Playing For Keeps (Montana Men) Page 3

  He whistled softly. The lady had a temper! Neil hadn’t made a thing off her. It was obvious from the way she’d tightened her hands into small fists she’d wanted to tear back in there and rip Neil’s balls out through his nostrils. Duel winced at the thought, but he didn’t blame her. No matter her affair with Mac, Neil was way out of line.

  By having an illicit affair with a married man, the woman had set herself up for scorn in the workplace. The ones who gossiped didn’t shy away from spreading ugly stories, but she wasn’t the first woman who’d done such a thing. The blame wasn’t totally hers, either. Mac had to shoulder some of the responsibility.

  Apparently his old friend had dumped the entire nasty burden on the woman and left her hanging. Duel didn’t like that. None of it sounded like the Mac he knew either.

  While he didn’t approve of his friend’s affair, he couldn’t criticize the older man’s taste in women. From what he’d seen, she was gorgeous and sexy as hell. Watching her walk away, Duel knew exactly what Angie had meant about the woman’s walk, tight skirt and ultra-spiked heels. Pure sex.

  And he hoped she was on her way to file a sexual harassment complaint. No matter what she was guilty of, she didn’t deserve to be talked to like she was a whore. From what he’d heard, Neil was not only a loser, but an asshole, too.

  Who was she? Besides Mac’s new squeeze?

  Duel couldn’t recall ever seeing her in the building before, but then Angie did say she was new. How new? It took time for two strangers to get acquainted enough to start an affair.

  For a second, he pondered the sound of her deep throaty voice. His stomach clenched with violent need. There was something about her voice, as if she’d smoked too much or was sated from a night of pleasure or spent an afternoon—he shook his head. Afternoon delight?

  Very many afternoons spent with her and good God—Mac would have a heart attack! That husky voice of hers, well—she sounded hot, sultry, and inviting—maybe that was what Neil or Mac couldn’t resist—the sexy invitation, the challenge in her voice that plainly said, Come and get me, boys—if you think you can handle me.

  Duel shifted from one booted foot to another. Oh, he could. He damn well could. Abruptly, he adjusted the front of his jeans that had suddenly grown restrictive. Son-of-a-bitch! Well, sometimes that’s just the way it happened. Stunning woman. Instant attraction. Urgent need. A challenge. A hunt. Conquest and conquer. Damn, he’d like one night riding her to ease this tight, raw ache in his groin.

  Duel clenched his jaw. He had a job to do. But her voice lingered in his mind, swirling like cigar smoke in a brandy glass. It made a man yearn for illicit things. Forbidden! Ah. She might be legal, but she belonged to Mac. Gritting his teeth, he swore softly. He wasn’t the kind who jumped another man’s claim, no matter how attracted he felt.

  Still, it was going to be difficult to ignore the ribbon of heat that coiled in his gut, wrapped around his balls and squeezed. The discomfort in his groin tightened. The painful twinge settled into a steady throb. He couldn’t fault Neil for wanting her, but in his book, when a woman said no—it meant no.

  Apparently Neil hadn’t received that memo.

  Duel watched the angry woman storm down the hall, her narrow back straight and rigid. He slid his gaze over her from head to heel, and paused. Her six-inch black heels stole his breath—black patent leather, the narrow straps laced up her slender calf just below her knees—stripper shoes, sexy, sassy and a hell of a turn-on. With every step, the sharp heels tapped out an angry clack-clack, clack-clack on the tile.

  Duel cocked a hip and watched her all the way down the hall. How the hell did a woman walk in pencil-thin heels like that? Good grief, she was a walking, talking weapon. The woman obviously had a mean temper, so how had she kept her cool when she’d been so provoked?

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her fine-boned ankles or those sexy shoes. Duel swallowed a moan. Why on earth did he find her heels so interesting? It was something about the way the straps fit around her slender legs. He’d never paid much attention to the outer covering on a woman’s foot. Huh. No, he’d always been too occupied figuring out how to smooth-talk her into shedding her clothes to worry about what covered her feet.

