My Spy: Last Spy Standing (17 page)
Read My Spy: Last Spy Standing Online
Authors: Dana Marton
“Fine,” he said, not looking the least bit pleased. “I care for Katie. I don’t think she minds me. I would do anything to protect her. You know that.”
She supposed she did, but hearing the words still made her feel better. “I’ve never seen her warm to someone as fast as she warmed to you. She has this sixth sense to know instinctually who’s a good person. That’s a big point in your favor. Among others.”
He brightened at that. “There are others? What are they?”
She tried to pull away. He wouldn’t let her.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. “You do a fair job at kissing,” she admitted reluctantly.
He pulled himself to full height. “Fair?” And then he dipped his head to hers and stole her breath away.
By the time he pulled back again, she would have admitted to being the tooth fairy, let alone that he was a good kisser. She probably looked fairly bamboozled, because he had a pretty proud look on his face.
“You’re not bad yourself.” He winked at her. “We’ll figure the relationship thing out. I would do anything for you and Katie. You know that, right?”
This was the man who’d carried wounded teammates out of a war zone until he bled out to the point where he could no longer stand. Yeah, she believed him.
“Why?” she asked anyway.
“Because I’m falling for you.” He held her gaze. “And I play for keeps. So let that be a warning.”
Okay, he’d certainly laid his cards on the table. Warmth spread through her. Her heart seemed to swell in her chest.
“My life is never easy. Katie will always have to come first. I’m all she has. I’m responsible for her. You might not realize what you’re taking on.”
“I’ll be around. I can promise that much. I’m permanently stationed on the border. But life is never a cakewalk. Mine has its own glitches.”
Yes, it did. She so didn’t care. She wanted him. So she reached up and, bold as you please, pulled his head back down to hers.
This kiss was softer, deeper, even more spine-tingling than the last, a confirmation of what they were feeling for each other.
He picked her up and her legs wrapped around his waist, his hardness pressing into her. He carried her toward the stairs, but she ran her hands up under his shirt as she hung on to him and they didn’t make it.
He ended up pressing her against the wall in the hallway.
Heat suffused her as he rocked against her.
“Take off your shirt,” he demanded.
She did.
He trailed kisses down her neck, to her collarbone, down into the valley of her breasts.
A moan escaped her throat.
“Yeah,” he said, and brought up his hands to push her bra down, holding her against the wall with his pelvis.
Then his lips were on her nipple that was so hard, it ached. For him. And he did this thing with the tip of his tongue, a rapid back and forth movement that took her breath away. That was before he suddenly enveloped the nipple in the wet heat of his mouth and sucked gently. Pleasure exploded through her body.
She hung on to his shoulders for dear life.
Her entire body begged for him. She ground against him and he ground back, the need at her core intensifying to an unbearable level.
“We’re not going to make it to the bedroom,” he said in an apologetic, raspy whisper as he switched to the other nipple.
By that time, she could barely even remember that the house had another floor.
He teased her and suckled her until she was cross-eyed with need, tearing impatiently at his shirt, then at his belt buckle.
He slid her to the ground, but only until they had both stripped out of their clothing—in frenetic, jerky movements, working zippers with one hand, still reaching to touch each other with the other, their lips barely separating. Sweet mackerels, he was gorgeous.
He produced a small foil wrapper from somewhere and stumbled with it as he opened it without looking.
His body was carved from granite, every muscle perfect, and he had a lot of them. She wanted to touch him and never stop, her hands moving from his chest to his rock-solid abdomen and buttocks.
She couldn’t help herself. Fine, she didn’t
want
to help herself. She squeezed.
He groaned and lifted her again, up against the wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist, his hardness pushing deep inside her, stretching her, caressing her from the inside, filling her completely.
“Oh, wow,” she said, barely able to catch her breath.
“You can say that again.”
She simply moaned, because he began to move inside her and she was suddenly beyond speech.
The sex was amazing. He was amazing. Pleasure raked her body. She wanted to touch every inch of his skin and she wanted him to touch hers. She wanted his lips on hers and she wanted to never stop kissing.
Oh.
The man knew how to move.
Wave after wave of pleasure began where they were joined, then rippled through her body. Then the pleasure reached a crest and washed over her completely, her body contracting around him as she called out his name.
He stilled, held her, kissed her, caressed her.
She’d barely come back down to earth when he started up again, a steady rhythm at first, then gathering speed.
She was utterly spent. “Jamie?” She couldn’t take more of this.
Or could she?
Okay, she could, she realized as delicious tension coiled inside her all over again.
Then she remembered how long he’d been holding her up like this, how long he’d been supporting her weight. Did that feel uncomfortable for him? Was it hurting him?
“Do you need a—” Her breath caught and she couldn’t finish.
But he somehow knew what she’d been about to say. “My legs never get tired,” he said, and grinned. Then he pushed deeper into her, sending her body soaring all over again.
