Hot Ice

by Cherry Adair

  “Don’t worry.” She slipped her arms about his waist as they walked. “I’m fine. And although I hate to say this, realizing the seriousness of what we’re doing, I have to tell you, I’m also pretty damn excited to be involved.”

  Her eyes sparkled up at him in the moonlight. “This rush I get when I’m being challenged is precisely why I do what I do, remember? The excitement. The thrill. The danger.” Her pretty mouth curved into a rueful smile that he desperately wanted to taste.

  “Not that I’m comparing being blown to smithereens by a nuclear missile to being caught robbing a safe, mind you. But I am excited, nevertheless.”

  He understood perfectly. He was worried enough for both of them. For all of them. “I can live with that.”

  “How much longer?”

  He knew she meant before they headed for the mine. “Three and a half hours.”

  Her arm tightened around his waist as she looked up at him. “Then we should enjoy those three and a half hours together, shouldn’t we?”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “We sure as hell should.”

  Her smile widened. “Listen . . .”

  “Yeah. Lion. Welcome to Africa.”

  “You okay?” she asked, looking at him with a frown.

  “Not even close,” he muttered, need clawing at his throat. Taking her arm, he steered her into the dirt hut.

  The rondaval was considerably smaller than the others, but it had a heavy blanket over the door opening, giving them some privacy. Pushing it aside, Hunt had to practically bend double to get through the doorway, but once inside he could stand comfortably.

  He switched on the torch and scanned the room. It consisted of the same circular design, with a thatched roof and a dirt floor. A pile of folded blankets and an earthenware pitcher of water had been set near the door.

  “All the comforts of home,” he said dryly, setting down the Maglite so he could spread a layer of blankets on the ground.

  He lowered himself to the bed he’d made and started unlacing his boots. “Take off your boots and come and lie down. We can get in a couple of hours ourselves before we get started.”

  “Believe me, I am so not tired,” Taylor said, starting to pace. “Besides, it’s only about eight o’clock. Way too early.”

  Hunt reached up and took her hand as she passed, tugging her down beside him. “You need to turn your brain off,” he told her, keeping his tone soothing. She was wound tighter than a cheap watch. He removed his own boots and put them beside their makeshift bed. “Worrying isn’t going to speed this up. You’ll need all your concentration when we do go in.”

  She reluctantly unlaced and removed her boots and tossed them beside his. “I wish I could turn my brain off. What if—”

  He leaned forward, threading his fingers through her hair at the temples, and lifted her face. “Relax,” he told her softly.

  Her lips curved in a small smile, but her eyes, those incredible hot-ice eyes, were haunted. “Can you squeeze the worry out of my brain?”

  Hunt tangled his fingers deeper into the cool silk of her hair, drawing her closer. “Let’s see, shall we?”

  He touched his mouth to hers—cool satin—then cradled her head in his hands, supporting her as he lowered her to her back on the blanket. He followed her down, pressing tender kisses to her neck and jaw, then covered her face with soft kisses. He brushed his mouth over hers, gently, teasing, light. Sweet, so sweetly responsive.

  He reveled in the texture of her lips and the small breathy sounds she made as she opened her mouth to welcome him inside. He deepened the kiss. He wanted to absorb her, to draw her so deeply inside himself that she wouldn’t know where she began and he ended. He loved the feel of her tongue moving languidly inside his mouth, and the brush of her hands as she stroked his face with cool fingers.

  He felt an indescribable, overwhelming combination of lust and tenderness as they kissed. He wanted her, had wanted her from day one, with a blistering intensity that shocked him. No woman had ever had this effect on him. Part of him wanted to take her hard and fast and satisfy this insatiable craving he had for her. The other part of him wanted it like this—slow and lazy. Time to discover how many ways he could make her come apart in his arms.

  Still kissing her, he started undoing the buttons of her shirt, spreading the cotton open as he went. Her skin warmed under his light touch and her legs moved restlessly against his.

  He lifted his head to look at her. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and sultry, her mouth swollen and damp from his. She pulled his head down, but he resisted, making her frown with impatience.

