The Omega Team: Hot Rod (Kindle Worlds Novella) (2 page)

“He’s one of our best,” Athena snapped, for the first time showing something other than utter deference for a client.

There was a tinge of outrage on Grey’s face too, which was gratifying, given the circumstances. “Matt
is
the best, Miss LaFleur. You need not worry about the quality of your team.” There was an undertone to his words that Matt didn’t quite understand. In fact, as Vixen and Grey partook of a silent staring match—some secret conversation—Matt felt tension rumble through the room.

He knew, beyond all doubt, something else was going on here.

He studied Grey, a man he’d known for years, searching his expression for some hint of what it might be. But all he found was confirmation of his suspicions. It was there in the flicker of his lashes, the tightening of the muscles around his mouth, the way he held his head.

It all sent off alarm bells. If he didn’t trust Grey so absolutely, he would have stood and walked from the room, walked away from this mission…and
her
. But whatever it was, Matt knew there was a reason Grey needed to keep it from him.

Whatever it was, it had to do with
her
.

And, by God, he was going to figure out what it was.

Chapter Two

How he had pulled the duty of driving her to the safe house was a mystery. Or maybe not. Maybe God had a sense of humor and liked tormenting him.

And it was a torment.

Hell, her perfume alone made him hard.

Not just because it was a scent that contradicted everything about her—soft, gentle, sweet. But because it barraged his senses. Every time she shifted in her seat, or flipped her long hair or breathed, it surrounded him in an intoxicating cloud. It wasn’t a perfume he knew, which made him suspect it wasn’t a manufactured fragrance at all. Just
her
.

Fortunately, he had to keep his attention on the road as they headed through the moonless night from the compound toward the safe house, so he wasn’t tempted to look at her. Not too tempted anyway. Besides, he could see her out of the corner of his eye, was preternaturally aware of her every move.

He had no idea why he felt the burning urge to start a conversation—usually silence suited him just fine—but he had to admit, it was probably to distract him from the lurid images flashing through his mind. Her legs—those long, lithe legs—wrapped around his middle. That body, writhing beneath him. Her soft, sultry voice huffing in his ear as she came…

Shit.

“So.” A harsh gust.

At this overture, she glanced at him. He felt her awareness of him dance over every nerve. “So…what?” Was it his imagination, or was there even more vitriol in her tone now that they were alone together?

He had to search for a topic through the miasma of his thoughts. When he found one, he clung to it like a life preserver on the Titanic. “How did you get mixed up with Don Reymundo’s son?”

When she didn’t answer, he had to glance at her.

Oh hell, he shouldn’t have glanced at her. Illuminated by the lights of the dash, her beauty seemed laced with a vulnerability that stung him.

“Well?”

She turned away to stare out the window, though there was little to see. They were out of the city now and well into the featureless countryside. And it was dark. Dark enough that her reflection bounced off the cold window, her hollow expression a ghostly echo. “He hired me.”

Something prickled at his nape. Acid tickled the back of his throat. “Hired you?”

“Yes.” One frigid, emotionless word.

He didn’t know why it hit him so hard, but the thought, the vision of her with another man, lots of men, made his stomach churn.

When he didn’t respond, she glared at him. “Yeah. I’m a hooker. You got a problem with that?”

He forced a smile. “Some of my best friends are hookers.”

He felt her fury. It smacked him in the face like a slimy trout. But her ferocity made him smile. A little. He had no idea why. He didn’t like to think of her with other men, hundreds of them, thousands, perhaps. But that was stupid, because he had no claim on her.

No man, except those with the funds to hire her for a night, had that claim.

But somehow, irritating her was like a balm on his own annoyance.

At himself. At the world. At the way things had turned out.

He thrust all thoughts of Samantha from his mind. She was dead and gone. And that boy who’d once promised her the world? He was dead and gone too. In his place was a hard, bleak shell of a man. A man who had sought out and destroyed every scrap of humanity clinging to his petrified soul.

And he liked it that way. He liked it just fine.

Vixen riffled around in her purse until she found some gum. She unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth and then proceeded to blow and pop incessant bubbles.

Not that gum popping was like nails on a chalkboard to him, but it was.

He shot her a frown after a particularly percussive rendition. “Do you need to do that?”

She fluttered her lashes. “Do what?”

“Pop your gum?”

“Sorry,
Dad
.”

Ohh. There was bitterness in that word. It said more about her and her past than she probably imagined. But then girls with a happy home life generally did not grow up to be whores.

A flash of pity for her ripped through him along with various scenarios she might have suffered…until she riffled some more and emerged with more gum, which she added to the wad in her mouth, because, apparently, one stick of gum wasn’t provoking enough.

God. Months of this? Fighting his attraction to her and listening to that incessant cracking? What was he in for?

If he was smart, he would just tune her out. Focus on the drive. And, when they got to the cabin, ignore her there as well.

But she wasn’t so easy to ignore.

Especially when she continued popping her gum.

He turned on the radio to drown her out. But apparently she didn’t like country music, because she issued a rumbling groan of distain. “Don’t you have something else?” she snapped.

He shrugged. “This is Texas.” Country music on every other station was practically the law. Still, she punched button after button, skating from channel to channel with an annoying persistence. She found one that might have been classical—tough to tell through the static—and for some reason left it there. Probably just to piss him off. She didn’t seem like a Rachmaninoff kind of girl to him.

He attempted to ignore the scratchy, inconsistent tune until he could stand it no more and then, with a violent jab, turned the radio off all together.

He should have known she would turn it back on. And then she began again, jumping from one station to another. She finally settled on a station featuring
música norteña
, a particularly strident form of Mexican polka music that made his eyes cross.

But it was better than conversation. And it was easy to block out.

