by J. Kenner
She smiled sweetly. "Because the CIA doesn't trust anyone, not even MI5. No offense."
The doors to the pub's kitchen swung open, and the heavy scent of deep fried foods wafted through the air. As a waitress rushed past carrying a tray laden with several orders of fish and chips, all conversation paused, an involuntary ceasefire.
Harry cleared his throat and lowered his voice. "Silayev is having a cocktail party tomorrow night and will be feeling out several potential buyers for the virus," said Harry. "Your mission is to infiltrate the party, retrieve the vials, and return them to the US Embassy. There are officials from the CDC on standby who will ensure the virus's safe transport to America."
"Harry, I have to ask ..." Brandon shook his head and blew out a slow breath through his nostrils. "Why me? Given our ..." He gestured between himself and Natasha. "History. Wouldn't another agent be better suited to the job?"
Harry tented his fingers and studied Brandon, narrowing his eyes. "No. Given your skills, experience, and the cover necessary to infiltrate Silayev's party, it's got to be you. Additionally, you've never worked a mission involving him or any of his known associates before, so there's no chance of him making you for MI5."
Resigned, Brandon nodded, scanning the pages and photographs in front of him. He glanced at Natasha, who he knew was deep in thought, running her index finger along her bottom lip as she studied the dossier contents.
"Agent Clarke-Davies, I've secured you an invitation to the party tomorrow night." Harry slid a sealed envelope across the table to Brandon, who took it and slipped it into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. "You'll find your cover and all necessary information in that envelope. You know the drill." He turned his attention to Natasha and slid a matching envelope to her. "Agent Rowe will be working the party as a waitress; we've secured the cooperation of the catering company. Agent Rowe will secure the vials while you, Clarke-Davies, make sure Rowe is able to do so without any hindrance. We'll go over the finer points of the mission tomorrow. Questions?"
Brandon and Natasha looked at each other before shaking their heads. Harry stood and nodded once, his eyes darting back and forth between them. "Best of luck, agents." Shaking his head, he pushed open the door and set off down the sidewalk in the direction of the MI5 offices.
"So why did you leave Aegis?" Brandon asked.
"Why did you?" She threw the question back at him like a live grenade.
Why had he left Aegis, the private, international intelligence organization where he'd met Natasha almost eight years ago?
Because after their marriage had fallen apart and she'd left him, the shine of international espionage and adventure had lost its allure. Without his partner, his heart hadn't been in it anymore. Coming home to London and joining MI5 had seemed the best option at the time. But he bloody well wasn't going to tell her any of that.
So instead, he smiled, aiming for charming. "I'm sorry, but that's classified."
She laughed, her full lips pulling up into a genuine smile. She slid out of the booth, pulling her trench on as she went. "See you at headquarters tomorrow, C. D.," she said, tossing out a nickname he hadn't heard in years.
He found himself smiling as he watched her walk out of The Red Lion.
Bollocks.
"NO, THE PLAN IS that I secure the vials while you look out for me. That's the mission, and we're not changing it!" Natasha spoke through clenched teeth, arms crossed, not caring that she was yelling at her ex-husband in the middle of MI5 headquarters.
"Listen, you lot already lost those vials of Marburg once. We can't risk another bout of incompetence." Brandon leveled his cool gaze at her, and she wanted to scream in frustration.
Why did he have to look as though he'd just stepped out of the pages of GQ? He looked so good that she could've cried at how unfair it was. Unfair that she had to work with him, and unfair he had to look like that while she did.
His chestnut hair was shorter than when she'd last seen him, with a hint of a wave that she knew turned into curls if he let it grow long enough. Piercing blue eyes looked at her, framed with thick, long lashes that most women would kill for. His nose had a bump in it that hadn't been there six years ago, indicating it had been broken at least once. He wore a simple white dress shirt that emphasized his broad, muscular physique. It was unbuttoned at the collar and tucked into gray dress pants. At six feet two inches, he was nearly a foot taller than her and a good seventy-five pounds heavier.
