Code Name: Bundle! Page 9

  Miki rolled her eyes. “Who said anything about life? I’m talking about one night here. Limited, conditional insanity, then everything goes back to normal.”

  “Can we just forget about this?”

  “You can’t turn your back on a chance like this.” Miki stretched on her inflatable orange raft. “I’m not suggesting you get married, or even involved. You just need to go with the flow. Pick out a man you like, a man who makes you laugh. Then go have some great sex.”

  The problem was, Kit couldn’t remember the last time a man had made her laugh. For that matter, she didn’t have a clue about initiating no-holds-barred monkey sex. Her few experiences had been forgettable as opposed to mind-blowing.

  “That is a ridiculous idea.”

  Miki made a disgusted sound. “Listen closely, because I’m only saying this once. You wear white cotton underwear from Kmart. This morning when you got here, you had dog barf all over your jacket. I don’t think I’m going out on a limb when I tell you this is not the best way to get a man interested.”

  Kit watched sunlight glint across the water. “I can’t change who I am, Miki.”

  “I’m not suggesting that you change. I’m telling you to loosen up and go beyond your comfort zone for once.”

  Kit smiled just a little. “So you think the dog barf tends to put a man off his game?”

  Miki drew lazy circles in the water with her finger. “I’ve known some Neanderthals who wouldn’t have slowed down if the dog bit them. You know the type.”

  Kit shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t want to discuss her knowledge of men, mainly because there was so little of it. “Let’s talk about you instead.”

  “No way.” Miki wriggled again and loosened her swimsuit top. “Today we focus on you. This is your life, Kit O’Halloran.” She stared narrowly at Kit. “What’s going on with your leg? Why do you wince when you crouch down to pet the dogs?”

  “You’re imagining things.”

  “Like hell I am.”

  “How about we change the subject?”

  Her friend paddled closer and splashed water in Kit’s face. “Fine, we can move on. We can talk about why Wolfe is here. Maybe he’s always been more interested than you thought.”

  Not likely. Kit was invisible where Wolfe was concerned. They were in two different universes. And that was probably just as well, because a man like Wolfe was trouble with a neon T. “He said Trace told him to check in on me. There’s nothing deep or mysterious about it.”

  Miki’s eyes narrowed. “Do you want there to be?”

  “Makes no difference to me,” Kit snapped. Miki saw too darned much, she decided. That was the problem with best friends. “Can we change the subject now?”

  “Why? This is just getting good. So Wolfe strolls back into your life with a lame story that my eight-year-old nephew could top and you believe him? I’d say there’s a lot more to this whole thing.” Miki stared off at the horizon. “Funny how Wolfe always seemed to show up when you were trying to be adventurous.”

  Kit paddled slowly around the pool. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that Wolfe may consider himself some kind of guardian. After all, he caught Calvin Henderson trying to take off your bra in the ninth grade. He broke up your little party with Jeff Morrison in the back seat of his father’s ’82 Mustang the day after Christmas.”

  Kit squirmed uncomfortably at the memories. She wondered why Wolfe seemed to figure in all the most awkward and embarrassing moments of her life. Thank God he was usually off in some foreign country, doing spooky, dangerous things like her brother did.

  “You’re reading too much into this, Miki.”

  “Like hell I am. I am right on the nail about this. It’s time you cut through this whole protector routine of Wolfe’s.” There was a glint in Miki’s eyes. “We’re going to need good tools, of course.”

  Kit groaned mentally. Sometimes best friends were a real pain in the butt.

  “I’d say some chocolate body paint and a bikini wax should get things started nicely. And tomorrow I’m taking you shopping so you can get some real lingerie, and it won’t come in basic white cotton either.”

  “What’s wrong with Kmart? I like their stuff just fine. And I don’t want a bikini wax. I don’t even want to think about a razor going…there.”

  Miki gave a long-suffering sigh. “Will you please get with the program? It’s time you channeled your inner Cosmo woman. Tomorrow we’re starting from scratch at Victoria’s Secret. Push-up bras and crocheted thongs, here we come.”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Kit muttered. On the other hand, playing safe had gotten her exactly nowhere in the relationship department.

