Midnight Pursuits (10 page)

Besides, talking about Jim was a major buzzkill. Guaranteed to squash any arousal she might be feeling.

“Where are you heading to next?” D asked in that gravelly voice of his.

She twisted her head to shoot him a sardonic look, then took another drag of her cigarette. “Why, you interested in tagging along?”

“Maybe.”

“You like fucking me that much, huh?”

“You're an all right lay, I guess.”

She bristled. “Firstly, I am a phenomenal lay. Secondly, fuck you. And thirdly, if I'm so mediocre in the sack, then why the hell are you here?”

D surprised her by actually answering the question. “Because I like what we've got going on. No strings, no expectations.” He paused. “We're the same, you and I.”

“What are you, a Batman villain? ‘We're the same, you and I.'”

“That's the reason this works so well,” he went on. “Because we're both fucked-up, emotionless assholes who never drop our guard and who don't foolishly believe in happily ever after.”

“The perfect match,” she said ironically.

The vibration of her cell phone interrupted the cynical exchange. Good. The cell had finished charging. She'd gone dark for her last job and hadn't needed the phone, and when she'd finally turned it on once she'd finished up the assignment, she'd discovered that the battery had died on her. And now that it was working again, the display showed a dozen outstanding messages.

“It rang right before you got here,” D told her. “I didn't bother checking who was calling.”

Sitting up, Noelle extinguished her smoke in the ashtray. She scrolled through the call history and discovered that Juliet had phoned several times over the past week. Frowning, she punched the code for her voice mail and played each message, her emotions going from alarmed to relieved to annoyed.

Next to her, D had grabbed his phone to check his own messages, and similar annoyance creased his forehead as he listened.

“Juliet's in a jam,” Noelle said after she disconnected.

D let out a breath. “I know. I just got a message from the rookie—he's with her. He wants me to go to Madrid to watch some dude's ass.”

“Funny, Juliet requested the same thing of me.”

She didn't bother hiding her exasperation. Christ, maybe she was becoming soft—that was the only explanation she could come up with for why her girls kept begging for help with all these bothersome side gigs. Once she'd become in high demand and the jobs were too numerous for one woman to handle, she'd spent years tracking down and recruiting the perfect operatives to make up her deadly team. She'd chosen only women who met a specific criteria. Women with no ties, no loyalties, and, if possible, no consciences.

For the most part, she'd succeeded. Paige and Bailey had never disappointed her, and both were capable of killing without remorse and staying focused on the objective. Isabel had always been too compassionate for her own good, but Noelle had never intended for the woman to be a killer; Isabel's unmatched talent for becoming a different person was what Noelle had wanted from her. But Abby . . . what a waste. She'd thought she'd found a gem in Abby Sinclair, only to watch Abby fall in love, quit, and go to work for her nemesis.

And now Juliet, her other gem, was caught up in a crusade that just happened to involve another one of Jim's soldiers.

Damn that man and his team of do-gooders.

“Let me guess. You're going to tell your girl she's on her own.” D sounded very sure of himself as he moved into a sitting position. His defined pecs flexed as he crossed his arms loosely over his bare chest.

“And let me guess. You're going to race to Madrid to do your teammate's bidding.”

“Why not? I'm damn bored and I haven't been to Spain in years.” He slanted his head. “Feel like tagging along?”

“I can think of better ways to make use of my time.” She paused for a beat. “On the other hand, I just made a million bucks for slipping a pill into a slimebag's drink, so . . . What the hell? I guess I can afford to keep you company.”

“How magnanimous of you.”

“I'll let Juliet know.” She smirked and slid her hand down his body, her manicured nails scraping the hard flesh of his chest. “But before I do, there are still a couple things I want to take care of.”

“Dmitry. It is good of you to come.”

Orlov smoothed out the front of his suit jacket and lowered himself into the chair opposite Oleg Harkov. The murmur of voices could be heard from beyond the study doors, the soft condolences and quiet sobs of the mourners who'd come to bid farewell to Harkov's daughter.

