Real Men Last All Night (8 page)

Her arms gave out while he was still taking her and her face pressed against the soft throw rug, her arms above her head. It was a wonder she didn't turn into a pool of hot melted glass.

Willow's body kept throbbing and she jerked with every spasm of her core.

Zane pulled out. "Turn over."

She struggled to move with her trembling arms. As soon as she was on her back, he jerked her shorts all the way off, leaving her socks and running shoes on.

Not even giving her a chance to catch her breath, much less absorb what he was doing, Zane lifted her legs so that her knees were over his shoulders. He had her backside raised off the floor before he thrust deep.

Willow made sharp, gasping sounds. After that incredible orgasm she was so sensitive inside that she could hardly take any more.

"Oh, you can take more," Zane said and she wondered if she had spoken the words aloud.

"Especially after all of your teasing since I had you in my bed the first time."

"You mean several times."

He groaned as his own body started to tremble against hers. "And you're going to come again."

"What gave you the first clue?" she said between harsh breaths, and his grin seemed almost devilish as he looked down at her and pressed his thumb against her clit.

Willow shouted this time when she climaxed, and she twisted and turned almost without realizing it.

"That's it, honey," Zane said, and a few strokes later he gave a hoarse groan and she felt his cock throbbing inside her as he climaxed.

He eased her legs from his shoulders and settled on top of her without putting his whole weight on her, his cock still in her channel. His body burned hot, the smell of sex and his masculine scent heavy in the air.

Even as she lay there limp and exhausted, Zane hardened inside her.

"Let's try the table next," he said, and she smiled as she found her second wind.

If Georgina's intel was good, they were just about to make one hell of a bust.

An hour before, Zane's teams had taken their positions around the dimly lit warehouse.

They intended to make sure they arrived before the Petrelli mob turned over the weapons to the faction of terrorists led by Hisham Nasri.

No way in hell was Zane going to let the Petrellis sell the Barrett 82A1 .50 cal armor-piercing rifles to terrorists. Where the hell had the Petrellis gotten their hands on the weapons to begin with?

If anyone could find out, Rizzo could. She'd have to dig deeper.

Zane checked his watch, pressing a button that allowed the screen to be so slightly illuminated that it wouldn't glow bright enough for anyone but him to see.

Inside and outside, the warehouse was wired with RED's high-tech cameras, and bugs so that every word would be easily heard. RED's techs were the best.

As far as legality for whatever they did, RED had a blanket warrant on this op from the judge who handled all of RED's cases.

Ten minutes to one. The Petrelli family and Nasri faction should be arriving any time now.

It wasn't long before a couple of big dark-colored Cadillacs pulled up followed by what looked like a refrigeration truck.

A few more minutes and three black Mercedes arrived.

Why not terrorize in style?

In moments, several men climbed out of each car and walked toward each other. It was almost comical. The men postured and looked like gunslingers from the Wild West.

Two men, one from each group, met beneath one of the pale warehouse lights. Zane moved his binoculars to his eyes and got a good look at the men. From their intel and the photos they'd pulled up on each man, one was Enzo Petrelli and the other man was definitely Hisham Nasri.

Adrenaline began to fire through Zane's system harsh and hot as they got closer to busting the sonsofbitches. And they'd get the head of this terrorist faction—Zane hadn't been sure he'd show up himself.

Enzo's voice came through Zane's comm as clear as if the member of the huge mafia family had been standing right next to him.

Zane wasn't sure if he was relieved it wasn't Albano Petrelli because Rizzo would lose her "in" with the Petrelli family if it had been. On the other hand, he could have pulled her out if it was Albano and they busted him.

Enzo was saying, "We've got the goods if you've got the green." He gestured toward the white truck. "Check the merchandise and we'll take a look at the cash."

The terrorist had a hard, angular face and a cold, calculating expression. His accent was strong when he spoke. He mentioned the amount they were paying was in the case they'd brought.

