Running Hot (5 page)

“Is it just me, or do you have a problem with Americans in general?” he asked.

“Your country is fine. It's your intelligence service that needs some work.”

Ward said the same thing at least ten times per day, only not in those words because they had a stick-up-her-ass ring to them. Sending two men to take out a crazed dictator with big guns amounted to a CIA suicide mission. Yet here he was, in the middle of a makeshift jungle, sporting limited weapons and partnering with a pissed-off Brit with a needle-poking habit.

Maybe he really should have gone into finance.

“I'm not necessarily disagreeing, but what mission are you referring to exactly that the CIA screwed up?” The woman sounded as if she spoke from experience, and that had him listening. “Maybe if I knew where your anger came from—”

She stopped and stared at him. “I hate men who think all strong women are angry.”

Well, that explained the thin lips and eyes spitting with fire. The woman clearly thought he was an ass. Not something that normally bothered him, but on this subject matter, it pissed him off.

They didn't have time, but he stepped in closer and took a few seconds anyway. “I called you angry because you threatened to rip my balls off earlier today, not because I use anger as a code word for
bitchy
or some other sexist nonsense.”

She hesitated for a second as her gaze scanned his face; then she nodded. “Understood.”

That went easier than he expected. He didn't question the stroke of good luck. “Now that we have that settled, tell me your issue with the US intelligence community.”

“Let's just say I've had trouble in the past with the CIA getting into the middle of my operations and screwing them up.” Then she took off again, slicing her hand through the heavy vegetation and moving at a speed that should have had her tripping but didn't.

The whole take-no-prisoners attitude . . . so fucking hot.

He waited until he drew up next to her again to dive back into the conversation. “Sounds as if you were dealing with amateurs.”

“But you think you're different, I assume.” Her voice no longer vibrated with fury, and the corners of her mouth twitched as if she fought off a smile.

“I don't know those guys—they were guys, right?” When she nodded he joined her. “Yeah, figured.”

He knew the type—blowhard, in control, my-way-or-I'll-shoot-you types. A few lingered the halls of the agency, vying for attention and recognition. They tended to lack longevity. Anyone worth anything in the field blended in. A healthy ego was mandatory. A need to be noticed got people killed, and he'd seen more than one innocent caught in the crossfire.

“Don't write off the entire agency based on a few CIA assholes.” He doubted she gave much thought to any of the losers she passed on the way up her career ladder, but he felt the need to say it anyway.

This time she did smile. “Are you trying to charm me?”

That face.
Damn
. “Would it work?”

“No.” But her tone suggested otherwise.

He forced thoughts of her naked and under him out of his head and concentrated on making his point . . . once he remembered what it was. If he planned on putting his life in her hands, and it might come to that, she needed to know he did not screw around when it came to the job.

Thinking that building a bit of trust might not be a bad thing, he handed her one of her knives—one he could wrestle away from her without trouble if this turned out to be a miscalculation. “Here. Just don't use it on me.”

She stared at it, then at him. “Look at you acting against type.”

He decided to ignore the shot. “My point is I don't know which agents you're talking about. But if you're asking if I'm dependable and focused despite the flirting, yes.”

Her smiled only brightened. “You sound a bit like one of the Queen's corgis.”

“That's a dog, right?” Not exactly a compliment. He wasn't sure what the hell to do with the comment.

“And about the flirting . . .”

She'd called him a dog, so this really didn't have anywhere to go but up. At least he hoped that was true. “Yes?”

“Do you have any limits?”

His mind blanked. He'd been listening to her, watching her, all while keeping his senses locked on alert for distinct sounds and the approach of anything he'd need to shoot, strangle, or cut down. Now he knew he'd missed something. “I don't know what you're asking.”

“I'm assuming the flirting was part of some grand plan to lure me into bed and once there, ask me questions about what I've seen happening on the island.”

Whack.

