Diamonds Are Truly Forever: An Agent Ex Novel 2 (25 page)

Staci was in character, a sexed-up Hispanic dancer on a hot Havana night, having so much fun, she barely noticed the other dancers around her as the Latin beat coursed through her. Noe used firm, confident pressure as he pushed her out into a spin. Once around. Her skirt swirled around her. Twice.

She lost hand contact and was snapped back into the real world. Noe was too expert to make a mistake like losing hand contact. Twirl. A hand caught hers as she came around on seven at the end of the bar, ready to follow his lead for the next eight-count bar of steps. She relaxed. All was well.

Until she spotted Noe walking off the dance floor and looked up into the eyes of the man holding her hand. Drew smiled back at her, eyes lit with a devilish, daring appeal. Her heart and feet stopped. She tried to pull her hand away, but he squeezed tight.

Drew had cut in? That was so … unlike him. Before she could protest, he pulled her into a closed position, arms around her, undulating pelvis pressed against her bottom, acting as if dancing came as easily to him as lying.

He whispered something in her ear. She thought he said, “Let’s give them something to talk about.” Or maybe it was, “Follow my lead.” It was too loud to hear his words, but his hot breath and the confident force of his words sent a sensual shiver down her back.

In the next instant, he was holding her hand lightly, perfectly, and leading her through a complicated, showy round of eggbeater-like arm movements, while he had the Cuban hips going as if he was born to move sinuously.

When he spun her into the open position, there was a challenge in his eyes. So he thought he could dance, now, did he?

He could cut in, but he couldn’t one-up her.

She licked her lips, ran her hands down her neck and over her breasts in the most provocative way she knew. Drew had always been a breast and butt man. While he was distracted and drooling, she hijacked the dance, taking the lead and winding through a complicated bar meant to trip him up. To her surprise, and consternation, he kept up and added flourish as he jockeyed for power and position, trying to reclaim the lead.

Hips swaying, he used his graceful brute strength to pull her into the closed position. She was trapped in his arms, pressed against him so tightly she could feel his desire. He spun her once, caught her, and tossed her over his arm, slinging her so low her head was inches from the floor. “Don’t try that again. I lead.”

Somehow she heard him. He sounded confident and sensual, take-charge. It turned her on. She liked a man who led.

He pulled her back to a stand and led her into the next bar. He was easy to follow and hard to resist. Where had those sexy pelvis moves come from? Who had taught him to dance?

He was using all kinds of hand flourishes, taunting her to keep up. Taunting her to be as showy as he was. Spin. Twirl. Stare into each other’s eyes.

He had his hand on her back one moment. He had her wrapped in his arms the next. She grew hot and flushed. She felt the sheen of perspiration on her skin. He glowed with the exercise.

He spun her out. They danced in the open position, facing each other, two solo dancers engaged in a match of talent, skill, endurance, and pride. She was dancing so hard, she didn’t notice the dance floor clearing until it was almost empty.

Suddenly—so it seemed to her—the band switched tunes and they were the only couple on the floor. Everyone else gathered around the perimeter of the dance floor and cheered them on, clapping in time to the rhythm, calling out encouragements.

Staci barely heard them.

Drew took her hands in his and they were dancing together again as one. She had a feel for his style now and could anticipate his next move. He was near to cruelty, pushing her wickedly to the limits of her spinning ability, making her rotate three and four times in a bar, until she felt dizzy with the force of the spin, the wine, and his nearness. Her breasts heaved. Her heart raced. He caught her and grinned before pushing her into another punishing, sensual bar.

This was how she’d always dreamed of dancing. And Drew had always been the man she’d imagined as her partner. A fictional Drew, because her Drew was a lovable bumbler on the dance floor.

Who was this Latin lover, dancer Drew? Who had taught him to dance and move like this? What else had she, whoever she was, taught him?

She pictured a seductive Cuban whore with flowing dark tresses, swaying hips, toned arms, a round, shapely butt, and full pouty lips that begged to be kissed. She imagined long, shapely fingers, red nails, hands placed on Drew’s hips, showing him how to make the motion.

Drew’s new level of skill would have taken months to master, and hour upon hour of practice. With this woman, this sensual woman who’d somehow inspired Drew to dance, who’d succeeded where Staci had failed.

When had Drew been gone long enough to learn this? Before or after their split? Damn him!

Staci’s hands trembled. The key to salsa dancing is not clutching your partner’s hand for dear life. You simply touch and trust. Hold on too tightly and you ruin the dance with the restriction it puts on the moves.

As Drew reached for her fingers, she pushed him away. She caught him off guard, surprised by her own raging maelstrom of jealousy and sexual heat. Hips swinging, she turned to storm off the floor. He caught her hand, spun her into him, shook his head slightly, and pleaded with her with his eyes.

What could she do? They were supposed to be happily reunited. She made pouty lips at him and ran her hands over his cheek. Finally, she smiled at him. The crowd cheered. They thought it was all part of an act. Staci funneled her passionate rage into the salsa. She could dance as well as a Cuban whore.

Her jealousy roared in her ears with the music. Staci ran her hands over her body, licked her lips, did the Cuban hips with all the sexiness she could muster. She egged Drew on, teased him with her touch as they danced, and made come-on bedroom eyes to torment him.

At last the song ended. Drew threw her back in his arms into a lunge with her hair falling toward the floor, her arms dangling, her neck exposed. He stared at her, breathing hard, desire burning in his eyes. Her chest was heaving. She felt light-headed.

The restaurant had gone silent. Without looking, she felt every eye on them. What could she do? She was mesmerized. She gazed up at Drew, traced the edge of his jaw with a touch that made him shudder, and ran her fingers through his hair.

Drew leaned in and very deliberately, slowly, seductively, passionately kissed her. She opened her mouth to him and kissed him back.

