Wendy Etherington - A Breath Away

He smiled, his gaze locking with hers. “Aren’t we?”

As he rose and started toward her, she froze. She ordered her feet to move, but they didn’t. The look in his eyes needed no explanation as to his intent, and though the professional remained lurking inside her—the one usually front and center—the desire rolling through her body was overwhelming her instincts.

When he stopped in front of her, he cupped her cheek in his hand and angled her face toward him. “If you’re going to shoot, shoot to kill, because I’m not backing away.”

Then his lips were on hers, persuasive and demanding, but still soft. Her heartbeat accelerated as he slid his tongue inside her mouth, drawing her more deeply beneath his spell, causing the final vestiges of restraint to fall away.

She pressed her body against his, molding herself to the hard planes of his chest, his hardened penis against her stomach. Desire pooled between her legs.

Inhaling the scent of his expensive cologne, she let him lead her to hunger and need, to fan the flames of their attraction and send the temperature from simmering to red-hot.

He was a virtual stranger, not to mention a client, and she watched herself from a distance, not really believing she was touching him and letting him touch her in return. She felt energized in his arms. And exhilarated. And safe.

It was the thought of safety that brought reality crashing back.

She was supposed to be protecting him. She was supposed to solve his case, help him get his life back under control, then send him on his way.

She wrenched herself out of his arms. Breathing hard, she held out her hand. “We can’t do this.”

He grabbed her hand and jerked her against him. “I sure as hell don’t see any reasons not to.”

“Sure you do. You’re just ignoring them.”

“Sex releases tension.”

“Sex complicates.”

“You don’t like complications?”

“No, and I don’t have sex with clients.”

“Is that a hard and fast rule, or just a guideline?”

She braced her feet apart and glared at him. “Don’t make me prove I can take you down anytime I want to, Tremaine.”

“Back to last names, are we? Maybe I should prove how quickly I can have you moaning—even screaming—my name.”

“Dream on.”

“How about I demonstrate instead?”

Bang, bang, bang.

They jumped apart and darted toward the door.

“Room service!” came the cry from the hall.

Jade had her Beretta in her hand as she positioned herself against the wall next to the door. “You order anything?”

“No.”

Her client had drawn a small pistol—from his ankle holster, no doubt—and took his place behind her. “Surely I’m not being stalked by someone with bad aim and a complete absence of originality. Room service,” he added in disgust.

Jade silently agreed, though she was pretty sure she recognized their waiter’s voice. She peered through the peephole and did, indeed, see David Washington and Mo Leger. They waved.

Stifling an eye roll, she said, “They’re mine,” then holstered her weapon and opened the door.

“Hey, boss,” David said, saluting. Tan, handsome and lean, his six-foot-six body was way too long for the waiter’s uniform he wore.

Mo—every bit as tall, plus considerably heavier and darker—pushed a white-tablecloth-covered cart into the suite. He’d opted for a maintenance man’s gray jumpsuit. “You might wanna hold back lookin’ through the peephole, Chief. We coulda blasted you.”

“I recognized your voice,” Jade said with a trace of annoyance. Because of their sense of timing? She didn’t want to go there.

She supposed it was too much to expect these two to stop treating their cases like elaborate games. But of course, to men like David and Mo—and probably Remington Tremaine, as well—chasing the bad guys was a game. One they played with deadly seriousness at times, but one they still found humor and enjoyment in.

She wished she could say she still had fun. Somewhere she’d lost the fire and passion, though she never considered doing anything else. It was all she knew and all she had.

After she made introductions among the men, David asked Tremaine, “So, you’re NSA?”

When Tremaine hesitated to confirm, Jade said, “If you want our help, my people have to have information. I told them what was in your dossier.”

“What little you have?”

“Keep it up, Mr. Fancy-art-dealer, and I’ll find your would be assassin just so I can swear my allegiance to him.”

Mo and David gave her strange looks—she couldn’t recall a time they’d seen her banter with a client—so before their curiosity got the best of them, she said, “His trouble isn’t about a case. It’s about his former profession.”

Hell, she’d kissed the man and guilt—or attraction or weakness—already had her glossing over the fact that he used to take other people’s stuff for a living.

“Sit down, and I’ll fill you in,” she added.

“Over breakfast,” David said.

Jade glanced at the cart. “You brought food?”

Mo and David exchanged smiles. “Among other things.”

OTHER THINGS turned out to be computers, surveillance equipment and instruments Remy couldn’t begin to identify.

He was only marginally competent with computers, but he certainly recognized the weapons, ammunition clips, binoculars and communications devices—including headsets, microphones, cameras and bugs. But there were also black boxes that lit up or emitted a series of beeps, a control that looked suspiciously like a detonator and handheld wands that might be lasers.

If somebody had told him he was going to learn to swing a light saber, he wouldn’t have been surprised in the least.

While he used technology to his advantage on occasion, his strength was his ability to get personal, to read body language, to discern the significance of expressions and reactions. He liked touching things and people. Reading an electronic gauge or tracking some blip on a radar screen held no appeal for him.

Mo, however, was clearly in his element. As he checked out the information on the disk Remy had provided, his walnut-colored hands commanded a laptop keyboard the way the best teenage techno-geek could only dream of doing. Since he was extremely fierce-looking, the thought of him as a geek made Remy smile.

Remy’s amusement faded when his gaze slid to Jade, leaning over David’s shoulder as she pointed to one of the mysterious black boxes on the dining room table. His attraction—correction, his overwhelming need—was interfering with the case. As much as he’d looked forward to finally meeting her, he hadn’t anticipated that complication.

This case was about his life. And while there were many people who couldn’t care less, he certainly placed a high value on his own skin.

But when he was near her, he forgot about the shooting and old scores and professionalism and rules—though he was admittedly never big on those, anyway. She made him forget his goals and purpose, something no one had done for a long, long time.

“You could run a small war from this room,” he said in an effort to focus on the business at hand.

Jade glanced over her shoulder. Those intense green eyes focused briefly on his face. “We are. The bad guys want to take you out. We’re not going to let them.”

Direct. To the point. Where he knew the situation had layers of problems and complications—admittedly ones he hadn’t completely shared with her—she broke things down to their most basic pieces. “Do you always see things so simply?”

“Mostly. I have a simple job.”

He indicated the technology-strewn table with a sweep of his hand. “Seems pretty complex to me.”