by Cindy Dees
“I can live with that.”
“And they say women have egos.” She started and gave a little cry of surprise when he bent down suddenly, whipping an arm behind her knees and sweeping her off her feet. He carried her easily across the room.
“You’re not the kind of woman who likes a man with no ego. You want a strong man who knows exactly what and who he is.”
Until two days ago, she’d have laughed at the very notion of being attracted to macho alpha males. In her experience, they were a royal pain to deal with. Give her some nice, quiet, thoughtful fellow with brains and good prospects for a secure future. Mitch wasn’t particularly nice. He was...hard. Nor was he particularly quiet or reflective. He was decisive. A man of action. He was frighteningly intelligent, though. And exceedingly good at what he did. She wasn’t sure about his future prospects. Spies must have a relatively short life span. No security in that.
But then he laid her down on the bed and commenced ably stripping her out of her bathrobe and underwear, and all thoughts of his prospects evaporated. The air-conditioned air sent a shiver across her skin. Or maybe Mitch’s molten gaze, raking down her body and flaring with heat, was doing that to her. Hard to tell.
He started at her belly button, plunging his tongue into that incredibly sensitive spot, sending her straight up off the mattress and into his mouth again. Who’d have guessed her navel was connected to her female parts like that? Bolts of pure lust streaked through her. He kissed outward in ever-expanding circles, causing her to alternately contract her stomach muscles into knots of pleasure, then to stretch, catlike, under the ministrations of his talented mouth. If he was a panther, then she was his main course as he feasted upon her flesh. And she hadn’t a bone left in her body to protest.
“I want you, Kinsey,” he murmured.
She groaned in the back of her throat, shuddering in too much pleasure to form words just then.
“I need you,” he whispered.
She arched up into him, crying out as his mouth closed on the most sensitive parts of her, sending a jolt of pure sex all the way to her fingertips, so intense it robbed her of thought, let alone speech.
“And that’s why you have to stay safe. For me.”
And then he was looming over her, bracing on arms wreathed in bulging, corded muscle. She reached up, desperate for more of what he was doing to her, and looped her hands around his neck, pulling him down to her.
“I’m only going to say this one more time. Make love to me, Mitch. Now.”
A smile of purely male satisfaction flitted across his features, and then his gaze locked with hers. Went dead serious. Pierced straight into her soul. “Are you sure? There’s no going back.”
“Yes, I’m sure!” She’d never been more sure of anything in her life. Wave after wave of pounding need throbbed through her, carrying her out to sea like so much flotsam on the riptide of Mitch’s mouth and hands and body upon hers.
And then the darkness descended upon her. Mitch’s big body was against her and on her and in her, a stretching fullness that set her on fire, writhing upon a sword of desire that cut all the way through her, leaving no part of her whole. She flung herself against the muscular darkness that was Mitch, reveling in the strength that pinned her easily, enforcing his will upon her. And that will was pleasure. Intense, searing pleasure that tore cries from her throat and made her limbs weak and left her wanting more, and yet more, of him.
“Sing for me, Kinsey,” he growled.
And sing she did. Sound started at the back of her throat and shuddered all the way down her body, until it was a keening, wordless moan of release that said everything that needed to be said. White light exploded behind her eyelids and a curtain of blackness fell over her mind in which nothing remained but exquisite, perfect sensation. And then the moment exploded in a shower of sparks that zipped through her and over her and around her. Death and rebirth. All in a single, infinite moment out of time.
She felt the explosion envelop Mitch, too, as his body shuddered and bucked against hers. He gave a hoarse shout of pleasure, the triumphant mating roar of the panther, king of his domain, and yet consumed
by it.
They collapsed together, the velvety darkness wrapping around them gently. Slowly, Kinsey regained awareness of her surroundings, of Mitch’s world—this place of primal instinct, of survival, of sex, of man and woman. It was all very simple, really.