Nasri then inclined his head to one of his men to check the truck. The back door rattled, the sound loud in the night as it rolled up to show crate upon crate.

Zane and his teams just needed to make sure what was in those crates . . .

Enzo had one of his men go through the briefcase of cash while he and Nasri had a stare-off.

The teeth-grinding sounds of nails screeching against wood cracked the stillness, then the hard thump of a wooden lid. One of the men shouted to Nasri and held up one of the illegal rifles.

Nasri and Enzo shook hands.

"Go!" Zane said into his comm and RED agents began swarming the area with shouts of

"Police!"—the universal word for law enforcement.

It became obvious in a hurry that Enzo's and Nasri's men didn't intend to go down without a fight.

Zane joined his teams and fury roared through him as he picked off one of Enzo's men who'd shot a RED agent.

Enzo, Nasri, and a few of the other men raised their hands while the others now lay on the ground, around them, dead or injured.

It was only moments before the men were cuffed and all weapons and cash confiscated.

Two RED agents were down.

Zane shouted orders to team members, telling them what to do while he and three other RED agents ran toward those who'd been shot. Two RED ambulances had been waiting not too far from the warehouse and drove up at the same time Zane reached one of the agents.

He dropped to his knees and carefully removed the agent's helmet.

By the wide, unblinking eyes, the pale skin, and the stillness of her body, Zane didn't have to be told that Peters was dead. The bullet that pierced her throat had probably severed her spinal cord, and by the amount of blood covering her neck she'd probably died from both injuries.

"Fuck!" Zane shouted. The RED paramedics were at his side in a second and Zane probably didn't need to say it, but he did anyway. "Peters is gone."

Goddamnit but he could blow a hole through the head of every one of those assholes who were cuffed and now being shoved into vehicles as they were taken into custody.

"Jacobs took a round, but he'll live," Yanov called to Zane. "He got hit full in the chest, but they weren't using armor-piercing bullets."

Thank God for that. Still, Zane's hand shook as he closed Peters's eyes and let the paramedics take her away.

He stood and watched for a moment as his teams efficiently

cleared the site of any remaining evidence. That included taking down cameras and listening devices.

RED operated solo and through incredibly strong channels and people in high places, and it kept off the radar of any other law enforcement. RED had ways of warning off local police from their ops, and RED agents "took care of business" in smooth, quick, and exact precision.

It wasn't long before all the bodies and blood were taken care of and the site was left looking like it had before the transaction and the raid.

Tires crunched over gravel as an agent drove the now-closed refrigeration truck to HQ to be processed. The ambulances and body wagons followed.

A few moments more and all RED agents had cleared out and were headed back to HQ.

As Team Supervisor and operation leader, Zane was one of the last agents to leave the scene. He gave one final appraisal then headed off to the location he'd left his RED-issued Trailblazer.

"Double caramel venti frappuccino up for Willow!" a barista called out.

Yum. Willow went to the Starbucks pickup counter and grabbed her drink, the plastic cup instantly chilling her hand. She hitched her purse higher on her shoulder. It was heavy, as usual, with her small laptop weighting it. As soon as she finished drinking her frap she'd head to the library and work on her dissertation defense.

A pair of women vacated a small round table in the corner of the crowded coffee shop and Willow plopped into one of the chairs the moment it was empty.
She scores,
she thought and almost laughed then rolled up the sleeves of her white button-up blouse. She unwrapped and plunged her straw into her frappuccino.

Before she had a chance to take one sip, a man said, "Anyone sitting here?"

Automatically Willow shook her head as she looked up. The I place was crowded and she was lucky to have grabbed a chair, so she didn't mind sharing.

The man smiled when she met his gaze. She started to smile in return but a prickly sensation sent goose bumps rising on her arms. Something didn't feel quite right about the way he looked at her with his dark eyes as he took the opposite seat.

He had beautifully carved features and night-black hair. He ex-tended his hand. "Filippo,"

he said. His accent was clearly Italian like his name.

