If Looks Could Chill, page 20
Still, Marc stepped back in close to her, invading her space again. “You were,” he said, leaning down into her face. “And I want more. But that means you have to stay alive for me. So you aren’t comin—”
“Wow.” She stared up at him incredulously. “You are so out of line it’s not even funny.”
“Cher—”
“Listen to me, Lafayette. Okay, I’ll admit I was feeling vulnerable last night. And you were . . . there for me. I’m grateful for that.”
Grateful? He opened his mouth to issue a scathing retort about where she could put her foutu gratitude, but before he could clear aside his tangled outrage and form the words, she held up her hand.
“Don’t get all huffy. You know I’m attracted to you. More than attracted, obviously. But if you think that’s going to influence how and when I do my job, you’re nuts. Jesus, Marc. I want these bastards as much as you do. I’m a cop, for chrissakes! I’m in this now, and I intend to be part of bringing them down. I don’t need your consent.”
Actually, she did. She was officially in his custody and technically had to do whatever he damn well told her.
Why wouldn’t she just let him protect her?
He ordered himself to take a calming breath. This wasn’t about sex, or gratitude, or even his bruised feelings. This was about the mission.
Besides, the stubborn glint in her eyes told him it would be a battle royal if he tried to impose his will on her. Once she’d sunk her teeth into a decision, she’d hang on with the tenacity of a foutu wolverine. He’d known that from word one. Tara Reeves was definitely not the kind of woman he was used to—the soft, pliable kind of woman who would demur to his wishes just because he asked. The kind of woman he much preferred.
No, she was exactly the opposite of his sisters. Opinionated, ornery, and obstreperous. All the things he judiciously avoided in females. He just couldn’t understand his out-of-control attraction for this irritating woman.
Dieu. He could not deal with this right now. His frustration and protective instincts were running amok in his stomach like a cayenne pepper brew, wanting to roar out of him in a burst of flames.
Best to go chill down.
“Bon,” he said, and backed off her. “Whatever you say, cher.” He turned, intending to go help Quinn and Kick with the boat. Get his head screwed on straight.
“Marc.”
The catch in her voice stopped him, but he refused to turn around. Childish? Maybe. But he didn’t trust his mouth right now. Her hand touched his biceps. She tugged at his sleeve.
Ah, hell. He let go of his stubbornness and looked at her. To his surprise, her arms slipped around his neck and her body pressed against him. She reached up and kissed him.
For a split second he held himself apart. But he couldn’t keep it up. God knew he couldn’t help himself. He wanted her too damn much. Groaning in unwilling surrender, he sank into her mouth.
The kiss was deep and wet and clinging. The taste of her strafed through him, detonating memories of last night in his head. And his body. He was helpless to fight the onslaught. How could a woman like her bring him to his knees like this?
“Please, Marc,” she pleaded softly, long moments later, still planting tiny kisses all around his mouth and cheeks. “Don’t make this hard.”
“Too late,” he murmured with a sigh, and he didn’t just mean his cock. But she didn’t have to know that. With his hands on her bottom, he pressed her up against his full-blown hard-on, so she wouldn’t guess at the chaos running rampant through him.
She let out a little noise, half laugh, half frustration. “You know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, he did. “Yeah,” he said. “I lose.” At least this battle. They’d see about the war.
“No.” She brushed another lingering kiss over his lips. “Those terrorists lose. That’s all we should be thinking about today.”
He jetted out a breath. Damn. The present came rushing back, pushing away the uncertain future. “I know. You’re right. But if you get hurt—”
“I won’t. I’m good at what I do, Marc.”
What? Writing tickets? he wanted to ask. She was a state trooper, for fuck’s sake, not a spec operator. But he stopped himself from saying it out loud. He was in enough trouble as it was. On all levels.
“Bon,” he said. “You can come.” He’d just have to make sure she didn’t get anywhere close to the real action. Protect her as best he could.
