Bait (7 page)

 

Chapter Six

I
N
THE
TIME
they'd been gone, the princess's home had transformed into something almost unrecognizable. The second bedroom was littered with duffel bags and rolled-­up sleeping bags. The furniture in the third bedroom had been pushed against the walls, and folding tables covered with computer equipment bisected the room. Gabe's team lounged on the sofas or hunched over the computers. The huge living space seemed smaller with the seven of them. Why had she thought she would be alone with Gabe? She didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Relieved, of course.

Deni Van Praet sat at the desk in the study, tiny reading glasses perched on her aristocratic nose as she scribbled notes in the margins of a sheaf of papers. She looked up as Christina entered, looking more resigned than annoyed. A small, practiced smile graced her mouth. “Princess,” she murmured, rising.

Christina ran her nails through her hair, lifting it off her neck. “It's just me, Deni. No need for formality.”

“Very well. Then come sit down and we'll go over the guest list for the Viscount and Viscountess of Nabourg's anniversary party again.”

Christina obediently went to sit in front of the desk. The celebration would be the first real test of her abilities. A shiver of anticipation raised goose bumps on her arms. She grinned at Deni.

The older woman pulled out a black binder and opened it at random. Pointing to the photo, she began to quiz Christina. “Who is this? What is his relationship to the Nabourgs? When did you last meet him?”

Christina realized she actually knew the answer. All that studying with the princess paid off. “That's Lord Vrejflouw, MP of Meestragen North. His title comes to him by marriage, and he has very little influence, even as a member of Parliament. He became a widower three years ago.”

“How do you know him?”

Christina felt the corners of her mouth twitch. “Trick question. I've never met him, nor very many other members of Parliament. The queen alone has the honor of sitting in the royal box at 6 Rue de Nobles.”

A curious stillness in the air made her look up. Gabe leaned against the doorjamb, thumbs stuck in his belt loops and his ankles crossed. “How's it going?”

Such innocuous words, but Christina knew from one look into his eyes what he was really asking. “I'll be ready.”

“Good. There hasn't been a lot of mission prep time. The damned thing's in two days.”

“I'm a quick study.” Christina turned back to the book. Flipping the page, she said, “Nessandra Florentine. Socialite. Been on the cover of
Le Sommet
three times.”

Gabe wandered up to peer over her shoulder, and gave a low whistle. “Holy smokes. As what? Sexiest cougar of all time?”

“Just divorced husband number four.” Christina's lip curled. “Obtained her wealth through her ex-­husbands' generosity. She's probably looking for ex-­husband number five, if you're into that.”

Gabe lifted the binder from Deni's desk and peered at the photo. “Damned straight. Are we going to meet her at this shindig?”

Unaccountably nettled, Christina snatched the binder from him and snapped, “Maybe you could roll your tongue back into your mouth long enough to remember that your job isn't to hit on women at this
shindig
.”

He gave a low chuckle, and she realized he'd been teasing her. She groaned and dropped her head to the back of the chair. “Go away. I'm working.”

The chuckle turned into a laugh. “I just came in to tell you Tag's looking for you.”

“Seems you found her first,” Tag said, tramping into the room. “You got a sec? I need to test your microphone.”

“You bet.” She followed him into the third, smaller, bedroom and over to a Louis XV table, carefully covered to protect it. An array of equipment littered the table and the sofa next to it.

“Sit down,” Tag said. “I need to measure you.”

She found out what he meant a moment later when he held up a tiny coil of wire.

“You'll have to either pull your shirt up, or take it off.”

She snorted a laugh. “Yeah, right. I can do it myself. I've attached wires to my clothes before.”

“To the back of your bra?” came Gabe's voice from the doorway. What was it with him, appearing like unwanted magic in doorways? “You'd have to be pretty limber for that.”

His eyes were on the electronic gadgets, not her, but Christina found herself turning beet red. Fortunately, neither man seemed to notice. “I can attach it to the front, under the dress,” she said.

“Won't work,” Tag said. “Too close to your heartbeat. That only works if it's outside your clothes, like they do on air or whatever.”

Tag poked among the various wires, looking at Christina's breasts with apparent professional detachment, then came to perch beside her, reaching for the back hem of her blouse.

“I can do it,” she said, her laugh good-­natured. She batted his hands away.