Later, when they were spent and both still breathing hard, she slipped her feet to the ground, and they leaned against each other, supporting each other, holding each other up.
“I want to say something.”
“Okay.” She pulled back so she could look into his eyes.
“You’re the light of my life.” He gathered her close against him. “I love you, Bree Tridle.”
“I love you, too. But don’t let it go to your head and get all protective. I’ll still be deputy sheriff, even if I’m your girlfriend. So no putting on bossypants.”
He laughed out loud before he kissed her. “No, ma’am.”
* * * * *
Don’t miss the exciting conclusion of
HQ: TEXAS
,
by award-winning author Dana Marton,
when SPY IN THE SADDLE
goes on sale next month.
Look for it wherever Harlequin Intrigue books
are sold!
Last Spy Standing
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Megan Cassidy—
She is full of secrets and on a desperate mission in the South American jungle. This is difficult enough without making a formidable enemy in Mitch Mendoza, a no-nonsense undercover operative who awakens impossible needs in her.
Mitch Mendoza—
Member of a top-secret military group (SDDU). He is on a rescue op, his only goal being to find his target and take the man home. But everything gets a lot more complicated when a sexy, mysterious woman shows up in the middle of the jungle and stands in his way.
Zak Goodman—
The son of the governor of Kansas, Zak chose a different path than his father. When he’s involved in a drug deal gone bad, he finds himself the prisoner of a powerful drug lord south of the border.
Juarez—
A powerful drug captain, he controls a large chunk of the jungle.
Don Pedro—
He’s the top boss of the drug business in the region, with several captains reporting to him. They fear and loathe him at the same time. With good reason.
SDDU—
Special Designation Defense Unit. A top-secret military team established to fight terrorism and other international crime that affects the U.S. Its existence is known only by a select few. Members are recruited from the best of the best.
Colonel Wilson—
Mitch’s boss. He’s the leader of the SDDU, reporting straight to the Homeland Security secretary.
This book is dedicated to Karen Micek, a wonderful friend.
With many thanks to my editor, Allison Lyons.
Chapter One
The unforgiving South American sun scorched Mitch Mendoza’s neck as he watched three men on the hillside below him through a pair of high-powered binoculars.
His current mission had only two rules. Rule number one: don’t mess up. Rule number two: if you mess up, don’t leave witnesses.
The three men, aka the witnesses he wasn’t supposed to leave, moved at a good clip. They were local, used to the jungle terrain and the humidity that made breathing difficult for outsiders who had no business being in these parts. Outsiders like Zak “Kid Kansas” Goodman, who gasped for breath as he tried to keep up with Mitch.
“We can’t let them reach the river.” Mitch let the binoculars drop against his chest and looked back at the twenty-two-year-old trust-fund jerk whose only ambition seemed to be finding trouble and annoying as many people as possible in the process.
The boy was a long way from his fancy college fraternity—scratched and gaunt, wearing the signs of his recent imprisonment. “They’re just a couple of goatherds. Let them be.”
Mitch didn’t think the kid had developed a conscience—although, that would have been nice. More likely, he was just too lazy to pick up the pace, too soft to put in the effort that would be necessary to catch up.
“I’m hungry. I want a break.” He was worse than a three-year-old whining, “Are we there yet?” from the backseat.
“Soon.” Mitch moved forward, adjusting his half-empty backpack.
Their food had run out the day before. Neither of them had washed since last Friday. Not that he would have said they were roughing it. They still had a bottle of drinking water between them, and a tent to keep out the poisonous creepy crawlers that liked to pay jungle trekkers nighttime visits.
“Watch your step.”
The faster they went, the more careful they had to be. Snakes hid in the undergrowth; stones blocked their steps on the uneven ground. Neither of them could afford a twisted ankle. They needed to catch up with those goatherds. Quickly.
Word that two Americans were trespassing through infamous drug kingpin Juarez’s part of the jungle could not reach the nearest village. Or the head of the local
policía.
If the police chief was corrupt, he’d report right back to Juarez. If he was clean, he’d report the info to his superiors. Mitch didn’t need complications like that. Enough had gone wrong already.
The trip should have been a simple in-and-out rescue op, except that Zak wasn’t the clueless victim his file had indicated. Mitch had found him in a shed on Juarez property just as the kid had shot the drug lord’s second in command. Juarez’s brother-in-law, in fact.
That wasn’t going to be forgiven.
Juarez was going to move heaven and earth to find the idiot. What had the kid been thinking anyway? He’d shoot his way out of camp and make it out of the jungle? He would have been dead within the hour if Mitch hadn’t been watching the camp for days, and if he hadn’t been ready to grab the kid and run with him.
He pushed forward and knew without having to turn around that Zak was falling behind. The kid made a lot of noise.