“Thank you.” She beamed up at him. “You won’t regret this. I swear you won’t.”
Hell, he already did.
She kissed him one last time, then tried to let him go.
Some perverse streak deep inside made him hang on to her. Tight. “But I want you to know one thing, cher. You’re wrong. Dead wrong.”
She frowned. “About what?”
“About being mine.” He caught her face in his hand, held it between his fingers, and drilled her with a look. “You’re my lover. My woman. Like it or not, Tara Reeves, you are mine.”
EIGHTEEN
ONCE Rebel arrived at the task force meeting with the SAC, the whole thing didn’t take much more than an hour. Montana heard reports, then dished out assignments—along with a box of cannoli; yes, the man definitely had style—then dismissed everyone with an admonition to check in before jumping on any major leads.
He did not mention Rebel’s assignment as his assistant, she noted. Should that make her nervous? Or just relieved she wouldn’t have to endure the petty jealousies of the other female agents . . . ? Tough call.
Good grief. No, it wasn’t. Wade Montana had not murdered Gina Cappozi. He’d already convinced Rebel of that. And Kick agreed. Why was she being so ridiculous?
After the meeting, he crooked his finger at her, grabbed his Burberry raincoat from the rack outside his office, picked up two steaming go-cups that were waiting on his secretary’s desk, and handed her one as they strode down the hall to the elevator. “Coffee,” he said. “Double cream, no sugar. Right?”
Should she be flattered? Was this more of his subtle flirting? Or was she just imagining the whole thing? Coffee preference was easy enough to find out. He’d probably asked Chip. Or, more likely, his secretary had.
Montana barely slowed as they sped past her cubicle. “Coat,” he reminded her.
She blinked, ducked in and grabbed it, then chased after him, juggling the coffee cup as she put her raincoat on over her suit. With his long-legged stride, she practically had to run to make the elevator before the doors closed. Not easy in a skirt and heels—but no time to change into the sneaks she kept in her desk drawer. She hated the things, and refused to wear them in the office. Totally spoiled her look.
After catching her breath, she took a big sip from the sloshing go-cup. “I hope this is decaf,” she said.
He snorted. “When you start getting some sleep, I’ll start getting you decaf.”
How on earth did he know that? Her gaze strayed to the elevator’s mirrored wall and her reflection. Okay, never mind. Those black smudges around her eyes were not just from her kohl eyeliner.
“Yeah, that’s why they pay me the big bucks,” he said wryly, reading her mind. Again.
She made a face at him and took another slug. “So where are we going, boss?” she asked.
He gave her a look. “You know where we’re going.”
“I mean where. As in what address do I program in the GPS?”
“That’s classified. And I’m driving.”
A superior who drove himself. That was a first.
She hiked a brow. “What do you plan to do? Blindfold me?”
The very corner of his lip curled up. “Would you like me to?”
Hello. She almost choked on her coffee. Okay, that was definitely flirting. Or . . . something. She felt her face go hot. “That won’t be necessary.”
They got out on the garage level. He clicked his key remote and a nearby car beeped. A Beemer. Blue. Like his eyes.
“My credit card gives points,” he said when she whistled appreciatively. At the car. “I upgraded my rental.”
Must be nice. Her own credit cards could probably sue her for neglect lately.
They got in, and Montana headed north to Canal, turning left, toward the Holland Tunnel.
“Jersey?”
He didn’t comment. But it made sense. There were a lot of places across the river where a covert paramilitary training facility would blend in unnoticed. Forty-five minutes later they were in scenic Bayonne, taking the potholed road into the port district with its scattered jungle of dirty warehouses, giant rusting storage tanks, and foul-smelling container facilities.
It occurred to her that maybe she should be worried. Or at least a little nervous. Flirting aside, coming to a place like this with the man who himself admitted that anyone with half a brain would consider him the prime suspect in their investigation . . . Well, maybe it wasn’t very smart. Especially since no one knew where they’d gone. He hadn’t said anything to the task force. Hadn’t stopped to speak with his secretary before leaving the office. Heck, even Rebel didn’t know where they were going. Not precisely.