  But everything about this enticing female captured and held his attention. The two-piece business suit she wore was nicely tailored. It fit her slim body snugly, yet not vulgarly tight, and was the prettiest color he’d ever seen—two-tone autumn colors— somewhere between bronze and burnt orange. Swear to God, it shimmered like gold when she moved.

  He lifted a brow, admiring everything about her. Tilting his head to one side, he followed the delicious sway of her hips with his eyes. Nice ass—taut, toned. The iridescent material of her skirt stretched across her rounded bottom to perfection.

  A wealth of vivid red curls, shiny and full of life—of fire, swept across narrow shoulders and down the middle of a straight back. A man might combust just touching it. And he didn’t mean her hair. His fingers curled into his palms. Yeah, definitely, a man would burn, a flash-fire, hot and swift and over in seconds. There’d be nothing left but ash.

  Between the vibrant color of her hair and the gorgeous shade of her clothes, she looked like a flame swishing down the corridor. A pissed-off flame! Duel licked his dry lips. His imagination caught, and he thought of the actress Nicole Kidman when she wore her hair vibrant red and with those soft-looking, remarkable auburn curls in the movie Dead Calm.

  This woman had the same tall, willowy height and graceful walk. The same sway to her firm butt. Hot. Sexy. She was a walking wet dream. He thought of how it’d feel to bury his face in the glossy strands of fire, to hold her beneath him, and drive his aching shaft inside her silken channel. It’d be like being buried in warm, thick honey—all that heat surrounding his cock, tugging him deeper and deeper, inch by inch, until he lost all control.

  Duel swallowed hard. Damn. He must really be tired, and in need of a woman. It wasn’t often his thoughts strayed wayward, or dived straight into the gutter. Women didn’t play an important role in his life. Not a steady woman. A night here, a night there, brief consummations that left him free to walk away were ideal for his lifestyle. He never looked back to where he’d been, not when it came to women or relationships.

  Never take a second look or make a lasting memory. Second looks led to a third and a fourth. Those looks led to love, marriage, and family, things that didn’t fit in his life. Things that might never fit in his life, he admitted with a frown.

  Duel’s thoughts raced. Mac had retired. Did it also mean the relationship was finished? Probably. If so, did the woman have a new love interest? Or was she up for a new affair? Say—a single night? He didn’t want, need or require deep emotional involvement, but he was attracted enough to pursue her—if she was no longer involved with Mac.

  She had so much fire, so much life. He was inexplicably drawn to her even without having clearly seen her features. Damn, he wished he’d seen more of the woman’s face, but all he’d glimpsed was a flash of her profile—pure straight lines and fine, delicate bones, smooth, rose-tinted skin. And a flash-fire temper.

  But any female who walked the way she did was a ten in his book. He had a feeling she might be the type who ripped a man’s heart right out of his chest and trampled it with those six-inch spikes. He wasn’t into having his heart impaled.

  Nor was he interested in love.

  One night with her was all he wanted. Duel scowled. The ache in his groin told a different tale, and try as he might to deny it, he silently admitted he wouldn’t turn down the opportunity for two, or even three nights in the beauty’s bed. Any more than that, and it became so much more than an off-the-cuff sexual encounter.

  In his line of work, his life too often depended on keeping a level head. Leaving behind a woman he was emotionally involved with, thinking about her when his mind should be on his job, could get him killed.

  Remaining detached was the only real choice. As long as he remained an
agent and accepted dangerous missions, it was the wisest decision. It wasn’t fair to leave someone behind to worry about whether or not he returned.

  He’d learned it was plenty tough just having to leave his brothers and sister behind. So tough, he’d told only three people what he did—his sister Dianna, because of what she did professionally, Sheriff Danger Blackstone, for the same reason, and Jace. He’d deliberately chosen his moment to tell Jace when he knew his elder brother was in no shape to kick his ass.

  Still, there were times in a man’s life when he needed the comfort of a warm, willing woman in his arms. Today, Duel felt in need of a tender touch.

  A smile tugged at his sensual lips when he finally entered the elevator. Samantha Rivers’ office complex was situated on the sixth floor and his ultimate goal. All his concentration should be on that and whatever new assignment waited on the horizon.

