Her Lone Wolf (8 page)

She smiled at the memory in spite of herself.

The DCO director had wooed her away from the FBI with a promise of more hands-on work at an organization that was at the pointy end of the spear when it came to dealing with the bad guys. She wasn’t being challenged in her job at the New Haven, Connecticut, field office and had already been thinking about a change of scenery anyway. Jumping to an ultra-secret covert organization with domestic and international responsibilities sounded like just the thing she’d been looking for. The pay and benefits had certainly been enticing—the agency had even been willing to find her a place in DC and cover the cost.

But the thing that had finally swayed her was hearing she’d be teamed up with another agent who’d been selected specifically to complement her personality and abilities. While she’d had a partner at the FBI, they hadn’t ever really clicked. If she was going to be doing a job where she put her life in another person’s hands on a daily basis, she wanted it to be someone who was good at what he did. John had assured her that her partner at the DCO was one of the best. What her new boss hadn’t told her—at least until after she’d taken the job—was that her new partner was a shifter or, as the DCO referred to them, an Extremely Valuable Asset. Oh, and that she’d have to eliminate him if they were ever compromised.

She hadn’t been sure what to think about the whole shifter thing, but the kill-your-partner-crap had just about ended her minty-fresh employment with the DCO. Only a great deal of tap dancing and assurances from John that it was simply policy and that no one expected her to ever have to do it had stopped her from walking out. She’d still thought she might be making the biggest mistake of her life and considered backing out of the job anyway.

Then John had introduced her to Clayne and everything changed.

Okay, so Clayne had been rough around the edges when she’d first met him, and he sure as hell hadn’t been thrilled—understatement there—to be paired up with her as a partner. Maybe the reason they’d rubbed each other the wrong way in the beginning was because they were so much alike. Neither was good at hiding their emotions or holding their tongues. So yeah, it had been tough the first six months or so. There were times she’d thought the DCO had been crazy to pair them up.

But once they’d gotten past that rough patch, damn did they click. She smiled at the memory.

* * *

Mexico, June 2010

Danica brought the small, silencer-equipped automatic up to cover Clayne as he moved across the courtyard toward the guesthouse behind the main building of the estate. The Beretta .380 felt unnatural in her hands, and she would have given anything to have the familiar grip of her Glock instead. But this had been a true come-as-you-are mission, so all their gear had been supplied by a local DCO contact.

The mission had been thrown together with about ten minutes’ worth of planning and even less thought. Some big shot in the Metarone drug cartel had kidnapped the daughter of the U.S. ambassador to Mexico barely more than six hours ago. Understandably, the ambassador was losing his mind, especially when he learned the kidnapper wasn’t interested in money but instead wanted the next shipment of high-tech weapons the United States was scheduled to deliver to the Mexican Army to be diverted to his cartel militia within the next twelve hours. If not, the kidnapper would send the ambassador’s daughter home in pieces.

Unfortunately, there were several problems with that plan. One, the weapons weren’t scheduled to arrive for more than a week, if Congress and the State Department got around to clearing them. Two, the ambassador didn’t have a damn thing to do with the weapons, so he couldn’t divert them.

While the State Department, CIA, and U.S. military had immediately gotten involved, they’d been more interested in arguing about who should be in charge instead of mounting a rescue. That was when someone called in the DCO. Thirty minutes later, she and Clayne were on a private plane headed for Mexico City, armed with only the kidnapper’s identity and the girl’s location. The DEA had been watching the cartel closely for over a year and had immediately known the identity of who’d grabbed the ambassador’s daughter. All Danica and Clayne had to do was get into a heavily guarded compound, find her, then get back out. It sounded like a simple enough snatch ’n’ grab—if they were working from a plan.

But Clayne wasn’t really big on plans.

Danica kept her weapon trained on the two balconies overlooking her side of the house. It was dark inside, so she didn’t think the risk of detection was very high, but she stayed alert anyway.

