Hell for Leather Page 14

That’s how she tasted. Her skin was baby soft against his lips, the tip of her breast hot and firm against his tongue. He laved it, flicked it, groaning when she tossed her head back, the ends of her damp hair tickling the bare skin of his arm. She pressed him closer, digging her fingers into his scalp at the same time she dug her heels beneath his butt. The stitches on his side pulled tight. But the pinch of pain was barely registered, because…

  Fragrant as a pie supper…

  That’s how she smelled. That spicy-sweetness filling his nose was unique to her. He didn’t know if it was perfume or lotion. But whatever it was, it reminded him of apple cider and vanilla ice cream. Of everything wonderfully all American and deliciously bad for you.

  Skimming the backs of his fingers down her stomach, he noted the quivering of the supple muscles there. They were shaking with desire, trembling with anticipation. The button at the top of her jeans gave way with very little coaxing, and the zipper seemed to slide down of its own accord. His searching fingertips instantly met the lace edge of her panties. The fabric was warm and soft, he noted, just like her skin. But he knew it wasn’t nearly as warm and soft as the intimate flesh it was covering.

  Lord almighty, how he wanted to touch her there, needed to touch her there. Something inside him, something intrinsic and instinctive, made the urge to feel her heat and wetness an unbearable necessity. He was compelled by some invisible force, some millennia-old urgency to sink his fingers into her, to feel the slickness of her bathe his hand and know that it was all for him. That her body’s response was the feminine answer to his male hardness.

  Dipping his middle finger beneath the edge of lace, a tiny triangle of silky smooth hair welcomed his touch. Then…farther…his fingertip touched the topmost edge of her channel, and just as he’d suspected, her skin was so feverish it nearly burned him, so delicate he could think of nothing more than unbuttoning his own fly and pressing the length of himself into her in order to feel all that satiny, wet flesh close around him.

  “Don’t stop,” she breathed, arching into him, melting into him like the snow used to melt in the rain during Texas winters. “Oh, Mac, don’t stop.”

  He had no intention of stopping. He didn’t think he could stop. It would take a—

  “Hey, guys!” The door flew open a split second before, “Oh, hell! Jesus…uh…sorry.”

  Delilah’s decadent nipple popped free of Mac’s hungry lips and he yanked his hand from her panties. Jumping in front of her, he shielded her from the view of their most unwelcome arrival. Her elbows bumped into his back as she frantically rearranged her bra and shirt, quickly zipping and buttoning her jeans.

  “What the fuck, Ozzie!” he thundered, reaching up to pat his hair. He could feel it sticking up every which way, courtesy of Delilah’s exuberant fingers. “Ever heard of knockin’?”

  “Sorry…I…” The guy actually appeared flustered—not at all usual for Ozzie. Then, that shit-eating grin split the kid’s face. He leaned against the doorjamb, wiggling his eyebrows. “So that whole Pat Benatar, hit-her-with-your-best-shot advice you were spouting out there on the highway was all a bunch of bullshit, eh? I thought so.” He nodded sagely.

  “What are you talking about?” Delilah asked. “What Pat Benatar advice?”

  “It’s nothing,” Mac said, then hastily added, “What do you want, Ozzie?” He asked the question while glancing over his shoulder at Delilah.

  Mistake.

  Her lips were moist and swollen from his kisses. Her chin and cheeks slightly pink from the abrasion of his beard stubble. And all he could picture right then was how the rest of her would have looked, so flushed and rosy, if he’d been allowed to finish what he started.

  Or had she been the one to start it?

  Honest to God, he couldn’t remember. His recollection surrounding how his lips initially met hers was a little fuzzy. In fact, his thoughts seemed to be flitting around his head like the honeybees used to skim around the meadow flowers on the east pasture back at the Lazy M. But one thing he was sure of was that an unpleasant sense of…he supposed he’d label it doom had settled in the center of his chest.

  He felt as much as saw Delilah hop down from the dresser. And when she skirted around him, his eyes darted down to her jean-clad ass and that little roll of delectable flesh at the tops of her thighs just below the curve of her butt. The sight nearly had him going cross-eyed. Not to mention the fact that the exercise did nothing to dissuade Little Mac who was still beating persistently against his zipper.

