Countdown to Zero Hour (12 page)

Art stayed behind, dark and angry. She knew he was waiting for a specific moment to spring his operation. But he appeared to be barely restrained for the moment.

He kept glaring into the living room and told her, “Garin had a good ol’ time in town. That should calm him down for a bit.” His expression brightened when he looked at her. “Thanks for the
syrniki
. Looking forward to lunch.”

He left, but was back before long. Gogol was the first guard to arrive in the kitchen, ready to help plate the food and carry it to the dining room. Art pitched in, and soon the house was fed.

She did her job, cooking for the criminals. And she had to trust that when Art’s real job as undercover soldier started, she would survive the fight.

* * *

Lunch was fantastic, as usual. Art had wished for all afternoon to savor it, eating
syrniki
after
syrniki
and drinking cold beers while talking to Hayley about cooking or guns or music or whatever the hell they wanted to.

But he was back in his room. Was this what it was like to fall for someone? He’d jumped out of helicopters, swum through freezing rivers, been shot at, but had no experience with something like these consuming thoughts and sensations. Relationships had lasted a few dates, a few hookups. Special ops in the Marines didn’t make for a very stable lifestyle. He’d never gotten to know a woman beyond her most superficial compatibility. And they hadn’t tried to pry too deep into him, either.

Hayley pierced right through him.

He considered texting Jackson for the finer details of getting caught up with a woman. That SEAL had a track record but might not know much about the profound issues. He was a quick strike man.

And it wasn’t the best use of resources during an op to ask personal questions when there remained tactical planning to do. Art sat at the edge of his bed, pistol out, phone in hand. His notebook was also open, pen on top, as if he was working on the details Rolan wanted.

Somewhere out in the dirt, Jackson received his messages. Hayley, the one regular civilian in the compound, had been informed of his mission.

Jackson responded, wondering if that was best.

Too late, Art wrote back. She won’t compromise op.

She compromise you? The message faded away, but Jackson’s burn didn’t.

Affirmative.

Art was glad to have the distraction of genial shouting coming from outside the house.

He texted, Over and out, shut down the app and holstered his pistol.

Without a window in his room, he had to venture out to the second-floor common room to peer down. A group of about eight guards kicked a soccer ball back and forth on a pitch crudely marked out with lines scratched in the dirt. Two larger rocks on each side indicated the goals.

Heading downstairs, he made a mental note to tell Jackson that the guards had fallen into a sense of security. Diligence would tighten up when additional bosses arrived, but the shooters were already inclined to think themselves safe.

The day remained bright and hot outside, but a new breeze lightened the air enough to breathe. It tasted damp and woody, like the distant mountains.

Art hung out on the sidelines with a couple of other guards, watching. The guys kicking the ball were pretty good and had probably been going at each other since being kids in some old country apartment block.

The catcalls started when they saw Art. They mocked being afraid of him, saying that the Mexican in him would dominate the pitch.

He moved into the field to intercept a pass and kept a foot on the ball. “If you’re too embarrassed to lose to a Mexican, you can pretend my Russian half is beating you.”

Without waiting for them to set themselves, he was off, dribbling through the dirt toward a goal. After all the pent-up tension, it felt great to go at these guys, taking their contact, avoiding their attempts to strip the ball. Everyone played fair enough. The goalie’s eyes were wide when Art reached shooting distance. He put everything into the kick, and the goalie didn’t have a chance.

One person clapped. Hayley stood on the sidelines, nodding her approval. She wore her chef’s jacket but stood relaxed. He backpedaled for defense, giving her a flex.

She laughed and stepped onto the pitch. Shouts of surprise and encouragement came from the other guards. One of the opposing team deliberately passed her the ball so she could go against Art.

The rest of the men cleared back for the one-on-one. Art bodied up to Hayley, slowing her attack on his goal. Because of his size advantage, he could’ve knocked her to the ground and taken the ball. But fouling would’ve been bad play. And it felt good to run alongside her, feeling her quick, nimble muscles. Her body on his during the kiss had set him on fire. Now his pace raced faster, getting this taste of what she was like full speed.

He did try to steal the ball with his feet, though, not making it easy on her. She dribbled well, avoiding his attempts while continuing to press forward. Attacking and defending kept them clashing on each other. Her leg along his. His arm around her lower back. These impacts woke up his hunger for all of her, naked and stretched out with him.

“You’ve got skills, Baskov.” He blocked her path. She tried to sidestep, but he was there again.

“And elbows.” She proved it with a sharp jab in his side, just below the ribs.

It was more surprising than painful, but the move worked. He stalled for a moment, and Hayley spun around him. She booted the ball through the goal rocks and put her hands in the air, victorious.