Another branch took a hit, this time with the help of her knife. Ward started thinking she might be visualizing his head as she took each swing.

He went with a quick-and-dirty answer in the hope she wouldn't turn the knife on him. “Nope.”

“You were pretending to be on holiday—”

“Holiday?” The word dragged his attention away from her lean arm muscles and the expertise with which she cut those branches. One long arc and she created an opening in front of her that they both could slip through.

So damn hot
.

She shrugged. “I believe you call it a
vacation
.”

Looked like they had a language barrier of sorts after all. “Ah, right. Go ahead.”

“You're saying you weren't trying to lure me into bed with all that smooth talk back at the bar?” She wasn't looking at him now. The steady rhythm of cutting and holding back her steps for a fraction of a second as each branch fell guided their way.

“Oh, I was.” He waited until she glanced at him because he wanted eye contact. “But that wasn't for the job. It was all for me.”

Her arm dropped to her side, and she stood frozen. “Huh.”

The relative quiet gave way to something. A slight swish. A rumble, low but clear.

They had company.

“Hold up.” He put a hand on her arm and drew her body even with his. With his head bowed he whispered in her ear. Felt her shiver. “Wait.”

“You hear something?” Her tone dropped to match his. They spoke at a level that barely registered as a whisper.

“Maybe.” He wasn't sure if he said the word out loud or just nodded.

The rumble grew louder. Ward concentrated, focusing in on the sound that didn't match the others. Blocked out the wind and the rustle of branches. Ignored the dull thwap from where she tapped the side of the knife against her leg.

Through his training he'd learned how to survive and how to kill. But this, the ability to pick out sounds and magnify them in his head, came to him as a kid. Years of practice and focus brought him to this point. He'd endured hours of study at the Farm with agency instructors investigating the skill in the hope of teaching it to others but failing.

Ward chalked his strange gift up to his upbringing. In a household where no one talked and everyone obeyed his father's word without question, Ward had learned to thrive in silence. And it served him well now.

“Where—” Tasha's words cut off when Ward squeezed her arm. “Right.”

“Men.” He knew by the way the footsteps fell. The heaviness said male, and the echo grew louder. “Fifty feet and closing.”

She glanced over his shoulder, but Ward knew she wouldn't see anything. Not through the thick brush and blanket of branches. The potential attackers didn't speak, and picking up their exact location and direction proved difficult. But Ward knew. They had seconds only before the group—he thought no more than three and possibly only two—moved into view.

As soon as he saw the attackers, the attackers would see him. With that advantage gone, the shooting would begin. Bullets and noise, and Ward knew they'd be outnumbered. So, he had to get the jump now.

Raw energy thrummed off Tasha. She hadn't moved, but the air around her changed, as if charged with electricity. “We should go.”

“Too late.” In a few quick moves, Ward had a gun tucked behind Tasha's back and one in his least favorite place for a weapon, the front of his pants. A knife sat in his pocket within easy grabbing and throwing range. That weapon would be his last defense. If he reached for that one, he'd likely do it on the way down.

“What are you—” Her gaze flew up to meet his.

He knew the second she picked up the shuffling sound. Emotion drained from her face, and her eyes met his. Something subtle in the way she moved and the stiffness across her shoulders suggested she'd flipped into battle mode.

He nodded, trying to telegraph the need for her to play along and, if necessary, shoot around him while using his body as a shield. He needed to believe she handled a gun half as well as she did a needle full of that junk to knock him out.

“Don't fight me.” That was all he got out before he put the only realistic plan into motion.

An iguana scurried into the brush as Ward pushed her back deeper into the tree. Footsteps thundered around them, and he lowered his head. His mouth covered hers right before something crunched behind him. He tried to concentrate on the sounds of the forest area and the incoming attack party, but her mouth had his attention zapping.

Her lips were soft, and the kiss hot. He strained to listen, to keep his mind on the job, but the kiss sucked him under. She tasted as good as he suspected she would. Her fingers slipped into his hair, and her body brushed against his.

