Fuel for Fire

by Julie Ann Walker

  But the dude’s gay, one might argue.

  Didn’t matter. When it came to a man’s mouth on Chelsea, Dagan’s green-eyed monster made an appearance. Because the fact of the matter was, despite their daily verbal boxing matches, he liked her. Had since the first time he met her back at Langley all those years ago when she’d given him an Intelligence report. Looking at her, he had seen nothing but soft curves. Listening to her had revealed a sharp mind.

  It was a wonderfully complex juxtaposition, and Dagan had determined to get her in bed on the double. But since he had rarely been stateside back then, the opportunity had never arisen. And just as he had been poised to return to the United States for a good, long stint, an op in Afghanistan had gone horribly wrong, and five people had paid for his mistake with their lives. Afterward, he’d been fired from the CIA quicker than you can say, Clear out your locker, dickhead. And as if all that wasn’t bad enough, following his expulsion from the Company, he’d briefly gotten himself involved with a corrupt senator.

  Both of those screwups were black stains on his character. He was convinced that a woman like Chelsea, a woman who was upright and true, wouldn’t give him the time of day. Not knowing what she knew about him.

  “Do you have everything you need?” Ace asked Chelsea, handing her a travel mug of coffee. “Perhaps you could use some Mace? Or electric underwear so every time that old bastard accidentally”—Ace made air quotes with his fingers—“rubs your ass, he gets a nasty shock?”

  “Thank you, Ace honey.” Now it was Chelsea’s turn to smack a kiss on Ace’s cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Dagan’s inner six-year-old stomped his foot and sullenly shouted, What about me? I’m always looking out for you! But he quickly reminded the little brat of Afghanistan and Senator Aldus. She wants nothing to do with the likes of us, and you know it.

  “My pleasure. Teamwork makes the dream work, am I right?” Ace winked at Chelsea. He really was a handsome bastard. All blond hair, sea-blue eyes, and a physique that looked like it belonged in an underwear advertisement.

  Dagan’s jealousy was ridiculous. But that didn’t stop him from wallowing in it when Ace opened the front door and Chelsea walked into the hall that led down four flights to the hustle and bustle of London’s streets.

  After the door shut behind her, Ace took one look at Dagan’s face and sighed. “Come with me, Werewolf of London.” It had been a running joke since they’d taken up residence. The town. The beard. Dagan got it. He just didn’t think it was nearly as funny as the rest of them did. “Let’s get some of Christian’s tea in you. Maybe it will settle your nerves.”

  “If only it were that easy,” Dagan muttered, allowing Ace to pull him through the living room and into the kitchen.

  Sitting at the small circular table in the corner was Christian. The three of them made up the team that had volunteered to move to London to provide Chelsea with support. And after living together in such close quarters—the flat only had two bedrooms, so all three men were bunked in one room—and with no real purpose except spending their days poring over every bit of Intel and research they could find on Morrison, a.k.a. Spider, they’d taken to busting each other’s balls more frequently than usual.

  Case in point…

  “What happened to my bagel?” Ace demanded after opening the toaster oven and peering inside.

  Christian glanced at the remains on his plate and grinned.

  Ace spied the half-eaten bagel. “You shit-swizzling breakfast stealer!” He had a rare talent for coming up with imaginative insults. “I had that toasted perfectly!”

  Christian picked up the bagel, studied it from all sides, then took a considering bite. “Indeed it was,” he said around a mouthful. “Thank you.”

  “I should rip off your dick, shove it down your throat, and feed you your own ball sac for dessert. But rumor has it, you sport a microwang, and I don’t want to strain my eyes trying to find it.”

  Aw, yes. The attack on the size of a man’s meat. Classic.

  Dagan jumped into the fray, happy for the distraction. Anything to take his mind off Chelsea. “You going to let him dis your doodle like that, Christian?”

  “This rumor is easy to refute.” Christian stood and reached for the top button of his jeans.

  “I’ll thank you to keep your man stick to yourself.” Emily Scott sauntered in from the living room.