  But then, like a lightning strike from the clear blue, Mac remembered why he should never have let things get so far out of hand. Why he should never have allowed himself to kiss her. And why he should be falling at Ozzie’s feet and thanking the guy for barging in when he did.

  Jolene! Jolene, come back!

  And, goddamnit! Where was that recollection ten minutes ago when he needed it? The night when that broken voice yelled out in the dark, and the long string of days that had followed it when he’d mourned so much he thought he’d die? The one time, the one time, he could’ve really used the memory as a good ol’-fashioned kick-in-the-pants, it’d abandoned him.

  “I, uh.” Ozzie tugged at his ear, still grinning and glancing back and forth between Mac and Delilah. “I wanted to tell you to come downstairs. Because I think Zoelner’s about to kill the adorable little CIA agent who just arrived on our doorstep.”

  Huh? CIA agent? Well that was just what the doctor ordered, the perfect prescription to jerk Mac from his troubling thoughts.

  The CIA? What the hell do they want?

  Chapter Eleven

  Life is a serious shit sandwich sometimes…

  That was the thought that flitted through Dagan Zoelner’s brain when Chelsea Duvall cocked her head and, with one small finger, pushed her glasses up the length of her nose. Because imagine his surprise when, after escaping downstairs, he dialed her number only to hear the sweet sound of a Dolly Parton ringtone—Chelsea’s favorite and don’t get him started on that—emanating from just beyond the front door. Without a second thought, he’d wrenched open the ruined slab of oak, only to immediately start arguing with her as if it’d been mere moments since they’d last seen each other instead of a handful of years.

  And, to top it all off—add the olive to the shit sandwich, if you will—how was it possible to be unaccountably pissed and unfathomably delighted all at the same time? The state should be a biological impossibility. Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t. Because, despite everything, she looked good. And it was good to see her. Even if her inauspicious arrival set his internal gyroscope twitching.

  Taking in the black sedan parked out by the curb, an obvious government issue job, he narrowed his eyes and demanded, “How the hell did you find us?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Seriously? You do remember who I work for, right?”

  Yes. He remembered. Which made it worse. She accurately read his expression, because the next words out of her mouth were, “Come on, Z.” That low, rusty voice of hers was so familiar it almost felt like a part of him. “I’m just here to help.”

  Uh-huh. Sure. “You’ll excuse me if I call bullshit,” he said, crossing his arms, staring down at her as she continued to stand on the threshold of Sander’s house.

  The early morning light filtered into the decrepit old neighborhood and glinted off her pixie-cut black hair and the warmth of her café au lait–colored skin until it glowed around her like a halo. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the heavens opened up with a chorus of angels singing awwwwww. Of course, in reality her sudden appearance should’ve been accompanied by the dum, dum, dummmm sound effect of a thickening plot. Because, baby, her being here meant the plot had definitely thickened.

  “Why is it,” she asked, narrowing her copper-colored eyes and mirroring his stance, crossing her arms over her plain white, button-down shirt, the strap of a big, black carryall bag tightening against her shoulder, “that special operations and federal agencies tend to
attract a certain kind of man?”

  Annnnddddd, here we go. Let me put on my boxing gloves. Because no matter what else had changed between them in the years since he’d left The Company, it appeared their tendency toward, not to mention love of, verbal sparring hadn’t diminished.

  “I’ll play,” he said, vaguely aware that Ozzie, Mac, and Delilah were tromping down the stairs behind him. “What kind of man is that?”

  “A dog. A stubborn, unruly dog that tries to bite the hand reaching out to feed him.”

  “Nice.” He nodded, marking up one point in her favor on his mental scoreboard. “So then what kind of women do those fields attract, Miss CIA Agent?”

  She grinned. The dimples in her cheeks winking at him. “Why, bitches, of course.” She uncrossed her arms to give him a shove. When he stumbled back into the house, she followed him inside, allowing the front door to slam behind her. “It’s all in the tail-wagging family.”

