Code Name: Bikini Page 20

  His hand slid up her bare arm. “You need to understand that there’s danger involved. There will probably be surveillance that we don’t suspect.” His hand stopped. “If I had any choice, I wouldn’t ask you.”

  Gina already knew there would be risk. She wasn’t stupid. “I can live with that.”

  Meanwhile, there were other questions to be asked. “Does this involve our country? Is it a question of our security?”

  He frowned. “It’s important. That’s as much as I’m able to tell you.”

  “And there’s one man involved? Only one?”

  “In this case, one is more than enough.” Trace’s voice was grim. “He’s as dangerous as they come.”

  “Why?”

  Trace shook his head.

  “I don’t get a name or description, either?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t ask much do you? I pretend to be involved in a gritty affair and risk my neck for a reason I’ll never know, to fight a man I’ll never see.”

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  Gina looked at his calm eyes and her decision came far too fast. “When do we start?”

  Trace let out a slow breath. “Be certain. There’s no going back once this begins. Any change would be a clear tip-off.”

  “I’m sure.” She put one hand on his arm for emphasis, felt his muscles tense. The movement made her throat turn dry.

  She felt the flex and play of his sculpted muscles under her hand and his breath against her cheek. When had every sense become so acute, her body turning traitor to her mind?

  “I can handle the risks,” she snapped.

  “Can you? Can you stay detached, even if I’m touching you? Even if we’re kissing slow and wet?” His voice turned harsh. “And looking like we want to have blind, reckless sex on every possible surface every hour.”

  Oh, the image burned. White-hot, it drove right into her skull. Oh, yeah, she could look like that…without even trying.

  She could start right here, in fact. Maybe he was the one who’d have trouble staying detached.

  “I’m not sure I can trust you.”

  “I’m not sure you can, either.” His voice was harsh. “You twist my guts when you’re in the same room. I won’t be acting.” He made a flat, angry sound. “Around you everything seems too alive, too vivid. But we can’t cross the line. Sex—good sex—requires time and a commitment, neither of which I have.”

  Looking into his eyes, Gina saw his rough honesty and the deep code of ethics that he lived by. A little voice told her to run while she still could.

  A braver voice told her to take what time there was and forget about tomorrow.

  Even if he left her with nothing but memories and a broken heart.

  “Okay,” she rasped. “No crossing the line. Are you going to tell me how we do that? Because I sure as heck don’t have a clue.”

  A muscle moved at his jaw. “If it were just us, you’d be upstairs in my bed right now. You’d be sweaty, naked and exhausted.” His eyes were hot. “And I would just be getting started.”

  Desire crackled, filling the small space. Gina’s body flushed in hidden places. “You must be pretty good, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m good.” No false modesty. “With you, I’d be…unforgettable.” He muttered a curse. “You’re entitled to something better than a few nights, Gina. Meanwhile, I have a job to do, and I don’t intend to screw up. You understand?”

  She blocked a string of hot images and smiled crookedly. “Sure I understand. Love Boat in the corridor, Leave it to Beaver once the door is closed.”

  He didn’t smile. “That’s the playbook. It has to be. Can you stay calm and be convincing, even if things turn messy?”

  Oh, she could be convincing. It would be as easy as breathing. Gina decided to prove it. “Like this, you mean?”

  She gripped his shoulders and moved in fast, before he could answer. Just one hot kiss, she thought. That would be proof enough.

  But when she pulled his head down, her eyes closed and her heart fluttered. She skimmed his mouth and then bit his lower lip, her tongue wrapped around his.

  He made a harsh sound.

  As his hands tightened on her hair, she smoothed the small bite with her tongue, tasting his mouth while the kiss turned hot, veering to the edge of control.

  Dangerous, she thought. And perfect.

  Trace didn’t move, feeling the top of his head go up in flames. The woman was sleek and stubborn, and one touch had him tied up in knots.