The guards whooped for her and jeered Art. He held out a fist for Hayley, she bumped it and they walked off the pitch together. The game resumed behind them.

He draped his arm around her waist, feeling the sensuous curve and wondering if that part of her skin had a slick of sweat on it. She bumped her hip on his and swiveled suggestively while they kept moving toward the house. The breeze continued, cooling the perspiration he’d collected on his head and neck.

They paused before the steps to the kitchen. His blood raced and it wasn’t from the game. Not too many people were watching them anymore.

He stole a moment, leaning close to her ear. “You have a sunny window in that guest house you live in?”

“Yeah,” she breathed back. Her cheek was warm on his.

“Private?” he asked.

“Very.” Her fingers lightly scratched at his stomach, above the waist of his jeans.

“I want you in that sunlight.” He had to let her know what he was feeling, what she inspired in him. “All day with you.”

She tugged on his waistband and pulled him closer. Her breath was shaky and her words were stained with sadness. “I want that, too.”

It was enough to hold on to. She needed him as much as he did her.

She released her grip on his jeans. “I have to work on dinner.”

He moved his hand from her hip. “And I have to go sharpen my knife.”

Her small smile lit him up. They parted, her going up the stairs into the kitchen and him walking back past the soccer game, past the propane tank and around the east side of the house. No one would wonder why he’d step off alone back there. Any guy would want to savor the glow.

Art did, clutching the memory of Hayley’s warmth to his core. And he tracked the lines of the generators into the house. There were two, no backups. Because of the noise of the motors, they were kept near the perimeter wall. Knocking them out would have to be one of his first moves.

And where would Hayley be, then? With him? Somewhere safe? But there were no safe places. The only way he could keep her safe was to be between her and the bullets.

Chapter Eleven

All through the prep and cooking, Hayley had been distracted. Undercover life bit at her. She was able to remain at least friendly with some of the guards in the house. After the soccer match, she’d gained a handful more of their respect. Was it a betrayal that she didn’t warn them about Art and his assault team?

Hayley pushed that concern out of her mind. No matter how much the men had cheered during the game, if their bosses wanted her dead, they would pull the trigger. But she continued to smile and accept the praise of the guards who made the extra effort to bring their dinner plates into the kitchen and thank her for the meal.

Martha did not smile. She helped with the cleanup and dishes, cautious of the men around her. Even Art didn’t warrant much trust. Martha spoke around him but remained guarded.

When it was time for Martha to leave, she wanted Hayley to come with her. She said there was an extra bed in her house and that she had a son who could bring her back to the job in the morning. Hayley thanked her and declined—a few times, as Martha continued to insist.

Eventually Martha got into the car with a Russian driver for the drive back to town and Hayley stayed behind, watching her go from the front steps of the house. The sun had long set. The sky grew darker and the stars disappeared.

“Rain.” Art stood at the bottom of the stairs. He’d lurked just out of the shadows at the corner of the house.

“Dessert.” She watched the gate shut behind the car, then turned and went back into the house.

Art’s energy was her other distraction. Since their soccer game, she kept remembering the first impact of their bodies as he’d moved to block her attack. The kiss at the bottom of the stairs and them pressed close had been charged with potential. Some of it lived out when they’d clashed together during the match. They were both strong, but he was a rock. He could move her, and she could hold on tight.

He beat her to the kitchen. The space was lit by the under-cabinet lights, throwing shadows high and low. Art’s face was obscured, but she felt his intensity and it sharpened her awareness of him. Each shift of his torso and legs made her move her own in a slow grind. Like they were dancing, despite a distance between them.

She collected ingredients and directed him, “Bring me those peaches.”

“Last two.” He carried them to her.

“They’re ripe now. We have to eat them tonight.” She halved and pitted them quickly, then turned her attention to the pan on the stove. Brown sugar dissolved into butter, warming the room with its aroma.

Art came close, his hip on hers. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but I like it.”

“Stand back.” She waved him off a bit so she could grab a bottle of bourbon from the island. But it was also because of the dizzying effect he had on her. When he was that near, she just wanted to tilt the floor and have them both tumble onto it together.

The bourbon whooshed into flame as it hit the pan. Art’s face was lit by the fire, making him appear almost demonic. A lusty devil, from the way he gazed at her. And her own lust answered with hurried, hot breath through her throat.

He started coming forward again as the flame died down.

She held him at a distance. “Do you have a girl back home?” Need had been pushing them closer to each other. Once he touched her again, she would want it all. But that depended on whether she was just a convenient body to warm him while he was undercover.

