Black Ops 03 - Deadly Games (13 page)

She rinsed her mouth and stared at her reflection. After she’d frozen twice when things heated up after a date, Rocco had guessed her problem. “You’re a virgin.”

Gena hadn’t wanted to admit her inexperience, not to him anyway. All her mother’s lectures about saving herself might have made her think twice in college, but the truth was, until she’d met Rocco, no man had ever made her want to have sex.

In fact, with him, she had the opposite problem. Raging desires that scared her. The things she wanted to do, she had no clue
how
to. Those fumbling, first-timer mistakes that her college roommates had sorted out via trial and error seemed like bottomless pits to Gena.

Maybe the friend who’d told her Rocco was out of her league was correct. At twenty-nine, he was worldly. A fair-haired James Bond on steroids. At twenty-three, she was more like Little Miss Muffet. Fairy Tale Girl.

Their last date had ended disastrously. They had been on the sofa, making out. Rocco’s fingers had skimmed the undersides of her breasts, driving her mad for
more
.

But when he had started to peel off her shirt, she’d panicked. During her freeze-up, his cell phone had rung. He’d taken the call, which he usually didn’t whenever they were together. He’d probably been praying the damn thing would ring!

It had been the beginning of the end. “I have to go,” he’d said. “But I promise we’ll talk about this soon.”

Right! Gena turned on the shower and climbed under the spray. That it had taken her this long to
figure out there wasn’t going to be a next time infuriated her.

She’d been living in denial. First, she’d invented a textbook’s worth of excuses for him. He lived in Arlington; she was in D.C. He traveled frequently; she commuted. He was a spy. A man of mystery.

Then worry had set in: What if he’d been captured? Or injured? Was he dying in a hospital, calling out for her? She hadn’t let her cell phone out of sight; checked it hourly for messages—all while fighting the temptation to dial his number.

Nice girls don’t call boys.
Another one of her mother’s rules.

Gena dried her tears, then wrapped a towel around herself and switched on the blow-dryer. After she finished her make-up, she looked critically at her reflection.
Nice girls dress properly. Nice girls speak with modulated tones.

Oh horror! She’d turned into her mother! Milli-cent Armstrong had been dead three years, yet at the first insecurity or doubt, Gena still heard her whining told-you-so voice.

“Enough!”

Time to change, beginning with no … more … nice.

Gena went to the kitchen and fixed a cup of coffee, debated whether to add a shot of Irish whisky. For courage. Then her doorbell rang.

She frowned. It was six-thirty. Kimberly next door would just be getting back from a run and was always out of coffee. Or it could be Tyrone in 3C, always out of everything.

Gena adjusted the towel she wore. Kimberly could come in; Tyrone she’d ignore.

She tiptoedto the peephole, peered out, and saw …
Rocco.
She drew a sharp breath.
He’s here!

“I heard that. I know you’re there, Gena.” He leaned in close and stared back through the peephole. “I can smell your perfume.”

She jumped backward.

His chuckle came through the door. “Come on, princess! I brought you a surprise.”

She peeked through the peephole again but this time saw only black. He probably had his thumb over the hole. How unfair!

She debated what to do and what to say. Should she send him away or invite him in and give him the cold shoulder?

“I’m not dressed. Give me a minute,” she said.

“Not. Dressed.” Rocco’s voice sounded deeper. Huskier. “Do you mean naked?”

Could her neighbors hear this? “Not
naked
naked,” she hissed. “I’m wearing a towel. I just got out of the shower.”

“Oh, then you can let me in and I’ll wait while you get dressed.”

Nice girls don’t parade half naked in front of men.

That did it!

Gena slipped the chain free and jerked the door open. July’s warm, humid air wafted in. Already the day promised to be a scorcher.

Despite her resolve to be indifferent, her eyes widened at the sight of him. Rocco Taylor was the golden Sun God version of tall, dark, and handsome. His hair was thick and straight—except for
a couple ends that curled when it got too long. Like now.

Wherever he’d been, he’d been out of doors. Somewhere tropical, judging by his sun-streaked hair and tan. Tough assignment, she thought jealously.

“Holy God! You look fabulous!” Rocco’s dark blue eyes gave her the once-over. Twice. “You also look pissed.”

