by James, Ranay
“Either way.”
“Nope. I’m pretty monogamous once I commit. Why?” she yelled from the bathroom. Giggling under her breath and hoping the water hid her laughter.
“No girl-on-girl action for me then I suppose?” He was very quick to see he had crossed a line when she poked her head out of the bathroom with her side arm drawn, but not pointed at him, thank goodness.
She was joking, but he did not need to know.
He immediately put up his hands. “Holy shit, Barbara, I’m just kidding. Put that away. A Central American jail for women is not a place for you.” Then he paused. “Or may be it is in your case,” he said wiggling his eyebrows and flipping out his garment bag across the bed wondering what torturous devices Robert packed for him to wear, probably a tux.
Yep, the sadistic bastard, he mused, looking at the expensively tailored garment.
“You are such a pig, Mason. Grow up.” She rolled her eyes again at his behavior.
He laughed at her just before she disappeared from the doorway only seconds before it closed a little more firmly than was necessary.
Chapter 7
“This is a problem.” Barbara pointed out after she finished her shower. She needed to dress and having a communal room complicated things. Mason did not see it as an issue as she stood clutching the front her robe closed.
They were meeting with the resort concierge, and their point of contact, just before dinner to go over their excursion plans for the morning. They were both very anxious in this go-no-go status while awaiting Robert’s final word. That decision would be made come sunlight. However, once they left the resort the mission was truly a go and there would be no turning back without serious repercussions. It left them with several hours to fill, so until daybreak they were just killing time, shifting attention away from the extraction team, who, as they spoke, were inserting themselves via less legal means.
Via aerial photos, Mason had found a good spot for Robert to insert the team consisting of Reese, Josh, Chase, Fly Boy, Tango, Dark Man, and Sundown. They were coming in along the western coastline just past a very dangerous point seldom patrolled by the Panamanian coast patrol. It was seldom patrolled for a good reason. If they managed to get in safely past the surf then half of the danger of the mission was past in Mason’s opinion. However, it was the best he could do on such short notice.
Tonight placed the two of them into a holding pattern allowing them to set and cement their cover. Their reservations for dinner were black tie, and after dinner they were expected to attend a reception in their honor, complete with a band and dancing.
Damn Robert, Mason cursed his brother, again for the one-hundredth time since walking into his office earlier that day.
Barbara totally agreed.
Why did he have to make this look so real? There was authentic and then there was ridiculously authentic. Now, she would have to dance with him. But before she could dance, she had to get dressed.
“You’re not into men, Barbie Doll. Dressing in front of me should not be any different than if I were stripping in the locker room in front of the guys. See, not hard at all.” He pulled his pants off tossing them carelessly into the corner. He was sans his briefs.
“Oh, Mason, for goodness sakes,” she said jerking her head aside and away from his body. The only problem with the move was that it put her looking into the wall of mirrors lining the opposite side of the bed. “Way more skin than I need to see right now. Give me fair warning next time, will ya?”
God, he was magnificent, she had to admit.
He was laughing as he came up from behind her and grabbed her by the upper arms, squeezing gently, and pulling her back full against him. They were looking at each other through the wall of mirrors. If she did not know better she would say he was sizing her up as prey.
“You smell good, Barbie Doll,” he whispered into her ear, their eyes never wavering in the mirror. “I will pull you back from the other side. Or at least have you going both ways,” he laughed softly sending a slight tremor through her.
“You’re going to pull me….” It dawned on her what he was saying, bringing her totally back to earth. “Oh, hush and just go shower.” She laughed softly hiding her momentary lapse in judgment where Mason was concerned. “We are running late.” She wiggled out of his grasp and tossed daggers into him as he very comfortably walked naked into the bathroom. He was laughing, purposefully leaving the door wide open.
“You are a bastard, Mason,” she mumbled as she closed the door herself.
“I heard that, Barbie Doll,” he said just as she closed the door.
He almost sounded annoyed. Well, so was she at this point. He had no respect for her as a woman or as his partner. Not everyone wanted to see him naked even if he thought it was the universal consensus.
She tossed the door back open.
“Then hear this too, Mister Bionic Dog Ears. Do not touch me once we cross the threshhold back into this room. I cannot alter what happens out in the open and I’m willing to go to great lengths to help Jesse, but you will respect my personal space.”
“Fine. I get it,” he hollered from the shower as the steam began to rise.
“However, I am not, and I repeat, not going to put up with your hound dog bullshit in the privacy of this room.”
He jerked the curtain back poking his shampoo-covered head out. “I said that I got it, Barbara. Now, go get dressed. I’m done in here in three minutes and whatever skin you show me might just be too much for me too.” He dismissed her with another tug of the curtain closing.
“Fine. Big Jerk.” She stomped back to the closet to get her dress.
“I heard that, too!”
