Fuel for Fire

by Julie Ann Walker

  She was pragmatic enough to know that her parents had been incredibly lucky, and not everyone ended up with happily ever after.

  Whoa. Had she really just gone there? Imagined a future with Dagan?

  She closed her eyes, unconsciously squeezed his waist tighter, and admitted that she had. Which was ridiculous because…number one, the look on his face after the kiss did not bode well for a lifetime of repeats. And number two, there could never be any sort of forever for them because she was harboring the Big Bad Secret.

  Oh, good night, nurse! Get out of your own head, Chels! It was just one little kiss in the middle of a tense, adrenaline-filled situation. It meant nothing to him!

  Right. Good advice. Trouble was, no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise, it had meant something to her.

  Chapter 9

  Dagan had been calling himself an idiot for the last hour. But as he turned down the road leading to the Dover docks, he decided that was an insult to stupid people.

  His reaction to the feel of Chelsea pressed against him, the warm weight of her amazing breasts on his back, the sultry heat at the junction of her thighs, not to mention the sheer delight of having her small arms wrapped around his waist, went beyond idiotic and veered helter-skelter toward insanity.

  We’re talking straitjackets, padded walls, and gurneys with straps attached, folks. Because even though his rational mind knew that a woman like her wouldn’t want anything to do with the likes of him, and that he had already strayed way over the line with that kiss, that didn’t stop his irrational mind—the base, instinctual, animalistic part of his brain—from wanting her.

  He had been hard the whole ride, and the subtle vibration of the Ducati’s well-made engine hadn’t helped his situation one bit. It was agony times one hundred. And he was terrified her hand might slip down. If it did, there was no way she wouldn’t notice the effect she had on him. Then he would have something else to apologize for, in addition to that ill-timed, ill-advised, all-consuming kiss.

  A parade of images marched through his head: Chelsea seated at the conference table back in Chicago, admitting to having a monkey on her back and fearlessly volunteering for the job to infiltrate Spider’s household; Chelsea bent over her laptop, poring over Intel, her fierce mind hard at work; Chelsea sitting in that chair in Roper fuckin’ Morrison’s office, tied and helpless and willing to give her life for the cause.

  Chelsea…

  Jesus H, he was going to have to grovel for her forgiveness. Then again, perhaps grovel was too sanitized a word. What he needed to do was to get down on bended knee, kiss her feet, and beg her to absolve him for taking advantage of the situation, for taking advantage of her.

  The trouble with that plan? Well, once he began kissing her feet, he would be tempted to continue the journey upward. Nipping her delicate ankles. Biting her lithe, muscled calves. Licking her smooth thighs until—

  Oh, for God’s sake!

  “Look how pretty!” Chelsea yelled over the Ducati’s engine, pointing at the towering cliffs of Dover when they finally came into full view.

  The cliffs were composed almost entirely of chalk, a bright, blinding white. Dagan couldn’t shake the feeling that they were angry teeth, snarling across the Channel at continental Europe and daring anyone with ill intent to set foot on the island. But it charmed him that after all Chelsea had been through in the last couple of hours—hell, what she’d been through in the last month under the employ of Roper fuckin’ Morrison—she could still look at those bleached cliff faces with a sense of childlike awe.

  “Don’t you think that’s just about the prettiest thing ever?” she enthused, her breath warm against the nape of his neck, sending a cascade of chills down his spine.

  Instead of answering—afraid she would hear the lust in his voice—he simply nodded and followed the others into the gravel parking lot beside the docks. One by one, he and his teammates cut the bikes’ engines. The sound of low, growling horsepower was replaced by the shush of waves lapping against rocks, the clink-clink of mooring lines against rigging, and the forlorn cries of the seagulls that dove and darted overhead.

  Having grown up in Cleveland, on the banks of Lake Erie, and then having worked the last handful of years in Chicago, perched alongside Lake Michigan, Dagan thought there was just something about the water. He loved the fishy smell of it. The devastating…vastness of it.