He rolled to his back, gathering her against his side. Her arm fell across the slabbed muscles of his stomach, and yet again, she registered his outstanding physical condition. This was a man who would always keep moving. He would never be satisfied to sit around thinking about what needed to be done. He was the kind of man who would go do it. The kind of man a girl could put her trust in. He’d take care of her. Keep her safe. Provide for her. Love her unswervingly for all his days. Give her his complete loyalty until his dying breath. Mitch was the kind of man she could very easily love back—with the same intensity he’d love her.
“I’m not leaving you, Mitch.”
“You don’t have any choice in the matter. I’ve already told you I’ll walk away. I wasn’t kidding.”
She pushed up onto her forearm on his chest and stared down at him in shock. “After what we just shared, you can still say that?”
She’d never noticed before how cold a metal gold could be. But it glittered out of his gaze harder and colder than any steel. This was what he’d been talking about when he’d warned her off him. He’d been right. She’d had no idea what he’d been talking about when he said he’d get inside her head, but he would still leave her. Oh, God.
“But I felt... I thought...” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Had she really been that wrong about what they’d just shared? Was she that big a fool? Or—aloud, she asked, “Are you really that big a bastard?”
He looked her dead in the eye. “I will walk away from you. I promise you that.”
Chapter 11
Mitch stared up miserably at the ceiling, cursing himself in every language he knew, as Kinsey climbed out of bed in silence and went into the bathroom. He hated doing that to her. And yet, he had no choice. No choice at all. He had to protect her. He cared for her too much not to. Making love with her had been a revelation. A light in the darkness, a moment of such perfection that he almost didn’t dare to breathe, lest it disappear, with the one woman he’d searched for his whole life.
And he’d just broken her heart. Irrevocably made her hate him. Irretrievably ruined any chance they had for a future together. He sat up, swung his feet to the floor and hung his head. He swore luridly. His job sucked. His life sucked. He sucked.
He should walk away from it all. Grab Kinsey, head for some deserted island on the other side of the world and chuck the whole shooting match. Except he knew darn good and well that wouldn’t slow down Camarillo or a slew of other men like him. A guy didn’t work in this business for decades and not amass a lifetime supply of enemies. There were certain very careful protocols an operator must adhere to if he wanted to walk away from the business and live. And grabbing the girl and splitting was not part of that protocol. He swore some more.
No light seeped around the edges of the heavy curtains. Night had fallen while they were making love. Time for him to go to work. To become the only kind of man he knew how to be.
He stood up, suddenly feeling old. Tired. Sore. Or maybe that was just heartsore. Either way, his gut felt full of lead. He rummaged in his luggage and threw on some clothes.
He strapped a knife to his left calf, an ankle
holster to his right leg. He shrugged into his double shoulder holster. By rote, he checked each weapon. Safety on. Fully loaded. A round chambered. Safety off. A throwing knife in the pocket at the back of his neck. Brass knuckles in the slot behind his front pocket, ammo clips in the rows of narrow slots along the back of his slacks, underneath his belt with its custom-designed garrote inside. Methodically, he armed himself with the tools of his trade, cursing every radio, every high-tech gadget, every lethal reminder of why he could never have Kinsey Hollingsworth for himself.
No woman in her right mind would cuddle up to a guy loaded down like a one-man army. A killing machine. He had to keep Kinsey safe. No matter what the cost. At all costs.
Janine had taught him well. The only way for a guy in his line of work to stay sane was not to love anything or anyone. He made a practice of maintaining no personal possessions of any value to him. No pictures, no memorabilia, no keepsakes with sentimental value. Nothing he’d feel bad about losing. He didn’t get attached to his car, his guns, not even his music collection or books. All were expendable and replaceable. But he’d finally found the one thing—the one person—who was not expendable. And if he couldn’t have her, he was damn well going to see to it she was safe.