  Whoops. Dagan had forgotten to mention her as part of the team that had come to provide support for Chelsea. Although for the life of him, he couldn’t understand how. Emily, the former secretary to an FAS—a foreign area specialist inside the Central Intelligence Agency—and current BKI office manager, was the one who had kept the refrigerator stocked these last few weeks in London and the one who twisted their ears when the laundry piled up. Without her and her mother hen ways, they’d likely be living on pork and beans and wearing three-day-old underwear.

  “Hand to God, I’d rather have my right eye gouged out with a toothpick than see Christian’s dick,” she continued, projecting a toughness that he knew covered a soft, gooey center. Emily cared about all of them. She just didn’t like to show it. “There’s enough testosterone floating around this place without the addition of naked wagging wangs.”

  “Once again,” Christian said, “let me point out that you didn’t have to come with us. No one twisted your arm.” His hoity-toity English accent made it sound like yoor ahm.

  “And leave poor Chelsea to fend for herself among you three animals?” Emily snorted. “Not likely.”

  And great. Dagan had enjoyed a brief reprieve, but one mention of Chelsea and his brain was firmly fixed on her. He hated that she was alone in that big penthouse with Roper fuckin’ Morrison. He hated worse that he couldn’t come up with a better plan to prove Morrison was Spider so that she wouldn’t have to be alone in that big penthouse with Roper fuckin’ Morrison.

  “And speaking of Chelsea…” Emily continued. When she turned to Dagan, she rocked the eye daggers of doom. “I really wish you would refrain from giving her grief every morning. The poor innocent woman has enough on her plate without you piling it on.”

  Innocent? There was a word. When it came to Chelsea, Dagan’s thoughts didn’t live in the same zip code as innocent.

  “All that shit on her plate is precisely the point,” he insisted. “She’s not—”

  “Qualified or trained to do this kind of work. Blah, blah, blah. But news flash: she’s doing a bitching job regardless. And instead of sending her off every morning feeling like a can full of squashed assholes, maybe you could try sending her off feeling like she can conquer the damned world. Step up your game or keep showing up as lame, man. Jeez.”

  “And how would you suggest I make her feel like she can conquer the damned world?” He took a sip of the tea Ace passed him. The Earl Grey wouldn’t do a thing to soothe his nerves, but it would soothe the roiling in his stomach at the thought that his words to Chelsea, meant to be cautionary and to express his concern, were instead making her feel bad about herself. Shit.

  “A dozen body-shaking orgasms should do it,” Emily said.

  Dagan choked on his tea. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s as obvious as the nose on your face.”

  “What is?”

  “That you’re hot to trot for our resident undercover CIA liaison.”

  Was it just him, or had someone cranked the heater up about twenty degrees? “How do you figure that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Emily rolled her eyes. “Maybe because if it were possible to impregnate someone with a look, Chelsea would be carrying around octuplets?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That’s what he said. What he thought was fuuuuuuck.

  “Oh, for the love of Shoeless Joe Jackson.” As a born-and-raised Chicago South Sider, Emily’s White Sox fangirl was neve
r far from the surface. “You’re so full of manure that if you laid in the dirt, you’d start growing little versions of yourself. How you’re always sniping at her? That’s your inner six-year-old’s way of getting her attention.”

  Emily knew about his inner six-year-old? Double fuuuuuuck.

  “And here’s an idea,” she continued. “Instead of walking around like a boy in a man suit, how about just manning up and telling her how you really feel?”

  When Dagan got good and pissed, or when he was homed in on a target, he went completely still. Spooky still, some had said. And following that stillness was always some sort of explosion. “Are you calling me a coward?” he asked quietly.

  “I’m not calling you a coward. I’m calling you a fool and a man suffering from unappeased lust. They are often the same thing.”

  “So by your logic, verbally sparring with Chelsea is just a cover for me wanting a little push-push-in-the-bush, huh?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Well, I wouldn’t have described it that way, exactly. But, yes.”