  Those rare times when he’d had a day off and had gone sailing with friends, he’d realized that he could only truly grasp his smallness, his infinitesimal worth in the grand scheme of the universe, when he was out in the middle of all that unrelenting water. And for some reason, that made him feel better. Made all his mistakes seem somehow less important, less grave, just…less.

  “Emily Scott! As I live and breathe!” A big-chested man who looked like he should be playing cornerback for the Chicago Bears trotted across the lot toward them.

  “Rusty!” Emily hopped from the back of Christian’s rented motorcycle, tossed Christian her helmet, and turned to throw herself into the arms of the approaching man.

  When she kissed the newcomer smack on the lips, Dagan was sure he heard Christian growl. He glanced over, brow raised, but was immediately distracted when Chelsea hopped off the back of the bike, taking all her feminine warmth and softness with her.

  He felt the desertion like a physical ache. His body longed for the touch of hers.

  Then he wasn’t feeling anything but annoyance when she blinked at Emily’s friend in wide-eyed wonder and muttered, “Goodness sakes. That man is a specimen.” Now it was his turn to growl. “I swear. I feel like I’m in some sort of sexy man laboratory. Each new experiment is hotter than the last,” she added.

  Dagan didn’t register that, in fact, Chelsea had just called him sexy. He was too preoccupied by the latter half of her statement. The part where she thought New Guy was hot.

  A sense of possessiveness he had absolutely no business feeling spread through him.

  “You look good, Rusty!” Emily grinned up at the fisherman. “The simple life agrees with you.”

  Rusty had wild, unkempt hair the color of black cherries, and he wore dark foul-weather bib-and-brace pants with yellow suspenders that stretched over massive shoulders covered by an oatmeal-colored fisherman’s sweater. Seeing him standing there, smiling down at Emily, Dagan changed his mind about that Chicago Bears thing. Emily’s friend belonged on the cover of a Cabela’s catalog. He was the epitome of every rugged, wild seaman Dagan had ever seen. The rat bastard.

  “Right back atcha, dollface.” Rat Bastard winked.

  Dagan hopped off the Ducati and opened the seat to haul out his backpack. Shrugging into the shoulder straps, he turned in time to hear Emily say, “Well, don’t you all just stand there looking like wet weekends. Everyone, come meet Rusty Parker.”

  “You’re American,” Christian said, shaking Rusty’s hand. His tone made the observation sound like an insult.

  “Born and bred in Pittsburgh.” Rusty grinned. “But I hope you won’t hold that against me.”

  Of all the things Christian was likely to hold against Rusty Parker, Dagan figured coming from Pennsylvania wasn’t one of them.

  “When Emily said she had a fisherman friend who was willing to sail us across the Channel”—Ace shook Rusty’s hand—“I expected missing teeth, an eye patch, and a hook for a hand.”

  Rusty’s rat bastard grin deepened, revealing a set of dimples. Unless Dagan’s ears deceived him, Chelsea sucked in an awed breath. Okay, and now he wasn’t just feeling possessive, he was feeling downright murderous. His hands curled into fists. To keep himself from using them, he shoved them deep into the pockets of his coat.

  “I’m a cod fisherman, not a pirate.” Rusty chuckled.

  “I don’t think I was thinking pirate as much as eye cabbage.” Ace tilted his head, eyeing Rusty up and do
wn.

  “Eye cabbage?” Rusty raised a brow.

  “Opposite of eye candy,” Ace explained.

  “Okay, that’s enough out of you, Romeo,” Emily cut in. “Let’s finish the intros and get moving. Dagan Zoelner.” She turned. “Meet Rusty Parker.”

  Dagan had more than his fair share of calluses, but shaking Rusty’s hand was like grabbing hold of an old leather shoe. And if Dagan squeezed with a little more pressure than was strictly necessary, you wouldn’t know it by the impassive expression on Rusty’s face.

  “And last but not least,” Emily said, “may I present Chelsea Duvall. The lady of the hour and the reason we need to bust ass across the Channel.”