"So, what?" She jabbed her finger at the blueprint of Silayev's house spread before them on the illuminated table, focusing on her frustration. "You're going to sneak upstairs, crack the safe, and secure the vials while I'm your lookout? Ha! And let you take all the credit? Right. No fucking way, C. D."
"Is that what you're worried about? That I'll get all the glory?" He braced his hands on the table and leaned toward her. "That would be a shame, wouldn't it?"
She opened her mouth to tell him exactly where he could shove his glory when he smiled, and it wasn't just any smile. No, it was the wolfish one that never failed to disintegrate her panties.
And he knew it. Her heart knocked against her ribs and her scalp prickled with the intoxicating mixture of lust, passion, and competitiveness that only Brandon could elicit, and she saw the flash of triumph in his eyes.
So much for not letting him get to her. Ever since she'd seen him in the pub yesterday and had nearly lost her lunch at the shock, she'd been fighting against the current of memories threatening to pull her under, trying desperately to exude cool indifference. But under that gaze, and with that smile, she was quickly melting into a puddle of nostalgia and hormones.
Her mind flashed back to the beginning of their relationship. They'd met on an assignment for Aegis, and their highly competitive natures had found them at each other's throats--and in each other's beds--before the assignment was over. They'd fallen hard and fast, the intensity of their feelings heightened by youth, by the danger around them, and by the exotic locations to which they'd traveled. Thanks to Brandon, she'd had orgasms on every continent except Antarctica.
God, the sex. She'd never been able to get enough of him, and in the years since, no man had come close to satisfying her the way Brandon had. She gave her head a small shake, sweeping away the memories like broken shards of glass.
"No," she said, leaning over the opposite side of the table and mirroring his posture, giving him a generous view of her cleavage. His gaze dipped. "I'm worried you'll fuck it up and make me look bad. Then I'll have to rescue your ass, and I don't have time for that. This time tomorrow, I'll be back at Langley."
Something flickered across his face that looked a hell of a lot like disappointment, but before she could be sure, it was gone. In an achingly familiar gesture, he raised a hand to his face, thumb under his chin, his index finger stroking the bridge of his nose. He ran his tongue over his teeth, and in another familiar gesture, let his tongue linger on the slightly crooked eyetooth on the right side of his mouth. British dentistry jokes aside, it was his only imperfection.
Only visible one, anyway. The others only became apparent when one knew him on a deeper level.
The moodiness, the competitiveness, the cockiness. Granted, they'd been twenty-two, and if memory served, she hadn't been all rainbows and sunshine either. She'd like to think that now, at thirty, she'd matured somewhat.
"Fine. Yes. You're right. We'll stick to the plan." He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, shooting her an apologetic smile. He crossed to her side and propped a hip against the table, facing her with his arms crossed. For several long seconds, he studied her, and then sighed. "It's not easy for me to trust you, Tash."
His words hit her with the force of a hurricane, almost knocking her over. She took a step away and folded her arms in front of her. "That's fair."
His brows knit together. "You're bloody right it is." He lowered his voice to a fierce whisper. "You just fucking left. I returned from that mission in Baghdad and you were gone."
/> "Let's not pretend we weren't making each other miserable, C. D."
His expression softened at the old nickname. "I wasn't miserable."
She snorted and rolled her eyes. "We fought constantly."
He leaned in close, bringing with him the warm scent of his woodsy aftershave. "We fucked constantly, too." Butterflies exploded in her stomach as heat curled over her thighs, and she fought the urge to rub them together. "It wasn't perfect, but it was us, Tash."
"It was dysfunctional."
Hurt flashed in his eyes, replaced quickly with anger. "So your solution was to walk without giving us the chance to fix it?"
She ducked her head, blood rushing to her cheeks. They'd hit a particularly rough patch, and she'd panicked. She'd run, giving in to her immature, selfish fears, and by the time she'd realized the magnitude of her mistake, it had been too late. She couldn't put the pin back in the grenade. She'd wrecked the best thing that had ever happened to her because she'd been too young to handle the complexity of marriage.
She could've tracked him down at any point over the past six years if she'd wanted, but she hadn't, too terrified he hated her guts for bailing. But it didn't seem like he hated her. And she wasn't sure what to make of that.