“Keep up and keep quiet.” His mission was to get Kid Kansas, aka Kansas governor Conrad Goodman’s son, out of the South American jungle in one piece without anyone knowing that he’d been there in the first place.
They didn’t exactly have authorization from the local government. Mitch didn’t have authorization from his own government, for that matter. Just a request from Colonel Wilson. The governor and the Colonel went way back, to a double tour of duty in ’Nam. They were blood brothers.
That the Colonel trusted Mitch with the mission was an honor. Mitch would have walked through fire for the man.
He looked up at the sun and prayed for a little luck, although he was used to his prayers going unanswered. But maybe this was his lucky day, because suddenly the three men he was following stopped. It looked like they were going to have a bite before crossing the river.
“Let’s move.” He set the pace even faster.
“I can’t.”
“Should have stayed home, then.”
“It’s not my fault I was kidnapped,” the kid snapped. He was getting his spirit back and then some.
Right after he’d shot Juarez’s brother-in-law, he’d been ready to fall apart, panicking when Mitch had busted into his prison. But in the past two days, once he’d realized his escape had been successful, he’d come to consider himself some sort of an action hero—or, at the very least, Mitch’s equal.
“I don’t deserve any of this,” the boy kept on whining.
“You didn’t come to Bogotá for sightseeing.”
The governor had bought that line from his spoiled son. Mitch didn’t. But Zak’s lies were an issue for another day. Right now, he had bigger fish to fry. The men in front of them weren’t his only problem. Juarez’s soldiers were hunting for Zak, and they couldn’t be far behind.
He got the kid down the hill in twenty minutes, stashed him in some nearby bushes then moved toward the men’s camp. The goatherds had already lit a fire to warm water for their
yerba maté,
a favorite herbal drink of most South American natives.
They seemed simple men, each traveling with a single bag, wearing worn, mismatched clothes under their equally tattered ponchos. Their only crime had been being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Then again, better men than these had been killed for lesser reasons. And how many truly innocent men hung out in this part of the jungle? Where was their herd, for starters?
What had they been doing that close to Juarez’s camp? The day after Mitch had rescued Zak, he’d stashed him out of harm’s way and left the idiot for half an hour, so he could double back and see how close their pursuers were getting. Zak’s only job had been to sit tight. But when he’d heard people moving through the woods, he’d lost his head and panicked. He’d run, yelling for Mitch in English. The goatherds had seen him.
And for that, they would have to die. Mitch checked his gun with distaste. He didn’t condone senseless killing. And he hated having his hand forced by Zak, who should have simply followed him out of the jungle, quietly appreciating the rescue along the way.
He shook all that off and focused on what he was about to do. He would take these men out because he had to. But he wasn’t going to shoot them in the back. He took a deep breath and stepped out into the clearing.
The next second, ponchos were shoved aside and the men—definitely not simple goatherds—were aiming AK-47s at him. Mitch’s index finger curled around the trigger of his weapon, adrenaline shooting into his bloodstream.
But instead of all hell breaking loose, everything became absurdly surreal as a blonde suburban housewife stepped out of the bushes at the edge of the clearing. She wore khaki capri pants and a matching tank top, blond waves tumbling around her heart-shaped face, translucent amber eyes as wide as they could be. She looked like she’d come straight from a backyard barbecue or a kid’s birthday party. The only things missing were the oven mitts.
“Excuse me. I’m sorry. Can you help me?”
Then their moment of grace was over and the “goatherds” opened fire on Mitch. They apparently didn’t consider the woman much of a threat. Mitch dove for the bushes to avoid the flying bullets. But one nicked him in the shoulder. He ignored the burn as he shot and rolled, careful to avoid Blondie.
Lucky for her, he was good at what he did. The fight ended in seconds.
She stood in the same spot, her feet frozen to the ground, her entire body trembling. And he noticed now that her clothes were stained in places, her hands dirty.
“Oh,” she said, as he came to his feet, blood trickling down his arm. Her full lips trembled faintly. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Don’t move.” He patted her down, feeling surprised, and a little guilty, that he enjoyed it. Her eyes went even wider, and her cheeks blushed pink.
When he was done, he slipped the small designer backpack off her shoulders and checked over the contents: a small first-aid kit, bug spray, suntan lotion, extra clothes and a water bottle with a filter that made even mud puddles safe to drink. No weapons.
He gave the bag back. Damned if he knew what to make of her. “Okay. Get sick if you need to.”
She ran for the bushes she’d come from, and a second later he could hear her retching.
He turned to the bodies on the sand, then to Zak, who was inching forward from his hiding spot. He looked green around the gills, too. He threw a questioning look toward the bushes, where they could still hear their mysterious guest.
Mitch shrugged and collected the weapons. “Go see what they have in their bags.” Food would be welcome. He looked with regret at the
yerba maté
that had been spilled.