  And point number two for the lovely Agent Duvall…

  “Uh-huh.” He refused to let his eyes dart down to the curve of her ass, hugged so tightly in a pair of black slacks. Chelsea tried to hide her figure behind severe clothes, but with a rack like hers, not to mention that bodacious booty, it was an impossible endeavor. She might be short, probably no more than a couple inches over five feet in Zoelner’s estimation, but she had the curves of an Amazon woman. There was a lot of boom and pow packed onto that tiny frame, and, if you can believe it, he’d once heard her lament being fat.

  Fat? Oh, hell no. Well…according to the ridiculousness of today’s fashions—skinny jeans and whatnot—perhaps she was a bit…plump. But in his humble opinion, that little bit extra she was carrying around meant that she was straight-up, lip-smacking delectation on two legs. The kind of woman men dreamed of sinking into. Soft, warm…

  Good to know that hasn’t changed either. Fuckballs…

  “So now tell me why you’re really here,” he demanded, watching her nod to the people who’d gathered around her. His teammates wore various looks of intrigue, consternation, and…um…okay, so Delilah and Mac looked more like cats caught in the cream. And was that pinkness around Delilah’s mouth a beard stubble rash? Momentarily distracted, he mentally slapped Mac a high five, silently congratulating the guy on finally pulling his head out of his ass. Then Chelsea snagged his attention when she said, “Like I already told you, I’m here to help.”

  “And like I already told you, that’s…survey says? Complete bullshit.”

  “Wow.” She nodded. “With sweet talk like that, it’s almost hard to believe you’re not married by now, Z.”

  “Many have tried, babe.” He smirked at her. “Many, many have tried.”

  She rolled her eyes and lifted a hand toward Delilah. “Hi,” she said, flashing that friendly smile that had been the first thing he noticed about her during a sit-rep—situation report—down in some windowless room at Langley. Well, that, and her amazing rack. “I’m Agent Chelsea Duvall, and you must be the intrepid Delilah Fairchild. It’s nice to meet you. I’m so sorry to hear you’re short one uncle for the time being, but I’m hoping I can help with that.”

  “H-hi,” Delilah said, making no effort to hide her curiosity as she took Chelsea’s hand. And on the introductions went—What is this? A goddamned tea party?—until finally Chelsea came to Ozzie. BKI’s techno guru grabbed her hand, lifted it to his mouth, and kissed the back of it while wiggling his blond eyebrows at her enticingly.

  “Ethan Sykes at your service, ma’am,” he murmured like one might say meet me in bed in two minutes. “But everyone calls me Ozzie.” And, then, apropos of nothing, “You have beautiful eyes. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “Well…” Chelsea raised her free hand to her throat, batting—yes, actually batting, for God’s sakes—her lashes.

  Dagan had had enough. “Cut it out, Ozzie,” he groused. “And stop slobbering over her hand like it’s a medium-rare steak.”

  “Tsk, tsk,” Ozzie said, sliding him a measured glance. “Doth my eyes deceive me? Or is that a little green monster sitting atop your right shoulder, Zoelner?”

  And now Dagan was the one to find himself in the position of labeling Ozzie’s rapier repartee annoying. It was not a little green monster. He told the guy as much while avoiding Chelsea’s searching glance. “It’s a little red-eyed monster sitting there. And he’s pissed because he doesn’t appreciate the giant plate of horse crap Agent Duvall is trying to feed him.”

  “I beg your pardon,” she harrumphed, fisting her hands on her hips, looking for all the world like a bespectacled, pint-sized version of Wonder Woman.

  “Beg all you want, Chels,” he pointed a finger at her adorable button nose, “but the fact remains when it comes to you CIA types, it’s better to find out what the strings are before they’re even attached. So, spill. Why are you really here?”

  “Are you deaf?” she huffed. “I’ve been appointed the CIA’s liaison to Black Knights Incorporated. And my supervisor sent me here on a goodwill mission in an effort to assist you in your exemplary work for the president—”

  “The president and his Joint Chiefs, yada, yada, yada,” Dagan finished the sentence for her. “Yeah. You already played me that tune over the phone. Which is another thing. Where exactly were you when you made that call?”

  “Huh?” Her smooth black brows crinkled. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, were you in Chicago, New York, DC?”