  “Don’t rush it.” Hunt smoothed his finger along the little frown lines between her brows. “We have a couple of hours.”

  He rolled to his side next to her, supporting himself on his elbow as he continued unbuttoning her shirt, fascinated as more creamy skin was revealed. Her bra, what little there was of it, was flesh-colored lace, and even so it was shades darker than the plump swell of her breasts. He ran his finger across the soft mounds, delighted that he could see the rosy peaks of her nipples through the semisheer fabric.

  Keeping the fingers of one hand buried in his hair, Taylor curved her other arm over her head, watching his face. “You’re driving me insane, you know.”

  He reached over and picked up the flashlight, moving it to a better position so the golden light bathed her body, then continued slipping each small button from its hole and folding back the edges of her shirt until he reached the waistband of her jeans, all the while allowing his fingers only the most gentle of touches, skimming over the smooth silk of her skin.

  With every brush of his fingers, Taylor’s skin warmed to a soft creamy blush. Her fingers tightened in his hair as he popped the top button and eased down the zipper, taking his time to reveal her waist, the small dimple of her navel, her flat stomach. She reached down to flatten a hand over his, pressing his palm harder against her mound.

  Hunt slipped his hand from beneath hers. He chuckled as she gave a huff of impatience, which quickly turned to a feline-sounding purr of pleasure as he recaptured her mouth, at the same time clicking the front opening of her bra to free her breasts.

  Taylor whimpered with pleasure as Hunt cupped her breast in his warm palm with unhurried leisure, then brushed his thumb across her nipple until she moaned with need. Only one side of his face was lit, giving him an almost sinister appearance. At this point she didn’t give a damn if he was the devil himself. She wanted him more than she wanted her next breath.

  When Taylor thought she couldn’t stand another second of “slow,” he lowered his head and took the hard bud into the hot, wet cavern of his mouth. She could barely control her sharp intake of breath as, using tongue and teeth on her nipple, he seemed bound and determined to drive her over the edge.

  “Hunt!” she cried softly as pleasure, sharp and sweet, radiated from the tip of her breast to her womb.

  “Right here, darling.”

  She felt as though she were hanging from a ten-story building without a harness. “This is . . . ah . . . extremely one . . . sided.”

  He raised his head. “You’re not enjoying it?” he asked, his eyes devilish as they met hers.

  “If . . . I were enjoying th-this any more, I’d be arrested. I meant I want to . . . to . . .” She forgot what she’d been about to say as he used both hands to skim her jeans down her legs, while his mouth did delicious things against her stomach.

  She helped him get her pants off, God she helped him. Kicking and wiggling to get the fabric down her legs and over her feet in record time.

  Her six-hundred-dollar La Perla thong disappeared as if by magic as Hunt cupped her derriere in his large, elegant hands, bringing her mound to meet his greedy mouth. “Wait . . .” She needed a moment. A second to catch her breath.

  He didn’t stop, clearly determined to steal her breath altogether. He used his mouth, tongue, lips, and teeth to stake his claim. She whimpered, her body moving of its own volition as his ton
gue thrust deep inside her, his fingers dug into her hips, his shoulders kept her body open to him. Panting, she flung her arm over her eyes and gritted her teeth. Hanging there above the earth as the intimacy of his kiss seared her flesh made her temperature rise to boiling and caused her hips to arch off the blankets, thrusting her body against his mouth.

  “Come inside me,” she begged as his tongue brought her closer and closer to the precipice.

  His penis was velvety hard as he pressed against her, sliding in easily because she was so wet, so ready for him, that she pressed a hand against his chest as she waited for wave after wave of sensation to subside before she could let him slide in to the hilt.

  She was lost.

  And there was no way back.

  Forty-one

  5:30 A.M.

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 13

  “Wake up, love. Time to get cracking.”

  Taylor blinked open gritty eyes to see Hunt crouched beside her, illuminated by the glow from his flashlight. Dressed completely in black, he was all but invisible, except for his hands and face. He smelled of fresh air, some kind of medicinal soap, and coffee. She wanted to drag him back into the warm, rumpled nest of blankets.

  Instead she rubbed her eyes and sat up. The blanket covering her slipped to her lap and chilled air caressed her sleep-warmed body. “Brr.”