“Hey, check this out!” Zak held up a two-kilo bag of white powder a minute later, grinning from ear to ear.
Mitch leveled his gaze on the idiot. “Rip it open, then dump it into the river.”
“What? No way.”
Mitch went stock-still. “Dump it into the river or I’ll leave you here to rot.”
A long minute passed before the kid sprinkled the white powder over the water, his stance belligerent. He took a quick sniff from the back of his hand when he thought Mitch wasn’t looking.
The governor of Kansas was a decent man, but too softhearted. He was going to have to learn tough love in a hurry if he wanted to straighten out his son. Mitch didn’t envy him.
He collected the AK-47s and tossed them into the river. He had plenty of ammo for his own gun and didn’t need the extra weight to carry in this heat. No way he was giving one to the kid.
The bushes rustled as Blondie returned, none too steady on her feet. She kept her distance. She was too pretty to look truly pitiful, but she looked tussled—in a curvaceous, wholesome way. “Are you Americans?”
She wasn’t the kind of woman Mitch could relate to. He didn’t exactly lead a suburban lifestyle. He fixed Zak with a look to keep him quiet. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“Megan Cassidy. From New Jersey. I’m on a South American orchid tour.” She swallowed hard. “We were attacked in the jungle.”
Here? What was she on, the kamikaze boat run by Stupid Tours? He swatted some bugs away. “How many people?”
“Twenty-two of us tourists...” Her voice faltered. “Plus the two guides.”
He felt infinitely tired all of a sudden. He didn’t have time to rush into the jungle. He couldn’t. It wasn’t part of his mission. He asked anyway. “Survivors?”
“Just me.” Tears spilled over and ran down her alabaster skin.
He didn’t trust tears. He never knew when they were genuine and when they were used to simply manipulate a man. Her crying made him uneasy.
What did people like her think they were doing in the jungle? Hell, she shouldn’t have been allowed in the country. Women like her should stick to attending PTA meetings, sipping double lattes while strolling through the mall and playing golf at the country club.
“I need to go home.” She swallowed a sob. “Could you help me find the nearest town? I need to get to the police and an airport. Please?”
An unwanted complication at a time when he couldn’t afford to be slowed down. “When did all this happen?”
She blinked rapidly. “This morning.”
“How far away?”
“I don’t know.” She sniffed. “I kept running.”
He hadn’t heard gunshots, but the dense greenery muffled sound—the jungle formed solid walls in places. It all came down to this: he had no way to figure out where exactly the massacre had taken place. And he had no time to look for it.
He finished considering his options and shot Zak a look to remind him to keep quiet. “I’m Mitch and this is Zak here. From Panama. We’re hiking buddies. Just got on this trail when these drug runners ambushed us,” he lied with practiced ease.
He didn’t want to have to kill her and didn’t have the heart to leave her, either. But he would, if she became a threat to his mission. “About that attack on your group...”
She folded her arms around her slim midriff, her skin tightening over her cheekbones. “Would you mind if we didn’t talk about it? Just right now, I mean?” Her amber eyes begged him. There went those trembling lips again.
The sight of her twisted something in the middle of his chest, an unfamiliar sensation he didn’t care for. He supposed his questions could wait. “You can come with us as far as the nearest town.”
She looked ready to melt with relief. “Thank you. I won’t be any trouble, I swear.”
He didn’t believe that for a second.
Her shoulders straightened as she visibly pulled herself together. “What can I do to help?”
All right, she got a point for that. He’d yet to hear that question from Zak.
“Take whatever food and water you can find and store it in our backpacks,” he told her. He nodded at Zak to help her, then went to see about the bodies.
He searched their clothes, but found little beyond cigarettes. No ID on any of them. The last thing people like this would have wanted, if they were caught, was for the
policía
to be able to identify them.
Ten minutes later, the current carried the bodies of the three goatherds-slash-drug runners downriver. Another minute and the bags were packed. Mitch’s had been hit, his GPS/radio unit among the casualties. It would have been a lot worse if he’d lost that on his way in. But from this point on, the way back out was fairly straightforward.
As he swung his backpack over his shoulder, he caught Megan looking at him.
“Let me see to your wound.” She stepped closer, her movements hesitant, but her gaze determined.
His shoulder. Back at home, he would have ignored something this small, but it wouldn’t be smart to risk an infection in the jungle.
“All right.” But he watched her carefully. She hadn’t taken the earlier gunfight well. He didn’t want her to faint at the sight of his blood.
She seemed more together now as she peeled back the torn fabric of his shirt, took a good look then went for her first aid kit.
Zak wiggled his eyebrows at Mitch from behind her. He glared back at the kid, who seemed to have little on his brain beyond drugs and women. He looked decidedly less tired than he had before Megan had shown up. His gaze kept returning to her, lingering on her curves.