Chapter 8
Three minutes sharp, he walked out of the bath covered only in a towel knotted around his hips. Toweling his hair dry leaving it tousled, she had to admit he looked good, almost like a walking Calvin Klein poster advertising some awesome smelling aftershave. To her surprise, he shaved his goatee and his clean shaven face was very sexy, taking several years off his appearance.
Great, she thought. Now, who is robbing the cradle?
“Hold still. You’ll tear it,” he ordered, seeing her contorting to zip her dress. “Turn around,” he asked more calmly. Brushing away her hands, Mason pulled the zipper up in one fluid movement noting she had several scars just below the zipper line and one on her right shoulder. The backless little number hid nothing from neck to lower back. Fortunately, the lines of the dress would cover the most prominent ones clustered at her low back and waistline. And her hair would do the rest.
“Bullet?”
It was really a rhetorical question as he rested his right palm on her shoulder tenderly running his thumb past the nasty scar on her upper right shoulder blade. There had been reconstructive surgery, and he was sure at one point it looked far worse. The black and gray skull tattoo she had placed over it disguised it somewhat unless you were up close and personal. Even still, it did not detract from her looks. In fact, he mused, it added an element of danger to her of plain and unremarkable persona.
“Maybe.” She remained vague shrugging off both his hand and his question while at the same time attempting to leave his personal space. He was crowding her. It was something that she was finding he did more than either had ever realized. His touching her this way made her feel vulnerable in a way she was not sure she liked.
Or maybe liked too much? That little voice crept in.
Oh, shut up! She scolded that little inner voice, banishing it to the back of the bus.
Did she tell him these scars were work related? Would he get all macho and tell her she needed to stay behind him at all times and let him always go first in dangerous situations?
He pulled her around to face him eyes narrowing almost to slits. “How?”
Did this woman intentionally push him to the brink, he wondered? Or was she just so used to keeping her secrets that she would never open up fully.
“How?” he asked a
gain, after she just stood there.
Did this man know anything other than anger and aggression with her? You would think from his reaction he felt it was my fault, she thought.
She smiled. It did not reach her eyes, he was quick to note.
“How do we get any of the wounds we sport?” She was thinking metaphorically, of course. She shrugged.
He fumed. “Let’s pretend, shall we, I’m not capable of understanding the philosophical things in life. So don’t toy with me.” He softened somewhat, yet he was still not happy. He had his reasons for asking. “I asked you a direct question. How did you get these?”
She sighed exasperated at the fact he was a typical McKinnon man. He just would not let it go. It was better she address it than to continue to resist his questions and risk an even more ugly confrontation.
“Life is sometimes ugly, Mason. Sometimes the bullets we dodge or catch are metaphors, sometimes they are literal.”
Mason knew he was not going to get a straight answer from her. They were bullet wounds. She had been C.I.A. Of course she would have been in dangerous situations before. So, had he with three tours in Afghanistan, two in Iraq, and numerous missions under his belt. Yet, he was lucky not to even have a scratch. Was that luck, fate, or skill, he wondered.
Turning her around to face him, he lifted her chin with his index finger. The look she gave him was almost apologetic or perhaps what he saw was guilt?
“Looks like you failed to dodge, literally speaking.”
“Or maybe I did not fail, Mason. Perhaps I intended to take those bullets. Ever think of that?”
Had she taken a bullet, or more correctly five, on purpose? It was a thought he really did not want to dwell upon.
He looked into her face and wondered what it would be like to really know this woman. To fully understand what would make a woman like Barbara tick had never been a topic of curiosity before now.
“Was it on purpose?” He squeezed her arm unconsciously at the thought of her taking on fire.
She looked down at the fingers wrapped around her wrist. He loosened his fingers sliding down to take her hand instead.
“Four yes, one no.”
What else had this woman suffered at the hands of the Enemy of the State?
“Any more I need to know about?” he demanded, but more softly this time running the pad of his thumb over the back of her hand.
“Mental, physical, emotional? Take your pick McKinnon. I have my share of all of them. And none are any of your business.” She pulled her hand out of his grasp.
“You are supposedly my wife, damn it!”
He softened, breathing in a deep breath. “How am I supposed to know how to pull this role off if I know nothing about you?”
She paused. She was debating, deliberating. He had been schooled enough to know he was not going to get the answers he was looking for any time soon. Yet, he was also not prepared for her reaction.
She narrowed her eyes and just shook her head at him. “For years I was invisible to you, inconsequential. You could have cared less about Barbara Allen, and the only interaction we had was to piss each other off. I’ve never been your type. Now, you want to know who I am?”
Why did he even try with this woman? “Well, not really, but it seems a necessity.” Mason felt bad the moment the words left his lips.
The knife hurt as he twisted it. Yet, she reasoned she brought this one on herself. She reached for her sequined bag and slipped her gun into it, and for once, she did not have the urge to use it on him. This was her bed to lie in, not his.
She reached for the doorknob. “Just make some shit up, Mason. We’re late. I’ll meet you in the bar.”