For a blissful few miles, until the station faded away, he was free of the expectation of banter. When she spoke again, it was with a particularly hostile tone.

“So tell me, Hot Rod. How did
you
end up with the Omega Team?”

“Why do you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“
You
. You said it as though it was inconceivable that such a thing should occur.”

She shrugged. “I thought the Omega Team was made up of the best of the best.”

He set his teeth. “I am the best of the best.”

Her response was a snort.

“Why would you doubt it? You’ve never even met me.”

“Oh, I’ve met you.”

His heart skittered. She had? When? Surely he would have remembered. “Have you?”

“You better believe it, Bub. I’ve met you many times. Different bodies, but the same guy.”

“Um, are you taking about reincarnation?” Had he been saddled with a hippie hooker?

The disgust was prevalent in her tone. “I’m talking about your
species
.”

His…species? And here, all his life, he’d thought he was human. Go figure.

“You military grunts, you’re all alike.”

Ah. So that was her bugaboo. “Are we?”

“Oh yeah. So arrogant. So holier than thou. You all pretend like you serve the good of the nation. You pose as the protectors of the realm. But when it comes down to it, it’s all a lie. Nothing means more to you than your moral imperative—but that’s a lie too, isn’t it? You only serve your own selfish desires.”

Matt shook his head. The river of acrimony in her soul flowed even deeper than he’d suspected. “Why are you so bitter?”

She stared at him. “Bitter? Why am I bitter?” She ticked the reasons off on her fingers. “My life was ruined. I have to go into
hiding
with three Neanderthals—”

“We actually prefer the term
Homo neanderthalensis
.”

“Jarheads—”

“Not fair. None of us were marines.”

“Arrogant, insufferable bastards—”

“Technically, my parents were married.”

“Who don’t give a shit about me or anything except their mission.”

He barked a laugh, though none of this was funny. “Well, that is a tad paradoxical because you
are
our mission.”

“You know damn well what I mean.”

“Maybe. But you don’t know me. You know nothing about me.”

“Untrue. My father was like you. Just like you.” A snarl. One he didn’t expect. At least, not directed at him.

“And you know what kind of man I am? After a couple hours in a car together?” And, not to mention, hardly any conversation that didn’t involve his dislike of chewing gum and mariachis.

“Oh, do I.” She crossed her arms over her chest and he wished she hadn’t, because it drew his attention to her plunging hooker cleavage and he was supposed to be driving.

“Why don’t you tell me? What kind of man am I?”

“A poser.”

He had no idea why her accusation hit him so hard. He wasn’t a poser. He wasn’t.

“You give the impression of being the big bad alpha hero. You exude promises—protection, valor, honor—but we both know, deep in your core, you won’t keep them. You can’t. Because you’re really just a selfish animal, concerned with nothing but your own needs.”

Each word was a blade sliding in slow, skewering him. Because it was as though she saw clear through him. Knew his fears…and poked at them with a sharp stick.

For years, since he’d learned about Samantha’s death, he’d been tormented by those very accusations, whispered in the night by a voice in his head that sounded a lot like her. He’d worked hard to silence that voice, to claim his place in the world, to prove he was the exact opposite of the man this vixen described.

He decided then and there that as beautiful and alluring and tantalizing as she was, he didn’t like Vixen LaFleur. Her presence was like a scouring pad on tender flesh. She was brash and classless and coldhearted.

And a hooker.

Not that he could ever forget that fact.

Had she been a housewife or a nurse or a Sunday school teacher, he could have ignored her allure. Women like that had no place in his life. They were too good for him and he knew it.

But this one?

This one was irritating and angry and rude and she chewed her gum loudly.

And she was a hooker.

This woman was exactly his type. Exactly the kind of woman he deserved.

That was going to make the next month very uncomfortable indeed.

What were the odds?

Sam glared out the window and attempted to ignore her exasperating companion. But it was more than exasperation, wasn’t it? It
hurt
.

Of all the men in the world to be assigned to protect her, why did it have to be
him
?

The one man she had trusted.

The man she’d loved.

The man who had turned his back on her in her darkest hour.

The man who had deserted her and ruined her life.

And to make things even worse, he didn’t even remember her.

Of course, she’d changed a lot since those days so long ago. She’d developed a hard, cold shell to survive the acrid wasteland her life had become when her father had died. She was still furious at Dad for leaving. He’d done his time. He’d served his country enough. He should have retired when he had the chance. He should have come home to them.

But he hadn’t. He’d chosen his duty to country, his moral imperative, over his family. Then he’d died and her life had become a living hell.

A hell that had brought her here.

And granted, she certainly didn’t look as she had the last time she’d seen Matt—that tearful good-bye when his father had been transferred and he’d moved away. They’d both been so young, babies in the grand scheme of things, though they’d thought themselves mature enough to make forever pledges—pledges he hadn’t kept.

She knew better now than to trust a man’s pledge, but she’d changed in other ways too. She’d long since lost the plump mien of a child and now had the much sharper features of a wary woman. Due to the nature of her job, her makeup and clothes further camouflaged who she was at her core. But that hardly let him off the hook.

To be honest, as infuriated as she was at him for betraying her trust those many years ago, she was even angrier that there wasn’t so much as a glimmer of recognition in his eyes.

She’d fantasized, once upon a time, that there’d been a good reason he’d never responded to her letters. That there was some great, tragic, romantic explanation why he’d sloughed her away like an annoying flea.

She was hardly so naïve now.

Matt Devereaux was just a jackass. And he always had been.

He was nothing but a hot rod. A souped-up version of a real man. They looked good and made a lot of noise, but in the end, they were all just for show. Probably didn’t even realize what an utter imposter he was.