Shoot to Thrill (45 page)

“Oh, Rainie, please. It’s an honor! Truly.” Helena beamed. “It’ll give me practice for when Alex and I get married!” She gave her an air-kiss on the cheek and disappeared into the room.

Rainie wished she could beam, too. This should be the happiest, most amazing day of her life. And it would be, if only her best friend were here. It should be Gina standing at her side, holding the bouquet of pink roses and orange blossoms that Kick had bought for her, and dabbing tears and sharing hugs afterward, not a virtual stranger.

But Gina had disappeared.

Rebel squeezed Rainie’s hand. “Don’t worry, the FBI will find your friend,” she said. “It’s what we do.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, blinking back a wellspring of emotion. The woman had no idea what was involved. Gina’d told neighbors she was visiting relatives, but Rainie had called every one of them, and no one knew where she was. She was terrified that by originally calling Gina for help while talking with Jason Forsythe, she’d somehow put her friend in danger. She couldn’t imagine what kind, but look what had happened to Rainie when she just flirted with the wrong man.

Yes, okay, she was about to marry that man . . . but still. The thought that Gina could be in some kind of awful trouble because of her filled Rainie with a sick, gnawing fear.

Where
was
she?

“Are you sure you don’t want to postpone the wedding?” Rebel asked sympathetically. “I’m sure Kick would wait for you no matter how long it took.”

Rebel was sweet, pretty, and a bit more perceptive than her friend Helena. For a split second, Rainie wondered about Alex’s choice of fiancée.

She took a deep breath. “I know he would. Believe me, I’ve wrestled with the decision all week. But Kick may be leaving on an assignment any day now, and we don’t want to chance waiting.”

Kick had insisted he didn’t want to take the job with STORM, but Rainie knew better. Abu Bakr might be dead and his attacks on the Western embassies prevented—this time. But his organization was still out there, planning its next reign of terror with the horrible virus that had nearly killed Kick. She knew he would never forgive himself if even a single person died because he’d decided to take the easy way out, letting others finish the job he’d started. Not to mention the fact that he’d have to stay “dead” until the threat from al Sayika was neutralized for good.

Rainie wanted him alive . . . in every possible way.

So she had insisted right back. And they’d both accepted the jobs with STORM—effective as soon as they returned from their penthouse honeymoon.

Honeymoon
. . .

Just the sound of it brought a smile to her face, despite everything. The thought of finally having Kick all to herself was almost as enticing as the thought of being Mrs. Kyle Jackson.
Almost
. It had been a very long two weeks, with barely a minute alone together.

“Okay, then,” Rebel said encouragingly. “Ready?”

“Ready.” Rainie straightened her shoulders, raised her bouquet, and turned to Alex’s door, at last allowing joy and excitement to flow through her. “I can’t believe I’m getting married.”

“You look stunning,” Rebel said, and smiled as she opened the door for her. “Good luck.”

Rainie stepped over the threshold to a collective sigh from the small crush of friends and staff who’d gathered in the room for the wedding. As soon as she saw the dazzled look of love in Kick’s eyes, everything else flew from her mind.

Oh, my God. She was really doing this. Marrying the most dangerous man she’d ever met in her life—no, make that the most
amazing
man she’d ever met in her life. The most wounded and needful. But also the most honorable and brave, by light-years. Quite simply the most
man
she’d ever met.

And he was all hers. At least he would be, after he said, “I do.”

She couldn’t wait.

Kick took her hands in his and the pastor started saying the traditional words, but she didn’t hear a thing save the beating of her heart, certain she would wake up any second and find this was all just an incredible dream. How could her ordinary life have changed so drastically in three short weeks? How could
she
have changed so drastically?

Finally, the pastor got her attention. “Do you, Lorraine Emily Martin, take this man, Kyle Spencer Jackson, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” she managed to say past the sweet clot of emotion rising in her throat.

Looking into the eyes of the man she loved to distraction, joy filled her heart to the very brim. They would be so happy together. Sure, there would be bumps, but she couldn’t imagine a better person to face them with. They’d already been through so much together. Their relationship had been forged in danger and shaped by passion and respect.

