Playing For Keeps (Montana Men) Page 4
But the real question was what the hell was he doing sleeping here―when an ice storm was due to arrive any hour? Obviously, he wasn’t some homeless person seeking shelter, but this was hardly a hotel either, certainly not some place for a person to come in out of the weather, kick back and take a nap.
Flayme bit her lip in indecision. Maybe she should wake him so he could move on, but she didn’t have the heart to tell him the building locked down soon, and the guards wouldn’t tolerate loiterers. Instead, she allowed her gaze to roam over the parts of him she could see. Forget the face. No way to make out his features with that big Stetson brim shielding them from forehead to upper lip, at least, not at the angle where she stood.
Oh, but his legs were a mile long, so he must be tall, maybe six-three? Yeah, she thought at least that, and his hair, black as chimney soot with a few unruly curls brushing his ears and nape. Attractive. She liked a man who possessed a smidgen of untidiness. It hinted at an aura of danger that appealed to her.
For the second time, but for totally different reasons, she curled her nails into the palms of her hands. It took all her self-restraint to keep from reaching for and touching the feathery soft curls brushing his shirt collar. “Think about something else, girl, look at something else. Don’t become Neil and think you can take what you want, touch what you want.”
Okay. She moved her gaze down to his lean waist. His other arm dangled loosely over the padded chair arm. A thick paper cup slowly slipped from his limp fingers, headed for disaster. With a slight gasp, Flayme dashed forward, hunkered down―no way could she bend low enough in six-inch heels and a tight skirt―and rescued the wayward cup before the contents spilled onto the expensive beige carpet.
Her gaze darted to the man as he made a slight, restless jerk in his sleep. Deep beneath the brim, she saw his eyelids twitch, then they flickered open and he pinned her with a hard, direct stare. Mercy.
To say his eyes were the color of emeralds wouldn’t be anywhere close to an accurate description. They weren’t simply the color of those precious stones, but rather dark pools of liquid mystery, deep mossy green with a hint of gold. They reminded her of a merciless predator, a jaguar maybe, or one of the other dangerous cats that quietly stalked its prey.
Shivers streaked up her spine and tickled the fine hairs at her nape. Yes, this man was dangerous. Lethal. A walking, talking hunter, as deadly as any jungle cat making a kill. Broad shouldered, he was striking in a rugged-as-a-mountain kind of way. She thought if he walked into a crowded room, whether he was dressed in a tux or as casual as he was now, he’d be the one male who made all heads turn, a presence to be reckoned with no matter what.
One lean, tanned finger glided down her cheek before sensuously wrapping a strand of her hair around it. Oh, God. The oddest ache speared through her body and settled low in her belly. Her chest tightened as if a knot filled the center and refused to budge.
Flayme wasn’t sure she was even breathing anymore. She now knew what it felt like to be eye-to-eye with a savage animal. She didn’t move, couldn’t have moved or escaped the hypnotic fix of his eyes if her life depended on it.
Then he blinked. His dark-lashed gaze switched from intense to confused, cloudy with sleep, and something else she couldn’t quite define. Raw need? Hunger? He stared at her like a man who hadn’t had a decent meal or good sex in a very long time.
Even as he thumbed his hat back a notch, it took her a moment to realize he wasn’t fully conscious of his actions. His movements were slightly out of sync, as if he wasn’t quite aware of his surroundings. A velvety sigh slipped past his lips. His breath fluttered across her mouth, soft and warm, and hinted of coffee.
Flayme knew she was in trouble the minute she saw his lips curve into a tender smile. He murmured something that sounded oddly like Nicole, his tone questioning.
Stealing her breath even more, he locked a big hand behind her nape and tugged her closer. Flayme toppled forward, splashing the warm coffee on her knees. She splayed her free hand across his wide chest and marveled at the rock solid muscle beneath the black, western-style shirt he wore.
“Whau―” she began, only to lose her breath on a little hitch as his mouth descended toward hers. Good grief. The man was going to kiss her! A stranger. A rugged, sexy, dreamboat of a cowboy, one who wasn’t totally awake, yet had the power to captivate her, was about to lay one red-hot, lip-smacking kiss on her.
