by Cindy Dees
“Stop what?” she asked, startled.
“You think I can’t feel what’s going on in your head?”
Her eyebrows shot straight up. “You’re psychic, too?”
“No, dammit, I’m a man.” And with that, he leaned over, grabbed the back of her neck and dragged her forward to meet him—not that he had to force the issue all that hard. She leaned into him eagerly, seeking the fire within him, reveling in the leashed violence of the man.
He whispered, “And you’re a woman with sex on her mind.”
Their mouths collided, tongues tangling, hands seeking, bodies straining toward one another. He growled deep in the back of his throat, a call of need that reached right inside her. She turned on her knees to face him fully and flung herself against the wall of muscle and strength that was Mitch. His powerful arms caught her up against him, wrapping her in safety and desire. The combination enflamed her beyond all reason.
“Make love to me,” she murmured against his mouth.
“Don’t tempt me,” he muttered back.
“I’m not tempting you,” she declared. “I mean it. Right here. Right now.”
He lifted his mouth away from hers, his eyes glittering, an eerie glow in the blackness of the night. “Not here. Not now. There are four armed-and-dangerous men down there, hunting us.”
Disappointment speared into her. He must’ve seen it because he added, his lips moving against her neck, “Don’t knock it. Sand and sex don’t mix. If you want to make love, try me somewhere with no gunmen and no sand on the floor.” As if to soften his rebuff, he nibbled his way along her shoulder until goose bumps popped out on her sensitized flesh.
She took his head in both her hands and lifted it until she could look into his eyes. “Do you mean that?”
His gaze flickered in hesitation. “You understand what I do, right?”
She nodded.
“And you understand that my job forces me to travel. A lot.”
She nodded again.
“I’ll leave for months on end and you’ll never hear from me.”
“Yes, yes, I know all that.”
He shook his head. “You hear me, but you don’t really get what I’m saying. I will walk out on you. Even if we make mind-blowing, passionate, addictive love, I’ll still leave. Maybe I’ll come back from the next mission and maybe I won’t.”
She frowned. He was talking as if they had to commit to one another forever if they made love. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted forever with anyone. Not after the garbage her last boyfriend had pulled on her. “Mitch, I’m not looking for 2.5 kids and a white picket fence. I want you and you want me. Why does it have to be any more complicated than that?”
“Because women always want more. They start wanting something casual, and before you know it, they’re looking for rings and I do’s. I’m not opposed to making love with you, just as long as you understand that nothing between us is going to override my work. It comes first. It’s nothing personal against you, mind you.” He gestured down the cliff at the beach where they awaited four killers. “This is what I do. It’s who I am.”
She glanced down at the deserted surf. “I understand that.”
“No. You don’t. You have no idea what I really do and who I really am. You still think this is some expanded, live-action version of a James Bond movie.”
“James Bond kills people.”
“Yes, and it’s all bloodless and clean and cut-and-dried in the movies. I assure you, real life isn’t that way at all.”
Okay, so maybe she didn’t understand what he was trying to tell her. Maybe because he didn’t have the words to convey it, or maybe because she had no frame of reference in which to comprehend his comments. And yet, she still wanted him. With every molecule in her body.
So, he only wanted a casual fling. Wasn’t that exactly what she wanted, too? Was it a selfish thing with her? Was he a new toy she had to have for herself, or was there more to this attraction burning up the night between them? Would she be able to walk away from him? To let him walk away from her?
“Someone’s coming,” he murmured suddenly.
In an instant, the potential lover was gone, replaced by the panther, a great predatory cat stalking in the blackest night. His stillness was instant and complete, his intensity palpable in the air between them. Slowly, she turned her gaze to look down at the beach below. The government men. Kinsey frowned. How had they gotten in front of Camarillo’s men? Had the pairs of men passed each other on the narrow beach? The way they’d avoided acknowledging each other back on the porch at the dance club, she found it hard to believe they’d walked past each other casually out here on a fifteen-foot-wide strip of sand.
Mitch must’ve had the same thought, for the second the government men passed out of sight below, he whirled around to look inland. She did the same, scanning the featureless undulations of the sand behind them. He thought Camarillo’s thugs were out there. How would they ever spot the men?
“C’mon,” Mitch whispered.
She followed him down the jagged outcropping. Crouching uncomfortably low, they made their way along the margin of the rocks and sand, gazing out into the undulating dunes for...something...some sign of their other two pursuers.
When her legs were screaming in so much pain she didn’t think she could go another step, Mitch paused in the shadow of an overhang. Thankfully, he stood up straight. She nearly cried in relief as blood returned to her cramped thighs.
“Isn’t it dangerous to stand up like this?” she breathed.
“With the rocks at our backs and overhead, our silhouettes won’t be visible to anyone looking this way.”
She nodded, too relieved to care if they were exposed or not.
But then he stepped near and her breath hitched in her throat. His left arm went around her waist, drawing her close. He put his mouth on her ear, and over the shiver that raced through her, he whispered, “Watch for movement. A head popping up over the line of a dune, a fall of sand, a shadow moving where it shouldn’t. They’re out there. I can feel it.”