The idea that the girl's body had been lying in this house for the past three days made Orlov shiver. He had never understood the macabre rituals of the Eastern Orthodox church. Keeping a corpse in one's home for three days before burial? It was preposterous.

Sadly, his wife had been as devout as the Harkov family, so he had plenty of experience with religious zealots. Orlov suspected Diana would turn over in her grave if she knew he'd forgone the silly customs she'd always believed in and sent her cancer-ridden body to a funeral home hours after she'd passed.

“I wanted to come earlier,” he told the grieving father, “but I've been busy assembling a task force to deal with this PRF situation once and for all.”

Harkov looked up with vacant gray eyes. “The PRF?”

“Those parasites were responsible for murdering your daughter, Oleg.”

That got the man's attention. In an instant, his blank expression transformed into one of deep shock. “What are you saying? Have they taken responsibility for what happened to my Zoya?”

“Not officially, but our sources tell us that Mironov and his people were indeed involved.”

The shock turned into fury. “Bastards. Each and every one of them.” Just as fast, the anger became desperation. “Why did they target my daughter?”

“Why do they target anybody? They are crazy fanatics, Oleg. You and your family are not the only victims of Mironov's evil. Many of our colleagues have suffered losses this year at the hands of the PRF.”

Footsteps sounded out in the hall, reminding Orlov that he ought to be leaving soon. He didn't plan on staying for the funeral, which would be held in the small, private cemetery on the Harkov property. The men in attendance would be expected to carry the coffin to the burial site, and Orlov had no intention of taking on that ludicrous task.

“I came here today not only to offer my condolences,” he hurried on, “but to assure you that the people who took your daughter from you will be punished.” He paused meaningfully. “I know what it's like to lose a child, Oleg. A father never recovers from such a staggering blow.” Another pause. “You remember my Sergei, don't you?”

Uneasiness flickered in Harkov's eyes. “Of course I do. Sergei was a wonderful boy, Dmitry.”

Orlov swallowed the rush of anger that rose in his throat. A wonderful boy? His son had been destined for greatness. Only ten years old and already ahead of his class, with more intelligence and charm than Oleg Harkov would ever possess in his sorry life.

It was hard to imagine that Orlov had once curried this man's favor. During his political climb, he'd attached himself to anyone who could help his ascension. He'd formed alliances, surrounding himself with people who had power, or those he believed would eventually get it.

Harkov, however, had not reached the top of his ladder. He'd stalled halfway, or maybe he'd simply decided to stop climbing. The man's lack of ambition disgusted Orlov. So did his naïveté about how to run a country. Negotiating with terrorists—as if that approach had ever worked throughout the course of history. With people like Harkov and Belikov and the rest of the sniveling pacifists at the helm, it was no wonder the People's Revolutionary Front was planting bombs all over the country

But Orlov had yet to sever his alliance with Harkov and the others. No, he would need them before this was over.

“I'm afraid I must go now,” he said with false regret. “I apologize for not being able to attend the service, but I have a meeting with Belikov's liaison this afternoon.”

“I understand. I am honored that you came at all, Dmitry.”

He clapped a hand on Harkov's shoulder. “It's the least I can do for such a treasured friend.”

•   •   •

Juliet and Ethan got an early start the next morning, making their way down to the front desk long before the eleven-o'clock checkout time.

“D's on board,” Ethan reported. His phone had just buzzed and he was studying the screen intently. “He said he's meeting up with Noelle in Madrid. They'll check in once they track down Yuri Kozlov.”

Juliet narrowed her eyes. “Why are they teaming up? It's a simple tail. Doesn't require two people.”

Ethan shrugged. “It does if the job is twenty-four-hour recon. A person's gotta sleep sometime.”

