Countdown to Zero Hour (9 page)

She stepped away from the island. “What about yours?”

He shut off the water and turned to her.

Her eyes burned him.

Secrets weighed him down like a loaded gun. Every step might have a trip wire in front of it. He wanted to risk it, to tell her what he was really doing in that house and let all the mines go off around them as he pulled her close.

“No heart left,” he said, staying by the sink. “Maybe I lost it in basic training, or at a forward base in Afghanistan, or back in the city.”

She moved to the refrigerator and opened it. The door blocked her expression. “I don’t believe you.” When she reappeared, she held two mugs. A sly smile drew him toward whatever mystery she was holding. He was close enough that her whisper reached him. “Dessert.”

She put the mugs down and pulled a couple of teaspoons from a drawer. The food was much less interesting than the crafty woman before him.

Their fingers touched as he took a spoon from her. They paused, and he soaked in the sensation of her skin. Smooth and strong. And charged with a quick spark, an electric thread that reached into him and drew him toward her. Then she eased away and dipped her spoon inside her mug.

He picked up the mug; the warmth from her touch couldn’t be erased by the cold china. “Thought you didn’t have anything for dessert.”

She took a bite, still with that sly smile. “I’m never lost in a kitchen.”

He had to know what taste she’d created. He spooned the creamy pudding from the mug and slipped it onto his tongue.

It was chilled, but the flavor was warm. Honey and vanilla. She would taste like that, if he kissed her. And she’d have something else, darker like smoke. The spark from her touch multiplied, gathering in his chest.

He kept eating, mesmerized, watching her lips close over her spoon as she slowly dragged it out of her mouth. The wicked smile was in her eyes. His blood sped, moving the electricity all over his body.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“Never tasted anything better.” And if he had, the memory had been erased by this moment.

“Honey custard.” She shrugged small. “Easy to make for two.”

“Thank you.” He forced himself to take a breath and throttle back his pace so he could savor the custard.

“Better than goat eyeballs.”

“Much.”

The two of them leaned with their backs to the counter and looked out across the clean kitchen. Parts of the house were dark. Things were quiet.

Except in him. The thumping of his pulse marched quickly while he took in the taste of the dessert and the sight of Hayley in her element.

“What was that desert like?” She licked her spoon then scraped the bottom of the mug with the sound of distant bells.

“Cold. And hot. Different.” He tried to remember what it had felt like when he’d first been helicoptered in to one of the remote outposts, but he’d spent so much time out there that he couldn’t see it with fresh eyes. “We’d trained at Twentynine Palms. MWTC. It was desolate and helped get us ready. But it wasn’t the same. Where we were training, like here, it’s just desert for miles. There, it’s people’s homes.” He finished the custard and was already greedy for more. “People live in those hills. Like they’ve been doing for thousands of years.”

She set her mug down. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

He put his mug on the island, touching hers. “A lot goes on over there that nobody’s thinking about here. I don’t even think about half the stuff that happened.”

“Really?” She didn’t believe him.

“Maybe.”

“Because you’re heartless.”

“Right.”

He glanced at her, and she held the look for a moment. The darkness around the kitchen wasn’t safe. He knew they were being watched. He wanted so much to damn it all and find out what her mouth really tasted like.

He needed to protect her from the danger in the compound, and also from himself. He wasn’t what she thought. In this house, the undercover Automatik operator was more dangerous to her than the Russian mob goon.

He tore away from her gaze, wondering if she could see how difficult it was.

They both faced out again, quiet between them, the tension to move closer together remaining.

“Any tattoos?” She started unbuttoning her chef’s coat.

He licked his lips, and they still tasted like honey. Her back arched a bit as she worked at removing the coat. Her breasts pressed out under her T-shirt, the fabric showing her shape. Her shoulders were firm and strong, just like her arms. The electric sparks gathered around his beltline and lower.

She pointed at her left biceps. “Octopus holding a cast-iron skillet.” It was beautifully drawn in an old nautical style.

He tugged at the collar of his T-shirt, revealing part of the tattoo on his upper left chest. “Mexican eagle.”

Her lingering eyes drew heat to his skin.

Taking off his jacket would’ve been liberating, but he was on the job. Both jobs. And who knew where the two of them would stop if they took turns removing articles of clothing. He tried to slow his blood and keep it from shooting to his cock.

Though they were covered, he pointed to different areas on his body. “Flintlock rifle. M60 machine gun. A few knives.”

She put her thumb on the back side of her upper hip. “Pomegranate.”

“That’s weird.” The fruit didn’t seem too appealing. But seeing her butt in jeans was very nice.

Her hand curled at the hem of her shirt and almost pulled it up. She slowed herself down, though, and turned so her back was again at the counter and she faced the kitchen and the rest of the house. He was happy to know that she understood there were eyes everywhere.

