Too Hard to Handle, page 21
When she turned, she saw that for the first time ever Z’s eyes weren’t piercing. They were soft. Liquid. Like mercury, only warmer. “I know you’re right about that,” he said.
And then they simply stared at one another. Their eyes searching. Their hearts beating. Their breaths mingling in the small space. Chelsea wondered what was going on inside his head, wondered if he could guess what was going on inside hers. And for a while she thought perhaps it was possible for them to—
“So what did Morales have to say when you talked to him?” He turned away to fiddle with one of the digital displays, and whatever magic there had been in the moment was obliterated. Just…gone.
She mourned its loss. And for a couple of seconds she could form no words around the sudden lump in her throat. It was only an apparition anyway, right? That brief second of communion, of shared understanding was only real in my head, right? Running fingers through her hair—Ow! It was a mess. The rain had really done a number on it—she was happy her voice was steady when she finally said, “Not a lot. I asked him if he could pull some strings to compensate the owner of that van we demolished. I have no idea if there’s such a thing as theft insurance in Cusco.”
He snorted.
“What?” she asked.
“Only you would worry about the smelly van guy when you’re in the middle of bringing in the most traitorous agent the CIA has ever trained.”
She twisted her lips. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
Wha—? She reached over and put her hand against his forehead. He went completely still beneath her touch. She noticed how warm and smooth his skin was in contrast to the few strands of cool hair that had fallen over his brow.
“Chels,” he said, his voice low and strangely husky. “What…uh…” When he swallowed, the sound seemed particularly loud inside the little cockpit. “What’re you doing?”
“Checking you for fever,” she told him, removing her hand and curling her fingers around her palm, trying to hold in the feel of his skin. “You’re not yourself tonight.”
He fixed on her a dark glance. “Am I usually that much of an asshole?”
She lifted a brow, sticking her tongue in her cheek. “Not an asshole per se, so much as buttmunch and pain in the ass. Subtle but very important distinctions.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. Come on. Come on. Show me that smile. But he simply shook his head and said, “So what did Morales have to say about you wanting to make sure smelly van guy was reimbursed?”
“He said he’d take care of it,” she told him. “That along with sending someone to pick up the drone, the rest of our gear, and the bags Penni left behind. Oh”—she snapped her fingers—“and Kozlov. Morales said he’d have someone go release the poor guy before tomorrow’s construction crew arrives to work on the building and finds a cantankerous, hog-tied Russian in the midst of the rubble.”
“Poor guy?” Z shot her an incredulous look. “You know it might have been him trying to give us all a few fatal doses of lead poisoning back at the square, right?”
“Maybe,” she allowed, her brow furrowed. “But I don’t think so. I think it was that Mystery Man in the truck.”
“Yeah,” Z admitted. “You’re probably right.” Then he added, “Sounds like you’ve got it all worked—”
He was cut off when turbulence grabbed hold of the plane and shook it like a child brandishing a toy rattle. Chelsea’s hands became claws digging into the edge of the seat as Z quickly slipped on his headset, grabbed the yoke, and checked the instruments. He started jabbering to someone on the radio, requesting they be allowed to descend into more stable air.
She thought about snatching the headset hooked over the bracket on the side of her chair so she could listen in to what air traffic control was saying, but she didn’t dare release her hold on the seat.
“Roger that,” Z said, drawing out the R sound. “We will maintain our current speed and position until the airspace clears up. But let us know when it does. It’s getting pretty choppy up here. Over.”
As if to prove his point, the plane rattled and shook and plunged a short distance before the wings gripped the air and stabilized. I hate flying. I hate flying. Oh, how I hate flying.
“Go tell Dan to get his ass up here,” Z said. “And then you buckle up. It’ll be bumpy for a while.” It took Herculean effort to peel her fingers away from the edge of the seat. “And, Chels?” Z said after she’d stood to brace herself in the open door of the cockpit.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t worry. Between Dan and me, we could pilot this sucker through a hurricane.”
She swallowed, but her spit got stuck around her lungs and heart, which had migrated up into her throat. “Great,” she said. “But let’s not try that, okay?”
“If you insist.” He grinned. And winked. This time there was no mistaking it for something in his eye.
Holy crap! I really have entered the twilight zone…
Chapter Sixteen
El Dorado International Airport, Bogotá, Colombia
Saturday, 3:45 a.m.
The night was as dark and warm as the desire still rushing through Dan’s veins. He stood on the dimly lit tarmac, waiting to board the small private jet el Jefe had chartered to take them back stateside—they could have made it in the Beechcraft, but it would have required two more stops for fuel and taken a hell of a long time compared to the jet—and he couldn’t stop thinking about what happened in that tiny lavatory…
“Your turn,” she said, licking her lips and grinning down at him as he sat on the toilet lid. The taste of her was still on his tongue, his fingers still damp from her passion. “Stand up.”
“Penni, I—”
She pressed a finger to his mouth, then softened the rebuke by rubbing along his bottom lip as if testing its texture, feeling the plumpness caused by her kisses.
“So soft,” she whispered. “I think this is the softest part on your whole body.”
“Currently?” He grinned. “I’d hafta agree with you.”