Clayne covered the open space at a speed she could never hope to match without the aid of a motor. Once he reached the house’s wall, she watched him sniff the air for a while. The concrete and stucco structure would prevent him from getting a good read on any scents coming from inside, but she trusted his nose to tell him if anyone was lurking around outside.

He must have liked what he smelled—or didn’t smell in this case—because he waved her over. While Clayne kept an eye—and a nose—out for anyone coming around the corner of the house, he spent most of his time watching her jog toward him. With his shifter-enhanced night vision, she had no doubt he was getting quite the show. Thanks to the clothing their contact had provided, there was a lot to see.

She and Clayne were supposed to be there for the cocktail party the drug lord was throwing. The bastard was ballsy enough to actually entertain guests—including the ambassador—in the main house while his thugs held the girl a few hundred yards away in the guesthouse. The ambassador didn’t know the man hosting the gala had his daughter, of course. He only knew his attendance at the party was critical to getting her back—and for getting Danica and Clayne inside. Which meant they had to dress for a party instead of a hostage rescue. When Clayne sprinted across the meticulous lawn, he did it in a tux. When she ran, it was in three-inch heels and a black evening gown with a slit up to her hip and a plunging neckline that stopped a few inches short of her belly button. She was lucky to keep everything where it belonged when she walked, much less ran.

For some reason though, Clayne’s more than casual observation didn’t bother her as much as it might have if it had been any other man looking. Probably because sexual tension had been brewing between them for months.

After they’d gotten over the initial awkwardness and made it through the hell that was the DCO team certification process, they’d started to notice each other in a different light. How could they not when they were together almost around the clock? She’d already seen Clayne nearly naked a few times and knew he possessed one hell of a body. Although he looked damn yummy in the expensive tux he was wearing now, too. She was having a hard time deciding which way she liked him better—bare-ass naked or dressed to the max.

She opted for naked. She was shallow like that.

Danica almost laughed when she came to a stop in front of her partner, who at the moment looked more like the Big Bad Wolf that wanted to eat her up than a highly skilled undercover agent.

But while Clayne might appreciate her body, he wasn’t stupid enough to let it distract him for long. He dragged his gaze away from her cleavage and sniffed the air.

“Still clear.”

“You pick up the girl’s scent yet?” Danica asked.

“Yeah. At least the trace amount she left behind before they took her inside. I won’t know exactly where she is until we get in there.”

He gave her a nod, then led the way toward the back of the guesthouse. According to the floor plan, there was an entrance to the kitchen on that side. Danica only hoped it wasn’t guarded. John’s orders had been simple—this wasn’t a shoot-’em-all-and-let-God-sort-’em-out kind of mission. They were to avoid engaging the guards, slip inside quietly, grab the girl, and get her off the estate before anyone knew they were there. They weren’t supposed to go anywhere near the drug lord or kill his men in retribution. Get in and get out, nice and quiet.

Right. If John wanted a nice, quiet mission, why the hell had he sent her and Clayne? They didn’t exactly do quiet.

Clayne peeked around the corner of the guesthouse. “You gonna take the lead once we get inside?”

Danica fought the urge to lean around him to take a look. It was better if he did it. His nose and ears would alert him if anyone was coming long before she’d ever know it. He was good at recon and attack; she was good at data processing and on-the-fly planning. That was why he wanted her to lead once they got inside. She was better at directing them through a close-quarter situation. He preferred to follow her lead and cover her back. It had taken them a while to come to that conclusion, mainly because Clayne liked being in charge, but once he saw how much better they worked as a team, he gave in.

“Sounds good,” she said.

Clayne edged around the corner and headed for the kitchen entrance. Danica kept an eye on their six and their flank. They were almost there when he stopped in his tracks and spun around.

“Incoming,” he whispered.

Crap.
Someone was coming out the kitchen door. There was no way they could retrace their steps and get back to the corner in time.

Danica tensed, ready to pop whoever walked out the door.
So much for nice and quiet.

But instead of dropping to his knee to cover their backside while she dealt with the person coming out of the guesthouse, Clayne swore and pressed her back against the wall. She barely had time to register a what-the-hell before his right hand—the one with the pistol—slid behind her back and his mouth came down on hers.