He had a point, and yet Juliet was still troubled by the notion of her boss working alongside Morgan's man. She remembered D from the Monte Carlo job, the brooding, tattooed mercenary with savage black eyes and the personality of a thornbush. He hadn't been a picnic to work with, and she wasn't sure she wanted him involved in this.

There was a reason she worked alone—it meant she was always the one in control, the one who decided the outcome of any given situation. D, however, was a wild card, and she refused to lose her chance for vengeance because of a damn wild card.

Ah, well. She probably didn't have anything to worry about. Chances were, Noelle would find a way to send the guy packing. Juliet's boss liked calling the shots, and since Juliet couldn't imagine D following anybody's orders but Morgan's, Noelle would grow tired of the prickly asshole real fast.

“I figure you and I will take the prime minister's daughter,” Ethan went on as they headed for the counter to return their room key. “And Sullivan and Liam agreed to fly in to watch Alisa Baronova. You remember them, right? They worked the Monaco job with us.”

Oh, Juliet certainly remembered the dynamic duo. Sullivan and Liam were equally sexy, equally cocky, and equally deadly. Unlike D, she wouldn't mind having them around one damn bit.

“What's that look for?” Ethan demanded.

She grinned when she discerned his visible displeasure. “What look?”

“You got this . . .
look
 . . . when I mentioned Sully and Liam.” A dark cloud passed over his handsome face. “Don't even think about hooking up with one of them.”

She batted her lashes. “And what if I do? What will you do, rookie—spank me?”

“Again with the goading?”

“You are so touchy,” she told him. “And FYI, the whole possessive thing you've got going on? Not a turn-on.”

Bullshit
, her inner slut taunted.

Oh, fine. So maybe she liked a man who was a tad possessive. Alpha warriors turned her on. So sue her.

“I don't give a damn if you like it or not,” Ethan retorted. “And I don't care how attractive you find my teammates. I won't let either one of them touch you.”

They reached the desk, and while Ethan handed the key to the expressionless woman sitting behind it, Juliet ran over the day's objective in her mind. The plan was to scope out the prime minister's estate. She was just making a mental note to try to get her hands on Karin's security designs when a familiar face snagged her attention.

The jerk from last night, the one who'd bumped into her and called her sugar tits, had just entered the lobby from outside. Since it was six a.m. and he was looking rather haggard, she suspected he'd stayed out all night. No doubt paying a prostitute to keep him company, seeing as she couldn't imagine any woman willingly spending time with that creep.

As he crossed the carpeted floor, he clicked the key remote in his hand to arm his car alarm, and a honk sounded from the street beyond the lobby doors.

The jerk didn't so much as glance at her and Ethan as he passed them, but he did address the desk clerk with a rude demand to deliver fresh coffee to his suite.

Pompous ass.

“I'll call a taxi to take us to the car-rental place,” Ethan said after they'd stepped out into the chilly morning air.

Juliet took her black leather gloves out of her jacket pocket and slipped them on. A thoughtful expression graced her face when she noticed the silver Porsche across the street from the Grenadier. It was parked illegally in a fire route, and she had a sneaking suspicion about who owned the luxury vehicle.

“Nah, I have a better idea,” she replied with a faint smile.

Ethan sighed. “Whatever it is, I don't like it.”

“Oh, hush. Just trust me.” She linked her arm through his and started walking toward the bus shelter ten yards away.

The snow on the sidewalk crunched beneath their boots, their breath escaping in billowing white clouds, but Juliet was too wired to feel the cold. When they reached the deserted bus stop, she flopped down on the metal bench and unzipped her duffel to retrieve her laptop case.

“Do me a favor,” she told Ethan. “Read me the license plate number of that Porsche.”

He stared at her, incredulous. “You can't be serious. Are you planning on stealing that car?”

“Maybe.”

“No way.”

“Aw, come on. It'll be fun.”

“Are you out of your mind? We're not stealing a car.”

“But it belongs to Mr. Sugar Tits,” she protested. “Don't tell me the thought of boosting that asshole's car doesn't make you all giddy.”