  He had her. Target locked. Time to let the lead fly. “That must mean you’re aching to knock boots with Christian then, right? I mean, you chew his ass every chance you get.”

  “Uh…” All the color drained from Emily’s face, and for a beat or two, silence reigned in the kitchen.

  It was Ace who broke the tension. “I swear.” He shook his head. “I start my days in a good mood. But within ten minutes of being around all you heteros, I have a serious desire to kill someone.”

  Emily ignored him, glaring at Dagan. “S-stop trying to change the subject.”

  “I’m not trying to change the subject.” That was a lie. “I’m just pointing out that your accusing me of fighting with Chelsea to cover up the fact that I want to sleep with her is a little like the pot calling the kettle black.”

  Now Emily’s cheeks were fire-engine red. “For the record”—she stole a quick look at Christian—“I fight with Christian because someone has to. It’s the only way to keep his ego in check.”

  Christian’s eyebrows slammed into a scowl. “Bloody hell. How did this get turned on me?”

  Before anyone could answer, their phones came to life. The combined sounds had Dagan’s spine going ramrod straight. Pulling his cell from his hip pocket, he thumbed on the screen. They had received a group text message from Chelsea, and a dizzying mess of emotions tumbled through him when he read her two simple words: I’m in.

  Chapter 2

  I’m in! I’m in! Take that, Dagan Zoelner!

  Chelsea slid her cell phone into her pocket after sending the text and glanced around before pushing the door to Morrison’s office wider. At this time of the morning, the only staff members in Morrison’s fancy-schmancy Mayfair penthouse were her and Juanita Gonzalez, Morrison’s chef. But Chelsea still felt as if a thousand eyes were peering at her. When the door hinges creaked, she winced.

  Toeing out of her kitten heels, she slipped into Morrison’s office. She’d only caught a few glimpses of the room over the past month, but they had been enough to familiarize herself with the layout. His large mahogany desk—and the laptop that was her ultimate target—were over by the west wall. Too bad that in order to get there, she’d have to pass a passed-out Morrison.

  The clang of her heart in her chest was so loud, she was surprised the sound didn’t wake the sleeping man as she tiptoed across the room. She missed her shoes quite desperately. The hard marble tiles were cold enough to freeze the tits off a frog—one of her father’s favorite Southern-fried sayings, God rest his soul. And the frostiness seemed to slip through the soles of her feet and up into her body, turning her lungs into two blocks of ice.

  Was Dagan right? Was she really not cut out for this kind of work? The fact that the room was spinning seemed to point to yes. Of course, not being able to breathe probably had something to do with her stupid frozen lungs. Damnit!

  Tugging on the collar of her blouse, she forced herself to suck in a ragged breath. The air felt hard and sharp, but it was enough to crack the sheet of ice in her chest and make the room stop doing its best impression of a merry-go-round.

  Better. She nodded to herself with satisfaction and crept farther into the room. When she passed the red leather sofa, she glanced down at the old man. He was still wearing the tuxedo he had changed into before she left yesterday. The smell of bourbon and cigars wafted up from him in a cloud so thick, she thought if she squinted she might be able to see it.

  Apparently, the fund-raiser he’d gone to had turned into quite a party. Then again, everything Morrison was involved in eventually turned into a party. He acted like he was twenty-one, not seventy-one.

  Lordy, he even had a mun—that would be a man bun for the untrendy—like he was a hipster or some shit. Which, at his age, was pathetic enough. But the mun was made worse by the fact that his thinning white hair meant the little knot at the back of his head was no bigger than a cherry tomato.

  Chelsea could not understand how his stylist let him out into the world looking like that. Then again, when you were a multibillionaire media mogul and a secret underworld crime boss, you did what you wanted and damn the naysayers.

  And everyone else, come to think of it.