She nodded her understanding. Hidden under the overhang, they stood still, searching for their quarry. It didn’t take long. Off to their left, she spotted something breaking the wavy line of a dune crest. It was round and dark. A human head.
She gripped Mitch’s elbow tightly and pointed to where the man’s head had been a moment before. She held up one finger. Mitch nodded. They studied the area just ahead of her sighting, waiting for the men to show themselves again.
Camarillo’s men must realize how dangerous Mitch was, for they, too, were moving with extreme caution. They didn’t show themselves again. It was only by an abrupt whoosh of sand as a dune crest collapsed that Mitch and Kinsey got an inkling of the men’s position. Kinsey started. It was only two dunes over, maybe fifty feet away. No more.
Mitch yanked her down and took off crawling back the way they’d come. It was murder moving on her hands and knees, scraping both on the rough rock and then grinding sand into the raw flesh. But murder was the operative word. She got the distinct impression that she and Mitch would be murdered if they didn’t get out of there, and fast. After a few minutes of excruciating crawling, he stopped and eased back into a narrow cleft in the rock face.
They had to squeeze in tight together to fit, and it put them body to body in a way that left very little to the imagination.
“They’re coming after us,” Mitch breathed. “Take this.”
Something cold and heavy pressed into her hand. She recognized the rough grip against her palm. A gun. From hunter back to hunted, were they? “You keep that,” she whispered urgently. “You need it a whole lot more than I do. Besides, you know how to use it.”
“I have another one. Two more, in fact. That has nine shots and the safety’s off. Point and shoo
t. Got it?”
She nodded, alarmed. There was something very, very not James Bond about holding a loaded gun in her hand.
“You stay here. I’m going out there.”
“But I thought we were going to follow them to
Camarillo….”
“Change of plans. They’re endangering you. I’m not playing games with your life. I’ll be back in a while. Don’t come out until I come back for you, or daylight.”
Daylight? That was hours away! She started when he dropped a quick, hard kiss on her mouth. And then he was gone. She slid farther back into the crack and realized the back of it was not entirely vertical. By scrambling up a series of easy footholds, she was able to climb up high enough to see much of the field of sand below.
It didn’t take her long to spot Camarillo’s men. Their white shirts were easy to see against the gray sand. Mitch’s black clothing ought to be equally easy to spot, but she had a hard time picking him out. Finally she realized she was looking right at him, but he’d taken off his shirt. His bronze skin blended in beautifully with the sand. She tried to keep him in sight, but he was just too good and she lost him. She took stock of the white-shirted men. Uh-oh. They’d split up. One was circling wide to their right while the other went left. What were they up to?
And then she stared in shock. Three more pale shapes were moving stealthily across the sand. Oh, no! Camarillo’s men had called in reinforcements! Mitch was out there alone against five men! She had to warn him. But how?
She scrambled down the cleft and moved forward to the edge of the dunes. The last time she saw him, Mitch was off to her left at about a forty-five-degree angle. She headed that way, her ankles sinking deeply in the sand with every frantic step. She tried to run but only managed a clumsy shamble. She approached the first ridge. She lay down and rolled over it the way she’d seen Mitch do from her perch in the cleft. Then she tumbled to her feet, ignoring the sand sticking to her skin, and was off half running, half sliding down the lee face of the dune.
She could almost feel the three men closing in from her right and the fourth man from behind. The net grew tighter and tighter around her until she felt choked. Or maybe that was just panic squeezing her throat so tight. Up another dune, roll across its peak and slide on her behind down its steep face. Hang on, Mitch.
And then she heard a noise that made her blood run cold. A metallic spit. If television had the sound effect right, that was the sound of a silenced pistol firing. Oh, God. Mitch!
She abandoned all attempt at stealth and sprinted for where she estimated he’d be. One, maybe two more ridges over. She scrambled up the next ridge. Threw herself flat on her belly. Flung herself into a roll over the crest.
And pulled up short with the round, deadly bore of a gun in her face.
Chapter 9
Kinsey jolted as Mitch jerked the weapon up and away from her.
“What in bloody hell are you doing out here?” he growled under his breath.
“There are five men now.”
“What? Where?”
She gave him her best guess as to where the men were. Which was to say, they were surrounded.
Mitch talked low and fast. “I think I hit the guy on the far left already, but he’s probably not out of action. Maybe I slowed him down, though. Let’s move toward him before these bastards close in on us and shoot us like fish in a barrel. Stay right behind me. And if you can, keep an eye out behind us.”
It was awkward going, scrambling on all fours behind Mitch and trying to look over her shoulder periodically. She was sweaty, covered in sand and scared to death. Her hands and knees hurt, her arms ached ferociously, and she was out of breath. But Mitch kept going in front of her, and she pushed on doggedly, her hair hanging in her face and generally getting in the way. So much for glamorous shoot-outs on yachts and the patios of casinos in evening gowns and tuxedos.