Ethan pursed his lips. “You're right. Totally makes me giddy.”

She broke out in a smile. “Permission to continue?”

“Permission granted,” he said grudgingly.

“What's the license plate?” She was already opening her laptop and loading the necessary software.

Ethan recited the plate number, and a second later Juliet was hard at work. Fingers flying over the keyboard, commands and codes flashing across the screen.

“C'mon,” she mumbled, then cursed when an error message popped up.

“What exactly are you doing?”

“Accessing the car's computer system.”

“You can actually do that?”

“Yup. Gotta love keyless entry, huh?”

“But . . . how?”

She maneuvered through the software, slightly distracted as she rattled off a quick explanation. “Any vehicle that relies on software to provide security can be circumvented by other software. Which means that any idiot with a laptop and the right program can wirelessly break into a vehicle's computer, unlock the doors, and start the engine. With only a few keystrokes, no less.” She looked at him and rolled her eyes. “Car theft has come a long way since the old hot-wiring days.”

“I still don't believe that you can simply log into some program and—”

Purrrrr
.

The roar of an engine coming to life brought another smile to her lips and sent Ethan's jaw to the ground.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

Juliet shut the laptop but shoved a pen between the cover and keyboard so it didn't close fully—she needed the software to keep running. Then she tucked the computer in its case and got to her feet.

On the other side of the street, the Porsche continued to purr, as if trying to lure them toward it.

“Hold on, kitten. We're coming,” she murmured.

Next to her, Ethan was now laughing softly. He fell into step with her as they crossed the slush-ridden street. Very few people were up and about, and nobody paid them any attention as they made their way to the expensive sports car.

Juliet spared a quick glance at the Grenadier, then approached the driver's side of the sleek silver machine. The car's plate number had been registered to a Mr. Ivan Gorbenko. Ha. Maybe Gorbenko would now think twice before the words
sugar tits
left that arrogant mouth of his.

As she reached for the door handle, her heart pounded, a familiar
thump-thump
that drummed in her ears and reminded her of that rainy night in Chicago when she'd stolen her very first car. Didn't matter how many times she'd done it since. Each boost always felt like the first.

Taking a breath, Juliet pulled on the handle. The door opened easily, and the engine continued to hum, causing the pavement beneath her boots to vibrate.

“We're good,” she announced before sliding into the pristine leather interior of the Porsche.

The passenger's door opened and Ethan settled in beside her. He twisted around to toss their gear in the backseat, then turned to look at her, his hazel eyes twinkling with amusement.

“You are scarily good at this.”

She shrugged. “What, boosting cars? Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “You're really something—you know that?”

“Duh. Why do you think I have men falling at my feet?” She pressed her right foot on the gas pedal and sped away from the curb, then let out a dreamy sigh. “Lord, this car handles like a dream.”

It had been a while since she'd driven such a powerful machine, and she was loving every second of it as she smoothly switched into third gear and left the Grenadier and Gorbenko in their proverbial dust.

“Seriously, though, how did you get so good at this shit?” Ethan asked.

“Practice.”

“C'mon, tell me how you became a master thief. The curiosity is killing me.”

She rolled her eyes, but when she saw his face, she realized he was actually being sincere. “You want to trade life stories? Is that it?”

He flashed her that boyish smile. “Yep.”

She was starting to suspect he did that deliberately. Offered a cute, disarming smile in a calculated attempt to get his way.

“C'mon,” he said again, coaxing her with his sexy, husky voice. “Indulge me.”

•   •   •

Ethan knew he was chipping away at Juliet's defenses—he'd noticed the change in her ever since yesterday's mind-blowing kiss. She was less guarded around him, which was made obvious by her willingness to talk about herself now.

“Fine, I'll tell you all about it.” She tossed her long, dark hair over her shoulder, keeping her eyes on the road. “Consider this Juliet 101.”