It was funny . . . for most of her life, she’d ached for someone like Kick to keep her safe and protect her from all the evil in the world. At last, she’d finally found him—but she was no longer terrified, no longer felt the need to be protected—and all because of what he’d taught her . . . about herself. Now, instead, she wanted to protect
him
. From the cruelty he’d hinted at in his childhood, from the violence he’d witnessed in the world, from the emptiness and desolation that had marred his life before they met. She wanted to shower him with love and warmth and affection, so he would never again feel alone or unloved.

Because, oh, how she loved him!

“Do you, Kyle Spencer Jackson, take this woman, Lorraine Emily Martin, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.”

There. Finally!

He was all hers.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” he murmured, the grittiness of his voice betraying the emotion in his throat, too.

The simple gold band he slipped on her finger was the most beautiful thing Rainie had ever seen. It felt so right. Meant so much.

She slipped her ring on his finger, and breathlessly recited the words that would bind her to him for all time. Then looked up into his beautiful, passion-filled eyes.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you,” she whispered back.

And then the smiling minister said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

And finally,
finally
, Kick kissed her.

A perfect kiss, filled with possibilities and promises for the years ahead.

And everyone cheered.

Turn the page for a preview of the next romance
from Nina Bruhns

IF LOOKS COULD CHILL

Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!

The Dumani Embassy, Istanbul Turkey

Five years ago

“SHE
seems young.”

Marc Lafayette flicked a glance over at fellow STORM operator Bobby Lee Quinn, who was lounging against a pillar in an elegantly tailored tuxedo, sipping a martini, appearing for all the world like he attended embassy parties every day of his life.

Marc knew better. Quinn was a Bama redneck with gun grease under his fingernails from all the ground ops he’d led in the past six or seven years working for STORM Corps. Still, for some obscure reason women loved him.

“Too young for you,
boug
,” Marc warned. For all the good that would do. If it wore a skirt, Quinn was all over it. He returned his gaze to the newest CIA officer to hit Istanbul this summer. Darcy Zimmerman. Fresh as spring rain, and pretty as a bayou orchid in a strapless blue gown that had their Arab hosts either frowning or drooling. Her cover was assistant to the cultural attaché at the US embassy. But already she was attracting too much attention for a spook.

He gave the blond ingénue a week in this cauldron of politics, jealousy, and backstabbing. Tops.

“Wonder if she’s even legal,” Quinn mused.

Dieu
. Less than a week, if Quinn got his hands on her. “Why? You plannin’ some kind of mischief,
mon ami
?”

“You got a problem with that, friend?”

Yeah. He did. The girl looked fresh out of college, and no way was she ready to handle whatever Quinn had in mind to dish her way. But . . .

Not his business. Besides, they’d assigned her to Istanbul, so she must be able to look after herself. As long as she didn’t compromise his mission or need rescuing, Marc didn’t care what she looked like. He shrugged, dismissing the girl and the subject.

They weren’t here at the Dumani embassy decked out in penguin suits to pick up women. They had a job to do. And Quinn was a pro. He wouldn’t get distracted. If he did,
he
could do the
foutre
rescuing.

CIA had brought in STORM to help on this dash-and-grab for the deniability factor. Strategic Technical Operations and Rescue Missions Corporation—STORM Corps—was a nongovernmental spec ops outfit that hired out to private companies and individuals, mainly to recover and defend hostages and other assets. But they were often used to carry out sensitive or controversial covert ops in locations and situations where official government agencies couldn’t or wouldn’t go.

Such as this one.

Upstairs on the third floor of the Dumani embassy was a safe containing an envelope with new identity papers for Jallil Abu Bakr and Abbas Tawhid, the two men suspected of being the driving force behind al Sayika
,
one of the worst terrorist organizations to burst onto the international scene since al Qaeda. Last year alone, al Sayika cells had blown up the Dutch stock exchange, poisoned a Jordanian prince actively advocating for equal rights for women within Islam, and murdered a French National Police commander for clamping down on the race riots in the Paris
banlieux
. Just as fanatical as bin Laden, and far more sophisticated in his long-term planning, abu Bakr and Tawhid were up there on everyone’s Most Wanted list, right under their fuckbuddy.