  But he couldn’t get the mysterious redhead off his mind. He knew his smile was filled with self-mockery. Hell, he doubted he’d ever get the opportunity to bang her, and right now, he was too damned exhausted to pursue the thought.

  With an airy, musical ding, the elevator arrived at the designated level. Duel stepped out and made his way down the long corridor. It was easy to see a woman was in charge of this particular floor. Huge, potted plants created little alcoves of false privacy in sitting areas.

  The walls were painted one of those jewel-tones that soothed the eyes and made one think of a breezy tropical island. Cream-colored tiles covered the floor from wall-to-wall, at least down the hall—the various sitting areas were covered with plush beige carpet. How Sam managed to keep everything spotless with the amount of traffic that came through was beyond his male grasp.

  Sharply, he rapped on Samantha’s door and waited. No answer. Impatience seethed through him. He’d never been one to cool his heels and wait, but when he tried the doorknob, he found it locked. So she’d left already, too. He probably shouldn’t have made the detour by Mac’s office. Doing so, along with the delay at the elevator, had cost several minutes. He shrugged. Maybe Sam didn’t like cooling her heels either.

  He turned and walked four doors down and pecked on Travis’ door. “Trav, you still here?” Duel rattled the knob, but the door didn’t budge. Apparently, his partner hadn’t stuck around either. Damn. Had both Sam and Travis left for the day, or were they on another floor taking care of last minute business and planning to return?

  If he’d known Travis wasn’t going to wait on him, he’d have stopped for something to eat and grabbed a cup of coffee on his way from the airport. His stomach felt as empty as a dry socket.

  And he needed a caffeine boost. Now!

  Heading back in the direction he came, he stopped two doors from Sam’s office and unlocked the door to his. Duel walked in and nearly tripped over the year’s worth of mail piled on the floor. Crap. He guessed when he told everyone to stay out of his office right before he left last year, or they’d lose their right pinkie, they’d taken him at his word. He shut the door behind him, scooped up half the mail, and piled it on his desk.

  Duel eyed the mountain of remaining envelopes on the floor, then glanced at his desk with distaste. “No way.”

  There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell he was going to tackle that mess right now. It’d waited a year. It could wait another twenty-four hours. After a long hot shower, a decent meal, a round or two of good rowdy sex, and a good night’s sleep, then he might feel human again, and in the frame of mind to muddle through year-old mail.

  The air in the office smelled old. He adjusted the thermostat and opened the vents. By morning, the mustiness would be dissipated. Duel stretched and yawned. After spending days worrying about his sister, so many sleepless nights at the hospital in Havre, Montana, not knowing if Jace was going to make it, with little thought of eating, what meals he did get were taken at the hospital cafeteria, then toss in the long flight to Langley, Virginia, Duel felt utterly wiped out. Every inch of his body ached from both mental and physical exhaustion.

  It was a good thing he kept a car available at the D.C. airport. It saved time, and wear and tear on his body. It also kept him from having to hail a taxi to get from point A to B. However, he wished Samantha had given him the reason for calling him to duty. She’d known how bad things were in Montana. For the first time in a long time, he desperately needed to be closer to his family.

  Giving his office one final sweeping glance, Duel sighed. Exhaustion trampled him like a herd of wild mustangs. There was no use hanging around here. Samantha had his cell phone number. She’d call.

  In the meantime, he decided to return to the small alcove near the bank of elevators. If either Sam or Travis got off on this floor, he’d know it immediately. They’d both told him to wait. So, he’d wait. They’d find him.

  Duel eyed the small private sitting area with big comfortable chairs and a row of vending machines. The tinkle of coins, then a brown paper cup blazing with dancing hearts dropped into a slot and swiftly filled with the overwhelming aroma of vending machine coffee. Strong was what he needed.

  “Ahh.” The first sip scalded his tongue, but he was too tired to care. Choosing the most comfortable-looking chair, he sat down, leaned back his head and puzzled over Sam calling him back to work.

  What did she want?

  Why tell him to meet her at her office, then not be there?

