Wendy Rosnau - The Spy Wore Red

Polax mentioned a tattoo. He hadn’t seen it that night in Vienna, and that didn’t make sense to him—he’d touched every inch of her body…looked hard at everything. Remembered everything.

The memory of her body moving against his caught and held him, sending more blood pumping through his veins—through his phallus. They had been tangled in a knot of lust in that narrow shower, and he hadn’t ever been a part of anything that damn powerful in his life.

The plane’s engine began to sing, and then they were taxiing onto the runway. The snow was blowing like hell and the temperature was steadily dropping.

He had been listening to the weather reports while waiting for her to come on board. It looked like they would be flying into a level-ten storm. That’s the real reason he had altered their flight plan and decided to land in Vienna. The airports in and around Innsbruck were all closed.

Once they landed, he would check out the weather reports and see if any flights had opened up. If not, they’d rent a vehicle and drive to Otz.

“In Polax’s office you said that you knew where Holic Reznik would head. Enlighten me.”

She had heard him, but instead of answering him, she dodged the question and asked, “Are you sure we should be leaving in this weather?”

“I’ve flown in worse. We’ll make it.”

He said the words with confidence, though he didn’t like the weather outside, or the fact that they could be flying into worse. He wasn’t much on flying anyway, although he had done his fair share over the past seven years.

The plane’s engine grew louder, and the reminder to fasten seat belts flashed overhead. Bjorn straightened and buckled up as the jet rolled out and headed down the runway. They turned, the plane’s engines winding up, and suddenly they were racing down the runway.

Bjorn closed his eyes, hating that someone else was in control at that moment. That was what it was all about for him—giving over his control to someone he didn’t know or trust, someone who might be having a bad day or just didn’t give a shit if he lived or died at that moment.

The minute the plane was airborne, he opened his eyes and caught Nadja studying him. Their eyes locked briefly and he held her gaze openly.

“You’re staring,” she said. “Didn’t your mother teach you that it’s not polite?”

“I never had a mother.”

She raised her eyes. “Everyone has a mother.”

“It takes more than giving birth to earn that label” was all he said, and all he was going to say on the subject.

Once the plane leveled off, Bjorn unfastened his belt and stood. “I’m going to have a chat with our pilot. When I get back, we’ll talk.” He paused, gave her a warning look that his comrades had named the “gutted glare.” “If you lied to me about knowing where Holic’s hideout is, I’ll ship you back to Polax the minute we land in Vienna.”

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