With that grim resolve firmly in mind, he hefted his duffel bag and took one last look around the hotel room. No signs left behind to hint to Kinsey where he’d gone. He would walk out of here and not look back. That was the rule. He always walked away.
Except, of course, Kinsey had already broken all his rules, showing them up for the sham they’d really been. He had no illusions about leaving her behind. It would be neither easy nor clean. He’d given her a piece of himself today—a big, fat slice of his heart. And he would never get it back. Ah well, he hoped she had fun stomping all over it. He deserved anything she thought or said of him in the days to come. Worse, probably.
The doorknob turned under his hand. He muttered, “Goodbye, Kinsey Hollingsworth. It was a pleasure knowing you.”
* * *
Kinsey sat on the edge of the tub and listened to him go. She started when his quiet voice drifted through the flimsy bathroom door to her. It was a pleasure... He was leaving for good! She leaped up and ran out into the room.
All signs of him had disappeared. It was as if he’d never been here. His black duffel bag was gone, the clutter of weapons and wires and gadgets on the coffee table, all of it. Gone. She jumped to the door and tore it open. She poked her head out into the hallway. No sign of him. She started to dart toward the elevators, then remembered she was buck naked. She couldn’t run after him.
She raced back into the room and threw on clothes, grabbed her purse and sprinted for the door. He wasn’t getting away from her that easily. Whether she was going to kiss him or kill him when she caught up with him, she wasn’t sure. She’d figure it out when the time came. But he wasn’t getting away with this lame escape. She deserved better than that, and he was a better man than that—whether he was ready to admit it or not. He was going after Camarillo. And by golly, she wasn’t letting him do that alone.
She ran to the front doors of the hotel and collected herself enough not to burst out into the street like a panicked amateur. She looked both ways and spotted the black cruiser just pulling out of the hotel’s parking lot. She stepped outside and opened the back door of a taxi sitting at the curb. Thankfully, her Spanish was adequate to convey to the driver that she’d like to follow that black sedan, but not too close. The driver threw her a sympathetic look and did as she asked.
As Mitch wound his way into a frankly dangerous-looking part of town, the driver asked her if she wanted him to continue following the señor. She wasn’t crazy about being out here by herself like this, and under normal circumstances, she’d tell the driver to take her back to the hotel. But these were not normal circumstances. And as distasteful as the thought of using it might be, she still had one gun in her purse.
Mitch’s car pulled over at a curb and parked. Ducking into the shadows in the backseat of the cab, she had the driver continue on past. “Turn right up ahead,” she directed.
The cabbie complied. There was an awkward moment when she realized she only had American greenbacks in her wallet, but the cabbie was eager to take them. With a warm thanks for his help, she paid him and sent him on his way. Time to go find her man.
She eased forward and peered around the corner. No sign of Mitch. Damn. She hadn’t lost him already, had she? She moved forward cautiously. The street was dark, and the few people loitering in sight could be described as unsavory at best. So. This was Mitch’s world, was it? She took a deep breath and concentrated on blending in. On breathing normally. On spotting her quarry.
There was no sign of Mitch anywhere. He’d disappeared. And none of the establishments along the sidewalk looked like the kind she could safely pop into for a minute to see if he was there. In desperation, she stopped to ask a middle-aged man minus most of his teeth and in need of a shave if he’d seen the man get out of that black car over there. The guy peered at her as if she was a little green man from Mars gibbering some alien tongue. Hey. Her Spanish wasn’t that bad. She pulled out a five-dollar bill and tried again.
Yup, cold, hard cash was the universal translator. The fellow pointed at what looked like a bar.
Kinsey winced. She knew full well if she went inside, she’d get hit on by every unattached guy in the place. No way would she be able to hide from Mitch if he were in there. She considered her options. On a hunch, she moved over to his sedan and tried the doors. Bingo. The driver’s-side door was unlocked. He probably did that so he could make a quick getaway if need be.
