Fixed Asset (Downrange), page 2
Once we had her in the middle of the room, I jerked my chin to Mase. He slowly lowered her feet.
My mistake was thinking since she’d been docile in the van, she’d stay that way. I should’ve known better—she was trained and highly skilled.
The moment I relaxed the band my arms around her formed, she quickly bent her knees and dipped down while just as quickly lifting her arms, breaking loose. Her elbow caught me in the right kidney. Even blind, her aim was perfection.
Before I could stop her, she spun to face me and threw a right jab to my gut, then a left hook aimed for my jaw. I easily dodged the hook, grabbed her wrist, and twisted it behind her back. In a stupidly brave maneuver, she used my momentum and launched herself backward.
Not wanting to dislocate her shoulder or break her arm—which was what I would’ve done had she been anyone else—I eased off the arm hold and controlled our fall. But just because I didn’t want to hurt her didn’t mean I didn’t have a point to make. I twisted, rolled her facedown on the concrete, rolled again so I was on top of her, and pinned her with my weight.
“God,” she huffed. “You win, Jack.”
My body froze.
“What’s with all the drama?” she continued. “You couldn’t just roll up, say hello, and offer me a ride like a normal person?”
Mase’s chuckle echoed throughout the cavernous space. Saint ‘Pete’ Young wasn’t far behind with his laughter.
“That’s it?” Pete asked. “I thought you had at least one more round in you.”
“If you’re talking to me,” Cat wheezed, “I’m smart enough to know when to tap out. And two hundred pounds of muscle, I have no chance of moving.” To punctuate her statement, she shoved her ass into my groin. I stifled a groan by grinding my molars. “Unless I do damage to his testicles. And as a thank-you for not popping my shoulder out of its socket, I’ve decided to spare him the pain of a twist and pull.”
My second error related to my first mistake—I’d lost focus and hadn’t paid enough attention to her shifting under me. What felt like her wiggling in order to breathe while I gave her most of my weight was, in reality, her worming her hand down between her legs. With a shift of her shoulder and a lift of her hips, she awkwardly found her target.
She could get a handful, but to make her point, her fingertips grazed my crotch.
I dropped my chin until my mouth brushed the burlap still over her head and whispered, “Careful, Catarina, you break ’em, you buy ’em.”
Harder this time, her fingertips made another pass.
“With the stunt you pulled, you’ve already earned yourself a red ass,” I warned. “Maybe you should stop while you’re ahead.”
“What stunt?”
Her question came out as a breathy whoosh, and I wondered if it was the lack of oxygen or something else.
Then stronger this time with, “You can’t blame me for hitting you. Surely you didn’t expect me not to put up a fight.”
“The café,” I reminded her. “No, rewind—you being in Tegucigalpa, wandering the streets.”
“Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, you wanna share with the class what you two are talking about?” Pete asked.
Cat took that as an opportunity to grind her ass harder into my crotch.
“Warning, baby. No one in this room will stop me from dragging you out of here.”
“Clearly. Seeing as they’re all accomplices in my abduction.”
“I didn’t accomplice anything,” Fallon Harris joined in. “Or is it assist? Either way, I was sitting here minding my own business when Jack tore out of here on his K-and-R mission.”
“Good luck with the R part of that,” Cat said from under me. “No one cares about me enough to pay a ransom.”
I frowned at her response.
“There was no R,” Mase interjected. “Just the K.”
“You wanna roll off me, big guy? It’s getting hard to breathe with this hood on.”
No, I didn’t want to roll off her. If I did, I’d lose my excuse for touching her. Not that I wanted to be horizontal with her in front of my team. But once the hood came off and I saw her fathomless blue eyes, it would be harder to remind myself Catarina Keys was off limits.
