Fuel for Fire

by Julie Ann Walker

  “Damn, that was fast,” Ace grumbled. “He must have come to and immediately started calling in favors.”

  “Or else it was that other bloke,” Christian posited. “He was a rather large fellow, wasn’t he? Perhaps the dose didn’t work as well on him.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Emily waved a hand. “We just need to get the hell out of here. Pronto. Like…yesterday. Morrison and his goons might not know about this apartment.” Because they had treated it like a safe house. Chelsea had been careful not to list her address on any of the paperwork she signed, claiming she hadn’t found a permanent spot and was couch-surfing until she did. And she had taken a different route to and from work every day, meticulously making sure no one was on her tail. It was just a normal precaution in their line of work. One Christian was incredibly grateful for, given the current state of affairs. “But that doesn’t mean they won’t find it sooner rather than later,” Emily finished.

  “And once we get out,” Christian said, “what then?” He looked around the flat’s sitting room as if expecting the answer to pop out from behind the settee. “We can’t spirit Chelsea out of the country the usual ways. The authorities will be on the lookout for anyone fitting her description at all points of entry and exit.”

  Since Chelsea had an exotic complexion, an unmistakable figure, and lion-bright eyes, she wasn’t the type to blend into a crowd and slip through the net tightening around the country.

  Bollocks.

  “So we lie low in some two-bit motel and wait for the heat to die down,” Zoelner suggested.

  The hair on the back of Christian’s neck curled at the thought. He’d already spent too much time in England.

  “Please.” Emily gifted Zoelner with a look of pure disgust as she grabbed one of the rucksacks—or backpacks as she called them—from the pile. In the short time they had been rescuing Chelsea, Emily had packed their gear and a few items of essential clothing. And yes, the thought of her elbow-deep in his underwear drawer gave Christian the oddest little thrill. “Who do you think you’re dealing with here? C’est moi.” Emily hooked two thumbs toward her chest. “Roper Morrison might slam a door shut, but I know how to kick open the windows.”

  Emily Scott had a lithe, feminine figure, and her face was an exquisite mishmash of features that made her far more interesting than conventionally pretty. But beyond that, more importantly than that, she possessed a rapier-sharp mind.

  Her job title might be office manager, but from all Christian had seen, he figured it was more accurate to call her a magician. She had an uncanny ability to pull rabbits out of hats and resources out of the ether. In addition to that, she was bossy. She was brazen. And she was altogether bothersome. Especially since she was a mother hen to all the other operators at BKI, but when it came to him, she seemed far more interested in blistering his ears than in—

  “Morrison might be able to make things happen here in England,” she added, “but he doesn’t have nearly as much clout across the Channel. One of the boys back at BKI called in a favor from a former Armée de l’Air friend who left the French services to start his own private charter-jet company. A plane will be waiting for us at Paris–Le Bourget Airport. That way we can skip the cameras and most of the bureaucratic nonsense at Charles de Gaulle.”

  “The problem is getting to Paris.” Ace frowned.

  “Exactly,” Christian agreed. He desperately missed the days when they had worked “unofficially” for the U.S. government. Black Knights Inc. had been covertly assembled and clandestinely run for the last seven years by none other than the president of the United States and his trusty Joint Chiefs of Staff. So in a situation like this, a quick ring to the president would have had strings pulled and an American military transport waiting to take them home. But the president had left office nearly three months earlier, and his successor had no interest in continuing to fund and run a personal defense firm.

  So even though the Black Knights were still tasked with finishing their final mission to bring down Spider, they were doing it all on their own. Unleashed was the term the president had used to describe them on his last day in office.

  They were supposed to turn over to the CIA whatever Intel and proof they found on Morrison/Spider, but before that, they were working outside the law, outside the protection of the good ol’ U. S. of A. And even though Chelsea’s boss, the director of the CIA, had agreed to let her help the Black Knights in this last hoorah, he had done so with the strict edict that no other CIA services or personnel would be used on a task he had come to refer to as the former president’s “personal pet project.”