“It’s a good fruit,” she informed without getting defensive. “Historic. Legendary.”

“Like you.”

She scoffed. “Not yet.”

“Hell yeah, you are.” He took her in. Even without the authority of her coat, her strength was clear in the set of her chin and clarity in her eyes. “Look what you’ve survived. Look how well you fight.”

She was silent. Her posture was straight, unbroken. She stared down, through the floor and way beyond. Then she looked up at him, revealing the slightest gloss of emotion in her eyes, as if she was thanking him without a word.

The pull between them grew stronger.

Overt footsteps came to a stop just outside the kitchen. Garin glared at Art and Hayley. His mean gaze bounced between them, then he glared at the mugs and spoons. “I want dessert,” he spat in Russian.

Art translated for Hayley. Garin was already mad, but it was a pissy pout. Both he and Art knew there wasn’t to be any additional trouble. The bosses had laid down the law about the kitchen.

Hayley gathered her coat, ready to leave for the night, and didn’t back down from Garin. “You do the dishes, you get dessert.”

Garin didn’t understand, his brows knitting over growing anger. Art had the pleasure of translating what she said with a chuckle.

Garin turned red. Hayley strode to the switches on the wall and turned out the lights in the kitchen, leaving the guard behind. Art walked her out of the kitchen and to her room. She was definitely legendary. Garin had made his play, scared her good, and she’d bounced back. A lot of people would be cowering whenever that asshole showed up. But she was someone unique. And amazing. A fighter who hadn’t lost her heart beneath the steel.

“Spokoynoy nochi.”
She stood in the doorway to her room.

They hung on a moment. It seemed like he studied her face forever. And it seemed to go by too quickly when she smiled with a bit of sadness and turned into her room.

“Spokoynoy,”
he answered, not wanting to leave. Wanting another spoonful of dessert, or the taste of it on her mouth. Wanting to see all her tattoos and show her his, naked and unguarded. Wanting to learn how she stayed strong against the odds.

Her door closed and the lock latched. Good. She could be bold, but she still had to be careful.

Art walked back into the rest of the house. Garin was gone from the edge of the kitchen, but him or someone like him was out there, in the dark. Just like Art. Waiting for the perfect time to attack.

Chapter Nine

A shout woke her from deep, exhausted sleep. Hayley’s body jolted, all muscles locking for a moment. She must’ve dreamed it. The building stress needed an outlet and had shocked her awake. Starlight filtered in through her high window, carving the elements of the room in dark pitted stone. Day remained a far way off.

She tried to breathe out the tension from the dream. Why couldn’t she have blown off some steam in a pleasurable fantasy with Art? That would’ve been a welcome relief.

Another shout split the air. It was real, not a dream, and the cold urge to run flashed up her legs. A loud thump echoed through the house. The walls creaked with an impact.

The shout was joined by another voice. Men growled and hissed in a conflict. Scuffling and banging sounds came from the second floor. She imagined Art in a fight for his life with Garin.

Clouds of sleep blew away as she hurried out of her sweatpants and into jeans and shoes. She was at the door, hand on the lock, when she paused. The struggle continued upstairs. What was she throwing herself into? But Art had come to her defense before, and she couldn’t just let him fight alone now.

Drawing the lock and opening the door, she stepped into the service hallway. Most of the lights were off, so she used the sounds of the fight to navigate to the utility stairs to the guards’ room hallway. Blows were landing on bodies, making the men grunt. She hurried, thinking about the punishment Art might be taking. If the other guards took Garin’s side, there would be no hope for him.

Halfway up the stairs, she slowed. The silhouettes of several men loomed at the top of the steps. They were turned away from her, and must’ve been watching the ongoing struggle. Startling them could mean taking a bullet. How could she get through them if Art was in trouble?

The trouble came to her.

A man wrapped impossibly strong arms around her from behind. His hand covered her mouth. Terror jolted through her. Her back and neck stiffened. Her arms and legs tightened in a frenzy to fight. He was below her on the stairs, but she still didn’t have any leverage to push off or away. Fear and rage boiled within her. Any breath to scream was choked deep in her lungs. She tried to bare her teeth to bite him. Or to twist just enough to kick him in the balls.

“It’s me, Hayley,” a voice whispered in her ear. “It’s Art.”

It took a moment for the meaning to reach past her thundering blood.

He continued, “You going to fight me?”

This was not at all how she imagined being coiled in his arms.

She shook her head, and immediately the pressure released around her.

Art’s face was serious in the dim light. His eyes glittered with awareness. He pointed back down toward the stairs, and they moved as silently as possible. All the way, he remained close, his arm or his leg touching her. His ready gaze shifted up and down the stairs.

They paused at the bottom, where she backed against a wall, trying to catch her shaky breath.