  “I…I was in my apartment in Georgetown,” she said, thrusting out her stubborn little chin. The woman could do mulish like nobody’s business. Most days, he admired that aspect of her character. Right now, it made him want to put his fist through a wall. Because there was something she wasn’t telling him. And—yes, goddamnit—it hurt that she didn’t trust him enough to give him the truth.

  Will I never get out from under that catastrofuck in Afghanistan? His guilt, usually relegated to the recycle bin of his subconscious—except for on the anniversary of that disastrous date—suddenly popped back up to be reused. Oh, great. As if my day wasn’t already circling the drain. But he’d be damned if he’d stand there playing the poor-me card when he could do something more productive. Like, say, raking the ever-exasperating Agent Duvall over the coals.

  “And your supervisor flew you here in the middle of the night—a CIA agent who has no jurisdiction on U.S. soil—just to find one missing old man?”

  “Two missing old men,” Chelsea corrected. “Because unless I’m mistaken and you’ve got him tied up down in the basement, Charles Sander is also persona in absentia.”

  “Oooh.” Ozzie placed his hand over his heart, stumbling back like he’d just been hit by one of Cupid’s arrows. “A woman who speaks Latin. Marry me, Agent Duvall. Marry me right this minute.”

  “Shut up, Ozzie,” Dagan thundered when Chelsea turned to gift Ozzie with another beatific smile. “And before you go getting too flattered, Chels, you should know that he asks everything with breasts and ovaries to marry him.”

  “Can I butt in here?” Delilah asked, and Zoelner blinked, having momentarily forgotten about the other people standing in the dingy little living room. “Why doesn’t the CIA have jurisdiction on U.S. soil?”

  Dagan opened his mouth to answer, but Mac beat him to the punch. “The Central Intelligence Agency is chartered to work internationally.” The former Fed’s slow Texas drawl made that last word sound about a hundred miles long. “The FBI is the federal agency that deals with domestic issues.”

  “Oh.” Delilah frowned. “So, then why is she here?”

  “Exactly!” Dagan threw his hands in the air.

  “Look, people,” Steady cut in. “I hate to be the one to mention it, but does it really matter why she’s here?”

  “Considering the CIA just loves to stovepipe the rest of us?” Dagan replied. “Yeah, I’d say it matters.”

  “I’m not stovepiping,” Chelsea insisted.

  “Zoelner’s right. It matters if she’s st
ovepiping,” Ozzie said in an aside to Steady.

  “Even if she is stovepiping, her arrival here might be—” Steady began, only to be interrupted by Chelsea yelling, “I’m not stovepiping!”

  “What the heck is stovepiping?” Delilah asked, and all heads turned toward her. The room was so filled with tension at that point that Dagan felt like he was defusing a bomb. Defusing a bomb while being chased by a psycho killer and running through a minefield filled with hungry lions…

  Yeah, that about covered it.

  Mac, still managing composure despite the volatile atmosphere, supplied helpfully, “It’s when one agency doesn’t help the other because they’re stingy when it comes to their Intel.”

  “I’m not stovepiping,” Chelsea repeated sullenly.

  “I don’t believe you.” Dagan scowled down at her, narrowing his eyes when the slightest wash of pink tinged her cheeks. “Aha!” He pointed at her, but before he could say anything more, Steady stepped in again.

  “Whether you believe her or not is inconsequential, hermano, because, the fact remains we were going to call for her help anyway, so—”

  “You were?” Chelsea grinned at Dagan, one victorious brow raised.

  “Just for access to the infrared on Eyes in the Sky,” he admitted irritably.

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” She slung the black carryall around in front of her to dig out an iPad. Punching the button on the Bluetooth device hooked around her ear, she simultaneously sat on the arm of the couch and started issuing commands to whomever was on the other end of the line. “So, what do you need?” she asked as she powered up the iPad.

  “We need heat scans of the entire town,” Ozzie told her. “We’re hoping to go door-to-door to ask if anyone has seen Charles or Theo, and that exercise would go much more quickly if we actually knew which houses were occupied.”

  Had everyone lost their friggin’ minds? They were just going to ignore the ten-ton elephant—aptly named Chelsea’s Bizarre Appearance—that was tap dancing over there in the corner? Because why in the world would—