Melinda Di Lorenzo - Undercover Refuge

She rolled her eyes. “Right. I’ll just steal your not-really-a-truck truck, and I’ll be on my way.”

“You assumed I was an assassin. I don’t think suggesting you might commit a crime of opportunity is on the same level.”

“You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

“Probably not,” he admitted. “Come closer.”

She started to tell him she didn’t think she could get closer—there was barely breathing room as it was—but he made the first move anyway. He dropped to a crouch, threaded his fingers together at knee level, then cleared his throat and looked up expectantly.

“Step up, bend a bit, put your hand on my shoulder, and let me know when you’re stable,” he told her.

Alessandra only hesitated for a second before lifting a foot and pressing it into his hands. She took another moment to put her hand on his back, though. It seemed more personal. More intimate. And unsurprisingly, when she did touch finally touch him, he was rock solid.

And warm.

She shook off the too-pleased voice in her head and pushed up from the ground. She expected at least some give, but his palms didn’t move.

“You good?” he asked with no sign of strain in his voice.

“I’m up,” she confirmed.

“Okay,” he replied. “Move your other hand to the side of hole. Make sure it’s firm, but keep your hand loose enough that you can let your fingers crawl up as I hoist you.”

“You’re going to hoist me?” She didn’t know why she sounded so surprised.

“That’s generally what happens when someone gives someone else a boost,” he said drily.

“Right,” she muttered. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“I think I can get you high enough that you should be able to rest your elbows on the ground above us. Put a knee or a foot on my shoulder if you have to.”

“All right.”

“Here we go.” He pushed her up, slowly but easily. “Hey, Red?”

“Yes?”

“I forgot to ask you...what’s your real name?”

She started to answer him, but a familiar, masculine voice from overhead beat her to it.

“Alessandra,” it announced.

And it startled her so badly that she wobbled, then tumbled straight back down into the truck driver’s arms.

Hearing his boss answer the question from above nearly made Rush drop the redhead— Alessandra, he told himself — straight to the ground. At the last second, he managed to stick his arms out to snatch her from the air. Her body hit his hard enough that he stumbled back and let out an “Oof!” and the noise earned an echoing chuckle from Jesse Garibaldi.

Rush was just glad that the other man was too far up to see his expression. He was sure the wave of displeasure and unease that hit him at the man’s unexpected appearance had slipped past his usual mask. As he worked to get the carefully indifferent look back in place, he realized a little belatedly that while Garibaldi might not have spied the look, the woman in his arms definitely had. Her expression told him as much. It was easy to see the curiosity in her baby blues. Easy to read the question on her partially parted lips. She was looking right at him, far too interested for comfort’s sake.

And she knows Jesse Garibaldi.

That changed everything. Even if Rush couldn’t really say what “everything” meant to start out with. It was enough to make his mouth set into a thin line, and he eased her to ground, then directed his attention up, speaking in the gruff, slightly angry voice he knew Garibaldi would expect.

“You just gonna stand up there and laugh at me, boss?” he called without looking up. “Or send down some help?”

“What?” Jesse replied. “Looked like you were doing fine without me.”

“Then why the hell are you here?”

“Hmm. Now that’s a damned fine question.”

Garibaldi stepped back and issued an order to someone while Rush mentally gritted his teeth. It really was a damned fine question. How the hell had Garibaldi tracked him there? And why? Who was Alessandra to the other man? Rush didn’t get a chance to come up with any answers before a pair of thick arms appeared overhead.

“Send my friend Al up again,” Garibaldi ordered. “Ernest here will tug her out without breaking one of her nails. Or one of his own, for that matter.”

Rush forced out a dry laugh. “I’m sure that’s foremost on Ernest’s mind.”

He turned back to Alessandra—for some reason it grated on him that Garibaldi had a nickname for her—and unceremoniously dropped down, slid his arms around her calves, then lifted her straight up. She let out a little squeak. She wobbled, too, and her hands slammed to his shoulders to steady herself. The effect was immediate. Overwhelming.

Her summery smell—light sweat, a kiss of salt and something else entirely—wafted up to him. Through him, somehow. Like he could taste it and absorb it. He almost wished he could do both for real.

Then her hands released his shoulders to stretch up to the man who waited above, and things grew even worse. With the motion, her shirt lifted, exposing her stomach. And just like that, it— she— was pressed to Rush’s face.

The smell of her had permeated his senses, but her skin...it seemed to permeate his very existence. Soft. Buttery. He couldn’t escape it. Hell. He didn’t want to. He wanted to turn his face so that his lips would meet her bared flesh instead of his cheek. He wished—like a crazy man, he was sure—that he didn’t have the beard so there was no barrier between them.

Then she was gone. Yanked up by Ernest and his meaty paws. Like an even crazier man, Rush felt a rush of resentment. Not quite jealousy. Not that he was going to admit, anyway. There was definite, undeniable annoyance at the loss of contact, though.

Been too long since you went out with a woman, eh, Atkinson?

He answered the silent, self-directed question in a mutter. “Clearly.”

“Did you say something to me?” Alessandra’s voice carried down, and when Rush looked up, he saw that she was hanging over the hole.

“Nope,” he lied. “Just eager to get the hell out.”

Garibaldi appeared beside the redhead, a sly smile visible on his face. And just as Rush did nearly every time he saw the man, he fought a bubbling fury. Garibaldi looked just like anyone else. Nondescript, even. Brown hair, tidily cut. Smooth face. Casual but expensive clothes.

It only made Rush resent him more. The man who was responsible for his father’s death ought to stick out. He didn’t deserve the exterior normalcy. Or even the smooth voice he directed Rush’s way now.

“You want Ernest to try to pull you up, too?” he asked.

“I think I’d rather dig my way own way out,” Rush said, covering his distaste by bending over to snag his hat and sunglasses from the dirt.

When he’d shoved both items back on, he looked up and saw that Garibaldi and Alessandra had slipped out of sight. A moment later, though, a thick piece of rope dropped over the edge. Rush gave it a tug, found it secure, and started to pull himself up. It reminded him unpleasantly of high school PE. Hand over hand, he climbed to the top, waving off Ernest’s offer of help.

“Well,” said Garibaldi. “Now I know that sitting at the bottom of a pit doesn’t help your mood any.”

Rush didn’t even have to try to curl his lip. “Think it would improve yours?”

His boss didn’t react. It was the kind of relationship they’d built over the last few weeks. Rush playing up the role of bad-tempered, slightly resentful underling—which barely scraped the surface of how he really felt about being near the other man—who always pushed the envelope. His tough-guy act was supposed to be a way into Garibaldi’s good graces without the need for brownnosing. Some men were insecure in their power and appreciated a suck-up, but it’d taken only a few days to figure out that wasn’t the case with Jesse Garibaldi. The man wanted people he could trust not to fold under pressure, and he was secure enough in his own hold over his shady business that he didn’t worry about being personally challenged.