“I have to measure the width between your shoulder blades, and the width of your bra at the clasp. Then we size the wire and the microphone so they'll fit under the strap, but on your back.” Tag waited, hand outstretched.

She hesitated. It was his job. He was a professional. And so was she. “All right. Go ahead.”

The expensive silk slipped through Tag's fingers as he gathered it and slid it up her back. She reached over her shoulder to grab it, holding it up so Tag could measure her. She glanced at Gabe. Her back faced away from him; he couldn't see anything, yet he stared at her with an intensity that was unnerving. He swallowed several times.

Christina froze. The naked hunger in his gaze paralyzed her. He followed Tag's touch like a physical caress against her skin. She was shocked when a rush of heat flooded her. Her lips parted on a breath. Their eyes caught, suspending her in a timeless moment. It became Gabe's long fingers, scorchingly hot against her skin, lightly touching her back under her bra. Her tongue touched her lower lip. His gaze zeroed in on that tiny movement. He didn't seem to be breathing.

He yanked his gaze away, expression closing down with a finality that jarred her. He hadn't meant for her to see his desire, that much was clear.

What the hell had just happened?

“What . . . what if I wear a different bra that night?” She forced words past the constriction in her throat. The tenuous thread between them vanished, and she could breathe again.

The two men looked at one another, brows pulled in. Apparently, it had not occurred to either of them.

Christina swallowed a laugh. “I'll go get the one I'll be wearing,” she said.

Gabe moved away from the doorway as she passed him. Making sure there was no contact between them, she thought. Anxious to get this over with, Christina hurried to her bedroom and dug into the underwear drawer. Véronique de Savoie favored silky, sexy underthings more daring than anything Christina had ever attempted. She'd purchased a dozen sets similar to Ronnie's, since the maids would find it odd if the princess started wearing plain white cotton. Christina was wearing one of the more conservative sets now, plain black but edged with lace. She rooted through the contents, looking for another comparatively plain set.

Her nails snagged on a sheer pink bra, deeply cut and barely there across the nipples. The panties were equally scandalous. A deep V started at the top of her thighs and dipped to just above her mound. Anticipating the look on the operators' faces, she chuckled and scooped up the bra.
Let's see Gabe look at
that
with no reaction
.

T
AG
FINGERED
THE
tiny microphone. It would nestle between her shoulder blades without a telltale bulge. Once under the bra strap, no one would be able to tell she wore a wire at all.

Christina walked back into the room. No, she swaggered. Her tight, athletic body was curvy in all the right places, and Gabe couldn't stop the stirrings of his body. His attempt to jerk Christina's chain had apparently worked a little too well, and not the way he'd intended.

Damn it! Why couldn't he be attracted to that cougar—­ whatever her name was? Yes, she was beautiful, but how could men miss her greed? The cold and calculating gleam in her eye. Gabe preferred the understated sexuality he was certain Christina did not know she exuded.

Although, at the moment, there was nothing understated about the sway of her hips as she approached them. What was the blasted woman up to? He had his answer a moment later, when she dropped a tiny pink bundle into Tag's outstretched hand. As Tag straightened the fabric, Gabe felt all the moisture leave his mouth. Holy God! There was barely enough fabric for Tag to grasp, and what was there was like gossamer. A picture of Christina wearing the scraps of barely-­there and sprawled across his bed had him sitting abruptly and shifting forward on the chair, hands clasped in front of him to hide the bulge in his pants.

“Here you go,” she said, voice husky. “Do you need me to put it on? Or can you manage?”

“No problem.” Tag sounded strangled. “I can just, um, use this.”

“Oh, good,” she purred, eyes on Gabe. “I have work to do, so . . .”

She was playing with him, that much was obvious. The question was, could she see just how affected he was? He wiped all expression from his face but could not stop his eyes from dropping to her breasts. Watching Tag do nothing more than lift the shirt up her back had gotten him so revved up he hadn't been able to hide his reaction from her. Damn it! He dragged his gaze back up to her face. Satisfaction flared in her eyes, and he silently cursed.

“We're leaving at one o'clock tomorrow for the hospital,” he said, striving for matter-­of-­fact. He kept his eyes fixed on Tag as his teammate attached the wire to the bra he held in his large hands. “Wear shoes you can run in, if you have any. The team will be stationed along the route in unmarked cars. You and I will take the goddamned unarmored piece of shit state limo.”