  And where the hell was Travis?

  His mind whirled. Nothing made sense. He knew he could lay the blame on his tiredness. God, he was so beat, he actually felt dizzy. His mind simply refused to wrap around the mystery of it all. If only he could—close his eyes—a moment—a second…

  * * * *

  Six hours before the assassination…

  Flayme Jansen hurried down a corridor of the CIA building at a brisk pace. Deep inside, she silently raged with anger. Swear to God, if that beastly worm of a man touched her again, she’d bust his balls with a good swift kick. Then she’d―

  She curved her sharp nails into her palms and tightened her lips to keep from spewing the unladylike words piercing her mind. “Get control, Flayme. Don’t lower yourself to his ape-like level.”

  With each incensed step, her six-inch heels tapped her fury on the tile floor. To soothe her ire, she fussed with the front of her dress suit, her breasts heaving in frustration. After dealing with that slime ball, Neil Turner, she needed something cold to wash the awful taste of his slobbery kiss off her lips. She shuddered. God, the gorilla kissed like a–a―hell, she couldn’t think of a comparison bad enough―maybe like having a plunger stuck to one’s lips. Yuck!

  Pausing in front of the row of vending machines, she fished several coins from her tiny change purse and jingled them in her hands as she eyed the soft drink labels. Inside, she seethed. Not only was Neil a sexual predator, but he was the worst gossip she’d ever had the misfortune to meet. He should have been born a female, she thought. He was as catty as some women she knew. He thrived on innuendo and lies. Not a day went by that the cad didn’t spread vicious rumors from floor-to-floor, person-to-person, especially about her. Why he’d targeted her, she hadn’t a clue.

  But every time she delivered a memo to his office, she felt like she’d just played the common scene of a secretary chased around the desk by a horny male, and heck, she wasn’t even his secretary. One of these days when he grabbed her ass or groped her breasts, she was going to plant her knee―

  Startled by an unexpected sound behind her, Flayme whirled, her heart in her throat. Oh, God, please, don’t let it be Neil. Please don’t let him have followed me. I can’t take another round of his lewd remarks and caveman groping.

  She froze at the sight of a man slumped in a wide chair in the corner of the tiny alcove―snoring? Yeah. Soft snores to be sure, but definitely noisy little vibrations. Flayme traced her gaze over him―what she could see anyway, and felt her heart trip in her chest. There was just something genuine and appealing about a man in a Stetson, even when it rod
e low over his face and shadowed his features.

  Huh. A mystery cowboy? Yum.

  He looked long and boneless lounging there with one jeans-clad leg draped negligently over the other at the ankles. The tips of his western-cut boots captured her attention. Genuine rattlesnake―a dove-gray pattern with black markings. Nice. Oh, yeah―the boots rated right up there with the pearl-gray Stetson. Manly. Tough. A definite sexual aura mingled with the mysterious allure the Marlboro man had projected. Hmm. Unlike Neil, she bet this cowboy didn’t have to chase a woman around a desk to kiss her.

  She snorted. Marlboro man? What she knew about cowboys was just about what she’d seen on a billboard or the occasional movie. Hah! One doesn’t have to know art to appreciate it, her inner demon argued. And how dumb do you think I am? Wait, don’t answer that! She was an East Coast city girl, for heaven’s sake, born and raised in the D.C. area. Cowboy hats, boots, and chaps were pretty darn scarce in her little corner of the world. So what is it about this strong looking cowboy that brings out my primitive desire?

  Suddenly her inner demon lacked a snappy retort, but somehow she knew this man delivered whatever he promised. Flayme studied the sleeping male with silent regard. His left arm rested casually across his flat stomach. He was long boned, lean, rugged―a cowboy―correction, a hot, sexy cowboy―yummy from the crown of his hat to the tips of his shit-kickers. There was just something about him that looked tough and rangy, a real bronc buster and not the dime store wannabes one saw in night clubs.

  And he was totally out of place in the CIA building.

  Making a snap assessment, she knew this man was the real McCoy. She felt it all the way to her soul. So what was he doing here? Where was he from? Texas? Oklahoma?