“Did I hurt you?” His hands hovered over her shoulders.

“I’m fine.” She winced as the fight continued upstairs. Other voices started to join in.

“Garin and Vasily,” he explained in low tones. He loomed close, hands fixed to the wall she leaned on, bracketing her. “Some kind of bad blood between their families. Probably goes back hundreds of years.”

“Vasily came to the kitchen, asked questions about my name and where my family was from. Guess I passed the test.”

He peered up the stairs, but she had no idea what he could see in the dark. “I don’t rate. Vasily didn’t even ask about my family.”

The fight reached the next level of violence, with a piece of furniture breaking. All the voices came up in a chorus, and footsteps swarmed. They were breaking it up.

Art’s mouth was close to her ear. “You’ve got to stay safe. Don’t be running around alone out in the house. There’s stuff here you can’t see.”

She whispered back, lips brushing his stubbled cheek. “I heard the fight. I thought it was you.”

“You came out for me?” The surprise appeared to shake him.

“You’ve helped me.” Her pulse rushed. “I had to help you.”

His chest was close to hers. His breath was hot on her ear. “You’ve got to be more careful.”

“Yes,” she said, gliding her hands over his shoulders and around his back. “I do.”

They were so close, and barely had to move for their lips to meet. The kiss was a shock. Gentle. Hesitant. As if to test and see if all the tension that had been growing between them was real. And how much potential charge remained after the initial touch.

The kiss deepened, revealing their connection went beyond what she’d imagined.

His lips were firm, commanding. Stubble on his cheeks rasped on her. He surged closer, and she opened her mouth to him. He tasted of his own spices. Cumin. Smoked paprika. Salt.

Their tongues teased, probing out and sliding along each other. The skin at her throat heated, and she felt the blush on her face.

His muscles were firm under her hands. She ran them farther down his back until she bumped on his holstered pistol and sheathed knife.

He cupped the sides of her neck, incredibly tender. The rough pads on his fingers were more of a reminder of his danger than the gun on his belt. He didn’t need tools. His whole body was a weapon. But he didn’t use it for that just then.

The passionate intent was clear.

His body leaned closer, pressing her onto the wall. He smelled of yesterday’s soap and sweat and gun oil. His breath rumbled through him and vibrated her skin. She was pinned and loved feeling all his strength around her. It was for her. He’d shown that by fighting, and now he showed it by coiling himself around her, taking her mouth with his and running his fingers through her hair.

The cold fear that had wakened her burned away. Hungry need bloomed through her. Her legs still wanted to move, but not to run. She could wrap herself around his waist. He’d hold her up, and she could grip his shoulders.

She kissed across his jaw and down his neck. He growled low and skimmed a hand along her spine, resting it on her hip. His lips found her collarbone, just at the base of her throat. She lost her breath. Need centered between her legs, wet. Her breasts pressed forward, rubbing against his firm chest.

His hands moved down around her ribs, under her arms. He picked her up, held her tightly. And he started to carry her away. Caution tried to stop her, but she ignored the impulse, needing to go wherever he was taking her. She had to find out what they could do together, unleashed.

The lights turned on in the stairway. Stark reality blew apart the fevered moment between her and Art. He set her down, his breath rushed, eyes heavy lidded. And his mouth was turned down in a frustrated scowl.

Half a dozen faces stared down at them from the top of the stairs, including Rolan. Many of the men leered; others’ expressions were blank or confused. They had just been witnessing the fight upstairs, now they’d stumbled on her just before she was about to try to tear into Art’s clothes.

Rolan wore a small, knowing smile. Like a father who’d caught his son with a girl, yet approved. He drifted to the back of the group and disappeared. The other men weren’t so fast to disperse.

Standing so close to Art, she felt him try to contain all that energy that had been focused on her. With his careful hand on the small of her back, he urged her back toward her room.

Together they turned away from the men and walked down the hallway. She drifted backward into her room, not knowing if he would follow. Wanting him to. Though caution was blaring louder now that her blood didn’t thunder so much. The moment had broken. It might be best that he stay away. She couldn’t involve herself with him. He was one of the criminals in the house. She was just there for a job.

But her body wouldn’t listen to all that rationalization. She needed to know what he felt like, naked, against her. In her hands and under her teeth. Inside her.

He was so close. Coiled. Looking at her like he could pick her up and smash the both of them through the house, through the wall around the compound and to their own secret spot in the desert.

Art reached forward and put his hand on the doorknob. He growled, “Lock me out,” and closed the door.

Cut off from the light in the stairway, she was blanketed in darkness. Only a line of illumination came under her door, broken by the shadow of Art’s feet. He was still. She wanted him back against her but didn’t open the door. He was right. Damn him. He was the wrong man. Damn him. She locked the door and he walked away.