Obviously he had her confused with someone else, maybe the woman he really hungered for—the mysterious Nicole. Her heart picked up its pace. Flayme decided quickly she didn’t care if he thought she was someone else. She wanted this kiss, needed it to erase the ugly memory of Neil’s wet lips on hers, to obliterate the feel of that creep’s tongue crammed inside her mouth.
Flayme couldn’t help but be impressed at the difference in this man’s rugged sex appeal compared to Neil’s milky non-appeal. Oh! There was simply no comparison. And what the hell was the cowboy waiting on—a personal invitation? She waited, waited—breathless. Then amazingly, he rubbed his mouth against hers, and Flayme went up in flames. She thought her insides might melt and turn to steaming liquid, that she’d die from the sheer force, the absolute pleasure and pressure of his warm lips against hers. Now this was a kiss.
Tiny explosions fizzed throughout her bloodstream. The sweep of delicious heat burst into overdrive with the brief nudge of his tongue against hers. It was a kiss like none other she’d ever shared. Without the least bit of effort on his part, she sank into the absolute power of his mouth.
The word intense popped into her oxygen-starved mind. And passionate. Oh yeah, sex with this man would definitely be explosive and make a lasting impression. He should be labeled TNT.
Flayme’s lips parted beneath the firm pressure of his mouth. Swear to God, it felt as if she’d been licked by a naked wire. Hot. Alive. Wet, wild, and wonderfully heady. The tingling current plunged through her body and settled hotly between her thighs. Her entire body buzzed. Her nerve endings prickled. Hell, the roots of her hair crackled. The liquid fire erupted through her veins. It settled between her thighs and left an unexpected inferno there.
Her senses exploded like one of those rock candies that sizzled on the tongue and stole one’s breath away. A kiss. A simple kiss. Shared. Brief. So brief. Yet, it was the most carnal thing she’d ever felt, and it punched a hole in her world.
A fleeting kiss shared with a stranger, two people whose lives happened to momentarily entwine. But oh, what a kiss it was. It jolted her clear to her soul and blew off her socks. It sapped her of energy, yet left her wildly stimulated.
Lucky, Nicole, whoever she was.
Abruptly, his finger slipped from the curl he held captive. He sighed, closed his eyes, and shut her out of his sleep-induced world. Just that quickly, it was over, and he was softly snoring again.
Holy hell! For a moment, Flayme stared at the moist sheen on his lips, and savored the memory of his sexy mouth molded to hers. Her body quivered—and he slept? She felt like giving him a swift kick. Obviously, his world hadn’t been rocked like hers had been.
At last, she swallowed hard and prayed the butterflies jittering around in her stomach settled into the rare flip-flop. “Oh-my-God,” she whispered shakily and rose to her feet.
Like a zombie, she turned and ambled down the corridor. Her legs wobbled, weaker than straw and incapable of holding her up. To keep from melting on the floor into a useless puddle, she braced a hand along the wall and continued down the hall.
Flayme closed the door to her office behind her and sagged against it, panting. “Holy shit! Who is he?”
Whoever the crap he was, he packed a wallop, everything from the fierce penetration of his glittering green eyes to his hot, arousing mouth. Oh, man, it was all there in one delicious package. God, he’d barely touched his lips to hers and her thighs had ignited like rocket fuel. She pressed an unsteady hand against her heart. Her breasts ached. Her nipples tingled and felt as tight as—
She hoped to God she never saw him again, because that single glimpse into his sultry gaze had derailed her. Never had she felt this breathless, fascinated, or such a fierce ache for more. She’d never felt this definite feeling of unease, either. Even asleep, and with his defenses utterly down, the man packed a lethal punch. It wasn’t in the way he’d kissed her, although that was dangerous enough. It was the way his muscles had coiled beneath her fingertips, as if he waited for her to try to escape his touch.
He might have been relaxed and drowsy, but there had been a certain wary alertness about him. Even after he carefully leashed the power, she’d felt the danger clear to her bones. Then he’d thrown caution to the wind or—he hadn’t recognized her as a threat, so he’d decided to let her live. Thank God!
