Dangerous Desires (37 page)

She had a feeling the theft of the detonators was a first move. And though there was every possibility her part in this affair was over, there was also a chance that she was still very much in the game. Which meant that it wouldn’t pay to turn her back.

One of the men at the bar smiled and lifted his glass. Tyler shifted the chair so that she could more easily avoid his gaze. The waitress brought the bourbon and retreated, leaving Tyler to her thoughts as soft music swelled in the background. Just what she needed—a soundtrack.

Gerardi and Mather weren’t the first people she’d lost during a mission, but that didn’t change the depth of her regret. And even though Avery was right, and it wasn’t her fault, she still felt as if she should have done something differently. Something that would have kept both men alive.

She blew out a breath and took a sip of bourbon. Usually, when an operation went south she had backup. People to decompress with. This was the first time in years she’d handled an op on her own. But like she’d told Gerardi and Mather, she was the expert in munitions. So the assignment had fallen to her. Deemed a routine operation, there’d been no need to involve more personnel.

But the mission had turned out to be anything but routine, and now, because of her mistakes, two good men were dead.

She tipped the glass and finished the contents.

“Way I’ve always heard it, Maker’s Mark is a sipping bourbon.”

“Didn’t know you Brits ran toward bourbon at all,” Tyler said, looking up into the dark blue eyes of her MI-5 agent, although for the life of her, she couldn’t think why she’d think of him as “hers.”

“We do get shipments from across the pond.” He shrugged, signaling the waitress for more drinks as he slid into the chair next to hers. “I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself before. Owen Wakefield.”

He held out his hand, and Tyler sucked in a breath, not certain that she wanted to touch him. Another irrational thought. Maybe he was right and she should have been sipping. With a tight smile she reached across to take his hand in hers. “Tyler Hanson. But considering the circumstances, I suspect you already know that. You’re MI-5, right?”

His hand tightened for a moment, his grip strong, his fingers engulfing hers. Then he sat back with a crooked smile. “How did you know?”

“The medic at the scene. He told me. And if he hadn’t, the accent would have given you away. I guess I was supposed to be bringing the detonators to you.”

“Well, I was just a courier. Same as you. But, yes, I was at the base when we heard about the ambush.”

“Yeah, well, sorry I couldn’t have done more about that.” She sat back, waiting as the waitress brought their drinks. “If it matters at all, I was just sitting here replaying the whole thing.”

“Haven’t you already done enough of that? Looked to me like you were getting a pretty thorough debrief.”

“You were there?” she asked with a frown.

“Yes.” He nodded. “At least in spirit. I was listening in via computer. At the base. Reciprocal courtesy and all that. After all, technically, the stolen detonators belonged to us. My government put a lot of money into their development. They’re not going to be happy about losing them.”

She tilted her head, studying him. He was just this
side of devastating, his dark eyes framed by lashes that would have made Revlon cry. His hair was perfectly cut, and she’d wager a month’s salary that his suit was hand-tailored. He carried himself with the assurance of an aristocrat and the stealth of an operative. James fucking Bond with a five o’clock shadow.

“I suppose that’s understandable,” she said, nodding, feeling somehow violated just the same. “How did you know I’d be here?”

“I didn’t. We just happen to be staying at the same hotel.”

“Government rates.” She lifted her glass in a mock salute. “So I guess I’ve made a real mess of things for you. I’m sorry.”

“Why?” He frowned. “It’s not as if you knew what was going to happen.”

“Yes, but it was my job to see the signs. Recognize the threat. And instead, I fell for their ruse lock, stock, and barrel.”

“Which only means that they were good.”

“Or I was bad.” She took a long sip, letting the burning liquid soothe her jangled nerves and guilty conscience. “Bottom line, your detonators, and those men, were my responsibility. Which means that everything that happened is, at least in part, on my head.”

“You’re letting Fisher get to you.”

“No. I’m not. I’m just calling it the way it is. I realize that I had no way of anticipating what would happen. But the signs were there, and instead of seeing them for what they were, I let my judgment get clouded.” By memories of her mother, but she wasn’t ready to share that part of the story. “And because of that two men are dead.”

“And the detonators are missing.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” She frowned at him over the rim of her glass. “Like who the hell you think might have walked away with them.”

“I’ve got nothing,” he said, spreading his hands wide. “It’s still too early. No one is taking credit, if that’s what you’re asking. And any number of parties would be interested in the detonators for any number of reasons. They’re state-of-the-art. So if nothing else they’ll fetch top dollar on the black market.”

“That’s exactly what worries me. If those detonators fall into the wrong hands…” she trailed off.

“It could go very badly,” he finished for her.

“Exactly. And it’s not just that they’re state-of-the-art. It’s that they’re designed for nuclear weaponry. We have treaties that guarantee our countries are not engaged in increasing our nuclear stockpiles, particularly new technology. If word gets out that we’ve been secretly pursuing advances—well, I don’t have to tell you what the political ramifications will be. Not to mention the possibility of someone actually using the devices.”

“Spoken like someone who knows their way around ordnance,” he said, his eyes probing.

“What can I say?” She shrugged. “I’ve always liked things that go ‘boom.’ I studied engineering in college and then joined the army, where I spent five years defusing everything our enemies deployed. And another ten working for the Company.”

“Still dismantling?” The question was casual, but his stillness signaled his interest in her answer.

“Let’s just say I can handle both sides of the equation. Whatever’s called for. My unit isn’t the kind they trot out
when they want to look PC. What about you? Ordnance turn you on?” She hadn’t meant to use those exact words, but the bourbon was doing its job.

“Not bloody likely.”

The retort was unexpectedly sharp, and she frowned. “I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?”