  Bugger it all.

  “Not as much of a problem as you might think.” Emily winked. “There’s a guy in Dover who owes me a favor. He’s agreed to smuggle us into Calais on his fishing boat. Once there, we’ll meet up with Angel, who will drive us to Paris.”

  Christian frowned, thinking of the former Israeli Mossad agent who worked for BKI. Jamin “Angel” Agassi was a giant question mark. Had been since day one. And in all the weeks, months, and years since, the man hadn’t done much to clear up the mystery surrounding himself. Angel spent very little time at BKI headquarters in Chicago. Instead, he was constantly on missions that kept him abroad. Missions only the president seemed to know about.

  All that being the case, Christian supposed he shouldn’t be surprised to discover Angel was in Europe.

  Yet he was. “Anyone know what Angel is doing in France?” he asked.

  “He’s not in France. At least not yet anyway. When I called headquarters to tell them the cheese had hit the grater, I found out he was doing some work in Bruges. He’s in his car right now. If he takes the highway the whole way and doesn’t run into traffic, he’ll beat us to Calais.”

  “Jamin Agassi.” Ace shook his head. “International man of mystery.”

  “Better the devil you know than the one you don’t,” Zoelner said. “Which brings me back to this fishing-boat guy in Dover.”

  “Right.” Chelsea exited the loo while still in the process of pulling on a jumper—or sweater, as the Americans called it. She had immediately set off to change clothes after they burst through the door of the flat, ready to grab their bits and bobs and jet back to the States.

  Was that really only five minutes ago? A look at the clock on the wall confirmed that it was. Oh, how time flies when you’re not having fun.

  “That’s my question,” Chelsea continued, joining the group around the piled rucksacks. “How do you know this man, Emily?”

  “He was an asset to one of the agents run by my FAS,” Emily explained. “I helped him out of a pretty gnarly jam before I quit the Company to work for BKI. Now he’s ready to do the same for me, for us.” Her tough, South Side Chicago accent made the word for sound more like fer. That toughness encased inside such a tender-looking package had been making Christian’s inner hound dog sit up and pant from the beginning.

  “Dover is more than seventy miles away.” He ran through scenarios in his head. “We’ll need to rent a car.”

  They had been using public transportation to get around London to avoid the headache and the paper trail involved in purchasing a vehicle for the mission. But with the APW out on Chelsea, hopping a bus or riding the train was out of the question.

  “Already taken care of.” Emily grinned. “The minute my Dover connection agreed to sail us across the Channel, I called that motorcycle shop three blocks down. A couple of weeks ago, I noticed the sign in their front window said they rented bikes for day trips. So I got us three Ducatis.” She made a face. “I wanted five. I hate riding bitch. But three was all they had, which means Chelsea and I will bow to your fragile male egos.” She sighed like this was the greatest sacrifice ever. “The bikes should be delivered any minute now, and once they are, we’ll bid a fond cheerio to merry ol’ London.”

  “Ducatis?” Christian made a face. “Are y
ou off your trolley? It’s bloody cold outside. Would not a car or a van have been the better choice?”

  Unlike the other Black Knights, he did not ride a custom Harley back in Chicago. Black Knights Inc. operated out of a custom chopper shop, a good cover since most of the Knights were burly, tattooed, and prone to sporting denim and leather. But Christian liked his wheels to count to four, thank you very much. And he far preferred a mode of transportation that provided a roof over his head should the weather turn inclement.

  “And what if we encounter traffic on the A2?” Emily lifted a pert eyebrow. In fact, come to think of it, everything about her was pert. “We’ll be a lot more maneuverable on bikes. And this is no time to dillydally. As for the cold, it’s not that cold.”

  “But—” Whatever argument Christian might have made—and he had been about to make one, because the entire conversation wouldn’t feel right if he hadn’t at least had one go-round with Emily—was cut off when the sounds of street bikes echoed up from below.