  She took comfort in knowing that once she used the thumb drive sewn into the lining of her blazer to upload the virus, Morrison wouldn’t be damning anyone anymore. His “party boy” persona was just a ruse to cover up the true depths of his depravity. She was certain of this because sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t looking, she saw his lips thin, his eyes narrow, and an ugly look of malice would slide over his face. At those times, she felt she was seeing the true man. Spider…

  Morrison’s mouth slid open, and out came a mighty snore that reminded her of her father’s ol’ bluetick coonhound—who’d had the uninspired name of Blue and was now buried beneath the willow in the backyard of her childhood home—and how the dog used to fall asleep on the front porch, snoring loud enough to wake up half the county. Only ol’ Blue had been a good boy. Roper Morrison on the other hand…

  The thought hastened her journey across the room. After reaching her destination, she slid a hand inside her blazer and tugged a loose string in the lining. The thread unraveled, revealing the pouch that held the thumb drive.

  If she’d thought her heart was racing before, now the damned thing was trying to break the land speed record. Every muscle in her body clenched, and her teeth threatened to explode beneath the pressure of her jaw. Closing her eyes and counting to three, she forced herself to relax and inserted the thumb drive into the USB port on the side of Morrison’s laptop.

  Done!

  Now, all that was left to do was wait. Wait as the program on the drive automatically booted up Morrison’s computer. Wait as it went through the algorithms necessary to break through the password. Wait as the virus began to upload. Just wait, wait, wwwwwait.

  She hadn’t realized she’d curled her hands into tight fists until one of her nails pierced the skin of her palm. Sucking the sting away, she thought of Dagan. No doubt about it, he never got this nervous. He was Mr. Calm-Cool-and-Collected. And if he could see her now, he’d shake his head and say, I told you so.

  Well, he could take his I-told-you-so’s and shove them where the sun never shined. John Wayne supposedly said once that true courage was being scared to death and saddling up anyway.

  So…giddyup.

  She glanced over at Morrison, happy to see him still out cold and sawing logs. Then a flash on the screen drew her attention to the computer. The virus was in, and the laptop powered down.

  It’s done!

  A ragged breath leaked out of her, and she gave herself a second to fully appreciate the magnitude of what she’d accomplished. Then she quickly unplugged the drive, slipped it back into its hidey-hole inside her blazer, and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. She texted tw
o words to the group at the flat: Virus loaded. She thought about adding booyah, but ultimately decided against it.

  Her teammates would make sure to pass her text on to the Black Knights in Chicago, then they would pack their belongings for a fast retreat across the pond.

  I did it! I really did it! Chelsea Duvall, master spy! She liked the sound of that. Now, to get the heck out of Dodge…

  She was halfway across the room when Morrison called her name. Her spine snapped to attention one vertebra at a time. Slowly turning to him, she ignored the ice water running through her veins and donned a pleasant smile. “I, uh, I hope you don’t mind, sir.” She adjusted her glasses. “I just came in to check on you. That must have been one heck of a party last night, huh?”

  “Come here, Chelsea.” He beckoned her with a flick of his bony fingers.

  Despite every instinct telling her to run, she continued to play the part of the dutiful and long-suffering PA. Walking to the edge of the sofa, she gritted her teeth when Morrison’s hot, clammy hand curled around her bare calf.

  She knew she should have worn slacks today instead of the pencil skirt that ended just below her knees. “Can I get something for you, sir? Some aspirin? A glass of water, maybe?”

  “A little fur from the cat that scratched me.” His voice sounded rusty, but he grinned up at her, waggling his eyebrows. She was convinced the hair on his head had migrated south. His brows were thick and bushy and seemed to march across his forehead like two gray caterpillars. “There’s a bottle of bourbon in my top drawer. Fetch it for me, would you, darling?”

  She smiled down at him, despite her clenched jaw. When Christian said dahling in his English accent it was downright swoon-worthy. When Morrison said it? Yup. She had to fight the urge to retch.

  “Of course,” she told him, happy for any excuse to escape his marauding hand. His fingers had slowly inched up her leg until they were behind her knee, caressing softly.