  Rusty’s big paw of a hand swallowed Chelsea’s. The asshole had the audacity to bend and kiss her knuckles. “Hello, Hot Cocoa,” he said with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

  When Chelsea giggled—giggled, for God’s sake!—Dagan was hard-pressed not to rip her hand from the fisherman’s grip.

  “Pleased to meet you.” Chelsea dipped her head demurely and looked at Rusty through the veil of her sooty lashes.

  What’s that sound? Oh right. It was Dagan’s back molars being ground to dust.

  “I don’t know about you, mate,” Christian whispered from the corner of his mouth after coming to stand close to Dagan’s side, “but I should think I hate him already.”

  Dagan grunted his agreement as Chelsea gushed, “And thank you so much for doing this for us, Mr. Parker.”

  “Please, call me Rusty.”

  “Okay…Rusty,” Chelsea said in that husky sex-operator’s voice of hers.

  Dagan had had all he could stand. “Yes, thank you, Rusty.” Why did it sound like he had been swallowing rocks? “Now, if it’s not too much trouble, let’s go. The longer we stay in this country, the more I feel the Earl Grey and incessant rain seeping into my bones, making them soggy.”

  “You grow to love soggy bones after a while.” Rusty winked at him.

  Like we’re best buds or some shit? Just because I didn’t pop you in the puss the moment you laid those filthy lips on my… Dagan wasn’t certain where he was headed with the rest of that thought, but whichever direction, he decided it was best to hang a swift left.

  He found himself sorely tempted to challenge the fisherman to a wrestling match so he could…what? Prove to Chelsea that between the two of them he was the better man?

  Christ in a cardigan sweater!

  “Come on, then.” Rusty motioned over his shoulder. “Grab your gear, and leave me the keys to the bikes. I’ll make sure they’re returned to the rental agency.”

  “Rusty, my love,” Emily said as she followed him across the gravel lot, “you’re a lifesaver.”

  “Anything for you, dollface.” Rusty threw a beefy arm over her shoulders, and Dagan glanced at Christian. The poor man’s florid face pretty much summed up what Dagan was feeling.

  “Let’s go.” Chelsea grabbed Dagan’s hand to give him a tug. “Quit lollygagging.” When she tried to release his fingers, he instinctively tightened his grip.

  Turning back, she looked at him, then down at their joined hands, then back up at him. “What in the world has gotten into you today?” A seagull darted overhead, its desolate cry calling to something inside Dagan’s soul. Some lonely, aching part of him.

  What had gotten into him? Her! She had gotten into him!

  After years of denying himself the taste of her, like an anorexic denying himself food, he had finally caved. And now all he wanted was to gorge himself on her. Binge again and again, over and over until he couldn’t take any more.

  Of course, he said none of that.

  With a shrug and a roll of her eyes, Chelsea turned to traipse after the others, who were already making their way across the parking lot toward the dock and the waiting fishing boats. Still, he didn’t release her hand.

  Why? Well, probably because he wanted to mark his territory in front of the oh-so-dreamy Rusty Parker. Which just proved he was an even bigger idiot than he had suspected.

  Chapter 10

  Dagan Zoelner had kissed her and then immediately been horrified by it. Now he was holding her hand as they made their way up the stairs to the docks, and Chelsea couldn’t help but wonder if in two minutes, he would be horrified by that too.

  Okeydokey. Forget two minutes.

  Dagan dropped her hand like a hot potato when Christian turned from his spot at the top of the steps, looking down at them with a raised brow and a knowing smirk. She frowned as she climbed the treads and made her way down the wooden dock toward the large twin-engine catamaran Rusty had stopped beside.

  The fisherman had a presence as big as all outdoors and a smile to match when he offered her a hand aboard. She thought she heard Dagan mutter a profanity but couldn’t be sure. She was too busy getting her footing on the wide gray deck as it shifted gently up and down with the tide.

  It occurred to Chelsea that the entire day had been like a bad episode of The Twilight Zone. One minute, Dagan was suffering an invasion of the body snatchers, acting uncharacteristically affectionate. The next, he was back to his solemn, annoying self. And the change from one state to the other kept happening so fast that she was suffering from emotional whiplash.

