Bait (12 page)

It shook something deep inside him. He'd been treating her like a kid, he realized abruptly. Someone playing a grown-­up. A member of a despised organization. Suddenly, his view of her changed. She was a fully-­trained operative, and she had been wounded during a mission.

He'd been an ass. Guilt churned in his gut. He deserved her condemnation. How would he have reacted if their roles were reversed? He tossed the glass shard into the porcelain wastebasket.

“Guess you don't need this one, then.” It was equally lame, but he was still processing this new information. Fortunately for him, she didn't say a word as she wiped the blood smears from her palm and slapped on a Band-­Aid. She slipped on her jacket and walked out.

He followed her out to the main room, unsettled and restless. Looking around at Tag, Gavin, Alex and Mace, he said, “We might as well review the plan, as long as we're all here.”

His gaze slid to Christina, who stood by the window with her arms crossed. Refusing to stare at her breasts, he kept his eyes firmly on hers. Only too late did he realize he might be coming across as aggressive when her eyes narrowed and her mouth flattened. He turned away.

“I'll be by your side at all times,” he told Christina. “Gavin will stay with the car, to make sure no one tampers with it. Tag and Alex will wander and make sure no trouble's brewing. They're our advance eyes and ears. Mace will maintain overwatch as our sniper. He'll cover us when we have to be in the open, which we'll keep to a minimum. We'll all be hooked together through Bluetooth, like we were on the way out here.”

Christina didn't move from the window. She absently stroked her scar. It must have happened in Baghdad. Conveniently, she had left being shot out of her story back at Nanten's baroque gardens. Was she reliving those moments?

“Okay,” she said. “I see the protection routine. What I don't see is how we're going to draw out the hitman.”

Mace nodded. “That'll come next,” he said, Cajun accent strong. Women responded to those velvety syllables. He'd seen it time and again. Gabe narrowed his eyes. Mace had the gall to wink at him. “This is the last time we won't have positive control over the environment.”

“We need your input,” added Tag. “Need to know what your comfort zone is.”

Christina strode over to the team. “I can handle it, whatever it is.”

“Ain't no doubt,” Mace said.

“You got this,” Alex said at the same time.

Gabe rotated his neck. Where had all this tension come from? “Right now, let's focus on this shindig tomorrow. I just found out from the butler that Bonnet's going to be there.”

“The activist? I'll stay away from him,” she said at once.

“He's probably here just to talk to you. We'll keep him at bay.”

Tag prowled around the room. “Maybe that's not the best approach. Like you said, we have to create a hole the assassin can get through. Carswell doesn't think Bonnet has it in him, but I'd like to see for myself.”

Gabe didn't like it. What if something happened to her? “Why don't you guys go get some grub? I'll stay here.”

His men rose. Mace approached Christina, speaking to her in a low voice. She responded, eyes sparkling. Mace let out a low laugh. Gabe ground his teeth.

“Get out of here,” he snapped. One by one, the four operators filed out.

Christina glared at him. “What was that for?”

“I don't need my team distracted. Let's keep it professional, all right?”

She laughed her outrage. “Oh!
I'm
being unprofessional? When you're the one growling and snapping at your men because one of them dared to speak to me?”

Ouch. She'd noticed that, had she?

“I'm putting my life into your hands, don't forget. Why is it a bad thing if I get to know your team?” She put heavy emphasis on
your
. “I get you don't see me as an equal. Fine. But don't get in the way if I want to establish a relationship with someone who does.”

She wanted to . . . with Mace . . . ? His brows snapped together and a muscle ticked in his jaw.

She came right over to him, hands on hips, fire shooting from her eyes. One long index finger poked him in the chest. “Friendship, asshole. Friend. Ship. I'm not looking to hook up with him. All he said was he's happy we get to work together again, and told me I did a good job in Azakistan. Which is more than you've ever done.”

Gabe's head jerked back. “What?”

“All you've done since I met you is belittle me. Fine, I'm no special operator. But the CIA trains its officers well. I know what I'm doing.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” Her voice had a hard edge. “We learn from our mistakes.”

True. And he was about to make a colossal one. He closed the distance between them, unable to stop himself. Closing his arms roughly around her shoulders, he pulled her to him. She resisted.

“I'm sorry. That was asshole-­ish of me. You got your asset in Ma'ar ye zhad to open up about her brother. You got her to send us photos of the terrorist cell. You're the reason we knew who to look for. Mace is right.”