Tonight Marc and Quinn were to get to the embassy safe, open it, and photo-digitize the duo’s documents without making a ripple. That last part was vital. No one could know the safe had been breached. abu Bakr was an enigma; no living Western agent had ever seen his face. Abbas Tawhid was a cruel, ruthless sociopath who had risen through the ranks through sheer brutality. His face was well known but the aliases he traveled under were not. Getting their hands on these identity papers would be huge. The information they contained would insure the two would be caught and al Sayika’s growing power in the terrorist world stopped before it gained any more momentum.

CIA Barbie—aka Darcy Zimmerman—was supposed to pass them the combination to the safe—obtained from an enterprising embassy cleaning lady who’d gotten the deal of a lifetime, compliments of the US taxpayers.

Marc wondered how Zimmerman had managed that coup, especially looking like she did. Frankly, he’d been expecting their contact to be a short, frumpy fortysomething old-maid type with no makeup and sensible shoes. But tall, golden blond and model-gorgeous Darcy Zimmerman broke the mold on all counts. The Company must be raising their standards.

Speak of the devil. Zimmerman was coming toward them on the arm of the Dumani agricultural attaché. She laughed at something the old roué said in her ear—he had to go practically on tiptoes—just as she spotted them.

“There you are!” she called with a cheerful wave, as if they’d actually met before. “I thought you two had left without me!”

Without missing a beat, she answered Quinn’s welcoming smile with one of her own and slid into his arms for a hug, kissing him on the cheeks, Euro style. “Darling, meet Sheikh Asood.” She introduced them, using code names they’d been given for the op.

She was smooth; Marc had to give her that.

And so was Quinn. One smarmy smile and
he
ended up as the boyfriend,
le tayau
. Not that Marc was particularly interested.
Bon
, she was beautiful, but definitely not his type. He preferred women who had nothing to do with the world he worked in. And unlike Quinn, he never mixed business and pleasure.

As they made meaningless chitchat with Asood, Marc studied what he could see of the embassy’s structure. He knew from blueprints supplied by STORM that the building was an old converted Ottoman palace. Complex mosaic dé cor adorned the carved stucco walls and high ceilings; intricate marble arches and gilded scrollwork were everywhere, the perfect backdrop to the luxurious furnishings, rugs, and tapestries. Pretty impressive stuff.

The good news was because of the palace’s age and historical value, very little renovation had taken place inside—including even the most rudimentary security features. No cameras, alarms, or motion detectors. The bad news was, guards had been liberally sprinkled around the main stair-cases. It would be tricky getting past them.

“Shall we visit the buffet?” Zimmerman suggested, looping her wrists around each of their elbows after Asood saw which way the wind blew and moved on.

“I’m Quinn, by the way,” Bobby Lee said, pulling her closer to his side than was strictly necessary.

She smiled up at him. “Yeah. I know. You guys ready for this?”

“You’ve got the combination?” Marc asked, trying to move things along as they casually strolled from the salon toward the opulent dining room. They had to wade through three smaller rooms crushed with people to reach it. He instinctively scanned faces and body language, looking for anything suspicious. So far, so good.

“Just follow my lead,” she said.

They grabbed plates and selected a few morsels from the overflowing buffet table, slowly making their way down the line. She obviously had a plan, so he and Quinn just went along, ready for anything. Marc already had a plan, but what was he going to do about it, stamp his foot and demand his was better? Besides, maybe his wasn’t better.
Semper Gumby
.

“How do you like Istanbul so far?” he asked Zimmerman, to fill the silence. Ah,
merde
. She and Quinn were already making goo-goo eyes at each other over the hors de oeuvres. Marc barely resisted rolling his own.
Get a room
. Please.
After
the op.