One could say I had a type—feisty, smart-mouthed, witty women did it for me. Hair color, eyes, height, body shape . . . didn’t matter to me as long as the woman was top-tier funny and smart. Catarina had the feisty down. Her wit was razor sharp. She was intelligent as fuck. Gorgeous face, prettiest eyes I’d ever seen, a body that made my mouth water, and hair that made me fantasize about wrapping it around my fist while my tongue was in her mouth.
But she was careless.
Careless with her personal safety—totally unconcerned. She took dangerous risks without a thought, which contradicted her intelligence.
With that as a good reminder, I rolled off Cat, got to my feet, hauled her up, and tossed her over my shoulder.
It was a short walk to the makeshift lounge we’d set up. When I bent to set her on the ratty-ass couch, her hands went to my belt.
“I’m not going to drop you,” I told her.
“I can’t see,” she hissed.
Right. The hood.
“Let go so I can set you down.”
She let go. I got her settled on the couch and pulled the burlap bag off her head.
Brown hair tumbled around her shoulders. Irrational irritation flared.
The dye job was professional, the brown locks were shiny, healthy, and she’d taken a few inches off since I’d last seen her. The dark hair made the blue of her eyes stand out, the contrast stunning. However, she was a natural blonde. That was how I’d met her, and that was how she came to me in my dreams—thick, glossy, sun-kissed golden hair.
Cat lifted a hand and demanded, “Knife.”
I fished my PSK out of my pocket and handed it over.
With deft movements, she flipped off the lock, slid her thumb to the stud, and flicked the folder open. She bent forward to cut her ankles free while saying, “Your pivot screw needs to be tightened.” A moment later, she continued to bitch. “When was the last time you sharpened this? It’s criminal how dull your blade is. I should call Benchmade and report this blasphemy, have them recall your right to purchase—or better, confiscate her and restore her to her original glory.”
“I think I like this chick,” Fallon quipped.
I chanced a look at my teammate. A risk I hoped didn’t end bloody, now that Cat was armed. I wouldn’t put it past the crazy woman to stab me to prove a point.
Fallon, Pete, and Mase formed an arc off to the side—identical poses, arms crossed over their chests, boots planted shoulder-width apart. To complete the pose, they all had matching grins.
The peanut gallery.
Great.
Fallon’s lips quirked, and my gaze quickly skidded back to Cat.
My knife was no longer visible, the plastic ties discarded on the concrete. Cat pushed off the couch, lifted a foot, and rolled her ankle.
“Which one of you zipped my feet?” she asked.
“With that elbow and right hook you’ve got, not sure you’re gonna get a confession,” Mase told her.
Catarina smiled. Not the kind that was toothy and wide and conveyed happiness. No, this smile was a barely there smirk, but it lit her eyes. It was the kind of smug smile that made a man want to kiss the arrogance off her lips, taste the magnificence of her self-satisfaction.
Truth be told, I wanted to see that smile aimed my way when I fucked her. Then and now, I wanted her with or without the smirk. The bottom line of it was, nine months ago when I’d met her in Vegas, I’d needed to fight the pull of her. I even went so far as to not be alone with her. Our banter had turned flirtatious, and I hadn’t trusted myself not to take that further and see how she’d respond to openly filthy.
My guess? She’d give it back in spades, and she’d do it with this same smug smile. Thus started the fantasy of wanting to plant her astride me and watch that smile turn into awe.
Jesus fuck, less than thirty minutes in her presence and I was already back to mentally getting her naked. Technically, I hadn’t even clapped eyes on her in person before my palms started itching to touch her. That shit started when I caught her on CCTV bopping down Boulevard Morazán.
Then reality hit. She was taking a stroll in one of the deadliest cities in the world. And something else had kicked in—the need to get her safe. Not just safe, but under my protection.
I couldn’t deny I was a man with a strong need to protect and serve, skills I’d spent my adult life honing and fine-tuning. However, that essential part of me had never extended to any one person—it had always been for the mission, for the greater good, for the men and women who served with me. But there was something about Catarina that kicked those instincts into hyperdrive.