  “I’ve brought hot water, clothes, and coffee.”

  “Coffee first?” she asked hopefully, and was rewarded by his chuckle as he placed a wooden bowl of steaming, eucalyptus-scented water beside her. Kneeling, he slid the strap of a black duffel off his shoulder, deposited the bag onto the floor, then handed her a metal mug.

  “Careful. It’s hot.” He pulled up one of the blankets, wrapping it around her bare shoulders.

  She lifted her head, then used both hands to cup the warm metal container and bring it to her mouth. “Elixir of the gods. Those guys brought Juan Valdez with them.” She looked at him through the rising steam and took a sip. “You said something about bringing me something to wear? I brought my work clothes.”

  “Nothing like this, you didn’t.” He held up what appeared to be a shadow in one large hand.

  Taylor squinted, trying to figure out what the thin black . . . thing could possibly be. “What is that?” She reached out to finger the fabric. Thin. But not silk. Considerably heavier and more dense. Almost rubbery.

  “A LockOut suit.”

  Taylor set the mug aside. The scalding hot coffee had warmed her insides up nicely. Wide-awake and intrigued, she said, “Okay. I’ll bite. What does a LockOut suit lock out? And why am I going to wear it?”

  “Think of it as a wet suit. Only better. It’s like a second skin, maintaining a constant body temperature of sixty-seven degrees. Also acts as a shield.”

  “A shield? Against what?”

  “Water and fire, for starters. It’s self-healing, and almost impervious to nicks and cuts. More important, it’s practically bulletproof.”

  Taylor rubbed the thin fabric between her fingers again. Thin. Rubbery. Weird. It felt insubstantial in her hands, and she wondered if this was like the emperor’s new clothes. “You’re kidding me, right? This stuff can’t be bulletproof.”

  “Practically.”

  “Practically isn’t bad,” she said, taking it from him. It was lightweight and infinitely more practical, she decided, than Lycra leggings and ballet slippers. Cool. A new uniform. It was always gratifying to wear the right outfit for the occasion. She scrunched it in her hand. It would take up no room at all. Could, in fact, be stuffed into a pocket, once she’d finished a job. “How practical is practically?”

  “Better than a bulletproof vest.”

  “Sold. I’ll order a dozen right now.”

  “I thought you might feel that way,” Hunt told her dryly. “Here.” He nudged the lightly steaming wooden bowl closer to her knee. “Want me to wash you?”

  Yes, please. “Didn’t you mention you wanted to leave soon?”

  The thought of Hunt bathing her intimately brought a flush of heat to her skin. All over. If he touched her right now, she’d go off like a rocket. “I’d better do it myself,” she told him regretfully.

  What she wanted to do was— Never mind. She reached into the bowl and wrung out the cloth floating in the water. “Thanks.”

  She lay back on the blankets and ran the warm, soapy cloth down her belly, her eyes fixed on Hunt’s face. “The magic suit?” she prompted, not feeling cold at all. Hunt’s eyes glittered feverishly as he watched, mesmerized, while she spread her knees to bathe herself. The coolness of the night air kissed her skin. The heat of his gaze spiked her body temperature.

  Their eyes locked. An entire thesaurus of desire arced between them. Mouth dry, Taylor licked her upper lip. “Nudge the bowl a little closer, would you?”

  He snatched the cloth from her hand. “Bloody hell. I’ll do it.” He plunged the fabric into the water and wrung it out with enough force that warm water sprinkled her skin. Yet when he touched the damp material between her legs, his touch was gentle.

  Her nipples peaked as Hunt washed her carefully and skillfully. Sparks of electricity zinged through her body and her hips arched off their bed. She reached out a hand to grab his shoulder. “Hunt, please—”

  With a snarl, he tossed the cloth back into the water and leaned over to crush his mouth to hers. Taylor wrapped her arms about his neck, and he pulled her to a sitting position as he ravished her mouth with teeth and tongue. After several moments he put her aside, resting his forehead on hers.

  “No more. As much as I want to make love to you again, there’s no time. Help me here, darling.”