Chapter 9
For Mason, dinner was at best tense, filled with inane and useless drivel for conversation. After trying without any success to draw her out, he stopped trying. A couple of glasses of wine seemed to make things a little better for her, yet he still could not get her to relax and open up. It was looking like she needed alcohol just to tolerate his company, a novel concept for him and certainly uncharted waters. He had never before had to ply a woman with alcohol for her to simply be around him. She was unusually quiet, even for Barbara. Even his mild poking had resulted in not one single acid remark. She was the total epitome of a polite and proper date. So, he went with it, slowly turning on the charm.
As far as she could see he was the complete gentleman, totally throwing her off her game. Never once did he display the slightest hint that he would have rather been anywhere except there with her. He was not crude or sarcastic as was his usual M.O. with her. Giving her his undivided attention, their waitress kept going away daunted in her goal to grab his attention to her very ample charms. Each time, she came back with her cleavage pushed up even higher and buttons lower. Still, never once did it gain his attention as far as she could see. It would have been laughable if she were not so wrapped up in what was coming next. The time was almost on them, and she was dreading it.
It was already late, after eleven, and the band was just gearing up for them to have their first dance.
Oh boy, she thought as she heard the first notes.
The Tango.
How was she supposed to feign sexual interest in him? The Tango all was about desire, lust, and craving.
“Probably should sit this one out.” She was looking for any excuse. Chances were he did not know the steps anyway. Better not to embarrass him.
“Why?” he asked moving her precisely into position.
“You know this one?” She was surprised when he began right on cue.
“I’m not the only one who has not bothered to ask questions through the years. Just follow my lead,” he said dryly before taking her hand.
“Naturally, you’re the guy, so you are supposed to lead. Or so, I hear.” Perhaps there were things about him she should have asked as well.
She was dreading the dancing. And why did it have to be the Tango nonetheless? It was so up close and personal. Her body was tense as she felt him press against her. It was a difficult dance, but one she loved. Just not with Mason.
“Just relax, will ya? I feel like I’m dancing with a damn plastic mannequin.” His smile was definitely for the audience’s sake.
A man like Mason McKinnon just garnered attention, and she was not used to being under such a microscope. The fact they were dancing alone on the floor did not help matters either. Where else was the crowd supposed to look?
“Yeah, that’s the way to relax me, Mason, by calling me a dummy.”
They both lightly laughed. It helped.
She looked around at the crowd. “Do you really understand what you do to people? There is not an eye out there not trained on you, male or female.”
He knew. There were times in his life he hated the fact he could never go anywhere without someone coming onto him. One thing that he could say for Barbara, she had always kept him honest about who he was as a man and what his place in this world was actually all about.
“How do you know that they are not looking at you? For God’s sakes, smile and look into my eyes as if there could never be another man for you. This is the Tango. Try to keep in mind what this dance is all about.”
“Well, how can there be another man?” She smiled. He was trying. She gave him credit.
“Oh, right. Sorry, I forgot there for a moment. You look beautiful, by the way. I’m guessing they are looking at you. You look great in that dress. It shows your thigh all the way up. The lace on the stocking is a very sexy touch.” He emphasized that remark by running his hand smoothly up that same thigh.
His moves were fluid, and it was really interesting how their bodies flowed well and totally in sync, just as if they had been dancing together for years. He was an excellent dancer, and his lead was extremely easy to follow. She began to relax, getting into the music and enjoying the beauty of the movements.
“Thank you,” she said smiling at him, feeling the compliment was sincere.
He loved her smile. It was a gift. It warmed her face and reminded him of sunshine after a rainy day.
“And?” He took her for one more twirl around the floor.
He just moved so gracefully, and she was eternally thankful for all the ballroom dance and ballet lessons her mother had crammed down her throat.
“And what,” she asked as he dipped her again across his well muscled thigh.
“And do I look beautiful as well, Mrs. McKinnon?” His voice was silky, matching the smoldering look he was giving her. He was full of mischief.
“You know you do. Now, let me up.” He still had her bent over backwards across his knee.
“Not until you say it.” His look changed like quicksilver as he took his hand and gently ran it down her face in a gesture of complete intimacy, sliding it past her neck and past her breast to her waist. That is what the Tango is all about: sex, desire, yearning. It was foreplay, the promise of things to come later.
He was torturing her. He did not know it, but he was.
“Fine, you are the prettiest man here tonight.”
He pulled her up and twirled her again as they moved, bodies in sequence across the floor.
Go figure their first dance would have to be the Tango, he mused. The gods did have a fierce sense of humor. She was a fine dancer and graceful, flowing freely in his arms following his every move. Her look was tailor-made for this dance and her body felt sensually erotic. The fact she had no desire for him, or any man, may have just been one of the hottest aphrodisiacs he had ever experienced. He was torturing her. He understood this was hard for her. It was hard on him, too, for an entirely different reason.
“Just pretty? You wound me,” he teased, taking the rose out of her mouth and putting it in his.
She wanted to giggle at this playful side of him she had never seen. “Devastatingly pretty then.”