  Not that she was looking for a long-term relationship, or any other kind of emotional involvement. All she wanted was to find out what she’d missed all these years, and in the process to wipe Wolfe out of her system for good.

  Maybe Miki was onto something here.

  “There’s a Victoria’s Secret in Santa Fe?”

  “You bet. And you’re looking at one of their charter shoppers. I happen to have their credit card in three different colors.”

  Kit sighed. She still had her doubts about this plan of Miki’s. But since her life was tanking pretty fast on its own, she decided some hot lingerie therapy couldn’t make matters any worse.

  But she was drawing the line at a bikini wax.

  CHAPTER TEN

  HE DIDN’T WANT to be hearing any of this.

  He didn’t even want to be thinking about it.

  Hidden on the other side of the adobe wall, wedged between a cholla cactus and a cottonwood tree, Wolfe could hear every word Kit and Miki said. The wind had died down and the sky bled from pink to purple as day faded gracefully into twilight. Stretched out on the ground, he adjusted the microphone at his ear and frowned. He’d meant to check on Kit’s plans for the day to map out appropriate surveillance. But he hadn’t expected to hear his own name come up. Especially not in connection with sex.

  What the hell was Miki getting at, telling Kit to buy chocolate body paint? And telling her to get a bikini wax—whatever that was. Wolfe scowled. He’d been out of the mainstream for a while, but a man still had his imagination. And how had his name gotten tossed into the middle of the damn conversation?

  He was pretty sure Miki was the problem. Her outrageous suggestions were definitely not helping matters.

  Irritated, he watched the dogs run in the back yard, while the past pressed down on him like cold stones. He’d spent three years of high school growing up at the O’Hallorans’ house after his mother had left. During those years he’d become pretty close with Kit’s family. She was practically a sister after that, and you just didn’t think about your sister naked. As for the rest—the thing about her and that dork in the back of his father’s Mustang—Wolfe had simply been doing what any brother would do. When he’d read the vibes, he’d snuck up on the car and found the jerk trying to push past Kit’s defenses and get into her pants.

  Wolfe had seen red. In a haze of fury, he’d yanked open the car door and tossed Bozo-brains out onto the driveway. Kit had been shocked and trembling when she stumbled out of the car, her blouse torn and her face pale. If Wolfe had had his way, he would have wiped Lover Boy across the hood of the Mustang a few times, just to be sure he got the message.

  Only the abject embarrassment on Kit’s face had stopped him.

  Didn’t she know she was worth a lot more than a kid who had only one thing on his mind?

  He had never mentioned the episode to Trace. He figured he would spare Kit the added embarrassment of her brother’s questions. Because Trace was absorbed in repairing a beat-up Chevy at the time, Wolfe had made it his business to keep an eye on Kit and who she was hanging around with during that long, hot summer.

  His concern was purely that of a surrogate brother, of course.

  Crouching in the tall grass, he surveyed the wash behind Miki’s sprawling back yard. He didn�
��t know why in hell he was suddenly dredging up the past. For years he had managed to push the memories out of his mind.

  On the other side of the fence, Kit and her friend were arguing—not angrily, but in a comfortable way. They were also speaking some kind of strange female shorthand he didn’t understand.

  Not surprising. Wolfe didn’t spend a lot of time around women these days. It had been months since he’d spent a quiet afternoon with a woman just talking or laughing or arguing about movies, baseball and the state of the world economy.

  He heard Miki laugh. Water splashed and then he heard Kit roll off her float. Water rained over the wall above him.

  What the heck were they doing in there?

  He heard a breathless shout. As he sat up, going for his gun, something flew over his head. Whatever it was hit a cottonwood tree, rolled twice, and drifted down onto the spiny arms of the cholla.

  Blue and white stripes. Nylon.

  A bikini top. A tiny bikini top that curved suggestively around a cactus arm.