  But with Cruz in the equation, there was no room for distraction or mistakes. So he leaned back and kept his expression cool, hiding the fact that this woman might just have torn out his heart.

  “Not bad, Ryan.”

  She pulled away, hands on her hips. Color burned across her cheeks. “Not bad?” Her breath came in short, angry jerks. “Why don’t you take your mission plans and shove them up a small, dark place?”

  Definitely steamed, Trace thought. “No need to shout. The kiss was perfect,” he said roughly. “You know it and I know it.” He cupped her hips, pulling her closer until they were thigh to thigh, heat against heat. “I’d like to take you right here, naked against this wall. It would be the best sex you or I ever had, honey, because I’d make damn sure of that. It would be wet and noisy and we’d both come out of here changed people.”

  He felt her shiver.

  “Then why are we wasting time with talk?” The question was low, almost unwilling. She met his gaze with fierce honesty.

  No coyness. No evasions.

  Trace shook his head tensely. “Shouldn’t. Can’t. Won’t. End of story.”

  He only wished it were that simple. Wished he could stop smelling her faint perfume and dreaming about her slim, strong legs wrapped around him as she took him deep inside her.

  He wanted to hear her first moan as he drove her over the edge in passion. He wanted to watch her as he sent her up again before the first climax had ended.

  No, for him this wouldn’t be a performance at all.

  Because she seemed too calm, he ran his hands over the rise of her breasts, pleased when he felt the crests tighten instantly. His thumbs moved slowly back and forth until her breath caught.

  But he forced himself to stop, to lower his arms as if he had touched a brick wall rather than a living, breathing, infinitely desirable woman. Irritated by his need, he gestured toward the door. “Let’s go. I don’t want to leave Tobias alone.”

  Her eyes darkened. She seemed to jolt down to earth the second he said her friend’s name. “Tobias,” she whispered. “Right. We—we should go.”

  Trace watched her fumble with her hair, vainly trying to smooth the tangles left from their hot grappling. Her jerky movements amused even as they seduced him. There was no reason for him to be so enchanted. There was no excuse for feeling so dangerously moved.

  Except that she filled some hole, some dark space he’d never allowed himself to acknowledge before.

  Was that part of the magic?

  The SEAL took a slow, hard breath. He was prepared to push his emotions deep, where they wouldn’t threaten his mission. But for one moment he didn’t move, savoring the sight of her flushed face and clearly aroused nipples beneath her shirt.

  Simple, yet stunning. The woman he’d wanted forever, without knowing it. He’d never have enough of seeing her aroused this way, her eyes dark with passion.

  He looked away. Cursed mentally. Counted to five.

  When he turned back, she was trying to brush her hair out of her face. Every motion outlined the perfect curve of her breasts, trembling and tight against her white cotton T-shirt.

  Kill me now, Trace thought.

  But he couldn’t drag his gaze away.

  Tugging her hands anxiously through her hair, she glared back at him. “What? Why are you staring at me like that? Is there lettuce between my teeth?”

  She had a small streak of chocolate beneath her left ear. Trace had wanted to lick it away
the moment he’d seen her thirty minutes before. He thought about how he’d make her come just by the touch of his hands and the slide of his tongue.

  Hell.

  Sheer lust had never left him so out of balance, with his control shredding. Yet as he stared at her, something hot and possessive gripped his chest. He recognized the lust without a problem. He had felt it before, for women he had forgotten an hour later.

  He’d never forget this woman.

  Now his lust was mixed with other emotions he had never felt before. Deep and confusing, they wrapped him up in a way he had never felt before. He felt a dangerous tenderness, a bone-deep urgency to protect her from harm, and beneath both a primal need to claim and possess. The force of those feelings infuriated him.

  He moved away, keeping his face blank. “Tell me about Tobias.”

  “He never talks about his past or family or any of the things he did before he came here, but we all know it was something important.” Her eyes clouded. “If a man as strong as Tobias can be hurt, then God help the rest of us.”