  “They’re playing our song.” Ace bent to lift his rucksack. He slung the straps over his shoulders, stopped to grab his coat and gloves from the hall tree by the door, and exited the flat without as much as a backward glance. The rest of the group wasted no time following suit.

  Left with no choice but to shoulder his own rucksack, Christian grabbed his cold-weather gear and trudged down the four flights while shrugging into his coat. He glanced at his watch and realized only seven minutes had passed since they’d burst through the door to the flat. Seven minuscule minutes. And now they were out the door and on their way with a brand-new plan.

  Emily Scott is a wonder, he admitted to himself. Of course, he would never admit as much to her.

  Pushing through the building’s front door, he found three exquisitely engineered Italian-made motorcycles waiting for them. Unlike the fantastical choppers the Knights designed back in Chicago, the Ducatis were built for one thing only: speed. And loads of it.

  Watching his two teammates each chose a bike and shake the hand of the man dropping it off, Christian desperately missed his Porsche back in Chicago. All those lovely horses in her engine. Two doors. A rather wonderful sound system. And the smell of rich, handcrafted leather.

  “You do know how to ride, don’t you?” Emily asked. The sun chose that moment to peek through the clouds, running bright fingers through her brown hair and bringing out the gold and auburn highlights that wove through the darker strands. She really was quite an arresting-looking woman. And that beauty mark high on her cheek made him oddly excited.

  “Just because I choose not to do something doesn’t mean I’m incapable of it,” he told her.

  “Well, then, let’s pretend for a minute that you’re someone less uptight, someone who likes to get a little dirty, someone…else, and mount up.”

  To his complete bewilderment, and as had been the case since she’d set foot inside the BKI compound a few months ago, she was trying to get his goat. For once, he refused to let her.

  “Oooh,” he crooned and gifted her with a toothy grin. “I do so love role play, darling. Tell me more about my character.”

  “How about, just for today, you try not to be a wiener on a half shell?”

  For a moment, he stared at her, drawing blank on a comeback to that little bon mot. Damnit! She had bested him again. He was overcome with the urge to either shake her or kiss her senseless. Both options would surely shush that wickedly quick mouth of hers, but only the second would give him any real relief. “Devil take you, Emily.”

  “Not likely.” A smile pulled at her tempting lips. “The devil wouldn’t know what to do with the likes of me.”

  Before he could tell her that he wholeheartedly agreed, Zoelner asked Chelsea, “Who do you want to ride with?” The words and tone were casual, but Christian could read the strain on Zoelner’s face.

  “I…” Chelsea blinked behind her glasses. She was careful to keep her face turned away from the men who had delivered the bikes. Not that they looked like the kind of blokes to follow the news, but still… “I thought I’d just…ride with you. If that’s okay?”

  Zoelner’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, and his chest expanded to twice its usual size. “I thought maybe after what I did in Morrison’s office that you…” He trailed off. Christian watched him search Chelsea’s eyes before firming his jaw and finishing with “Let’s go, then.”

  Those two are the absolute worst, Christian thought.

  Everyone could tell they were barmy about each other. But, for whatever reason, they refused to see it or acknowledge it for themselves. Pathetic. And annoying. And…whatever. He had his own pesky, misplaced lust to deal with.

  Grabbing the remaining motorbike, he opened the seat to reveal the storage compartment inside. After shoving in his rucksack, he mounted up and rocked the steel beast off its kickstand. It felt heavy and cumbersome.

  Turning the key, he listened to the massive engine purr to life. Then he tugged on the helmet that had been dangling from the handlebars. To his surprise, Emily swung her leg over the seat, scooting in close behind him.

  He stiffened at the feel of her warmth seeping through his leather and wool-lined coat. Swallowing, he turned to find her slipping on the extra helmet that had been strapped to the back of the seat.

  “Okay if I ride with you?” she asked.

  For the first time ever, he saw uncertainty in her eyes, heard trepidation in her voice. Emily put on a good front, but she wasn’t as confident and unflappable as she would have them all believe.