Willow didn't want to take his hand but she forced a smile and let him take hers. His was hot and dry, and more prickles rolled up her arm. He didn't take his gaze off of her and she had to tug to get her hand away from his.

"What is your name?" he asked in his smooth, accented voice. Then she noticed the man didn't even have a cup of coffee. Zane's and Aunt Becky's words echoed in her head at the same time, telling her not to be too friendly with strangers. She'd always followed her heart and her gut, and both were telling her to get the hell out of here.

"Oops!" Willow faked another smile as she wrapped her fingers around her frappuccino cup and pushed back her chair. "I forgot I'm supposed to meet up with my trainer. He's a former football player and he's
so
tough. He'll probably make me do extra reps."

She was on her feet and pushing her way through the crowded coffee shop before he had a chance to say a word.

As she opened the glass door to let herself out, she caught a reflection—the man was following her.

Willow's heart lunged into her throat. She tossed the frap that she hadn't even sipped into the black waste can beside the door and swung around the door as fast as she could without running.

You're imagining things, Willow. There's not some man following you.
But she looked over her shoulder and she saw he was near and his long strides were taking him closer to her.

Oh, my God. He
was
following her. Willow glanced around and saw a large group of tourists on the Freedom Trail and ran straight into the middle of the crowd.

Immediately she realized she had a new problem. At five-eleven she towered over the group that was mostly comprised of foreigner visitors who were at least five inches shorter than she was.

The Italian joined the crowd and before she could move ahead, the man cupped her elbow with his hot, dry hand. "Where are you going in such a hurry, Willow?" he said in his smooth voice. He wrapped his fingers around her arm and jerked her to a stop so that the crowd parted around them, leaving them behind.

The sound of her name—which she hadn't told him—coming from the Italian sent cold shooting through her.

Bravado. Confidence. Don't let him know you're scared as hell.

Yeah, right.

She jerked her arm as she whirled and glared up at him. "Let go of my arm or you
will
regret it."

He smiled and tightened his grip as he moved behind her. "You're going to come with me."

She hadn't spent eleven years playing basketball without knowing how to intentionally foul someone.

With all her strength, Willow rammed her free elbow into the man's gut. At the same time she hooked her ankle around his and jerked him off balance.

A shout of obvious surprise came from him as her other elbow slipped from his grasp.

She whirled on one foot like she was holding a basketball and looking for a good pass.

Instead she let her heavy purse drop from her shoulder, slide down her arm, and into her grasp.

She gripped the straps of her purse in both hands and swung right at the man's face.

Score.

"Fuck!" the man shouted as she nailed him in the face, the side of her laptop slamming into him with the power of her swing. Blood immediately started flowing from his nose and it was bent at an odd angle now.

At the same time he'd dropped to the sidewalk, something metal with a dull shine flew from his hand and skittered across the concrete.

She ran.

It hammered at her mind that the man had been holding a gun and that's what had spun away from him. He could have shot her. Why would some strange man want to shoot her?

Willow's heart pounded like mad and adrenaline spiked in her veins, giving her more speed. She rounded a corner, her breath coming in harsh gasps from the fear racing through her. The squeal of tires came from around the corner.

She ducked into a clothing store filled with high racks of dresses and low circular racks of blouses and slacks. The salesperson was busy and at that moment all Willow could think about was hiding. The man had a freaking gun and she wasn't about to remain in the open.

Willow dropped to her knees and crawled under a rack of shirts and was relieved to see it wasn't a rack with an open center. It had a flat surface above that held a mannequin bust.

When she was under the clothing, she scrunched up with her jean-clad knees drawn tight to her chest and her purse clutched against her. She bit her lip to keep herself from breathing too loudly.

"Can I help you?" a woman said from somewhere across the store. The salesperson.

Then came that smooth Italian voice, only now it sounded not so smooth, like he was having a hard time talking—probably because she'd broken his nose. Every word he spoke held a bite of fury. "Did a woman come in here? Very tall. Blond."