She glanced down at the bulge straining his zipper and stuck her tongue in her cheek. “My point exactly. Now stand up.”
He could see the spark of renewed desire ignite in her lovely brown eyes. It was thrilling to know he’d quenched her lust, her longing, but that the thought of returning the favor set her blood boiling again. “I’m not sure you—”
“I’m sure,” she interrupted. “You asked me to tell you what I want. And I’m telling you, I want you to stand up.”
Okay, then. He swallowed. He was so hot, so horny, so completely ready he’d probably go off the minute she got her hands on him. But who was he to question the demands of a lady? Especially a lady such as her. One who was wickedly beautiful. One who was wonderfully nude. One whose current expression was that of the devil himself bent on a sinning spree.
Hot damn…
Pushing to a stand, he gritted his teeth when his boxers and zipper rubbed against his painful erection. Then she went down on her knees in front of him. And just as it had done to men since the beginning of time, that submissive pose made everything that was male and dominant inside him growl with approval. In fact, he was pretty sure he was actually growling.
“Now Mr. Growly Growlerton,” she said—Roger that, he was definitely growling—“let’s get these jeans off, yeah?”
“God yeah,” he agreed, hastily fumbling with his belt buckle.
She tsked and pushed his hands away. “No. Let me do the honors.”
He bit his tongue to keep from begging her to hurry. Especially when she slowly, methodically undid his belt, carefully, teasingly unsnapped the button on his jeans, and deliberately, coquettishly unzipped his fly. She was probably one of those people who unwrapped her Christmas presents slowly too. Savoring the moment before the surprise. Saving the bows and being careful not to tear the paper.
“You’re killing me, woman,” he gritted, unable to resist tangling his fingers in her soft, charmingly messy hair. His heart was thundering out of control, no doubt trying to supply his brain and organs with what little blood wasn’t pooled inside his raging hard-on.
Glancing up at him, she feigned a sympathetic pout. Then she cupped him through the denim of his jeans and squeezed. “Poor baby. We can’t have that, can we?”
He had to shake his head because he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. He could barely think, and even then, every single thought was focused on his need to feel her hands on him, skin to skin, her lips on him, her teeth and tongue and—
Hell…
“Please,” he managed, his voice so low he wasn’t sure she heard him.
But obviously she had because she whispered, “Please what, Dan? Tell me what you want.”
To hear his earlier words parroted back to him was both a tease and a challenge. And guess what? He was up to the task. Fuckin’-A he was! “I want you to pull down my pants. I want you take my dick in your hands. I want you to angle it toward your mouth. And then I want you to wrap those sweet lips around me and suck.”
She’d asked for it. He’d given it to her. And he watched, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, as a deep red blush bloomed on her cheeks and across her chest. A sure sign of her excitement mixed with her self-consciousness. It was so damn sweet. So damn hot. So damn everything he’d ever wanted in a partner.
“Yes,” she said. “I think I’ll like that very much.”
“I know I will.” He braced himself when her long fingers hooked in the waistbands of his jeans and boxer briefs, pulling both garments down over his hips and beneath his ass. His dick sprang forward with such ferocity it was a wonder she didn’t lose an eye. And the relief of being released from the confines of his pants was so acute it nearly dropped him to his knees.
“Wow,” she whispered, her hot breath swirling around him. Even that small caress, that intangible touch was enough to make his shaft jerk and throb. He was so hard he was standing nearly vertical, so swollen with blood he was almost purple. “I knew you were a…a big man, but…” She hesitated. “You’re…um…”—she bit her lip, blinking up at him—“going to be quite a mouthful.”
It occurred to him then that maybe she wasn’t up for this. Some women didn’t like doing it, especially when it involved a piece of equipment that was…well… Okay, so he wasn’t bragging here, but when the good Lord saw fit to add the twig to his berries, the big guy in the sky had looked around and upgraded to a stick. Dan had been in enough locker rooms to know that not only did he pack more than his fair share, but he also wasn’t as…um…pretty as some. He shaft was thick, roped with veins, curved slightly upward, and his glans flared proud and plump at the end. For the unaccustomed, he probably looked a bit…aggressive.
“Penni,” he husked, having to dig down deep in order to utter the next words, especially when all he wanted to do was grab the back of her head and press her face and mouth against him, “you don’t have to—”
“Shut up,” she told him, and he grinned. There’s that adorably blunt New Yorker I know. Then she wrapped a hand around the base of his shaft and angled him toward her mouth like he’d told her to do. When she licked her lips, his smile disappeared and he held his breath. But just as she leaned forward, just as her mouth opened, the plane hit turbulence…
“There’s been a change in plans,” Chelsea said, dragging Dan from his delightful, painful reverie. He turned to see her drop her cell phone into her satchel, and covertly adjusted his stance since he was hard. Again. Or maybe I should say still. As far as he knew, he’d maintained his boner even while he and Zoelner had fought the turbulence of a passing thunderstorm, even when they had been forced to coast into the airport on fumes, and even though the digital display on his diver’s watch told him over three hours had passed since he’d been in that bathroom.