  Given her closeness, given that look in her eyes, he could do nothing but nod. When he did, he saw relief flash across her face before she flipped down her visor. Then…the most amazing thing happened. Her thighs squeezed his hips, and her arms went around his waist.

  Okay, so perhaps there’s something to this motorbike thing after all.

  Chapter 8

  Dover, England

  Lloyd and Harry from Dumb and Dumber…

  That’s how Chelsea expected to look by the time she and Dagan exited the highway toward Dover. But with Dagan in front of her blocking the wind, and with his blast-furnace body heat radiating against the length of her, instead of being chilled to the bone, she was all warm and tingly. More than warm and tingly. She was on fire.

  So, not Lloyd and Harry from Dumb and Dumber, more like Frodo and Sam on Mount Doom right before the Eagles saved them.

  Then again, maybe all that heat had something to do with her having just spent the last sixty minutes plastered around Dagan like human Saran Wrap while he maneuvered the sleek Ducati in a marvel of easy agility and fluid strength. Or maybe it was the memory of that kiss that had kept her toasty warm.

  Talk about hot. Lord have mercy!

  Never before had Chelsea experienced such a toe-curling, head-spinning lip-lock. He had mad skills. Unbelievable oral gymnastic skills.

  No doubt perfected over many years and with many women. Ugh.

  Normally, she would insist she didn’t have a jealous bone in her body. But when it came to Dagan? Yup. She was pretty sure she had two hundred and six of them.

  It didn’t help that after he kissed her, he’d pulled away with a look of utter horror contorting his face. It had hurt. It still hurt. That look coming so close on the heels of the best moment of her life. And all she could think was…why?

  Why did he kiss me? And then why was he immediately horrified by it?

  She wasn’t a bad kisser. She’d been assured of that by her high school boyfriend who had once told her she had the mouth of an angel, all soft and sweet and eager to please. Then again, she’d been so shocked by the fact that Dagan had been kissing her that she hadn’t had the time to really bring her A game, so maybe—

  “Almost there!” Dagan turned to her when they stopped at an intersection. He yelled to be heard over the purr of the Ducati’s
engine. “You okay?”

  No! Chelsea wanted to holler back. I’m not okay! I won’t be okay until you explain what the heck happened in Morrison’s office!

  But she proved she was a chickenhearted cur when she simply dipped her chin, the weight of the motorcycle helmet pressing the earpieces of her glasses into the sides of her skull.

  Dagan nodded and turned back to the road, throttling up and making his way down the winding lane that ran through the center of the seaside town. Dover was perched beside vast, chalky cliffs, and brick four-flat houses nestled next to their whitewashed counterparts zoomed by on either side of the bikers. Locals turned their heads, curiously watching the trio of high-end motorcycles making their way toward the docks.

  Chelsea breathed deeply of salt-tinged air. Having been born and raised on the coast of South Carolina, she’d always been partial to the sea. To the changing tides, the beauty of a sunrise over open water, and the inherent spark of danger that lurked just below the surface.

  Once, a long time ago, she had said something to that effect to her mother. Grace had smiled gently, shaken her head, and accused Chelsea of being a romantic. “Just like your father,” Grace had added, a wistful gleam in her eye.

  Chelsea’s father had been a romantic. A man filled with a hunger for life and the belief that love really did conquer all. He had proved that belief by falling head over heels for Chelsea’s mother during a time when white Southern boys were not supposed to marry poor black girls. And then he’d reinforced that belief every day for twenty-three years, through thick and thin, whether dealing with prejudice or acceptance. And always with a smile on his face and a wide-open heart—until one day that heart gave out on him and he died peacefully in his sleep lying next to the woman he had loved since the moment he saw her at a drive-in movie.

  Being compared to him had always been a compliment. But now, sitting behind Dagan, still dazed by the power of his kiss and wounded by his horrified expression afterward, Chelsea wondered if being a romantic, if living with her heart wide open, would cause her to suffer more hurt than she could handle.