Three weeks, no word.
Pissed didn’t come close, but she didn’t want him to know it. “I’ve got to leave for work in fifteen minutes, so …”

He had both hands behind his back, hiding something.

“So hurry up and hand over your surprise!”

He wagged his brows. “Close your eyes first.”

“
Tsk!
Come inside, before my neighbors see us.”

“Just close your eyes, Gena.”

She let out a sigh. And the moment she closed her eyes, she sensed him move closer, felt his lips brush hers.
Don’t swoon.

“I missed you, princess.” He toyed with her mouth, speaking and kissing in that maddening way of his. “And you have every right to be mad. I would have called if I could, but it was one of those things.”

“One of those things” was spy-speak for a classified mission. A job hazard common to CIA operatives.

In fact, they’d met six months ago, working “one of those things.” Gena had just graduated college and had been hired on as a Spanish linguist with the State Department, after interning with the CIA during the two summers prior. Her second week on the job, she’d been sent to Mexico to replace another linguist who’d gotten sick.

The job had involved translating taped conversations between drug couriers. It was a joint mission with the Mexican government and Rocco had wanted to make sure the translations being provided were accurate.

From the first moment she’d seen him, she’d been aware of Rocco physically and sexually. But he’d been a total pro during that job. So much so that Gena had decided he was already involved. Clearly not interested in her even though some of the other operatives had seemed eager.

But once the job ended and Rocco returned to D.C., he’d been persistent in asking her out.

Right now she moaned as he deepened the kiss. His tongue swept into her mouth. And at the exact moment she turned to warm butter, he stepped away.

“Here.” He thrust a bouquet of red roses forward.

“Awww!” She accepted the flowers and smiled, then drew in a whoosh of air as Rocco swept her off her feet and into his arms.

She scrambled to hold the towel across her boobs and felt his arm brush the bare backs of her upper thighs as the towel lifted.

Two steps had him over the threshold and inside her apartment. Using his foot, Rocco shoved the door shut and leaned back against it, still holding her.

She held the roses in a death grip. “Thank you. For these.”

“Does that mean you forgive me?” He pressed another kiss to her lips. “Because if you don’t, I have another surprise.”

“Wicked man.” Gena laughed. How on earth could she stay angry? “In that case, I’m not yet certain if I forgive you. But you need to hurry the next surprise,
because if I’m not out of here in ten minutes, I’ll be late for work.”

He carried her over to the couch. Once again she had to clutch at her towel. As he sat, settling her in his lap, the arm beneath her legs brushed higher still. Teasing. Taunting. When he moved it seconds later, she missed its heat pressed against her.

“About work,” he said. “That’s my surprise. It’s a snow day. You can’t possibly go in.”

“A snow day?” It was supposed to hit the mid-nineties today, but Gena played along. “And if I don’t go to work today, what will I do?”

He picked up her fingers and entwined them with his. “You’ll go away for a fabulous weekend with the man of your dreams.”

Gena bolted straight up, feigning panic. “Prince Charming is coming? Here? When? Let me up, I need to get dressed!”

He dipped her backward so suddenly she squealed. The roses fell as she grabbed for his neck.

“Easy, I’ve got you.”

“My roses!” Her bouquet had landed near his feet.

Rocco picked them up and set them aside. His gaze was intense now and she felt her pulse hammer. The towel she wore suddenly felt restrictive, too tight.

“God, I missed you, Gena. Say yes.” He kissed her again before she could reply.

All playfulness disappeared. His mouth was demanding, enticing.

The raging desire she’d woken up with returned. How could she deny this man anything? Yes. Yes. Yes. The words echoed with each heartbeat.

This time when he started to pull back, she tightened
her embrace, hungry for more. Holding him in place, she deepened the kiss, nervous to be taking the initiative.

His hand curved along her rib cage, drifting up until his knuckles rubbed the curve of her breast through the towel.

“Yes,” she encouraged. She was ready to take this to a new level. To know where this path of heat and fire led. There would be no more waiting, no more wondering. No more pulling back.

When they finally broke apart, his breathing was as labored as hers. But he pushed her away.