The thought of her being in danger sent my blood pressure skyrocketing to unreasonable heights.
And that was why she was off limits.
The woman loved putting herself in danger.
The fuck of it was, nine months ago, I’d fallen in love with her. Then in an effort to do the right thing, to allow her to be who she was without me dragging her down, I walked away.
I had a feeling the second time around was going to be even harder.
Chapter Three
The struggle was real, but I managed to peel my gaze from Jack to the other three men in the room.
One of these men had to be Mia Keniston’s brother, Saint ‘Pete’ Young. My guess was the tallest one, who shared Mia’s brown hair and brown eyes, but more than that, they had the same high cheekbones. On Mia they looked striking, on Pete they looked chiseled.
I moved to the side where the men were standing and took my chances, offering my hand.
“I’m Catarina Keys. Saint, right?”
The man took my hand in a firm grip. No smile. Assessing gaze of a former Team Guy.
“Pete,” he corrected, offering his nickname. “Nice to meet you.”
When Pete released my hand, the man next to him lifted his in offering.
“Mason Hughes,” he introduced.
This man smiled and his grip wasn’t quite as firm. I’d bet he charmed the panties off many a woman with those green eyes and that mop of sandy-blond hair. But it was the devilish grin that stated plain he was up for a good time, however that good time came to be.
“Good to meet you.”
“Fallon Harris,” the last man greeted.
He was shorter than the others, but what he lacked in height—not that he wasn’t tall, just not as tall as the giants in the room—he made up for in width. The guy’s biceps looked larger than my waist, and his shoulders were so broad I wondered if he had to turn sideways to walk through a doorframe.
“Now that that’s out of the way,” Jack interjected, “let’s talk about why you’re here.”
I ignored Jack.
“Please excuse Mr. Supremely Bossy Pants. He seems to have forgotten his manners,” I told Fallon. “It’s good to meet you too.”
Fallon’s extremely large shoulders started shaking. “I think we have a winner.” He chuckled. “Mr. Bossy Pants just rolls right off the tongue.”
Jack made a rude sound, clearly not liking the nickname.
Oh well. That’s what he gets for snatching me off the street.
“Why. Are. You. Here?” Jack enunciated each word.
With a sigh, I turned to face him. Unfortunately, I forgot to brace for the wallop his good looks packed. Jack had the whole Henry Cavill thing going on—minus the cleft in the chin—with Ryan Gosling’s smile and the body of Mark Wahlberg circa his underwear modeling days. It was a mash-up that had a powerful effect on my lady parts.
“Why are you here?” I returned.
A dark brow lifted, and not even his clenched jaw could stop the muscle in his cheek from jumping.
I was trying his patience. It wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Jack found me exasperating. I found it fun to poke the beast.
When he didn’t answer, I matched his brow lift and added a hand to my hip.
“Why don’t we head back to the office? We can sit and talk this out,” Pete suggested.
“Or, we can stay here and see if they challenge each other to a duel at dawn. My money’s on Miss Catarina Keys. Something tells me she’s got some tricks up her sleeve,” Mason added as an alternative scenario.
“The only thing she has up her sleeve is my knife,” Jack huffed.
“Oh, ye of little faith. I see you still don’t trust that I know what I’m doing.”
“No, I think you know exactly what you’re doing. It’s your judgment I question.”
Ouch.
“Ah, right, now I remember.” I stopped to make a show of snapping my fingers. “It’s Jack’s way of thinking or it’s the wrong way of thinking.”
“My way of thinking doesn’t land you on some asshole’s lap, with his hand up your dress and his eyes on your tits,” Jack ground out. “Neither does it put you in a position of being forced to endure that fucker’s hands on you in the name of mission success.”
My body locked tight. Not at the familiar refrain but the vehemence behind it.