Her brow furrowed. “That doesn't work for me. We should convoy in three cars, one in front of us and one in the back. Let ­people see us. Otherwise, what's the point?”

He couldn't stop the irritation flashing across his face. This wasn't her area of expertise. He knew what he was doing, and he'd be damned if he'd allow any harm to befall her.

“The more visible we are, the more likely the assassin will make a play for me. Isn't that the point? Don't you think this”—­her arm swept in an all-­encompassing arc—­“is overkill? If you keep me too safe, you practically invite the assassin to make a play that might get civilians killed.”

He took in a lot of air through his nose. She was part of his team, he reminded himself. He couldn't shut her out. “Sit down,” he said finally.

She hesitated, but finally came to settle on the sofa next to him.

“I don't bite,” he snapped, annoyed with her reticence and knowing he was the cause. But wasn't it better to keep her at a distance?

“Are you sure?” she shot back. Tag laughed.

“Not unless that's what you're into.” Damn it! That had sounded flirtatious. He controlled his own damned body, not the other way around. He glared at her. “God knows what they teach you at Langley.”

Surprisingly, humor lit her eyes. “I don't recall biting being taught as a self-­defense technique.”

He couldn't manage a chuckle, but his irritation faded. “We'll leave you more exposed, but in the future. I don't disagree with anything you said, except that we don't have positive control over the environment. We've barely had time to vet the attendees, and this has been advertised on the princess's website for weeks. We want to draw the assassin out, yes. But on our terms, not his. And we sure as hell don't want any civilians caught in the crossfire.”

To his relief, she dipped her head. “I understand. I'll be ready.”

He stood with her, searching her eyes, for what he had no idea. His unwilling attraction would go nowhere. She was the principal, and therefore off limits.

No, she wasn't. Nor was she truly part of his Delta Force team.

She was Christina Madison, CIA.

 

Chapter Seven

C
HRISTINA
CH
ANGED
INTO
shorts and a T-­shirt and headed down the wide hall to Ronnie's private gym. Since the team had arrived, someone was always in there. This afternoon, it was Gavin, Alex, and Tag. One of them had hung a heavy bag in a corner—­miracle-­worker Deni must have acquired it for the team—­and Gavin worked it steadily, sweat dripping down his face. Tag ran on the treadmill, and Alex pumped free weights.

Tag lifted a hand in greeting. Christina flopped onto the floor to stretch.

“What's your poison?” Alex asked. His biceps bulged from the eighty-­pound dumbbells in each hand, but he wasn't even breathing hard.

“I'd really like to do some speed training. I'll probably need to move fast rather than hit something. Are you up for some sparring?”

“I could do that.” He looked doubtful. “We didn't bring any pads, though.”

“No problem,” she assured him. “We'll just pull our punches.”

Shrugging, Alex set the dumbbells neatly back in their rack and came to the center of the floor. It was covered in a thin layer of foam, making it a soft landing spot in case he took her to the ground.

She moved her right leg back a few inches and raised her lightly closed fists. Alex mirrored her move, and they started to circle. Christina threw two jabs and a left cross. He slipped them easily, throwing a halfhearted punch toward her center. She faded left, and he let her. Taking two steps in, she executed a combination of kicks and jabs. He fended her off, but didn't return with an attack of his own. She frowned. Executing a perfect spinning side kick, which should have dumped her on her ass as Alex scooped her leg, she made light contact with his thigh as he simply moved back.

“Alex, this is only helpful if you actually engage with me,” she complained, stopping and dropping her hands.

“I am . . . I just don't want to hurt you . . .”

“She's right,” came Gabe's voice from the doorway. He strolled in, followed by Mace. “You're being a pussy. Shove over, Junior.”

Alex shrugged and went to sit sideways on the stationary bike. Gabe took his position in the middle of the mat. “Let's try this again.”

She again took up a light sparring stance, putting her weight forward onto the balls of her feet. He did the same.

She felt the difference instantly. Gabe came at her with intensity, faster than she could have believed a man could move. She slipped his first punch and parried the second, stepping close to his side to land a punch to his ribs. He spun to deliver an elbow jab to her face, barely brushing her nose, and completed the turn with a rigid hand that flicked the side of her head as she ducked under it. She slapped his arm aside and came up with an uppercut, but he was no longer there. His fist bumped her temple from the right. She spun, kicking toward his knee, and he danced away. They circled again.