Lips touching with his hands on her hips. He kissed her once, faster than he wanted, giving into the need that had been building in his gut since the first time he met her.

Blinding heat rocked through him, then he wrestled his control back. They could not do this. Not here. Not with the audience he felt watching them through the trees.

“Hey.” A male voice, sharp and demanding.

Ward broke away from her. Ignored her swollen lips and the clenching of her fingers into his biceps as he glanced over his shoulder, playing every inch of the interrupted angry boyfriend.

“This is private . . .” Ward saw the two men step into the small clearing Tasha's tree hacking had created. His gaze went to their assault weapons and then back to the men trying to sneak a peek at Tasha from behind him. Fury rushed over him, but he hid it under an act of wide-eyed surprise. “Oh, wait . . . what . . .”

The taller of the two gestured with a lift of his chin. “What are you doing out here?”

Like a well-timed machine and without a word of direction, Tasha slipped the gun out of his waistband. Ward felt it brush against his skin; then it was gone. Now he could turn around without either getting shot or having to draw. There was still hope to diffuse this situation without bloodshed.

He did just that. With hands raised and wearing the frown of a tourist confused by having weapons flashing for him to see, he slowly turned to face the two unwanted visitors head-on. “Exactly what it looks like. I'm spending some time with my girl.”

The shorter man stared at Tasha. Without a signal from his brain, Ward moved to shield her. If the way she knocked him out earlier were any indication, she could handle this situation. But that didn't mean he liked some asswipe dressed as a bought-and-paid-for soldier of convenience gawking at her.

“You're in a restricted area,” the taller one said. He kept his finger off the trigger, but it was right there.

Tasha slid the gun into the back waistband of Ward's pants, then her hands went to his shoulders as she peeked at the men in front of her. “We're on a hike.”

The slight vibration in her voice. The subtle rearming. Ward had to give her credit. She played it smooth and genuine right down to the intimacy she wove around them as a pretend couple.

“Keep going.” The tall one kept up the nodding. This time he gestured inland and away from the direction of Tigana's believed hideout. “That way.”

Ward wrapped an arm around his back to touch the small of hers. He aimed for a loving gesture, but his focus stayed on the weapons—theirs and his. He wanted the guns he and Tasha held hidden and unseen. That required shuffling but innocent tourists would shuffle and panic and possibly even beg.

Ward was about to try a few of those options when the smaller guy moved. Didn't say a word, but that finger inched closer to the trigger.

“Wait,” the smaller one said. He stepped right in front of Ward, which sent Tasha crashing against his back. “How did you get here?”

“Hike.” Ward kept it short, just as he'd been trained to do. Too many details signaled lies. Too much information made it easy to get wrapped up and babbling. And Ward was not a babbler.

The taller one now stood next to his partner. They both stared, and neither showed any signs of backing down, which was a shame. Ward had hoped not to kill anyone today.

“Where are you parked?” the taller one asked.

“About two miles that way.” Ward pointed but had no idea how accurate the gesture came off. He hadn't measured, but the distance didn't matter. At this rate, at least two of them would not be standing by the time the discussion ended.

The taller one maintained eye contact with Tasha. “A truck?”

“No,” she answered back in an equally clipped tone.

Energy pulsed off her. Ward stood there, taking it in, feeling her body rev up even though she showed no signs of even sweating.

The shorter one reached around Ward and grabbed her arm. The touch had Ward's senses firing and rage burning his brain from the inside out. He shoved the man away. “What do you think you're doing?”

The men looked at each other before the taller one started speaking again. “You need to come with us.”

“We'll head back to the resort and—” This time the guy yanked and Tasha stumbled. Ward guessed the pseudofall had some strategic purpose he couldn't see behind his back. Not that the intent mattered. He took mental inventory of the weapons on him and picked the one guaranteed to inflict maximum damage on this guy. “Do not touch her.”