Mitch flopped onto his belly in front of her without warning. Two bright flashes of light came from his clenched fists. Spit. Spit.
He’d just shot at someone. Mitch took off crawling again. Did he hit the guy? She didn’t dare stop long enough to ask.
She glanced back over her shoulder and gasped in alarm. Two men were just topping a tall ridge, two dunes back. Mitch must’ve heard her, for he ordered in a bare whisper, “Get down!”
She flattened herself instantly in the sand, getting it in her mouth and nose. Mitch’s arm came across her back. “This way.”
He reversed direction, crawling back up the steep, downwind ridge they’d just slid down. It was hard work. Her hands and feet slid almost as far back down as she reached up with every movement. But after scrambling madly for several harrowing seconds, she came up beside Mitch, who crouched just below the ridge.
He put his mouth directly on her ear. “When I say go, pop up beside me and shoot at the nearest guy to you. Understand?”
He wanted her to shoot at someone? She stared at him in shock.
“We’re way outgunned here. I need you. Remember what I showed you on the boat? Hold the gun in both hands, point at the guy’s belly and pull the trigger.”
Numbly, she nodded. She realized her knees—and hands—were shaking violently. She wasn’t going to hit anything if she didn’t get control of herself. But to shoot someone? What if she missed? Would she and Mitch both die? The thought dissolved the last of her control.
And then Mitch tensed beside her. By main force, she pushed her senses past her panic, past the roaring of blood in her ears, past the pounding of her pulse in her chest and temples. And heard what had made Mitch tighten up, preparing to spring. A noise. Just on the other side of the dune. Ohmigosh. Their pursuers couldn’t be more than fifteen or twenty feet away. At least that solved the question of how she was possibly going to hit these guys. They were too close for her to miss.
And then, before she had any more time to fall apart, Mitch glanced over at her. Mouthed the word Ready?
For lack of anything else to do, she nodded. It was that or run screaming.
He waited one more heartbeat and then murmured, “Go.”
She stood up by reflex, bringing the pistol up in front of her as Mitch did the same with two pistols, one in either hand. She jumped violently when she spotted a man no more than ten feet from her, coming up the dune face fast.
She didn’t even take time to aim. She just pulled the trigger. A huge explosion of noise rocked her as the heavy weapon kicked up violently in her hand. The man in front of her staggered. Stopped.
She stared in utter horror at the red mass that had been his face just a moment ago. He tottered. Fell backward like a tree. Rolled back down the slope. Came to a stop at the bottom of the dune.
“Get down!” Mitch yelled, spinning to their rear.
She dropped to her knees and swiveled around. Two round heads popped up over the ridge behind them.
“Jump!” Mitch shouted.
He didn’t give her any more instruction than that, but she needed none. They leaped as one for the ridge at their backs and its scant protection from the gunmen in front of her.
She landed half on top of something warm and squishy. The sand was cool and wet under her hands. Black in the scant light. It smelled sharp. She turned her head. Protruding, glassy eyes stared at her, sand sticking to their unblinking surface. She jerked back with a scream.
More flashes from beside her and she realized Mitch was firing again.
Her stomach rumbling with nausea, she dragged her attention to the firefight blazing around her. There was practically no sound, just sand flying and the spit of silenced bullets in the pauses between waves breaking on the shore behind them.
She tried to peer over the ridge, tried to take aim on the men shooting at them, but she couldn’t see anything in the dark, and there was no way she was hitting what tiny litt
le target one of the shooters might give her in a careless moment. Helplessly, she watched on. And then Mitch flung one of the pistols away and shifted the remaining weapon to his right hand.
“I’m getting low on ammo. Bring me that guy’s gun.” He jerked his head at the body below. The man
she’d shot.
Obediently, she scrambled down the slope. She tugged on the dead man’s shoulder. Lord, he was heavy. She moved around his other side to heave him onto his back. And stared, appalled, at the damage she’d wrought to another human being. His nose and upper jaw were mostly gone. Teeth perched in bloody gore that used to be his lower jaw, and one of his eye sockets had ruptured, leaving the eyeball hanging by several stringy nerves and veins beside his left ear. She dropped to her knees and retched in the sand.
“Hurry!” Mitch called from above.
Swiping at her mouth with the back of her hand, she jerked the gun out of the dead man’s rubbery fingers. Nearly sick again, she turned away and headed back up to Mitch’s position. He held his hand out the moment she arrived beside him, and she slapped the weapon into his palm. In one motion he drew the weapon forward, aimed and fired.
She flinched at the muzzle flash and crawled over to the dead man on their right to scavenge his gun, as well. Fortunately, this guy had fallen with his gun hand outstretched, and she left the body where it was. She snatched the gun and passed it to Mitch, as well. There was only one more dead guy and her weapon, and then they’d be out of ammo. Then what were they going to do?
Mitch apparently was thinking about that very same thing. As he reached for the third gun she passed him, he muttered, “We’re getting the hell out of here. Start back toward the casino. Head for the beach, then run back to the club. I’ll meet you at the car.”