finally having the upper hand, she smiled and gave him a little squeeze. His laughter came to an abrupt halt. “But I am going with you to help with this plan, right?”
“Right.” He squeezed her nipple, and it was her turn to freeze. “As long as you behave.”
She released him to push his pants down over his hips, never breaking eye contact. His gun, stored in the waistband at his back, thumped to the floor. “Define behave.”
Before she could blink her bra was unhooked. The pile on the floor grew as Michael added the flimsy piece of spandex to it. Her breasts heaved in his hands as her breath came faster. “Following my orders down to the last detail.”
“Is that all?”
Again, his laughter cascaded over her. “That seems to be hard for you.”
The hardest thing ever. “Try me. Right now. Give me an order.”
Instantly the dangerous predator was back. “Shut up while I kiss you senseless.”
I laugh in the face of danger, she reminded herself as she tipped her mouth up and parted her lips.
Chapter Thirty-Five
High-octane desire hit Michael like a wildfire as Brigit parted her lips for his kiss. He grasped her chin and tilted her face up more, catching the image of her hair cascading down her back in the bureau’s mirror.
The dark waves brushed her back and contrasted deeply with her pale, flawless skin. He played up her spine with his fingertips, letting his hand disappear under her hair.
As he brought his full attention back to her face, her lashes dipped, her gaze following him in as he claimed her mouth. She wasn’t bashful about what she wanted either, sucking at his tongue and teasing him with hers.
The half a synapse still firing in his brain told him this was wrong for many, many reasons, but he couldn’t recall one of them, especially with Brigit unbuttoning his shirt and slipping her hands inside to stroke his chest.
Using the hand buried in her hair, he tilted her back another fraction and shifted his mouth to her exposed neck. Her moan was so soft, he wondered if he’d imagined it. As he licked the spot under her earlobe he liked, he palmed one breast, tweaking the nipple. This time he heard her moan loud and clear.
Keeping her upper half prisoner under his lips, he moved his erection to replace it with his hand, thumbing her through her pants. Her voice was hoarse as she cried his name and arched even more.
Glancing in the mirror again, he surveyed her back. He wanted to see the reflection of her fine ass there. Wanted his hands on it. “The pants have to go,” he murmured in her ear as his fingers popped the top button of her pants and ran the zipper down.
She came right back at him, pushing the shirt off his shoulders. “Quid pro quo.”
His shirt dropped to the floor, and he helped her off the edge of the bureau so she could get her pants off. While she slipped her feet out of her shoes and then out of the garment, she eyed his body, head to toe, over and over, constantly flicking unabashedly back to his lower center. Approval was evident on her face.
He was doing the same to her as he kicked off his shoes and pants and watched her full breasts bounce as she bent to tug the pant legs off her feet.
Swinging around to face the bureau, she eyed him in the mirror. “You’re amazing.”
She wasn’t wearing underwear and, sweet Jesus, he might just explode right there without even touching her again. Noticing his fixation, she waggled her ass in a slow circle. “You’re one of those guys who carries a condom so you’re prepared for sex at the drop of a hat, right?”
“What?” The synapses fired. Condom. Shit. “Tell me you’re on the pill.”
“I’m on the pill. Aren’t you concerned about disease?”
He palmed her butt cheeks and parted her legs so he could step between them. Bending his knees, he slid his erection into the end zone like a magnet drawn to steel. “We’re both clean.”
She wiggled again, teasing him, and raised her brows. “How do you…?” Her voice trailed off. “
You read my health records too?”
“Not per se.” He couldn’t believe they were once again engaged in unnecessary conversation. “Your file stated your medical assessments were clean.”
She gripped the edges of the bureau, bracing herself, and leaned over the top, baring herself to give him better access. “I’m not really on the pill.”
He froze, his fat tip pulsing with fresh need in her hot, slick folds. “You just said you were.”
“You told me to say I was, and I’m trying to follow orders.”
Everything from his brain to his toes cramped. She might as well have kneed him in the balls. He couldn’t even utter the curse circling the fog in his cranium. Setting his palms on either side of her hips, he bent at the waist and pulled back, slamming the thinnest coat of control down on his uncontrollable lust.
“Nice withdrawal.” She giggled. “But we’re safe. I get Depo shots.”
Lifting his head, he met her gaze in the mirror again. Exhaled the breath he’d been holding. Straightened up. Leaned in over her so close he could touch the back of her neck with his tongue. “You did that on purpose.”
The laugh started low in her belly, and as he grabbed her and aimed for home, it broke free into a half laugh, half whoop of ecstasy.
“Like I mentioned earlier,” she panted. “I’m not your kind of woman.”
The hell she wasn’t. Driving home in a single hard thrust, he relished how tight she was. How soft. “I like…a challenge.”
Her softness pillowed his hardness so completely, he was once again a virgin ready to lose it on the first stroke.
He should have taken it slow, figured out what she liked and found a place nicer than this abandoned upstairs dump of an apartment to explore it with her. There wasn’t even a bed. For some insane reason, she didn’t seem to care.
Instead of a slow, enjoyable lovemaking session, they were going at it like dogs. While her assertiveness might be an act, he didn’t think so. She liked power, was drawn to it.
Maybe she was as sex-starved as he was, or maybe it was the adrenaline of the mission fueling their actions. Either way, her no-holes-barred approach, and the way she twisted and teased him as mercilessly as he did her, was the biggest turn-on he’d ever experienced.