* * *

Little sleep, high stress, the constant threat of violence. That old, strung-out feeling of operating deep in enemy territory came back to Art. He’d learned the rhythm years ago and had figured out how to pace his energy so he could always be ready. But he’d just been a marine then.

Now he was undercover for Automatik. His secret was like another munition. It could help him take out the enemy. Or it could blow up in his face.

Mission failure didn’t just mean the death of combatants anymore. He had to protect Hayley at all costs. She was innocent. He’d helped put her in harm’s way. Every second he was apart from her was too long. And every second he was with her wasn’t enough.

Making his compulsory rounds through the house in the morning, he avoided the kitchen. Rolan hadn’t asked him to walk the perimeter and check security, there were other guards for that, but he had to look busy and useful. It was also an opportunity to collect intel. He estimated 70 percent of the shooters were getting lax, even leaning their weapon on a wall at times. But they had plenty of attention for Art. Some waggled their eyebrows. Others scowled. Gogol made a broad show of shaking his head in mock disappointment.

They’d all had their breakfasts and made their way into the day. Art couldn’t clear his head. Coffee in the kitchen wouldn’t help. Hayley in the kitchen might be the answer.

Last night’s kiss still shook him. He’d just been trying to keep her from a bad situation. Then the closeness of their bodies, the insulated intimacy of the dark stairwell, her concern for him—it had all stripped away his good sense. It had seemed like all the blood had drained from his head to find every spot she’d touched. Not a lot of time for thinking when he’d been hollowed out by animal hunger, and her chest had risen and fallen with his. With her mouth so close. Or maybe kissing her was the best idea he’d ever had. Though it wasn’t entirely his choice. She’d pulled him in, as well. The most delicate touch of her hands on his shoulders could move him miles.

Her soft lips, quick tongue and the taste of honey were overwhelming. If the lights hadn’t killed their privacy, he might’ve carried her off to her room to see how well they really fit together.

Leaving her at the door had felt impossible. Everyone had been gawking by then. The safest place for her was behind a lock. Safe from the leering eyes. And safe from Art.

He couldn’t go any further with her. He couldn’t stop.

Garin crossed in the living room in front of Art, slowing his pace. A couple of small bandages taped over the cuts on Garin’s face from his fight with Vasily. Blood crusted the corner of his mouth, turning his scowl deeper. He glared death at Art, who gave him nothing back and pressed through the living room.

More than just the hunger in his stomach moved Art toward the kitchen.

Was what he’d done with Hayley compromising the mission?

Garin’s menace continued on his back. The whole house was cocked, safety off, making Art realize that Hayley
was
the mission. All the innocent people who were threatened or manipulated or hurt by the Orel Group were consolidated into her. It was Art’s job to protect her.

While he approached the kitchen, he tried to wrap his mind around the best strategic approach. Did he let her think he was just a hired guard until the assault started? Or was there a value to revealing Automatik and its mission to her?

Art rounded through the dining room and arrived at the edge of the kitchen. Hayley was back in her chef’s coat, wrapping up the space after the breakfast service. Another woman, who must be the maid they’d hired from the local town, was also there, handling the dishes. He had a moment to observe Hayley undetected. She was expert, but not removed. Her attention lingered on details.

Memories of her body, so close to him, her mouth on his, woke up all kinds of new heat in his limbs.

The first advantage he saw to letting her know his real mission clanged in his mind as purely selfish. He didn’t want her to think he was a bad guy. Chef Hayley and goon Art had no chance. But if she saw him as the operator he was? The idea cooled his building fires. A black ops shooter wasn’t a stable kind of guy for a girl.

But there were tactical advantages to telling her. She could be ready. Safe.

She moved her attention from her task at the stove and caught him staring at her. Her intensity deepened. This woman was not shy and didn’t look away.

The thundering energy that had brought them clashing together last night resumed. Along with the hunger. He stepped toward her. She stood her ground.

Questions played out on her face. Maybe the same ones within himself. Had she closed the door for good last night? Could they start over? Or pick up where they left off, like diving out the back of a C-130 wrapped in each other’s arms.

He cleared his throat enough to talk and asked, “Any breakfast left?”

The ordinary task of collecting a plate and food loosened her. She brought it to the island, and he joined her there.

“Coffee?” She tipped her head at a half-full pot near the stove.

“Hell, yeah.” Knowing the kitchen, he found a mug while she pulled the pot.

The middle-aged maid glanced warily at him. She was shorter than Hayley, with dark hair pulled back into a tidy ponytail. She didn’t shrink with fear but was aware that this was no ordinary vacation home. What a terrible place for her to work, this house full of criminal foreigners. Art reinforced his plan that Automatik’s strike would happen when she wasn’t there.

He nodded and said,
“Hola,”
to her.