She relaxed against him. Gabe pressed an openmouthed kiss to the pulse in her neck, the rush of blood beneath her skin pounding against his tongue. “You've kept your cool here, too. Don't think I haven't noticed. And you just promised to be honest with me.”

Mouth sliding up her neck, he touched his tongue to the tender skin beneath her ear, enjoying the quick inhale that told him she felt something for him, if only unwilling sexual arousal.

“I've never been dishonest with you.”

“Good.” He nipped her earlobe, then traced the tip of his tongue around the delicate shell of her ear. She shivered against him. Her mouth turned, blindly seeking his. Before he could touch heaven, a sound at the door made him leap away from her, drawing his weapon from his shoulder holster in one smooth pull.

The knock came again. Christina cleared her throat. “It's probably the maid. Don't shoot her, okay?” She walked over to the door and opened it before Gabe got his vocal cords working enough to tell her to wait.

A girl in—­no kidding—­a French maid's outfit came in with a broom and dustpan. Gabe focused on her cleaning up the glass to avoid looking at Christina. When the girl had gone, he looked around and found that Christina had retreated into the awful yellow bedroom. Just as well.

 

Chapter Twelve

C
HRISTINA
LOCKED
THE
door behind herself with unsteady hands. What had just happened? His impulse to comfort her, if that's what it had been, had turned swiftly to something carnal. His hands had trembled, his mouth hot as he nibbled her neck. She hadn't been able to stop the rush of heat as her skin sensitized. She'd wanted him to settle his mouth onto hers. Wanted his hands on her body.

Bad move.

She let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to her abdomen. This assignment wasn't going to work if she had to guard against her attraction twenty-­four/seven.

Her mind shied away from an unwanted image of him above her. Down that road led nothing but heartache. Determinedly, she picked up the binder of guests for tomorrow's gala. Better she use her energy making sure she could pass for Véronique.

A brisk knock at the door startled her some time later. She pushed the binder away and rose, realizing all at once how stiff she was. What time was it? She stretched as she crossed to the door, pulling it open just as a second knock sounded. Unsurprised, she looked up at Gabe.

“Dinner,” he said, looking searchingly at her. She deliberately kept her expression blank.

“Thanks.” Moving into the main room, she saw that a temporary table had been set up, covered with plates under dome lids. She lifted one, inhaling greedily. “It smells great.”

“It's
stamppot
, so I'm told. Dutch stew, served with
metworst
.” He raised another lid. “A selection of cheeses. Edam, Gouda, Leyden. I don't remember what those two are.” Picking up a bottle of red wine, he sniffed, then looked at the label. “Bordeaux. There's also a bottle of white to go with the cheese. Viognier, whatever the hell that is.”

The table had been angled so that both chairs had a clear view of the door. Coincidence? She doubted anything that happened around Gabe came about by accident. She sat down and dropped the linen napkin into her lap. Gabe poured the red into both wineglasses and handed her one. His fingers brushed against hers as she took the stemware. She looked away, nonplussed.

“Is your team joining us?” she asked, looking pointedly at the plates, clearly intended for two.

“No. I thought it was time you and I reached an understanding.”

What did he want from her? Surely, he wasn't going to force a conversation about their almost-­kiss. “In reference to what, exactly?”

Gabe tipped his glass back and took a healthy swallow of wine. “You said it yourself earlier. We have to learn to work together. And we have to do it now, before you make any more public appearances.”

Christina picked up her fork and took a bite of the stew. It was delicious. “Mmm,” she mumbled around the mouthful. “God, that's good.” She cut a piece of
metworst
, a dried sausage. It had a strong flavor that wasn't nearly as appealing as the
stamppot
. Shrugging, Christina sipped from her wineglass.

Gabe tucked into his own meal. Around a bite, he said, “So, let's lay it on the table.” He swallowed, then pointed his fork at her. “You said I belittled you. Maybe that was true, when we started this charade.”

Christina bent over her plate. Where was he going with this?

“But not any longer,” he said, voice low. “About Baghdad. I think you got thrown under the bus. If so, that doesn't sit well with me.”

“I was persona non grata until Jay took me to Azakistan,” she blurted. Gabe couldn't have surprised her more if he'd said caterpillars were aliens. “My boyfriend dumped me as soon as he heard the rumors, like even associating with me would hurt his career. I guess maybe you have a point about the CIA. Frank the Fink taught me not to date inside the Company.”