  Trace thought that she was just as strong and resourceful as Tobias in her own way, but all he did was shake his head. “Everyone has weak spots.”

  “I doubt that you do.”

  He never had before he’d met her. She had become his only point of vulnerability. God help them if Cruz discovered that. “In my line of work, weak spots are a definite negative.”

  “What exactly is your line of work?”

  “This and that. Here and there.”

  “So it’s classified. I’m glad. If you’re that good, you’ll keep Tobias safe.” Her hands smoothed her T-shirt. “I’ll do whatever you need.”

  Another man might have found an excuse to take advantage of that promise, but the temptation never entered Trace’s mind. He tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, skimmed his hand around the neckline of her T-shirt to slip the label back inside. When his hand moved lower, her breath caught in a sigh.

  She looked away, bit her lip. “Maybe—you should stop. No one is watching us now.”

  He wanted to take all day. He wanted to watch more color flare into her cheeks. This was another thing Cruz had taken away from him.

  He smoothed the shoulders of her T-shirt and stepped back. “I need food.” His voice was harsh. So much for this being a performance. “Why don’t you give me some kind of dessert for Tobias? When I deliver it, I can have a closer look at his office and go over preparations for forced access.” He wouldn’t give her more details than this.

  She nodded slowly. “I can do that. His éclairs were still on the counter when we left.”

  She turned. Her shirt was straightened, her hair now sleek and tidy. She looked every inch the cool professional. “How do I look?”

  “Good enough for me to eat.” His voice was hard. “Very slowly.”

  There was the heat, flaring into her cheeks.

  Another time, Trace thought.

  With luck when this was over…

  He pushed the thought away. There was only now. Only the mission. Distractions got you killed.

  Enrique Cruz had to be stopped for good. Twice before the man had escaped death against impossible odds, walking out unharmed.

  No matter the cost, Cruz couldn’t escape again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  TOBIAS HALE FINISHED his paperwork.

  On the wall to his right, a false piece of plaster hid a fireproof safe. He should have been thinking about that safe and the precious technology hidden inside it. The package had to be dropped off in Puerto Vallarta when the ship docked. Until then, he was an uneasy babysitter, and Trace O’Halloran’s warning had hit him hard. So much for the easy, uneventful trip that Lloyd Ryker had promised.

  He checked his e-mail. Then he crossed his hands tightly. Closing his eyes, he felt the weight of his past press down like a moving tank.

  His life had held memories of too many hard decisions. The past came back to mock him now with choices made and roads not taken. At the time his choice to walk away had seemed the only way to protect those he loved.

  Tobias had regretted that decision every day of his life for the past seventeen years. Yet he knew he would do it all again.

  Two pictures rested against the wall at the corner of his desk. Gently, he lifted the closer one, the same way he had done every day for almost two decades.

  A slender, anxious boy stared into the camera. One hand gripped the old-fashioned bicycle he had just purchased with hard-earned savings. That day, rich with the drone of cicadas under a hot, hazy sky, was as clear to Tobias as yesterday. He closed his eyes, ran one hand over his face.

  Too many regrets.

  There had been another person there that day. Shining black eyes. A strong, slender body and capable hands.

  A kiss that could drop a man to his knees.

  The boy’s mother had opposed the bicycle, determined that every precious penny go toward college. It was the only time Tobias had disagreed with her on anything important. A boy was entitled to a bicycle, he had argued. The happiness flaring across his son’s face had convinced him it was the right decision.

  Two weeks later, everything had crashed down around him. His career. His wife’s respect. His son’s love.

  All destroyed by unscrupulous men caught in their hunger for money and power.

  Old news, Tobias thought wearily. He rested the photograph back on the corner of his desk, staring at the face of his son seventeen long years past.

  Too many regrets.

  Too many secrets.

  He turned slowly in his chair, his eyes bleak. His hand moved toward the telephone, dialing the number that he had long ago committed to memory.

  He stopped before he finished the area code. There was no point in doing more because there was no way to go back.