  Taylor closed her eyes as the sharp anticipation of her body simmered. She cupped the back of his head, tangling her fingers in his hair. They stayed that way, foreheads touching, until her parts got the message that they weren’t about to party and her breathing was back to normal. Almost.

  With a final stroke to his hair, Taylor raised her face and gave him a quick kiss on the mouth. “Okay. Up. Dress. Out.”

  He rose and held out his hand. “Stand. I’ll help you into the suit. Put this on.” He dangled her thong on one finger.

  Taking his hand, she let him pull her to her feet. Her knees were weak, but she locked them until she felt a little steadier. With a smile, she took her underwear from him and shot him a mock-suspicious glance. “I don’t have to wear high-heeled boots and carry a whip, do I?”

  “Not this time.” He waited as she drew on the thong, then held out the bottom half of the suit. “One leg at a time.”

  “No kidding!” Taylor rested one hand on his broad shoulder—covered in the same fabric—and got her legs into the legs of the suit, pushing her feet through and wiggling her toes. The fabric felt odd, firmly hugging each part of her sensitized body as Hunt tugged it up and over her hips.

  It was styled like the footies she’d worn as a kid, and he drew the top part up and over her naked shoulders. “Arm . . . other arm. Jesus,” his voice was thick, “you have beautiful breasts.” He drew up the zipper from her waist, slowly, his knuckles brushing the centerline of her body all the way up until he reached her chin, then he brushed her lower lip with his thumb. “Done.”

  Taylor lifted her arms up and down as though she were flying. “This is amazing! I feel . . . naked.”

  “Don’t I wish.”

  She grinned, starting to feel the usual before-a-big-job rush of anticipatory adrenaline surge through her system. “Do I need my boots?”

  “No. You don’t need anything. I have your tools,” Hunt told her, his normal taciturn self again as he swung the duffel back to his shoulder. “Let’s go. The others are waiting.”

  There wasn’t much of a climb to reach the mouth of the mine. The bright moon hung in the black sky, illuminating the shrubs and vegetation. Hunt wasn’t being particularly stealthy, but it didn’t matter, since the “natives” knew what was going on as they pretended to sleep. Taylor walked lightly besi
de him.

  The dark shapes of his team came into view as they crested a small berm and Viljoen joined them. Because it was so bright, the team had positioned themselves to be completely hidden by the dense shadows from an enormous outcropping of rock and shrubs nearby.

  “Okay,” Viljoen said quietly, in his element because he was the mining expert on the team. He acknowledged Hunt with a brief glance before continuing. “What we have here appears to be room-and-pillar mining, you know? Unusual, ’cause mostly here in S.A. they have open-pit mines, not— Ag, never mind the lesson.” He quickly reined himself in.

  “So, what we’re gonna find in there will be the typical low-angle adits connecting to some sort of horizontal access level,” he finished.

  The entrance was an unimpressive wooden structure. Only close inspection showed it was new construction, with heavy-duty metal bracing painted to blend in. From as close as twenty feet away the wood appeared to be part of the original 1970s mine.

  “You didn’t tell me I could’ve worn cool makeup,” Taylor whispered to Hunt as they approached the rest of the team. They all wore cammy paint on their hands and faces.

  “Only the people who’ll be staying out here are wearing it,” he said softly.

  The smell of her, standing so close beside him, filled his senses. It was no longer novel to him, so he should be immune by now. Yet the very familiarity of it distracted him. Dangerously so. He took several steps forward and motioned her to wait.

  “Who’s inside?” he asked softly.

  “Bishop, Savage, Navarro, and Fisk,” Daklin told him. Hunt gave him points for not staring and salivating at Taylor in the skintight LockOut suit.

  They’d retrieved their weapons hidden beneath the floorboards of the vehicles, and everyone else wore heavy artillery in cleverly crafted holsters—guns, knives, and ammo. But on Taylor there was nothing but the unbroken line of matte black material hugging every curve and hollow of her body. She might as well be naked and wearing a thin coat of black paint.

  “I’m off with my team,” Daklin said, sounding as though he were smiling, but no emotion showing on his face. “Anything you need before we split?”