She fiddled with the stem of her wineglass. Oh, what the hell. She could indulge in another glass. She poured, and topped off his as well. “So . . . now what?”

“Now we eat dinner. We talk. Get to know each other.” He slouched back, flipping his fork around on the tablecloth with one finger. “Figure out your strengths and weaknesses, so we can compensate.”

Don't get defensive, she told herself. Probably he didn't realize how insulting that sounded.

“Um.” Gabe cleared his throat abruptly. “I meant, maximize your strengths and compensate where needed. Nobody's good at everything. We all have strengths and weaknesses. That's all I meant.” He glanced at her, apology in his eyes. “Christina, I know my teammates better than I know my own brother. We're tight. Tactically, we think the same.” He sighed, glancing up at the ceiling. “I'm not used to having a . . . a teammate I haven't trained with for thousands of hours. So . . . so I apologize if I haven't included you. That stops now, okay?”

Christina almost forgot to chew and swallow. Gabe was apologizing? To her?

“I need to know what you can do, do you understand that?”

The
stamppot
stuck in her throat. Quickly, she washed it down with a huge gulp of wine, feeling the warmth of the alcohol spread through her system. “I understand. And vice versa, okay?”

If he were surprised by that, it did not show in his face. Instead, he inclined his head solemnly. “Agreed.”

Her fork scraped the bottom of her plate. Eyebrows raised, she saw she'd eaten everything, even the
metworst
. Gabe chuckled. Christina felt her face heat. “Guess I was hungry,” she mumbled.

His eyes glittered at her as he rose and served the salad. She pushed it aside, uninterested. What the hell did that speculative look mean? Her gaze dropped to her plate, willing the flush to subside, then jerked her head up.
No weakness, remember?

“Frank the Fink was an idiot.”

Hearing her nickname for her jerk of an ex-­boyfriend coming from Gabe's mouth made her smile. “I might have called him another F-­word a time or two. He still has my leather jacket, the louse. My favorite. It's got diagonal zippers that make me feel badass.”

“I'd like to see you in badass.” He captured and held her gaze. A peculiar warmth settled in his eyes.

She was so not having this conversation. “I'll go first.”

Gabe didn't miss a beat. “Okay, then. What do you bring to this mission?”

He cleared the untouched salad plates. Fresh stemware waited by the white wine chilling in a bucket. Gabe offered her the cheese tray while he opened the second bottle and filled both their glasses. She used the delicate tongs to transfer tiny wedges to a small plate, using the time to marshal her thoughts.

“We both know I have this assignment because I look like Ronnie.” She shifted around, uncomfortable. He clearly wanted more. “I'm a skilled marksman. I scored highest in my class in defensive driving. I have the usual training in weapons, small team tactics, house-­clearing operations. Hand-­to-­hand.” What did she know that might help them? “I know a lot about money laundering and smuggling operations. I've completed all the training for clandestine operations. But, as you know, I don't have a lot of field experience.”

“Do you speak any languages?”

“Uh-­huh. Russian.”

“That's a tough one to master,” he said.

Christina pulled a face. “I grew up with a variation of it, but it was such a bastardized dialect that I think it hurt more than helped.”

“Were your parents Russian?”

It was a reasonable question. Christina tried to think how to answer. “Not really. My father was from Kem, on the White Sea, but he was Latvian. He met my mother in Kuusamo, Finland, but she was Greek, not Scandinavian. We spoke Pomor in our home, which is a dialect from the far north, where they were from. There tends to be a smattering of Scandinavian in it, which makes it tough to be understood by anyone who doesn't speak it. So when I studied Russian, I had to unlearn everything I thought I knew about it.”

“That's quite the ethnic mix. You took the best of all of them.” He emptied his wineglass. “More?”

“No, thanks. I'd better keep a clear head.”

“Tonight's the only night when you don't have to,” he told her. “Take the down time when you can get it.” He held the bottle out, waiting, and Christina gave a small laugh as she held out her glass.

“Why not?”

He gave her an approving smile, and her insides softened. “Live dangerously,” he said, clinking his glass to hers.

She took the opportunity while he nibbled on a piece of cheese to look at him. He still wore his suit, though he'd slipped off the jacket and tie. The white shirt clung to the hard planes of his body, the open buttons giving her a tantalizing glimpse of his chest. He had shaved off his usual two-­day growth, and her gaze followed his cheekbone to his slightly off-­center nose. His golden eyes gleamed with amusement, and she realized he'd caught her staring. Infused with liquid courage, she refused to look away. Something molten flared to life in the depth of his eyes.