He was the equivalent of a walking, talking side effect in one of those Viagra commercials. For an erection lasting longer than four hours…get laid as quickly as possible. At least that was the medical advice he was going to go with, whether it was sound or not.
“What kind of change?” Zoelner asked, hopping down the jet’s four steps after having secured Winterfield inside the aircraft.
“The kind where we’re headed to Chicago instead of Washington,” Chelsea said.
Dan exchanged a look with Penni. She reached to take his hand and he didn’t hesitate to pull her close to his side, taking comfort in her sweet touch, her solid presence next to him. They were supposed to drop Winterfield off at some interrogation site outside DC, and any deviation from that course could only mean one thing: bad news.
“What now?” Zoelner sighed, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the two pilots were nowhere around. Neither Dan nor Zoelner were licensed to fly jets, so a couple of Air Force flyboys who’d been stationed nearby had been brought in to get them all home, no questions asked. That went for the airport crew that had been scrambled into action in the middle of the night too. Once again, Dan thanked his lucky stars for friends in high places. Although, come to think of it, el Jefe and the Joint Chiefs probably qualified as friends in the highest of places.
“Morales said the Cusco assets he sent in to gather up our stuff and go release Kozlov discovered the Russian dead,” Chelsea told them, her mouth twisting, her face filling with remorse and self-reproach. And, yeah, okay, Kozlov was probably a fucker of a guy who’d undoubtedly done some terrible shit in his life, but they’d left him there, taped, vulnerable, defenseless.
“Jesus.” Dan ran a hand over his hair, his head spinning. Why? Why would anyone want to eighty-six Kozlov?
“It gets worse,” Chelsea said.
Dan knew he was going to regret asking, but… “How so?”
“The ground crew at the airport is dead too. Morales’s assets say policia are surrounding the place and all flights into and out of Cusco have been canceled for the day.”
“That dickhole in the truck,” Dan growled, wishing he’d had the opportunity to put a bullet right between the bastard’s eyes. He didn’t know who the guy was or what the hell he was about, but by the sound of it, he’d murdered three innocent men. And, yeah, okay, so the ground crew weren’t completely innocent. After all, they had taken a bribe to let Dan and company into the airport after closing, bypassing security and immigration and customs. But that didn’t mean they deserved to be slaughtered for it. Damnit!
The night air around them was heavy with the smells of aviation fuel and wet concrete—the storm they’d flown through had hit Bogotá first. Penni squeezed his fingers and he glanced down to find her pretty face turned to him, judging his reaction to Chelsea’s news. There was sympathy in her eyes—those kind eyes that had done a number on him since day one. The ground crew had been his contacts, his assets. And now they were dead because of the affiliation.
One more regret…one more black mark to add to my life’s list.
Remorse hit him hard in the gut, and the impulse to drown his sorrows in a tall glass of Jack Daniel’s was so tangible he could almost feel the tumbler in his hand, almost smell the hints of spice and nuts and smoke that whispered through the harsher notes of the alcohol. His mouth watered.
Penni gave his fingers another squeeze, as if she somehow knew where his mind had gone. It was enough to drag him back from the edge. Ground him in the here and now. He was able—with another look at her sweet face and a reminder that you won’t slip if you stay away from slippery places—to push the craving away.
“You suspect he was the one who took out Kozlov too?” Zoelner ventured. “Maybe whoever he is, he was watching us, following us, and getting rid of anyone who seemed like they might know too much about what we were doing there. Maybe that’s why you kept feeling like we were being watched, Dan Man. Because we were.”
“But why?” Dan asked, his mind racing through possibilities and discarding them one after the other. Nothing about the Mystery Man made a lick of sense.
“No clue,” Chelsea said. “And we’re not likely to grab a clue anytime soon.”
“Meaning?” Dan asked.
“Meaning our mysterious airport shooter has ghosted. He’s nowhere to be found. But Morales is trying to track his movements.”
“Which brings us back to the change in plans,” Penni said. “Why does the killing of Kozlov and the ground crew mean we’re taking Winterfield to Chicago instead of DC?”
Dan caught Zoelner’s eye and knew the former spook was thinking the same thing he was. “Babineaux,” they said simultaneously.
“What?” Penni glanced between them. “You mean Rock Babineaux? What does he have to do with it?”
“He’s a highly trained interrogator,” Dan explained. “Some might say he’s the best in the biz. And I suspect, given the giant question mark that is our Mystery Man in Cusco, our commander in chief is insisting one of his own get first crack at Winterfield before he’s handed over to the CIA.”
“Oh-kay,” Penni said slowly. “Um…why? I feel like I’m missing something here.”
“Given the recent spate of traitors coming out of the CIA’s woodwork, el Jefe doesn’t trust that it’s not another government spook who’s gone AWOL, running around killing people,” he explained. “And he doesn’t want us to hand Winterfield over to the CIA before he has a chance to have someone he trusts interrogate the fucker.”
Chelsea frowned and shook her head sorrowfully. “We haven’t inspired much confidence lately, have we? Two rogue agents in the span of a few months.” She hoisted her satchel higher on her shoulder and looked off into the distance where the air traffic control tower was lit up like a lighthouse against the blackened windows of the closed airport.