Surreptitiously, she touched the grip of her Glock .40, holstered as usual at her hip. It was right where it should be, within easy reach. Nothing to be nervous about.
Besides, he was innocent. She truly believed that. Otherwise she would have reported him to the chief right away. And not even driven to Starbucks with the man, let alone here.
“How do you know where ZU-NE is located?” she asked, making careful note of the circuitous route he was taking, regardless of her conviction he wasn’t guilty. Paranoid? Nah. Just prudent.
“I have my sources,” he responded.
“Care to share them?” she pressed.
“Nope.”
The Mr. Mysterious routine was starting to wear thin. “You know,” she said, “if I’m supposed to be your assistant, don’t you think you should be a bit more forthcoming? Especially since it hasn’t been completely ruled out that you were somehow involved in Dr. Cappozi’s disappearance.”
He glanced over at her, his expression wry. “You still think I’m the bad guy?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is the evidence.”
“And you think the evidence says I’m involved.”
“Big-time.”
He pulled into a potholed alley behind a group of deserted warehouses. “And yet,” he said, “here you are. Alone with me in a place where it could take years for your body to be found.”
Her pulse spiked. Instinctively, her hand crept to the Glock again. “Don’t forget I have—”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Sent a letter about me to your lawyer.”
Despite the tension, she chuckled. How could a man with such an irrepressible sense of self-irony hurt anyone? “I was going to say a gun. But whatever works.”
He drove nearly to the dead end of the alley, then stopped and turned in his seat to regard her.
“Yeah, about the gun,” he said, unperturbed. “They’ll probably want to take it. These guys tend to get antsy about armed strangers in their midst.”
She met his steady gaze. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not a stranger.”
This time he chuckled. “To them, a stranger is anyone who doesn’t have the tattoo or know the secret handshake.”
Ah, yes. The infamous ZU tattoo. The whole time she worked as liaison she’d thought it was a myth. But then, during one of her first visits after Zane’s rescue, she’d accidentally seen his. He’d been unconscious at the time, and the nurse was giving him a sponge bath, the creamy suds trickling down over the elaborate design . . . onto an embarrassingly intimate bit of his anatomy. So okay. Maybe it hadn’t been an accident. She’d been curious. Wow. Talk about an eyeful, even in repose. She could still feel the coil of heat in her belly at the memory of seeing—
Ho-boy. Never mind.
“Who says I don’t?” she said, flustered, banishing thoughts of tattoos.
She realized SAC Montana was staring at her with a mixture of amusement and . . . interest?
“Really,” he said, his eyes dipping to her lap, then back up again. “I wouldn’t mention that if I were you. They might demand to see it.”
She slammed her eyes shut. Oh, brother. “I meant the handshake,” she muttered.
Suddenly, she felt a soft touch on her cheek. She opened her eyes and found him pushing one of her unruly red curls behind her ear.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her breath catching.
“Waiting until you’re ready,” he said gently.
She swallowed. Okay. This was so not good. She definitely didn’t want to ask ready for what.
“We’re here,” he said. “I just need to beep the horn. Say when.”
Here?
In front of them was the solid brick of a warehouse. No doors. No openings. No other exit.
Oh, here!
Of course it would look like this. Run-down. Deserted. Uninviting. Well hidden. Zero Unit didn’t exactly want visitors dropping in.
She shot out her hand and gave the horn a couple of good blasts. After the sound died, the graffiti-covered walls rang with silence.
Suddenly, a square section of the grimy building began to rise like a lumbering garage door, exposing a gaping maw of blackness beyond. Despite the neglected outward appearance, the place looked steel-reinforced and impenetrable without some major explosive power.
Okay. Now she really was nervous.