  “Set your stuff anywhere you like inside, and grab a seat,” Rusty instructed after they were all aboard. He threw off thick, heavy mooring lines as if they weighed no more than jump ropes. “We’ll be underway in a jiff.”

  Dagan passed her, heading toward the wheelhouse. She scowled at his broad back before following him inside. The place was spacious and housed the electronics and steering for the vessel. The white walls were bedecked in bright-orange life jackets on hooks. And two rows of bench seats were bolted into the decking behind the captain’s chair.

  The boat was immaculate. Not a stray fish scale or vagrant speck of oil marred any surface. And the air spelled of bleach and industrial-strength soap. Rusty was obviously a fastidious boat captain.

  What’s his story? Chelsea wondered. Not many Americans became English cod fishermen, she would bet, and—

  “Come with me.” Dagan tugged her backpack from her shoulders. He set it beneath one of the bench seats, scooting it next to his own.

  “Come with you where?” She lifted a brow. “Overboard? Because I reckon that’s the only place left to—”

  “Belowdecks.” He grabbed her hand and towed her toward the stairs to the left of the captain’s chair. “We need to talk.”

  “Oh goody.” She made a face. “All truly awesome conversations begin with those four words.”

  Before descending the six metal steps that led into the catamaran’s hold, she stopped to see the others settling onto the bench seats. All three of them were watching her curiously. Chelsea caught Emily’s gaze, lifting her brows as if to say, Any idea what the heckfire is up with Z today?

  Emily shrugged, and Chelsea was left with no recourse but to follow Dagan down into the belly of the ship.

  He wanted to talk? Fine. Good. Because she had a couple of things she wanted to say to him.

  “Here’s good.” He stopped next to a stack of boxes. Their labels read Skimmer Clams. Chelsea assumed they were the bait Rusty used to catch cod.

  The hold was as clean as the rest of the boat: pristine floors, neatly stacked gear, and the aroma of strong soap mixed with the more common maritime smells of anti-fouling paint and marine fuel. A single bulb in a yellow plastic cage lit the space, creating long shadows, especially across Dagan’s face. They made him look even more mysterious. Even more fierce. Even more…delectable.

  Chelsea turned away, refusing to look at him, hoping to find something to distract herself from his nipple-tightening presence. Then he blurted, “I’m sorry,” and she swung back to face him, blinking.

  There were a few things to know about Dagan Zoelner. Number one,
he had an uncanny ability to blend into a crowd. Number two, there was that odd statue-stillness that came over him right before he was about to do something of grave importance—or right before he was about to lay into her for something. And number three, in all their years working together, and all the times they had verbally tanned each other’s hides, he had never, not once, apologized to her.

  Which was probably why she stood there, her mouth opening and closing like the catfish her father had loved to catch out of Old Man Miller’s pond. When she finally found her voice, it was to respond with an oh-so-intelligent “Huh?”

  Dagan ran a hand over his beard, looking away from her into the middle distance before finally turning back. “For kissing you when you hadn’t invited me to and when you couldn’t push me away,” he said.

  Aha. Well, that explains the look of horror on his face.

  Did he really believe for even one second that she might not have welcomed his kiss? Before she could speak the thought aloud, words gushed out of him like the water that had rushed out of the backyard spigot when she was fifteen and accidentally ran into it with the riding lawn mower. Holy Moses, her mother had been madder than a wet hen. But her father? He had just laughed at her soaked hair and clothes before shutting off the main water to the house.

  “It’s just that when you sent that Mayday, I was terrified what might’ve happened, what might be happening to you. And then to get to Morrison’s penthouse and find that you had not only managed to get yourself caught, but that you were foolish enough to think you needed to sacrifice yourself and—”

  Chelsea stopped listening right then and there. Probably because she couldn’t hear over the blood pounding angrily through her ears.

  “Damnit, Z!” she snarled. Her fisted hands landed on her hips as she thrust her chin up at his damnably handsome face. “Just once, just one friggin’ time in your life, could you, oh, I don’t know, say something nice to me?”