  He glowered at the cloth dripping water a few feet away and tried not to imagine smooth, wet skin revealed without the bikini top. It had been too long since he’d laughed with a woman, then undressed her slowly and—

  Never let it get personal.

  Ryker’s first training rule burned through Wolfe’s mind as he stared at the fabric fluttering in the wind. The bright blue stripes seemed to mock him.

  Across the wall, one of the dogs barked sharply. Baby. Already Wolfe had begun to distinguish their barks—Diesel’s excited and fast, Butch and Sundance sounding very similar, both lower-pitched. Baby’s tone was always short and insistent as if she knew she ruled the pack, but her barks usually ended in a vulnerable little sneeze.

  He shook his head. If his Foxfire teammates saw him bonding with a bunch of puppies, his reputation would be shot to hell. Everyone knew that being soft got you killed. The only question was how long it took.

  Wolfe clenched his jaw, remembering Ryker’s Rule #2.

  Never forget that you’re different.

  He rubbed the small lump on his right shoulder, a personal memento of a pre-dawn ambush in Malaysia. The fracture had been serious, knocking him off duty for six months. Even now it kicked up occasionally when the weather was about to change.

  But the pain had a purpose. It reminded him that being careful was the only way to stay alive.

  He remembered the sudden shouts that night, followed by curses as the targets realized they were being hunted. Trace had been hit by a grenade fragment and Wolfe had carried him out on his back, despite the fractured shoulder and pain that left him staggering.

  A supercilious government observer had overridden the team’s usual requirement of secondary surveillance. After satellite intel and local informants had confirmed a safe L.Z., Wolfe had okayed the jump. But they had been attacked at the landing strip, four of their local village support team dying in the crossfire. Two of Wolfe’s team had been wounded, including Trace.

  Now he knew there were only three things you could trust in life. Yourself, your team, and the probability of fungus where you least wanted it.

  From his elevated vantage point, he was able to study every corner of Miki’s back yard. Judging by the noise, the dogs were chasing butterflies and Kit and Miki were swimming laps, arguing between every stroke. Wolfe heard something about belly dancing classes—or it might have been belly button piercing. How the hell was he supposed to maintain a secure perimeter and optimum response time when the two crazy females remained highly visible and noisy targets?

  So he did what he did best. Staring at the adobe wall, he let the noise slide away, concentrating on Kit and Miki. Breathing deeply, he locked on their energy drift exactly as he had been trained to do, holding the contact, letting the fragile threads become a steel cord, growing tighter and tighter while he built a rich 3D image in his mind and then shot it out into his target area.

  Sweat raced down his face.

  Burning hot. Terrible, blazing thirst. Going inside…

  He pulled at the steel cord, molding the tangible heat in his mind. Then he drove it out into their direction.

  Thirty seconds.

  Ninety. He had to watch the time. Had to remember contact boundaries. Too long and he’d tap out, maybe to unconsciousness. Even now the process still had variables that Ryker and his experts hadn’t been able to pin down.

  On the other side of the fence, water splashed loudly. “Damn, it’s hot out here all of a sudden.” It was Miki, sounding irritable.

  “No kidding. I could swear it’s gotten ten degrees warmer.”

  “Why don’t we go inside and watch a movie? Maybe Jet Li in Hero.” Water sloshed and footsteps slapped along the lawn behind the wall.

  “Okay, but I’ve got to go see Diesel soon.” Kit sounded breathless. Wolfe saw her climb out of the water and pull on her bikini top, red flowers on top of smooth tanned skin. Even though he instinctively looked away, the memory of her skin burned his eyes and twisted his gut.

  Miki trotted across the courtyard toward the house. “You take the shower first, Kit. I’m cranking up Jet Li. That man can manipulate my energy zones anytime he wants.” Miki stopped suddenly. “I guess I should go get my top.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Wolfe saw the blue-and-white cloth fluttering on the cactus. He held an image in his mind, shaping it to one clear word.

  Later.

  Miki stared at the back fence and then shrugged. “No, I’ll get it later.”