When I’d met Jack in Las Vegas, he worked for an outfit called Takeback. His team was being used as a force multiplier to take down a high-profile sex trafficker. After an eighteen-month joint investigation with the SOIB and FBI, we’d finally gotten a lock on Martin Jackson. For some reason, a man who’d managed to keep his name clean by using front men and women decided to come out of the shadows and throw a weekend-long, sick-as-fuck sexathon preview party in his hotel suite before he’d personally hosted an auction.
A weekend I had spent at his side while working undercover.
The part I’d never understood was that, at first, Jack didn’t make a peep about me going in with the sole purpose of catching Martin’s attention. Only after Martin took notice did he have a change of heart and start questioning the precautions I was taking and insisting on more safety protocols.
But it wasn’t until after we had verification that the auction was actually taking place that he lost his mind and demanded for me to stay behind.
I defied his order. Not that it was in his power to order me to do anything. Actually, I’d outranked him during that operation. My bosses at the SOIB had cleared me to attend; the Marshals Service tended to frown on sex-trafficking twats and had been counting on me to help the FBI and Takeback, to make sure no one left without a pair of metal bracelets.
All of that to say—I’d heard Jack’s opinion on my judgment before, but I’d never heard him express it with anger tinged with hurt.
“I had it under control,” I reminded him.
“Are you talking about Vegas?” Pete asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “Jack has a problem with my work ethic.”
“Is that what you call putting yourself in danger?”
I drew in a breath in an attempt to keep a handle on my temper.
“No, Jack, that’s what I call doing my job. I didn’t seek employment with the Marshals Service to sit behind a desk and sip coffee while gossiping with my workmates. I signed up for the fieldwork.” I waved my hand around the open space. “Which, just to point out, you yourself have a very similar job.”
The tight line of his body and his frown indicated I’d scored a hit with that, but I wasn’t done.
“Either you see me as an equal or you don’t. Either you trust me to know myself, my limitations, and believe I’m damn good at keeping myself safe, or you don’t. In other words, your thoughts on the matter are not my problem, they’re yours. Obviously, I’m here working, same as you. Your kidnapping stunt was amusing until it wasn’t. Now, I have an assignment to get back to. If someone would please take me back to my hotel so I can get on with my day, I’d appreciate it.”
When I was done, three men were staring at their boots, and one looked like his head was going to explode.
Any guesses on which one looked ready to have a coronary?
“You’re right, it’s not my business.”
Good Lord, that hurt.
I didn’t want it to, but it did, all the way down to that place I pretended didn’t exist. The place that Jack had occupied for a few weeks, until he’d made it clear I wasn’t who he wanted, then it went back to being empty.
“Great.” I fake smiled. “Anyone up for giving me a ride or should I walk?”
And where the hell did my backpack go? I’d been so caught off guard with the hooding, I’d lost track of everything else.
As if reading my mind, Jack tipped his head to the side. “You’re not gonna ask, are you?”
His cheap shot pissed me off; so much so, I lost my temper.
Jack was no farther away than the length of the three-seater couch that looked like it had been dragged in from the dump. That meant I didn’t have far to go before I was in his face, which was unfortunate, because the minimal distance hadn’t allowed me to get a lock on my anger.
I rolled up on my toes, slammed my palms on his chest, and angrily clipped, “What’s your problem?”
“Me?” he smoothly rumbled. “I’m not the one—”
“Cut the shit, Donovan.”
His hands came up, circled my wrists, and tugged me closer. Mere inches separated our mouths. So close I could feel his exhales dance across my lips. Closer than we’d ever been, yet still not close enough.
How was it possible I wanted to kick him in his balls and beg him to finally kiss me at the same time? Well, not the same time. I wanted to kick him in his balls first, then after I had that satisfaction, I wanted to beg him to kiss me.
“You drive me insane,” I spat.
“Welcome to my world, woman.”
“I think I’ve seen a few X-rated films start like this,” Mason mused.
“Only you would call porn a film,” Pete muttered.