“No one.” He glanced into the dark house, then back at her. “I have a hard time...connecting with people.”

“Not with me, though.” She placed the peach halves, cut side down, in the brown sugar mixture.

“You’re different.” Stepping closer again, Art watched her cook. He whispered, “I can be myself.”

She’d seen how hard he’d worked to maintain his cover. For him to be this unguarded with her was a rare gift. They had to keep each other safe.

“Who are you?” she whispered back.

“I’m the guy you’re making dessert for.” He left for a moment and returned with two plates and silverware. His voice was low, molten like the bubbling mixture in the pan. “I’m the guy who’s going to eat that and taste you.”

Her mouth watered. Her hunger wouldn’t be satisfied in the kitchen.

She killed the heat on the stove and still felt the flames. He held out the plates, and she slid the peach halves onto them. The caramelized brown sugar pooled luxuriously around the fruit.

“Thank you.” Art looked her over with a savoring gaze, then moved his attention to the dessert.

She ate hers, feeling the vibrations of his appreciative growls and moans as he consumed the food. Each sound he made warmed her nerves. Her nipples hardened, wanting the touch. Wet heat gathered between her legs.

The house darkened around them. The night shift of guards came on, and voices dropped to low murmurs. Only the most necessary lights stayed on.

“There’s the rain.” Art stared out the dark window.

But he was wrong. There was none, not yet. After a moment, though, a streak like a shooting star moved across the window glass. Other drops arrived, hatching the window in the angled direction of the wind. She heard the drops hitting the dry dirt outside. It grew to a stampede.

She carried her dessert to the back door and gazed out the window. Art joined her. His large shadow blocked the kitchen light, and they were able to see outside. The faint illumination from the living room revealed the silver rain. Steady. Unhurried.

The top edge of the cinder block wall was already dark from the moisture. It looked like it was crumbling, but she knew it was just a trick of the colors.

Her dessert was finished and she placed the plate on a counter. Art continued eating.

“How’d you know the rain was coming?” She wanted to feel it on her face, to run in it and not to worry about who saw her or what she’d do with all her wet and muddy clothes.

“Smelled it.” The handle of his spoon rang on the window glass. “Not a lot of wind. It parked over us. It’ll last.” He took her plate, stacked it on top of his and took them to the sink. After hurrying through the dishes, he returned to the windowed door. Focusing outside, he asked, “You like camping?”

“I’ve been a couple of times. Mostly I just remember trying to keep the beers cold.”

“I kind of lost my taste for it, but...” He double-checked the lock on the door. “I might like it out there with you.”

That kind of peace and solitude was impossible. And she wanted it so badly. “Do we get to cook, or will we only eat what we can catch or kill?”

“Car camping.” He chuckled. “You can cook gourmet if you want to.”

“But—” she turned to him and he peered into her eyes, “—you’ll have to cook, too.”

His shoulders tensed with the prospect. “I hope quesadillas are okay.”

“Doesn’t matter what it is, as long as you make it.”

He relaxed and ventured to put a warm hand on her hip. “We’ll go. And if it’s raining, we’ll get wet. And if it’s hot, we’ll be sweaty. And we’ll be okay.”

“Let’s go.” They couldn’t. But she could turn herself harder into his touch, inviting more.

“Anytime.” His murmur reflected what she knew: not yet.

His hand slipped up to her waist, held her there. She caressed down his chest and lingered at the top button of his jeans. The room darkened as she closed her eyes. He leaned down and kissed her, tasting of the burned sugar peaches and sharp bourbon.

Her body responded with new need. Close to him, her breasts grew sensitive. She held his arms, fingers curling into his jacket to urge him deeper into the kiss. Harder against her so she could find where her delicate flesh was shimmering with heat. Hours alone with Art in the wilderness wouldn’t be enough isolated time for what she wanted to do with him. How could all her urges be satisfied? Denying them was starting to tear her apart.

She felt frayed when Art ended the kiss and slowly pulled away.

“Anytime,” he repeated.

All the things she wanted were reflected back from his gaze. Heavy lids hung over his eyes. Long breaths moved his chest. He seemed ready to tear away any barriers between them.

She licked her lips, thinking about what they could do if they both let themselves go.

He made a small growl, watching her mouth. His hand tightened on her waist. Baring his teeth with frustration, he took another long breath and released her.

She understood and she hated it.

“Good night,” she said.

He shook his head and stepped away from her. Sliding along with the shadows, Art left the kitchen.

She shut down her space, trying to distract herself with tomorrow’s meal planning, but all the pent-up urges continued to gnaw at her. The rain persisted outside, sometimes streaking along the black window. The slow pace of the drops was too sensuous to be meditative. It was as if nature was taunting her with what she couldn’t have.