The crowd went wild. The music roared to life again. The dance floor filled.

And Drew just kept kissing her.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Staci couldn’t enter any building with Drew without him first making sure it was clear. Returning to the condo was no exception. Except it would be more accurate to say that the three of them—Noe, Drew, and Staci—tumbled in the door, laughing and light-headed from dance and drink. Noe separately, under his own steam. Drew and Staci tangled together as if they hadn’t stopped salsa dancing.

“I’ll do the honors,” Noe whispered just inside the landing from the garage. Though why he was whispering after their loud entrance was anybody’s guess. He pulled out a pistol and waved it around along with some gizmo a Canadian Q must have made for him. “Creep detector,” he said.

“Heat-sensing device. Awesome.” Drew magnanimously held out his hand, indicating
Be my guest.

Noe grinned and nodded.

“We’ll wait for you here,” Drew said. “I have your back, dude.” He had his arm slung over Staci’s shoulder.

She tried to brush it off. “We’re home. We don’t need to keep up the pretense.” But in truth, she was hot for her husband. Too much wine, too much dancing, and way too much necking.

Drew nodded toward where Noe had headed. “We still need to convince him.” He nibbled on Staci’s ear.

And she let him. Visions of a hot Havana night and an even hotter Cuban salsa instructor entwined around her husband danced through her head. Perversely, she thought she could show Drew a good time, too. An excellent time. If she so chose.

Noe returned. “All clear.”

They stumbled into the living room.

Noe glanced at his watch. It was just after two in the morning. “Nearly time for our early-morning rendezvous.”

Staci had forgotten about their mission. She looked at Drew and then Noe. “You’ve got to be kidding. You two are way too drunk to go on a dangerous mission.”

“Who said it was dangerous?” Noe winked at her.

Drew squeezed her shoulders. “We’ve been out on missions in worse condition.”

Staci frowned at the two men. “Way to reassure me. I’ll make you guys coffee—”

“Forget it.” Drew stroked her cheek. “I know what clears my head.” He grabbed Staci’s hand and pulled her toward the stairs that led to his bedroom. “Noe, you’re on your own.”

Noe laughed and shook his head.

Drew pulled Staci upstairs into the bedroom and closed the door. He swung her into his arms, tipped her head back, and lowered his lips onto hers.

She really shouldn’t have kissed him back. But tell that to the wine and her jealous mind. If Drew slept with girls on all the missions, he damn well better show her a good time now. She kissed him back with an intensity that should have startled him, but he seemed to expect.

He was confident in his kisses, in the way he ran his hands over her body, and in the way his mouth possessed hers. His kisses packed the power to make her knees weak. He acted as if he owned her. And at that minute, he did.

As she kissed him back, she pulled his shirt loose from his pants. Still necking, he walked them toward the bed.

She was already breathing hard. In between love bites she managed to speak as she unbuttoned his shirt. “Noe can’t see us now. We can drop the cover.”

He shook his head no. “Too late. We have to keep this up. We’re still undercover. He’s expecting us to complete the act we started at the wine bar.” He slid the straps of her halter dress over her neck, exposing her breasts.

They budded up in the cool night air. He stared at them. She smiled and did a salsa dance step that made them bounce. “We could fake it?”

“You think you could lie convincingly about the orgasms I give you?”

“I give you,” she corrected.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m generally not a good liar.” She stroked his cheek. She meant to torment him, drive him hard toward the edge.

His eyes danced with passion. He took her hand in his, spun her, and pulled her close again.

In retaliation, she pressed up against him, slid her hands beneath his shirt, and ran her nails down his bare back, hard enough to leave welts.

He shuddered and stared her in the eyes, desire burning in his. Desire and the possessive look he used to have. She used to call it love. Now she wasn’t so sure. But it was as intoxicating as any Rioja.

She pulled his pants down over his hips. He stepped out of them and stooped to suck her nipples.

“Do the Cuban hips for me,” she whispered.

He stepped out of his boxers and began undulating. He grabbed her hands, doing the eight-count salsa bar, and humming the Latin beat. He slid his finger beneath her skirt, hooked her panties, and tugged them off. She stepped out of them, leaving them lying on the floor.

She leaned up and kissed him, kissed him with a force meant to bruise his lips or meld into him.

He put his hand behind her head and held her there, making sure she couldn’t resist. He meant to punish her, too. Or maybe it was just the Rioja, maybe it was really bottled passion. She felt breathless. She managed to pull out of the kiss just enough to suck on his lips and bite them in love play.

He bit back, tenderly, savagely. She fell backward onto the bed, pulling him on top of her. He caught himself on his arms and braced above her. Why was he hesitating? He stared down at her as if he knew something she didn’t, as if he’d been privy to a big revelation.

Let him stare. She met his gaze steadily, with a challenge in her eyes. She wanted him. Now. She grabbed his penis and stroked it. He was hard, dark, and ready. She felt powerful and in control as she held him in her hand. “Do it,” she whispered and released him.

He shoved up her skirt. She arched her hips. He thrust into her with enough force to scoot her up the bed and slam the headboard against the wall. His shirt hung open over her, exposing his hard, muscular chest. Still clad in her heels, she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him in as he thrust again and again, each thrust bouncing the bed against the wall. She arched up to meet him and squeezed his nipples between her fingers so hard she had to be hurting him.

This was crazy. Dangerous. Foolish.

She squeezed him as he thrust. She released and squeezed again and again.

He murmured beneath his breath. Sweet nothings? She couldn’t tell. She had him. He was near the edge.

She squeezed him inside her and stopped moving, holding him in place with her legs. Good thing she did her Kegels and her squats. “Who taught you how to dance?” Her voice held a dangerous edge, one she’d learned from him.