Harry cleared his throat as he approached, rubbing his hands together as though warming them. "All set for tonight then?"
Brandon pushed off the table and returned to his side, putting distance between them.
Not that she could blame him.
Natasha skimmed her hands down the front of the skintight, revealing black dress that all of the catering company's waitresses wore and sucked in a steadying breath. She smoothed her hair over her ears, further concealing the nearly invisible microearpiece in her right ear that linked her both to Brandon and to headquarters.
She hadn't initially understood why Harry had insisted on Brandon for this mission, but seeing him now, she understood perfectly. He'd assumed the identity of William Drummond, heir to a European banking fortune with several semi-illegal investments in his portfolio. Drummond was exactly the type Silayev's people would invite to a party like this: rich, connected, and crooked. She had to give MI5 credit--given the short notice, they'd done an excellent job of creating a deep and convincing cover for Brandon. Googling William Drummond brought up pictures, several news articles, a LinkedIn page, and an investment profile, all courtesy of MI5's Digital Intelligence team.
And now, chatting with guests, a tumbler of scotch in hand and wearing the hell out of a navy blue Hugo Boss suit, complete with light blue dress shirt and deep red silk tie, he looked perfect.
For the role.
Right.
She lifted the tray of champagne glasses from the counter and pushed through the kitchen's swinging door, her eyes scanning the open living and dining space currently filled with several dozen guests, all drinking champagne and feasting on toast points smothered in caviar. The decor of the large Wilton Street townhouse was opulent and over the top, with marble floors, intricate crown molding tracing across the ceiling, and lush, textured wallpaper in rich browns and blues hugging the walls. The entire place screamed wealth, power, and questionable taste.
She wove her way through the crowd, her eyes landing on the curved staircase by the kitchen that led to the second floor. Silayev's office and the safe within it were upstairs, and the next step in the mission was to get into his office undetected and start working on the safe. A guest's stray hand squeezed her ass in passing and she ground her teeth in disgust, suppressing a snarl.
"I saw that. What a cheeky bugger. I should break his hand." Brandon's voice came crisply through the earpiece, his accent having the same effect on her as always, sending sparks dancing across her skin.
She turned her head to the side as she spoke softly. "No. Focus, C. D." She smiled, covering the flash of irritation burning through her. Irritation at the creep who'd squeezed her ass and irritation at herself, because Brandon's words had tugged at something soft and warm right in the center of her chest. Something she had no right to feel, given the way she'd treated him.
"Hard to focus with you in that dress, love."
More sparks. "Suck it up. I need you on your A game. If I get shot, we're going to have a big problem."
"Bigger than what I've got in my--"
She turned her face to the wall, speaking in a whispered rush. "I swear to God, I'm going to rip you out of my ear."
"There was a time when you liked having me inside you." Instantly, her traitorous mind conjured up memories of just how much she'd liked it. How wild he'd driven her, how safe and treasured and whole he'd made her feel. When they hadn't been driving each other insane, that is.
She brushed by him, her bare arm grazing the soft wool-cashmere blend of his suit jacket. In a movement so small that everyone around them but her would've missed it, he dipped his head slightly as she passed and inhaled. His eyes closed briefly, and her stomach did a slow turn. Maybe if, after the mission, they snuck away, and didn't talk, and just ...
She shook her head. Talk about a spectacularly bad idea.
She smiled, her teeth clenched together with such force that if she didn't let up, she was likely to crack a molar. "Now isn't the time." She kept moving through the crowd and could feel his eyes on her ass as she strode away.
Through the earpiece, he laughed, his deep, rich voice sending a wave of heat rippling along her spine. Her stomach fluttered, and she swallowed thickly, fighting to regain her composure. He was unraveling her, probably on purpose. Probably as revenge for running scared and bailing out on their marriage.
She shook her head again, refusing to get sucked in to the lust simmering through her veins. She needed to get upstairs, crack the safe, and recover the virus so that she could get the hell out of here and away from Brandon before she did something incredibly stupid.
Again.
