Dreamwalker (9 page)

“I’m authorized to offer you three million dollars, half up front, for your services.” The Fed’s abs tightened into a mouthwatering display of washboard ripples in her peripheral vision, momentarily distracting her from their conversation.

“Really now? In exchange for risking life and limb?” Smirking, she used her fork to doodle on the custard’s surface, while her mind raced. Swipe a nuke from under the noses of terrorists? The challenge made her heart leap and gave her the shivers. “That’s a paltry figure. Isn’t the going rate rather higher?”

“You won’t be working alone.”

Rory looked up in surprise, her gaze immediately caught by his dark stare. “Oh?”

“I’ll be with you.”

“And that’s supposed to be better . . . how?” She fed herself some custard, deliberately making a show of sucking the fork’s tines clean. By the flicker of his eyes, it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Good. She needed every advantage she could get.

He snorted, his nostrils flaring attractively. And, man, was she in trouble if she noticed that! “How much?”

The waves lapped against the beach while she debated how safe it would be to answer. Her Adonis hadn’t asked her any incriminating questions, hadn’t even fished for details after that one reference to the Peć job. “Seven and a half, U.S., five up front, and I’ll consider it.”

“I’ll have to get authorization.”

“You do that.” Setting her fork on the plate with a gentle clink, Rory stood up, wanting to be the one who ended the discussion. She suspected the Fed could gain the upper hand, if she wasn’t careful.

Her womb clenched, her folds growing moist at the memory of having him above her last night, thick and hard and desperate, grinding her into the grass as he pumped her. She steeled her spine against the temptation to make an exception in his case. Just because there were exceptions to every rule didn’t mean he had to be one of them.

Surprisingly, he let her walk away without protest, not even trying to trail her. Or maybe not so surprising, if he could enter her dreams any time he wanted.

It did prick Rory’s feminine pride that he hadn’t tried to convince her to stay longer, after she’d gone to the effort of Changing into a voluptuous beach bunny. After last night on the rooftop, she’d half expected to spend the rest of the afternoon performing acts of indecency on the beach.

Returning to her hotel room, Rory channel surfed until she found a show that she could stand hearing in the background, more as a habit than some vague suspicion that her room was bugged. Medical dramas were her show of choice, catering to her taste for the forbidden and the unknown. As a lamia, normal human physiology fascinated her.

Keeping a low profile meant diScipios never went to hospitals or consulted a medical professional who wasn’t family, which made them a point of acute interest. The risk of discovery, however, was too much to allow, so she fed her prurience through TV whenever she could; though she did wonder if the shows reflected reality more accurately than the episodes of
Mission Impossible
.

With medical jargon as comfort noise, she went online and sent out electronic feelers, researching her Adonis and his challenge the same way she would any other commission.

“Damon. Damon Venizélos.” Rory rolled his name in her mouth, letting it flow over her tongue like fine wine. A strong name—dark, full-bodied, and exotic—certainly more flavorful than James Bond or Matt Helm. An intriguing man with an even more intriguing commission. But was he serious? Could it be a trap?

If it was a scam, it was an elaborate setup—one specifically tailored to appeal to her.

And if it was a trap, her Adonis’s easy admission of being something other than normal was an unorthodox approach.
An
incubus.
Granted, he hadn’t really taken physical form when he’d seduced her mind, but who better than a lamia to know that myth didn’t always get things right?

Too, the target itself was irregular. They couldn’t frame her for stealing a nuke, not when she’d have five thousand grand to prove they’d hired her to do the job.

And who would devise such a convoluted plot to acquire a bomb? If he was a front for a terrorist organization, surely there were easier—and cheaper—ways to guarantee they ended up winning the auction?

Rory couldn’t imagine why anyone would go to the lengths his agency had apparently taken simply to trap or scam her. Which made the Fed’s story more credible.

Knowing what was at stake, she could excuse his invasion of her sleep and his manipulation. But she wasn’t ready to forgive him just yet. It still stung that he’d used her dreams against her . . . and that she’d fallen into his trap so readily. Granted, she hadn’t even considered the possibility of an incubus screwing with her head—she’d never met one before, as far as she knew—but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t have questioned why she’d been driven to find that dildo.

In retrospect, she’d been a pushover taking the easy way out. The realization was galling. If Felix ever heard of how she’d almost been caught, he’d never tap her for another job. She made a face. Not one of her relatives would blame him. Heck, in his shoes, she’d do the same.

The responses that trickled in were ambiguous enough to feel legit. But almost before her inquiries produced results, Rory knew that her Adonis had her. Unless something obviously pointed to a setup, she intended to accept the commission.

She might be a thief, but even she had principles. Some things were worth standing up for. She didn’t do drugs. She didn’t con people out of their life savings. She didn’t kill.

Money was money, but murder got the cops hot for your tail. Any diScipio worth his name knew better than to draw that kind of attention.

Terrorists, in her estimation, were the muck at the bottom of the barrel, since they were out to destroy the world and life as she knew it. If they won, what would be left to steal?

And if terrorists got their hands on the bomb . . .

The thought of a nuke blowing up New York or Las Vegas or even Paris, in fact any major city her family might be in—and there were many since diScipios preferred to be moving targets and sought concealment among large populations—was unacceptable; Rory couldn’t imagine that any terrorist would target Nowheresville, U.S.A. That meant she had to do something. The consequences of inaction were too dire for her to do otherwise.