Danica didn’t think. She simply trusted that Clayne knew what he was doing and instinctively pushed her gun under his arm. If she had to, she could shoot through his jacket. Her line of fire would be limited, of course, and Clayne would have some serious flash burns, but it might just save their lives.

She twisted his body, pressing her hip against his groin as she tried to aim her weapon at the door. Clayne growled and shoved back with his thigh, moving her weapon off the door and pressing her harder against the wall, his mouth moving insistently over hers.

Danica was still trying to figure out what he was doing when the kitchen door opened and two women stepped out. They wore plain black dresses with white aprons—maids. They were maids, not armed guards. That’s what Clayne had been trying to tell her with his impromptu make-out session.

Realizing she wasn’t playing her part as convincingly as he was, Danica buried the fingers of one hand in his hair and parted her lips under his with a loud moan. God, he tasted better than chocolate. And she had a serious weakness for chocolate. His tongue slipped in to tangle with hers, and Danica had to remind herself they were supposed to be pretending. Because there was nothing pretend about her body’s reaction to what they were doing.

Behind Clayne, one woman said something to the other in Spanish, then they both laughed and walked toward the main house. Danica’s familiarity with the language was limited to two years in high school. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought they said something about horny Americans needing to find a room.

Clayne had his back to the women, so he was probably depending on her to break the kiss when the coast was clear. Danica didn’t pull away, though. Not even after the maids had disappeared inside. It wasn’t her fault. Clayne was a damn good kisser. Besides, she had to make sure the women didn’t come back, didn’t she?

But they had a job to do, and a teenage girl to rescue.

She reluctantly slid her hand from his silky hair to lightly push against his rock-hard chest. He got the message and lifted his head. His eyes flared in the darkness and she saw a flash of gold before he turned to look over his shoulder in the direction the women had disappeared.

“Sorry about that.” His voice was soft and a touch ragged. “I realized they were maids when I heard one say they had to clean up after the party. I was afraid you’d shoot them, and kissing you was the first thing I thought of.”

Because he’d been thinking of doing it before? The idea made her pulse skip a beat and she licked her lips. “Don’t worry about it. It was good improv. The women didn’t suspect a thing.”

Clayne’s molten gaze dropped to her mouth, and for one crazy moment she thought he was going to kiss her again. But he only jerked his head toward the guesthouse. “You ready to do this?”

The double entendre almost made her moan. Not trusting herself to speak, Danica nodded and followed him across the lawn.

* * *

The rest of the mission hadn’t gone as smoothly—or quietly—as they’d planned, thanks to the uncooperative bastards who’d been holding the girl hostage. But they’d rescued the ambassador’s daughter and that’s what mattered. And when they got back on the plane for the States, neither of them mentioned the kiss in Mexico. She and Clayne had grown more as a team in that one mission than in all the other missions and training exercises they’d done since getting paired up, and she couldn’t help but wonder if it was because of that kiss.

“Are you just going to stare at those photos all night, or help us?”

It took Danica a moment to realize Tony was talking to her. She looked up and was surprised to see that he and Clayne had filled two entire whiteboards with names and random pieces of information. She must have zoned out longer than she thought. She scratched a quick note on her pad to make it look as if she’d been doing something other than daydreaming.

“Sorry. What can I do to help?”

“Maybe you can look at this and tell us what we’re not seeing,” Tony said.

She read over the collection of notes scribbled on the whiteboard. Damn, Tony had crappy handwriting. Thinking about the past wasn’t going to help solve these murders. Staring at the coroner’s reports wasn’t getting her anywhere, either.

Clayne gestured to the board. “We’ve written down every piece of information we have on each victim, and we can’t find anything connecting them.”

Danica scanned each list. Something had to be buried in that mess connecting the men—they just weren’t seeing it. She wished they could call up the DCO and have their analysts come up with the answer, but unfortunately, their computers weren’t any better than the FBI’s. Without something to put in the search engine, they were worthless.