Flayme couldn’t recall seeing him here before. There was no way she’d ever forget seeing a rugged cowboy in the CIA building, especially one who reminded her of a big lazy mountain lion, one that barely held itself in check. No way. No how.
A woman didn’t miss a man with that much hex or sex appeal. He was pure Alpha. And though the Alpha male had never appealed to her, oddly, this one did. Maybe it was because she’d had her fill of milksops like Neil. She didn’t know. She only knew that for the first time in her life, she’d met a man who appealed to her baser instincts and he belonged to another woman. Just her luck!
Sighing, she jerked away from the door as realization hit her. “Oh, God!” Her heart thumped with a wild, unsettled rhythm. Everything suddenly fit into place. Shit. Oh, shit. Her body trembled. Why hadn’t she thought—realized? She knew exactly what he was. “For heaven’s sake, how could I be so blind? Oh, no way do I ever go near that cowboy again! He’s a flippin’ spook.”
A woman would be an utter fool to tangle with a man like that. Stupid. Stupid. How could she miss the signs? Now that she thought about it, it was so obvious. That’s why there’d been the aura of real danger about him. The wariness beneath the sleep deprived glaze in his eyes, the utter exhaustion etched on the too handsome face, perfect, except for a small scar that slashed across his left eyebrow.
A spook—a particular breed of agent who slept with one eye open, a knife tucked away in his boot, and a finger on the trigger of a weapon. Always.
The man was a deep cover op. He had to be. Those men who worked for the agency—they were different from the rest of the male species on the planet. Dark. Dangerous. Lethal weapons. Lord knew there were plenty of them in supply around D.C., shadows in the shadowy world of glitz and glamour at the White House. Hell, shadows in the world.
They struck, only to vanish like a puff of smoke in the wind. There and gone, the job done so fast, so unobtrusively, one never saw them coming or going. Some spooks were more perilous than others. The burnout rate was extremely high. And sometimes, the agent, whether male or female, became an unstable monster, one who cracked under the strain—one who had to be put down circumspectly.
It also accounted for the callused ridge along the right edge of his hand she’d somehow noted in the back of her mind. His hands were probably registered as lethal weapons. Flayme had a feeling the cowboy topped the list of the most formidable.
But why?
She frowned trying to ascertain the correct answer, then realized the solution was simple. The key was what he was―hidden in plain sight. His disguise was no disguise at all—western shirt, jeans, boots, Stetson―the earthiness of him, all of it was genuine and appealing, and would always catch one off-guard. Don’t judge a book by its cover, she thought.
Right. Flayme tossed the cup she’d saved into the trash. No more rescuing wayward coffee cups. No way. To hell with it—let the coffee stain the expensive carpet next time. She had no intention of ever crossing that man’s trail again for any reason. She didn’t think she’d ever go back to the little alcove on the off chance he just might be there—napping. “Cowboy, my ass.”
Yeah, he might be the genuine thing, but to what degree—agent first, or cowboy first? Her mind whirled with the questions. She decided the cowboy side of him probably was a cover, of sorts. Not the real thing after all, but a combination of the two. Yeah, that must be it. He wouldn’t be much of an agent if he couldn’t carry off a simple masquerade.
What a disappointment.
The last thing she wanted was to be attracted to an agent, especially an agent who couldn’t make up his mind if he was a cowboy or a spy. God, working here was causing her imagination to run amok, seeing secret agents in disguise everywhere.
But hell, her instincts told her if he was a hundred percent pure cowboy, then she was Annie Oakley. He’d probably just returned from some sort of covert assignment in West Texas where he’d had to spy on Tonto, ride the range, break a stallion, or some such thing.
Nope. She wasn’t about to tangle with him again. Not if she could help it.
And she could help it.
“Dear God, keep me out of his path, cause if ever there was a man I’m in danger of losing my heart to, it’s the mysterious rogue cowboy with the smoldering green eyes and incredibly sexy mouth.”
Chapter Two
Find me a man who’s interesting enough to have dinner with and I’ll be happy.