NATASHA SLIPPED INTO THE kitchen and set down her now-empty tray, poking her head around the corner and glancing in the direction of the living room and the staircase to her immediate right.
"I'm heading up," she whispered, edging closer to the stairs, her gaze scanning every direction before she darted furtively up the stairs two at a time, not slowing her brisk pace until she reached the top. Finding the hallway dark and quiet, she headed straight for Silayev's office. It was locked; slipping her lock-picking tools from a garter under her dress, she made quick work of the simple pin and tumbler mechanism. Closing the door behind her with a quiet click, she crossed to the far side of the office and began her search for the safe, locating it in a low cabinet nestled into the wall. She pulled her phone out of her bra and started the process of hacking into the house's wireless network.
She snorted out a quiet laugh. "The network's not even encrypted."
Brandon chuckled in her ear. "What is this, amateur hour? I guess we can be grateful that he hasn't had a chance to put in all the upgrades yet."
She smiled, and then a pang of longing and loneliness slipped between her ribs like a knife. God, she'd missed him. She'd known that, but she hadn't realized just how much; seeing him again, arguing with him, flirting and laughing with him brought home the fact that without a doubt, she was still completely in love with Brandon Clarke-Davies.
The enormity of her mistake sat on her chest like a lead weight. It was a mistake for which he'd likely never forgive her. Hell, she'd never forgive herself for leaving him the way she had.
Once she'd accessed the house's wireless network, she opened the CIA's customized safe cracking software on her phone. She tapped a series of numbers into the safe's electronic number pad, connecting it to the wireless network as well. With a swipe of her finger, the software connected to the safe, interfacing with it directly. The program began running through sequences of numbers at lightning speed.
For several tense minutes, there was nothing she could do but stay silent, let the program do its job, and listen to Brandon flirt with some Eurotrash socialite. When she excused herse
lf to go powder her nose--probably with cocaine--Brandon checked in with her.
"How's it coming?"
"I'm still cracking the safe. All clear downstairs?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe? I don't like maybe." She stared at her phone's screen, willing the program to work faster, the prickling threat of sweat teasing along her hairline.
"Two blokes headed upstairs. I'm on it."
The safe emitted a series of beeps and popped open as the locking mechanism released. Triumph surging through her, she tucked her phone away and swung the small safe's door wide open.
"Hel-lo," she murmured to herself, pulling free both a small metal briefcase and a silver Walther PPK covered in garish scrollwork. She flipped open the case, verifying that it contained the vials. It did. Then, she checked the Walther's clip and found it loaded.
The office door swung open, cutting a swath of light across the darkened floor. Briefcase in one hand, gun in the other, she dove behind the heavy wood desk as the first bullet, muffled by a silencer, dug into the wood paneling to the left of the window, inches from where her head had been.
"C. D., I need you. I've got company."
Brandon's heart pounded furiously against his ribs. As soon as those men had gone upstairs, he'd excused himself from the party, made for the loo, and then charged up the stairs the second he was sure no one was watching. Natasha was unarmed. He couldn't let anything happen to her. Not that he'd let anything happen to a fellow agent, but this was different, somehow. The idea of something happening to Natasha sent him spiraling into a near panic, urged on by the sound of her laugh skimming along the surface of his brain, her lavender scent ghosting through his nostrils. Even now, after all these years, after the way she'd left, she had the ability to utterly and completely captivate him, even when he wanted to strangle her.
Bloody fucking hell. He was still in love with his ex-wife.
On silent feet, he approached the open door of the office. Two muffled shots reached his ears, and he broke into a sprint. Like Natasha, he was also unarmed--it hadn't been possible to sneak any weapons into the party. Two men stood just inside the room, advancing on the large desk. Swiftly, he grabbed the first assailant's arms from behind, slamming his hands against the doorframe and forcing him to drop the gun. Brandon moved in front of him and landed a hard right hook to his jaw, sending him sprawling backward. Brandon dove for the gun and recovered it as a shot whizzed by his ear, splintering into the wood paneling behind him. He rolled to his back, sat up, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit the first man square in the chest, and he slumped heavily to the floor.