Montana put the Beemer in gear and urged it forward through the opening. Once the car was completely inside the warehouse, the garage door glided down again, cutting them off completely from the outside world. An overhead light blinked on, instantly flooding the bay like a klieg light, nearly blinding her.
“Out,” a gruff voice called.
As they climbed out of the car, two armed guards ran up to them, weapons raised.
“Hands in the air,” they ordered. “Reach for that gun and you’re dead.”
Belatedly, Rebel thought about Gina. She’d also been brought to Zero Unit headquarters. And by a man she trusted. But that had been a ruse, her summons a trap.
Gina hadn’t been seen since.
A word Rebel had never used before streaked through her mind. Her stomach clenched.
Had she just fallen for a similar ruse? And walked into exactly the same trap?
IT was quiet.
Too quiet.
And yet, Bobby Lee had a bad feeling about this place. His skin was crawling. Which was good. Real good. Maybe they’d finally found the motherfuckers.
The stubby cement building that squatted on a built-up spit of land had a tall fence around it, and held a sign that read: Field Station 5, Property of Louisiana State University, Department of Biology. No Trespassing!
A research station. WTF?
“I vetted that building myself,” Zimmie protested when he asked her over the sat comm why the fuck they hadn’t investigated it before. Why it hadn’t even made their list of fucking possibles? “Damn it,” she exclaimed over the static, “I called the chairman of the LSU biology department and spoke to him personally! He said it’s currently being used by a group of graduate students working on a project involving marsh birds. They check in regularly, and he assured me there’s nothing unusual going on there.”
“Someone’s lying. This is the target. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Sorry.” Angry sincerity rang in her voice, even over the comm.
Hopefully that professor really hated his job, because Bobby Lee had a hunch he wouldn’t be in it much longer, either way.
“Don’t beat yourself up, Zulu,” he told Zimmie. “Romeo, do you have eyes on the situation, over?” Rand had been monitoring their sortie and putting the UAV in position from the Moby back at camp, since there was no way to drive it into the swamp.
“External only.”
Fucking great. “We’re going in for a look-see. Apprise STORM Command to have the Homies standing ready, over.”
“Copy that.”
“Take care of yourself out there, Alpha Six, over,” Darcy said.
Yeah, because she cared so much what happened to him. Fuck. Didn’t need to be thinking about that right now. “Over and out,” he muttered.
Once they’d approached, using hand signals, Bobby Lee motioned Kick around to the right of the building. He’d take the left. The two of them were doing a sneak-and-peek while Marc, Charlie, and Tara drew attention, motoring past on the bayou in Charlie’s flatboat, pretending they were having a good ol’ time drinking beer and fishing. Marc hadn’t looked real happy about the division of labor but hadn’t actually protested. Which told Bobby Lee louder than words how preoccupied he was with his sexy state trooper. Jesus. The whole team was losing it.
Just one more argument in favor of the decision Bobby Lee had made regarding his involvement with Darcy Zimmerman. To let her go. Because love had absolutely no place on a spec-ops missi—
Whoa! Love? No, no. Sex. Sex had no place on—
Shi-yit. This was not helping.
He gave himself a mental boot in the ass as he slithered up and over the fence and dropped inside the compound, rolling to a ready position behind a clump of bushes, weapon trained on the structure.
Nothing moved, except for the party boat floating by on the bayou. No alarms. No guards. No one even stuck a nose out the front door to see what all the commotion was about.
Well, hell. Maybe these doofuses really were studying marsh birds. Nervous tangos would have shown their faces by now for damn sure.
Either that, or the team had arrived too late. Had Tawhid already broken camp and gone on to phase two of his terrorist attack?
Damn it to hell.
Using cover as best he could, Bobby Lee crouch-ran over to the building, all the while keeping an eye out for booby traps and trip wires. But it was smooth sailing. For every silent minute that went by, his nerves jacked up higher. If they were too late . . .