“You need to get packed,” he said. “We’ve got a plane to catch.”

Rocco offered to call Gena’s boss and pull strings for a day off. Gena refused and made the call herself—taking a personal day. Nice girls didn’t lie, but by the same token, they didn’t have to blab everything they knew.

It drove her crazy that Rocco wouldn’t tell her anything about where they were going.

“It’s a surprise.”

“Then how do I pack?” she asked.

“Think snow day. Nothing dressy. And bring your passport.”

Passports
meant leaving the country.
Snow
meant cold. The Canadian Rockies, she guessed, seeing as they only had a three-day weekend.

Though pulling out sweaters and boots in July seemed absurd, Gena tossed everything she could in
a suitcase, barely making the fifteen-minute deadline Rocco had given her.

They took a cab to Reagan airport but bypassed the main terminal. “A friend is flying a small group,” Rocco said.

“A small group” actually turned out to be about fifty passengers. Gena grew suspicious as she took in the others’ apparel. Straw hats. Island-print shirts.

“Snow?” she whispered as she buckled her seat belt.

“Snow day,” Rocco corrected. “Don’t you remember as a kid what a blast it was to wake up and find school had been unexpectedly canceled? And you and your friends raced outside to find and follow the snowplows to see where they’d pile the excess?”

“Um, we didn’t get snow days in South Texas.” And Gena never would have been allowed to follow a plow.

“Bummer.” He sounded sincere.

“If we’re not going somewhere cold, then I packed all wrong. I might need to go shopping.”

Rocco grinned. He picked up her hand and kissed the tops of her knuckles. “I’ve got everything you need, princess. Trust me.”

His thumb rubbed slow circles in the center of her palm. The sensation made Gena hyperaware. Sensitive. There was only one thing she
needed
and it had nothing to do with clothes.

By the time their plane reached its destination, Grand Cayman, Gena was ready to throw Rocco down on the terminal floor and jump his bones. The two glasses of wine she’d had on the plane had eased her inhibitions.

Rocco took her to a marina where he had a small speedboat waiting.

More wine, more roses, were arranged inside a small but elegant cabana on a private island.

Gena giggled as she spotted the stretch of gleaming white beach. “The sand does kind of look like snow. Please tell me you brought me a swimsuit.”

“If I said no, would you swim without one?” Rocco pressed another glass of chardonnay into her hand.

She drank deeply, pondering his question. “Depends on who else was around.” The wine made her feel bold. Naughty.

“Better not be anyone around but me.” Rocco growled as he drew her close. Then he pressed her fully against his body and kissed her.

Gena felt his erection strain beneath the fly of his jeans. She rubbed, thrusted against it, not nearly as wary of his size as she’d been the first time she’d felt his erection. Her hands shifted to tug at his waistband. Wanting more, wanting him …

“You,” she whispered. “I only want you.”

Out of nowhere came the memory of his absence the last three weeks. Confusion washed over her.

“What’s wrong?” Rocco cupped her chin, made her meet his intense gaze. “You pulled back. Tell me what you’re thinking. And feeling.”

“I’m scared,” she blurted. “I mean … apprehensive.”

“That’s understandable. We’ll slow it down.”

“I don’t want slow. I want—”

“Promises?”

The word surprised her. “No. Yes. I mean, maybe. I want a promise of communication. I don’t want to wonder if you’ve disappeared for a few weeks—or for good.”

“Do you think you could actually shake me so
easily? Here’s my promise, princess. We’re not going any further with this relationship until we’ve reached an understanding. I want you to know exactly how I feel about you, so you’ll never worry when I’m gone. And I want to know you’re home, waiting for me.
Only for me
.”

Brownsville, TX
October 4, 8:37 P.M.

Loose gravel churned beneath his tires as Harry pulled away from the Cactus Rose Inn.

In addition to his regular fee, Edguardo had just been paid a bonus to lie low for the next twenty-four hours. Harry wasn’t so much concerned about police alerts as he was about keeping Edguardo available in the event he needed help on short notice.

Edguardo had railed about the disastrous day. He’d been pissed over having to fend Rocco off alone, losing Gena in the process. “You said you’d handle him while I got the woman!” he’d hollered at Harry.