“It’s me that should apologize.” He shook his head. “It’s just that I’ve seen too damn many people hurt by little boys playing war. Anyway, once upon a time, the answer would have been ‘yes.’ I studied nuclear physics at university. Graduate work at Oxford. And then Number Ten Downing came calling. Patriotic duty and all that. I worked counterterrorism for longer than I should have.”

“And now?” she asked, instinct telling her there was more to the story.

“Like I said, I’m a courier.”

“Well, I suspect you’re more than that. But since we’ve only just met, and since my follies are bound to have caused you one hell of a political headache, I won’t probe. And besides, I came down here to try to forget about it all for a little while.”

“Except that there really is no way out, is there?”

She stared over at him for a moment, trying to judge his tone. But there was no condemnation. Just a world-weariness that she was more than familiar with herself. “Not really. At least not without a lot of this.” She raised the glass and took another long sip. “So where in England are you from?”

“The western coast of Cornwall,” he said, accepting her change of topic without comment. “Small village called St. Ives. My father was a fisherman.”

“I thought that usually ran to families.”

“It did—for something like five centuries. Until the waters were fished out and there was no way to make a living. Anyway, it was never my cup of tea. I’ve always been more interested in the intricacies of fission than in trawling for fish. Although I suppose I did inherit a bit of the sailor’s need for adventure.”

“An adrenaline junkie.”

Again his expression tightened. “Maybe once upon a time. Not so much now.”

“And your father?” she asked, again moving purposely away from probing too deeply.

“Still in St. Ives. Although these days he spends more time in the pub than he does in a boat. He likes talking about the old days.”

“Sounds like my dad. Only he’s retired military. And not one to take to it easily.”

“Rather be out there on the front line.”

“Exactly. He’s not the rocking-chair type. With him action has always been more relevant than reflection.” A trait they shared. That’s exactly why she’d joined A-Tac. Maybe if she was a little less of an adrenaline junkie, she’d have made different choices. Maybe she’d never have been called on to guard the shipment.

But then she’d never have been in a hotel bar drinking with a real-life James Bond.

Hell, maybe there was a silver lining to this nightmare after all.

“So which state do you come from?” he asked.

“Technically none. My dad was stationed in Germany when I was born. But I’ve lived in quite a few of them. We moved around a lot.”

“Army brat.”

“You’re the second person to call me that today,” she said, sobering as Lieutenant Mather’s words echoed in her ears. “Anyway, it’s an apt description.”

“Sounds like a colorful life.” He lifted his glass to his lips, then swallowed, the muscles in his throat contracting with the motion, and she found herself wondering what his skin would feel like.

“I suppose, looking at it with hindsight, it was,” she said. “Although at the time I hated it. Every time I’d get myself settled enough to have some sort of a life, my dad would come home from wherever and announce that we were moving again.”

“Hometowns aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. I promise,” he said, thankfully unaware of the shifting direction of her thoughts. “What about your mum? How’s she handling the nonretirement?”

“She’s dead.” Tyler tried to keep her tone casual, to keep the memories from surfacing. She’d already been down that road, and once in twelve hours was more than enough.

“I’m sorry.” The regret that flashed across his face was real.

“It’s nothing really. She’s been gone since I was a kid. My dad remarried, a couple of times actually. An active career in the military doesn’t really promote happily ever after. Or maybe it was just my father. Anyway, suffice it to say I’ve had a parade of stepmothers. All of which went to making my life—what did you call it—colorful?”

“Well, I suppose we should drink to it.” He lifted his glass. “I mean, after all, if your father had settled down, you might not have chosen the path you did. Which means that I’d be sitting here drinking on my own.”

“Or you’d be back at that pub in St. Ives, lifting a pint and celebrating the successful delivery of the detonators.”

“The obvious negatives aside, I think I much prefer being here with you.”

His flattery was probably meant to disarm her. And the truth was—it did. She hadn’t been with a man in longer than she cared to admit. It was just too damn complicated, considering her occupation. And she’d never shared a drink with someone as alluring as Owen Wakefield. Maybe it was the accent. Or the cleft chin. Or the way his hair brushed back from his forehead.

Or maybe it was because he was part of her world—albeit halfway across the ocean. Hell, maybe
that
was the appeal. A chance for a brief encounter with no worries about future entanglements. MI-5 worked within the United Kingdom, for the most part. Chances of her ever crossing paths with him again were slim to none.

“How about another drink?” he asked, hand already half raised to signal the waitress.

“Maybe we should have it upstairs,” she suggested, her gaze colliding with his, the suggestion surprising her almost as much as it did him. She finished her bourbon with a gulp, not sure where exactly she was headed, but certain, in the moment, that it was the right direction. “I’ve got glasses in my room.”

Where authors give you the inside scoop!

From the desk of Eileen Dryer

Dear Reader,

Blame it on Sean Bean. Well, no, to be fair, we should blame it on Richard Sharpe, whose exploits I followed long before I picked up my first romance. If you’ve had the privilege to enjoy the Sharpe series, about a soldier who fights his way through the Napoleonic Wars, you’ll understand my attraction. Rugged? Check. Heroic? Check. Wounded? Usually.

There’s just something about a hero who risks everything in a great endeavor that speaks to me. And when you add the happy bonuses of chiseled features, sharp wit, and convenient title, I’m hooked. (For me, one of the only problems with SEAL heroes—no country estates).

So when I conceived my DRAKE’S RAKES series, I knew that soldiers would definitely be involved: guards, hussars, grenadiers, riflemen. The very words conjure images of romance, danger, bravery, and great posture. They speak of legendary friendships and tragic pasts and another convenient favorite concept of mine—the fact that relationships are just more intense during war.