She opened the door quickly. Not surprisingly, the overhead bulb didn’t go on. Mitch had no doubt removed it. She crawled into the backseat and rummaged in Mitch’s duffel bag, coming up with one of his black turtlenecks. She pulled it on over her light-colored shirt. She found a black T-shirt next and tore it into a rough head scarf. She wrapped it over her dark hair and left an end trailing down to pull over her face when the time came. It was the best she could do for camouflage. Then, she wriggled down onto the floor—thank goodness these old cars had tons of legroom—and pulled the duffel bag forward to hang off the edge of the seat so it mostly covered her hiding place.
And then she waited. It was hot and stuffy in the car, and before long, her cramped position became unbearably uncomfortable. She sat up twice, stretching out kinked muscles and cracking open one of the rear doors for a few seconds to let in some fresh air. What in the world was Mitch doing in there? He said he was going to pay Camarillo a visit tonight. And he never mixed booze and guns, so he wasn’t likely drinking. Maybe working a contact? Finding out more about Camarillo’s place before he barged in on the killer?
She passed the time thinking about making love with Mitch. And she arrived at several conclusions. First, she hadn’t imagined the intense emotional connection between the two of them. Second, Mitch had felt it, too. Third, he might have walked away from her like he said he was going to, but he wasn’t happy about it. And that meant there was still hope for them.
Maybe she was just being pitifully clingy or overly needy, but she wasn’t ready to give up on him. If that made her a stalker, so be it. He was going to have to look her in the eye and tell her he wanted nothing more to do with her, that making love with her had meant nothing to him, before she was walking away from him—or letting him walk away from her.
Nearly two hours had passed when her senses abruptly went on full alert. Someone was coming. She covered her face with the dark cloth and lay perfectly still. The driver’s door opened and someone got into the front seat. The engine started and the car pulled away from the curb. Assuming that was Mitch driving, she’d done it! He hadn’t discovered her!
She had no idea that riding on the floor of a car was so bloody uncomfortable. She braced herself as best she could as the vehicl
e banged over the old roads of Cuba. Where was he going? The city noises outside faded, and the ride became even worse. Finally, it sounded like gravel began to spit out from under the tires. A dirt road, maybe?
The engine cut off. The car coasted to a stop. Silence enveloped the vehicle. Kinsey waited breathlessly. What was he waiting for? Finally, the front door opened and a cacophony of night sounds burst into the car. The door slammed shut. Kinsey gave him a few seconds, then sat up painfully and peered out over the rim of a window. His dark shape was just disappearing into the bushes. Quickly, she scrambled to her feet and slipped out the back door. Scared to death, she crept into the jungle after him.
Thankfully, his passing left a faint trail of crushed weeds and an absence of dew upon the dense foliage. She was able to move with relative ease along the
pseudotrail he blazed through the jungle. How far ahead of her he was, she had no idea. She did know it would be a bad thing to surprise him from behind. She’d seen his reflexes in action, and he’d shoot her before he ever saw her face if she wasn’t careful.
The ground began to rise and instinct made her slow down. She dropped to her knees and traveled the last few yards up the slope on her hands and knees. She sincerely hoped there were no poisonous snakes or scorpions or worse out here, because she couldn’t see a blessed thing. A glow illuminated the other side of the hill. On her belly, she eased forward a few more feet. And stared at the compound sprawling before her. It was more than a villa. It was a whole collection of buildings behind a heavy fence and lit with spotlights.
The lights threw a series of dark shadows up the hillside toward her. Searching carefully from her vantage point, she picked out a dark form supine on the ground. Was that Mitch? She watched it for several minutes. And then, very slowly, the shadow moved. She’d know that sinuous grace anywhere. After all, she’d held all that sleek power in her arms. Oh, yes. That was Mitch.
He inched forward, moving from one shadow to the next, pausing frequently. If he’d had a tail, its tip would have twitched like a panther’s. Mitch was hunting tonight.