“Come on, Christina, take him apart!” Tag called.

“Show him how it's done.” Gavin draped a towel around his neck and came to watch.

Their casual inclusion warmed her. Determined to prove herself, she drove forward, faking a punch to Gabe's face. She thrust her leg between his, locking it behind his ankle, and pushed on his shoulders. The inner reaping throw should have put him on his ass, but he whipped his right foot and body back, and she missed the sweep. From his perpendicular position, he wrapped his left forearm around hers, bracing it on his right, his fist pushing upward on her elbow, locking out the joint. She couldn't move without hurting herself. He released her, and they parted again.

Point for him.

“Not too bad,” Gabe allowed, stretching his neck a little. His eyes twinkled. “But don't forget, we help teach combatives at Camp Peary. You're going to have to do better than that if you want me on my back.”

Was he trying to distract her? Or was he actually flirting with her?

Either way, it made her even more determined. “I'll put you on your ass.”

He grinned, and her eyes narrowed. Damn it! She twisted to throw a roundhouse kick, anticipating that he'd move right to avoid it. Settling her weight on her front foot, she flicked a backhand toward the face sliding into her view. He used her own momentum to push her arm past her face, using his other hand to dogleg her arm into a lock. They stared at one another, faces close, until he released her arm.

“Had enough?” he asked.

“We've just started. Have I exhausted you already?” He was right. Using standard tactics taught during her training would get her nowhere. She needed to take him to the ground, where her size would work to her advantage.

The team called out suggestions and encouragement.

“Elbow to the solar plexus,” Gavin called out. “That'll shut him up.”

“Kick him in the nuts,” Tag suggested. “He don't need 'em.”

“Bite me,” Gabe said.

They circled again. Christina spun, bringing her leg up as she'd done with Alex. As expected, Gabe caught her leg and lifted, throwing her off balance. As she fell, she kicked upward, scissoring both legs around his arm and twisting. Both of them spun to the ground. She slapped the mat with one arm as she hit, trying to pin his neck between her legs.

And then something happened. Instead of immobilizing him, she found herself flipped onto her back, his hands under her thighs and his head very nearly between her legs. He didn't so much as twitch, but the look he sent up her body widened her eyes and sent scalding heat coursing through her.

“Damn it!” She yanked her legs. His grip held her still, but he loosened his fingers by increments, allowing her to wrench free and scramble to her feet.

He got up more slowly. “Nice move. Where'd you learn that?”

“I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

He came at her almost before she was ready, throwing a flurry of combinations that had her scrambling to react. Finally, she threw him back a few steps, just enough to get inside his guard and smack her fist alongside his temple. His head rocked back, and she realized her control wasn't where it needed to be. Before she could apologize, he spun her around and wrapped his arms over hers, gripping both her wrists.

She twisted her head, looking over her shoulder at him. His head was closer than she'd expected, and they ended up nose to nose. His breath fanned her face as his eyes dropped to her mouth. Without thinking about it, Christina brought her elbow straight back into his floating ribs. He grunted, and his grip loosened. She didn't move.

“Ow.”

“Had enough?” she mocked.

He slowly shook his head, eyes dark on hers. “Not nearly enough.”

“Nice shot,” Mace said. “Any harder, and you'd'a broken him.”

“I'm tempted.” She glared at Gabe as her voice dropped to an intense whisper. “What happened to helping me with my reflexes?”

Gabe also lowered his voice. “I'm trying to. I needed to see what you could do before I—­”

Alex snapped a towel in their general direction. “Get a room.”

She pulled free of Gabe's embrace and moistened her lips, glancing around. “Unnecessary. He's an ass.”

Mace hooted with laughter. “That's the God's honest truth.”

“Assholery does seem to be the general consensus,” Gabe agreed.

Even Tag's normal scowl lightened. “Shit, I like you, Christina. You're damned good at reading ­people.”

“I'm not an ass,” added Alex. “If I'd known what you meant, I'd'a thrown down with you, too.” He didn't mean it, though. Despite the nature of his comment, sexual undertone was absent.

She turned innocent eyes to Alex. “You had your chance, farm boy. Toss me some water, would ya?”

Alex grabbed one of the bottles and lobbed it at her. She caught it one-­handed, twisted it open, and drank deeply. They simply accepted her into their midst. It's what usually happened to her in new groups, and she was relieved to see it happen now.