* * *

The warm peach and hot bourbon on Hayley’s lips haunted Art. He’d never been so shaken by a woman. He forced his fingers to cooperate while he sat in his dark room, texting with Jackson.

Tactical details were communicated curtly: the placement of the two generators. How their lines ran behind the wheels of the water truck. No backups for either resource. Extra fuel for the generators was kept in an unsecured shed near the eastern wall.

And all the while, Art cursed himself out for letting temptation erase his better judgment. After the soccer match, he’d asked her about where she lived, and he’d imagined her lying naked on the crumpled sheets of a sunlit bed. Then he had to taunt himself with the idea of camping with her. Just the two of them, listening to the rain hit the tent all around them, would be heaven. The prospect of camping hadn’t been at all appealing after being exposed to the extreme hot and cold of Afghanistan, but Hayley in his world changed that.

He texted Jackson, Loving the mud?

The return message appeared quickly. It’s all good. I was getting thirsty.

The app faded the conversation out, erasing evidence, but Art knew that Jackson was out there, hidden in whatever ditch he’d dug, getting rained on.

Art typed, We owe you a bottle of the good stuff.

Shots after the shooting.

That was how they had to do it, knowing they’d all make it to the bar. Art convinced himself that he and Hayley would survive to find that tent out in the mountains. But he couldn’t wait. She was here, in the house.

Now
. A voice echoed inside. His body responded, bringing him to his feet, hurrying his pulse.
Now
. He was still alive. He had to live.

Most of the guards and bosses slept. The rain continued. Drops pattered in what was now mud around the house. He knew the clouds would probably blow out by morning. The ground would be baked dry again at noon.

He navigated the dark hallway to the service stairway. At the bottom of the stairs, he passed the ghost of his first kiss with Hayley. The atmosphere there remained sultry and humid.

Down the hall, past the laundry and cabinet of cleaning supplies, he found her door. The sound of the rain was stronger on this edge of the house. It drummed on the roof eaves.

He knocked, trying to be louder than the rain but not to pound on her door.

Hayley’s voice came from the other side, “Who is it?”

“Art.”

The door opened. Only one dim lamp was on. She wore sweatpants and a T-shirt. And caution on her face.

“I thought I was supposed to lock you out.” Part of her body was protected behind the door.

“You can.” He remained on the outside of the threshold.

Her hesitance burned away, replaced by a deeper look that slowed the world around him, putting her at the center. “I don’t want to.”

“Then let me in.” He had to live. With her.

Hayley stepped back, swinging the door wider, allowing Art inside. She shut and locked the door behind him.

* * *

The sound of rain surrounded them, making Hayley feel insulated from the house. She turned to Art and ran her hands over his firm shoulders, down his thick arms. He slid his fingers through her hair and down the back of her neck.

Her nerves rushed to collect every touch, the feel of him close, his warmth and the dark want in his eyes. It was all too much. She’d needed so much that everything hit her at once and she wasn’t able to savor the tastes that made up this man before her.

She glanced at the door, indicating the full house beyond it. “Can we?”

He nodded. “Whatever we want.”

“Because they expect it?” How deep did Art’s cover go? Was he able to manufacture all this desire just for show? She certainly didn’t. It was about to tear her apart.

“Because I need you.”

Cupping her head, he drew her into a kiss. It wasn’t an act. None of this was. He was here, real before her. She kissed him, revealing how much she wanted him, as well. Their mouths opened. Their hands moved over each other’s bodies.

He wore too many clothes, so she started by tugging at his jacket. His hands left her for just a moment while he shrugged off the jacket and let it fall to the ground. Stripped to his T-shirt, he felt so real and firm under her hands.

Breathless, she pulled away from the kiss. She had to see him. The dim table lamp carved his ridged muscles with shadows. Many of the tattoos he’d mentioned were revealed on his dark skin. Guns and knives. Skulls. And a flower.

He saw her examining it and smiled.

She traced a finger around the perimeter of the petals, feeling the muscles of his forearm jump. “What are you doing with a rose?”

“It’s pretty like me.” He deliberately flexed his biceps as he reached up to stroke his chin. “And we both have thorns.”

She chuckled and put her hands in his waistband, pulling him forward. His pistol and the knife handle on his belt jabbed her belly.

“Do you take off your thorns?” she asked.

“For you.” Quick hands undid his belt and pulled it from his pants. His holster and knife and a couple of clips for the gun were placed on the seat of a chair, which he moved so it was easily reached. “Your turn.”

“I already took off my chef’s coat.” She teased him by pulling down the neck of her T-shirt.