What had they been talking about? Oh, yeah. Russian.

“We always wrote in English,” she said, sipping hastily. “So when I was first learning, just mastering the alphabet was hard. It's easy to trip yourself up. Cursive
M
is a
T
in Russian. A cursive
G
is a
D
, a cursive
N
is a
P
. After a while, I couldn't write English cursive any more. And the accents!” She raked her nails under the hair at the nape of her neck, and raised her voice an octave. “ ‘No, listen to me. ‘E' and ‘E'—­hear the difference?' All of us would look at each other, and we'd all have the same dumb look on our faces.”

“I'm sure you figured it out quick enough.”

She blinked in surprise. “Oh. It took a while, but I started to get the hang of it. I bombed the first quizzes. I did well enough on the reading, but they were speaking so fast I had a hard time following. But immersion works wonders. After forty veee-­eerr-­rrry long weeks, I did fairly well on the final proficiency exam.” Her wineglass was empty again. How had that happened? She poured, and topped off Gabe's glass as well. He nodded his thanks.

“So you grew up in Russia?” he asked.

“No. It's complicated.” How much could she safely reveal? “My parents emigrated to the States and settled outside of Chicago after the Wall came down. They figured if the Cold War was over, they'd rather live in the land of baseball. My dad loves baseball. He can quote you stats for every player the White Sox ever fielded, as far back as 1900, I bet.”

“And you?”

She made a noncommittal sound. “I pretended to be a fan.”

“That's an odd way of putting it.” When she didn't say anything else, Gabe tipped his head to one side and raised his eyebrows. “Didn't you just promise to tell me the truth?”

She blew out an annoyed breath. “That doesn't include revealing all the skeletons in my closet.”

His smile was lopsided, his eyes shrewd. “Maybe not, but now I'm very curious. Would you tell me the story? Please?”

She thought about it. She could trust his discretion, she decided. Whatever she told him in confidence would remain there. “All right. Parts of it anyway. Parts are still classified.”

“Okay.” He dipped his head in agreement. “So, your parents emigrated . . . ?”

“In 1990,” she took up the tale. “My mother was pregnant. She wanted me to be born in America. They came legally, but even legal papers were bought and paid for back then. There was an air base outside of Kem, run by a corrupt major general, and the emigration documents cost my father. At first, it was small things. Contact so-­and-­so. Pass on information. Then it was smuggling small pieces of art. Pottery, mostly—­ancient artifacts from Greece.”

She glanced at Gabe. His expression was thoughtful rather than outraged, so she continued.

“Over the years, he became the middleman for a variety of different kinds of stolen objects. He'd keep them for a few days or weeks, until he received instructions on where to send them. He tried multiple times to get out of the business, but the threat to his family back in Kem kept him in line. By the time the major general retired, though, his replacement had enough on my father to send him to jail for the rest of his life, if he chose. My father's great-­aunt passed away shortly after that and the children moved to Moscow, but Dad still couldn't get out.

“Then the girls started showing up. In ones and twos, from Russia, China, and Indonesia. Dirty, and usually crying. My parents cared for them, bought them new clothes, got them medical attention if they needed it. After a few weeks, they'd disappear.”

“Let me guess,” Gabe said. “The traffickers threatened to kill you and your mother if your father didn't cooperate.”

She nodded. “At first, it was a game to me. Not the girls. Before that, I mean. I started noticing it when I was twelve, I think. Packages arrived from time to time. My father would store them for a few weeks, then repack them into a backpack or box and drive somewhere. When he returned, he no longer had the item. The next day, my mother would meet a friend for lunch and come home with a purse full of money. I, uh, might've skipped school to follow them, then followed whoever they were meeting. I just wanted to know.”

Both Gabe's eyebrows raised at that. “You mapped their network?”

“Yeah. I didn't know that's what I was doing, of course. I was just a nosy kid.” She ate a wedge of cheese.

“At twelve. Color me impressed.” He sounded like he meant it, too.

She flashed a grin. “But wait. There's more.”

He returned her smile, and for a moment they simply stared at one another.

“Christina . . .”

“So I decided to do it again,” she rushed on, tearing her gaze away. She didn't want to know what he'd been about to say. “I followed my father to the pickup point, and then followed his contact back to a warehouse. Over the next several months, I observed the arrival and departure of girls via boat and van, and got pictures, including the girls. Especially the girls.”