~Lauren Bacall
McLean, Virginia
CIA Headquarters
February 16, Monday
Five hours and fifteen minutes before the assassination…
It was only a slight touch, but Duel Remington woke instantly and totally alert.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Travis muttered. “I had to grab my tux at the cleaners before they closed. Tired?”
“Exhausted. What time is it?” Duel stood up, stretched, then rubbed the back of neck. He’d had the sweetest dream about the redhead. He’d kissed her, and God, she’d had a mouth that tasted like sweet cherries and—
“Almost six-thirty. You have just enough time to go to your hotel, change, and meet us at the White House. You have a tux with you?”
Duel nodded. “Don’t I always? Damn it, Travis, don’t tell me Samantha only called me here to attend a social function? Do you have any idea what happened in Rimrock? To my family?”
“I’m sorry, partner. It’s Sam’s orders, and she’s the boss.”
Duel shoved back his Stetson. “That’s not good enough, man. I’ve either been on the road, in the air, or at the hospital for the last week or more. With Jace out of commission, I need to be at the ranch. This better be important!”
Travis grimaced. “Sorry to say, but when the first lady issues a request, and asks for particular agents, Samantha considers it vital. She makes certain all of Molly Westcott’s problems disappear. They were college roommates, you know?”
“No, I didn’t know. So you’re saying this assignment is based on their previous friendship?”
“I think so, yeah.” Travis nodded. “It’s more of a matter of trust, though. Molly knows she can depend on Sam and the agents she chooses for discretion.”
Duel arched both brows. “Okay? I guess I’m lost here.”
“Let’s get out of here. I’ll explain on the ride down.” They stepped inside the elevator and Travis hit the underground park button. Fortunately, they were the only two inside the car.
“Why isn’t the Secret Service at the first lady’s beck and call, instead of CIA?” Duel asked.
“Because Molly Westcott doesn’t put her faith in them. She knows they report to the president.”
Duel lifted a brow. “And we don’t?”
Travis shook his head. “A long story, but Molly trusts Sam not to buckle. Change of subject, I’m glad Jace is okay. I heard he got married.”
“Thanks. Yes. He married Kaycee Spencer.”
Travis whistled softly. “The Spencer who trains ho
rses? I met her once when I was on a buying trip for Dad. Lovely woman. Hey.” He snapped his fingers. “Wasn’t there a Spencer on the plane with Dianna?”
“Kaycee’s brother.”
“Any word on your sister yet?”
“Wild called earlier. He said the search will probably be dropped after tomorrow.”
“Damn, Duel. I’m sorry. Maybe you can get outta here tomorrow and go to Australia.”
“Wild and Raider can handle things there. I’d be better use at the Dancing Star. Jace will try to do the work, and he’s in no shape. He needs my help.”
“This assignment shouldn’t last long. I’m sure Sam will tell you to go home after tonight.”
Duel nodded. “Tell me what Sam needs from us.”
“She called us in because it’s urgent.”
“Honestly, Travis,” Duel said, skepticism in his voice, “it sounds more like Sam’s doing a personal favor for a friend and using the staff in the process.”
“There’s more to it than that, or she wouldn’t have brought you in. You know that.”
“Yes,” Duel agreed. He also knew Travis always came to Sam’s defense, right or wrong. There was something going on between those two, something fierce. Hot. He didn’t know if it was sexual, or if Travis resented working for a woman. Whatever it was, the tension was explosive and sparks flew when they were around each other for more than five minutes.
He’d been trapped in their private battles before, and sometimes their vocal arguments got ugly. Oddly enough, most of the antagonism came from Samantha toward Travis. Duel was just glad he was on her good side. A pissed-off Sam wasn’t pretty. However, she was loyal to a fault. And when it came to her agents, she was a veritable tigress protecting her cubs when necessary.
But he didn’t want to be in the middle of one of their verbal skirmishes. Not tonight. Like Travis said—Samantha was the boss. In their profession, it was imperative to have good working relationships. Trust. He ground his teeth, and accepted the fact that Sam wouldn’t have sent for him, if she hadn’t felt he was needed.