  Maybe it was fair that someone was targeting him now. But he didn’t want anyone else caught in the crossfire. Not Gina, not her tough naval officer. Not anyone aboard the ship.

  He stiffened as the phone on his desk rang shrilly.

  He glanced at the number, noted the unfamiliar area code and was tempted to ignore it.

  But Tobias had been a professional too many years to ignore his duty now. He took a deep breath, swept up the phone. “Security.”

  Static crackled.

  “Hello?”

  He heard a click, as if the phone call had been routed.

  And then the voice swirling out of the past. Deeper than he expected. Cool and hard and professional. The sound brought pleasure and unbearable pain—along with a jolt of immense pride.

  “I’ll be coming aboard tomorrow. I’ll be with the first group on deck in Puerto Vallarta. We’ll meet in your office at 1100 hours.”

  “Who is this?” Tobias had to ask. He had to hear the words.

  “You know damn well who this is.”

  His hand closed on one of the cold picture frames. He saw the boy the way he’d once been, full of hope and love, standing with a used bicycle that might have been a rare treasure made of gold. “Say it. Say the words.”

  “Still giving orders?” The tough voice cut like cold steel. “Too bad for you that I stopped listening years ago. So let’s get one thing straight. This is business, pure and simple. I’ll do what I have to do, and then I’ll leave. Don’t read anything into it because I’m not your son, and you’re definitely not my damned father.” The phone slammed down.

  Ishmael Teague.

  Once Ishmael Hale, before he’d taken his mother’s maiden name in a move that had severed the last strand of connection between them.

  Tobias didn’t move. He felt a sharp, burning pain at his chest. He forced himself to relax, to take steady, controlled breaths. He needed his work more than ever now. Without it he would go right over the edge.

  He and Gina were alike that way.

  So he sat in his desk chair, working to stay calm. Finally he succeeded.

  Years before he had been assigned to work a m
ob-connected case in Hollywood for the FBI, and his cover had been as a stuntman. He’d been damn good at the job, too, Tobias thought. One day, after a grueling scene in which he’d been dragged by a runaway horse, he caught the attention of the Duke himself. John Wayne had leaned back in his lanky way, stretching long legs in front of him. Tobias could never remember the exact words, but the message had been clear.

  If you have a choice, die in the saddle.

  It was advice Tobias meant to take seriously. It had prompted him to help Gina and buy her some time.

  He glanced down at the pictures on his desk, shoving away all the pain and cold regrets.

  He damn well wasn’t going to go out any sooner than he had to. Meanwhile, he had the safe to recheck and a call to make to Lloyd Ryker in New Mexico. After that there was a stubborn witness waiting to be interviewed in the infirmary.

  IZZY TEAGUE STARED DOWN at the neatly sorted papers, the carefully chosen ammunition next to maps of coastal Mexico, all stacked in water-tight bags on his desk. His eyes were as cold as the memories that flooded over him from a past that had finally stopped waking him up at night.

  His first sleep-away camp.

  His first bicycle.

  His first fishing trip.

  His hands clenched as he bit off a curse.

  Old news. He wasn’t going to waste his time in a tearful trip down memory lane.

  He had no regrets. On a bright summer day in August his father had packed his bag and left without an explanation or a backward glance. That same day Izzy had learned the price of letting anyone get too close.

  He had never made that mistake again.

  His mother hadn’t remarried. Stubborn and energetic every day of her life, she had made a lonely, outcast boy feel loved and valued when he was too smart or too fast—or too black—to fit in.

  Izzy didn’t miss his father. Only a bastard would walk out and leave his family flat, without one letter or phone call in the years that followed. Izzy figured he was better off without that man in his life.

  Now fate was tossing them together again.

  He pushed back his chair, shouldered his single travel bag and flipped off his office lights. Lloyd Ryker had apologized when he brought up the mission. Agents had no business dealing with family, he had explained. Emotions clouded judgment, brought conflicts of interest and forced painful choices.