  Wolfe reinforced the thought. The focus was becoming harder to maintain, pulling on his reserves. Working multiple subjects was always harder.

  “Do it later,” Kit said, sounding tired. “Baby, what’s wrong? Where are you going, Butch?”

  Wolfe heard a rustle on the other side of the wall, followed by a soft growl. The dogs had detected him and his maneuver.

  He didn’t move, pulling in his energy until he was invisible.

  Wind raced down the mountain. The cottonwood leaves above his head danced like golden coins. Baby sneezed twice, and Wolfe heard her race back across the lawn.

  “Do you think she heard something out there? Baby, what’s wrong?” Kit said sharply.

  The dog kept right on running, up the stairs and across the back porch.

  “Forget about the dogs, will you? Let’s go in. It’s too damned hot out here to think.” Miki shrugged a towel around her shoulders, motioning to Kit.

  The other two dogs raced along the grass beyond the fence. “Let’s go,” Kit called. “Everybody inside.” The door closed with a snap.

  Wolfe looked down and forced his body to relax, surprised that it never got easier. There was always disorientation when you finished, always a price that you paid for messing with Mother Nature.

  He ignored the tension at his neck and the sweat streaking his body. Even now, after five years, the mental process still felt strange, powerful and very unnatural.

  He left the philosophy and science of it to the tech team at Foxfire. Otherwise there were too many questions that only led to more questions. Right now he had a perimeter survey to complete. Then he needed to check Diesel’s medical status with the operative in place outside the clinic in Santa Fe.

  MIKI LOOKED the way she always did—vibrant and striking in three shades of red and orange. Her current fashion statement was an old pair of cropped jeans and a neon Hawaiian print shirt unbuttoned over a lace camisole.

  Somehow on her six-foot frame the look worked perfectly.

  She crumpled an empty cardboard milk carton and tossed it in a perfect arc, hitting a garbage can shaped like a coyote. “So we’re at the movies. Jackie Chan is into perfect southern kung fu moves. Then the jerk I’m with goes for his zipper. And I’m supposed to be thrilled. What was he thinking?”

  “About getting you into bed,” Kit murmured. “Men do that a lot.”

  Miki went on as if she hadn’t heard, trying to demonstrate a kung fu kick and nearly hitting Ba
by in the head. “Sorry, honey.” Crouching, she smoothed Baby’s fur. “Bad Miki.”

  The puppy closed her eyes and rolled over, luxuriating in the attention. Seconds later Butch and Sundance crowded in, determined to get their share. Laughing, Miki stretched out on the floor and played dead, while all three dogs huddled around her, licking her face.

  “What’s the word on Diesel?”

  “So far Liz hasn’t found anything concrete. She’s still waiting for blood test results.”

  Miki stood up. “Don’t worry. It’s going to work out fine. You’ve got great dogs here.” She sniffed the air. “I think the lasagna’s ready.”

  A pink teapot threatened to topple as Miki swung past, and Kit caught it quickly. She had always assumed that Miki would outgrow the occasional clumsiness that struck the summer she grew four inches, but it hadn’t happened. As a result, Kit had grown adept at rescuing ceramics and stemware from sudden death in her friend’s wake.

  Miki bent low, digging in the back of her refrigerator. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that thing you do—following me around and rescuing stuff when you think I’m not looking. It’s annoying.” Miki made an irritated sound. “I have nightmares that I’m going to break something really important one day. Where was I when they were handing out the coordination genes?” She shook her head, pushing a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes. “Don’t answer that question.”

  As she walked to the sink, Miki glanced across the back wall.

  “Why do you keep looking out there?” Kit followed her friend’s gaze, but saw nothing.

  “I could swear something moved in those piñon trees beyond the wash. Probably my imagination.” She wrapped a set of silverware in a napkin and tossed it to Kit. “Let’s eat. Then I think you should try calling the ranch. Wolfe will be wondering what happened to you.”

  Kit rolled her eyes. “I doubt the man has paid me a second thought.”

  AS WOLFE MADE HIS third surveillance trip around Miki’s house, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.