Except with Gabe. He remained untrusting and wary.

And yet something had happened during their sparring match that, as much as she wanted to, she couldn't ignore. The spark Heather mentioned had unexpectedly burst into flame. They'd both felt the pull.

She shifted her new awareness into aggression. A much safer emotion.

“Gavin, are you done with the bag? Seems I have some hostility to work off.” She kept her tone light, teasing.

He half bowed, his sweeping arm inviting her to take his place.

She taped up her hands with practiced ease. For the next fifteen minutes, she worked her way around the heavy bag, funneling all of her doubts and insecurities into powerful punches, jabs, and kicks. At last, exhausted and sweaty, she dropped her hands to her thighs and bent over, sucking in air.

“Impressive.”

She turned to see Mace in the doorway. At some point, the others had finished their workouts and left. “Thanks.”

“You've got great form. A lot of boxers don't get that right hook in there, but you really dig in. Are you finished with the bag? I don't want to interrupt you.”

“Yeah, I'm done. I'm going to work some free weights.”

Mace slipped on a pair of light boxing gloves, tightening the laces with his teeth.

“Here, let me do that,” she said. “No point in struggling with it.”

Mace looked pained. “Struggle? Me?”

She laughed, tying the gloves into place. “Now try, hotshot.”

While Mace took over the bag, Christina sat on the free-­weight bench, but made no move to pick up the dumbbells. What the hell had happened here? As much as she wanted to deny it, she had reacted to Gabe physically. That just couldn't be allowed. He was a jackass, and he had no faith in her abilities.

“Everything okay?” Mace stopped pounding on the bag and regarded her.

“Yeah, sure. Of course. Why wouldn't it be?”

He gave her a chiding look. “As long as you're part of this team, your problems are our problems. Spill.”

No way was Christina telling Mace about her absurd attraction to Gabe. The first thing the sniper would do is tell his team leader. She thought fast.

“I had an interesting experience with a gray panel van in D.C. a ­couple of days before I flew out here. I need to call my boss to follow up.”

“Were you in an accident? Hit and run?”

Christina chewed her lip. “Not exactly.”

“What van?”

She couldn't control a start of guilt. Closing her eyes for a moment, she reluctantly turned to where Gabe leaned against the doorjamb.

“Uh . . .”

He straightened and planted his hands on his hips as his eyes narrowed. “What van?” he said again.

“Um, nothing, really. A training exercise. Probably.” She coughed to clear the frog in her throat.

“What. Fucking. Van.” His voice had dropped to a low growl. Crap. This is what she'd been afraid of.

He closed the distance between them. Anger darkened his eyes.

“Someone tracked me the day before I flew here,” she said in a rush. “I reported it, per standard operating procedure, but when I checked with the Surveillance Center, no recruits followed me that day.”

Gabe's brows snapped together and his mouth flattened. “And you didn't think this was important enough to mention?”

“Truthfully, I'd forgotten about it until just now. I've thrown myself into this role a hundred percent.” She glanced to the side, unable to meet his eyes. Her mouth drooped.

She felt the weight of his glare. In her periphery, she saw the same expression of disapproval on Mace's face.

“Did you get a look at him?” he finally asked.

“I saw the driver. I didn't get much of a look at the second guy. They put a stolen plate on the van. But nothing else happened.” She forced herself to breath. “Fairfax County police investigated it, but do you know how many gray panel vans there are in D.C.?”

Gabe rubbed a hand along his forehead. “This is exactly why I don't work with alphabet agencies. You all have your own fucking agendas, and you withhold vital information.”

Christina forced her spine straight, resentment flooding her. She'd screwed up; she knew it. But she hadn't concealed it on purpose. “I don't have an agenda! Except to finish this mission and never lay eyes on you again!”

She brushed past him as she exited the room, surprised when he let her leave. Stalking back up the hallway, she cursed herself for every kind of a fool. Why had she expected anything different from him? He didn't and never would see her as an equal.

Deni looked up as she stomped into the bedroom. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing. Just a disagreement. I'm going to shower.”

“As you wish.”

What she wished was never to see Gabe Morgan again. Since that seemed unlikely, she scrubbed, rinsed off, and wrapped herself in one of Ronnie's silk robes. She stretched out on the bed and closed her eyes. “Just for a few minutes.”