To get the ball rolling, she started a checklist for what she might need for the job. Just to be on the safe side, she also dropped a note to Lucas to see if he’d heard anything. Unlike Felix, Big Brother would give her room to play, and he wouldn’t tell the rest of the family what she was up to unless she pushed too many of his buttons.

And if something went wrong?

Rory shrugged to herself. Lucas would have a clue where to start looking for her body. She’d long accepted that her line of work had its risks, but so did ordinary office work. The one time she’d tried that, she’d nearly been bored to death despite the excitement of having to dodge the beat-the-clock messengers hurtling through their delivery routes, and, on one occasion, a disgruntled former employee shooting up the shipping warehouse next door. In many ways, being a cat burglar was safer. It also gave her more control, better pay, and challenges worthy of her ability.

And, damn it, this job
was
a challenge. One she couldn’t resist as—she suspected—the Fed well knew.

But that didn’t mean her Adonis would have everything his way. Just because she’d decided to accept the commission, it didn’t automatically follow that she couldn’t have her vacation fling. Her mouth stretched in a reckless grin as she pondered her prospects.

Oh, yes. She intended to have her beefcake and eat it.

Or him, as the case may be.

CHAPTER SIX

He’d let her walk away without a firm commitment. After all, she was right. She would be risking life and limb; only a fool would sign up for that on the spot. Since they’d be partners, he was glad she’d shown a measure of self-preservation, despite her precarious line of work.

Nevertheless, it bothered Damon to be so passive, to have to wait for someone else to render her decision based on factors he knew nothing about. Unlike with the Old Man, he had no idea which way his master thief would jump. It made him twitchy, as if a set of crosshairs were centered on the back of his head. Mustering patience was one thing on a hunt; this current operation was entirely different.

Once he’d gotten the Old Man’s approval for the payoff, there was nothing left for him to do except wait . . . and kill some time.

Untying and studying the rope she’d used at the museum didn’t take long. About two hundred feet of smooth, red-purple-black braided nylon attached to a three-prong grapnel, and not a single knot to make climbing easier, the rope had the earmarks of a familiar implement that she’d want back. Smiling, he recoiled it and carefully tied it off, making sure his tiny addition wasn’t visible. Given how quickly she could turn the tables on him, he needed every advantage he could beg, borrow, or steal.

Damon had to resist the temptation to relive that hot encounter on the museum rooftop. It wouldn’t do to fixate on it, especially now that there was a chance they’d be partners. The intimacy of a working relationship alone would be enough of a strain; there was no point in adding an affair on top of it.

To distract himself, he took out his cell phone and clicked through his files, returning to the project that had been interrupted by his assignment to this unexpected and highly irregular recruitment effort. If he couldn’t control his master thief’s decision, he might as well work on something he could control. He plugged earbuds into the small unit and played back sound clips of his target talking, acquainting himself with the man’s speech patterns.

He immersed himself in his review, blocking the importance of one woman’s agreement from the forefront of his mind. Impatience was rarely productive.

Over the long hours of waiting, he refreshed his memory of potential targets, running video and audio files over and over until he was familiar with them forward and back, examining their histories and failures, searching for vulnerability. Whatever her decision was, he’d still have his other mission to accomplish. That auction presented too good an opportunity to throw the enemy into disarray to pass up.

“Ahem.”

The discreet throat clearing from the balcony’s shadows caught Damon by surprise. Leaping off the bed, he spun to face the intruder, his .45 appearing in his hand by reflex.

“If you use that, I won’t be able to fulfill your commission,” a jaunty soprano pointed out, its owner remaining out of sight.

His sudden exhilaration at the sound of that voice was another surprise. “You’re in?” He lowered his gun.

“If you meet my terms, maybe.” His master thief stepped into the light, dressed all in black, her blond hair tucked under a knit cap. Crossing the room on silent feet, she walked up to him, the bland walls of the hotel room throwing her dark curves into high contrast.

Despite the enigmatic smile on her face, relief flooded Damon at her answer, leeching the tension from his shoulders. The emotions he picked up didn’t suggest overweening triumph or self-satisfaction at being able to dictate terms. She was in. Whatever addendum she wanted to attach, he was sure it would be reasonable. “You’ll get your seven point five.” He slid the semiautomatic back into its holster, making sure it was snugged down safely.

She tilted her head to one side, studying him with speculative dark green eyes. Excitement radiated from her in tantalizing waves that lapped at his mental sense like a hungry kitten. “One more condition.”

Damon raised a brow in inquiry. The Old Man had readily agreed to her price and seemed to consider it a bargain. So long as she didn’t double her price, they would soon have an agreement. “Name it.”

Her full mouth quirked, deviltry sparkling in her eyes. She laid her hands on his chest, a light contact that sizzled. “You in bed.”

What?!
His heart stuttered in confusion.

She stroked him slowly—possessively—her touch certain, leaving fire in its wake. Despite himself, his cock stirred in response. Her meaning couldn’t be clearer. Especially when one hand slid down to outline that traitorous, twitching member and coax it to aching erection. Her attentions threatened to short-circuit what functional brain cells he had left.

“You want me as a lover?” Damon gasped out, around the exquisite torture of her knowledgeable fingers.

“Um-hmm,” she murmured agreeably. “Put all that imagination to good use.”

He recognized the reference to his conversation with that pretty artist. Had his master thief overheard them or was the artist an accomplice?

Irrelevant. How she’d found out had no impact on their negotiations. But her condition was the last thing he’d have predicted.

Damon had accepted the necessity of working with someone to recover the nuke and had resigned himself to an alliance with a thief. However, the prolonged and greater intimacy she proposed took him unawares. Weeks as her lover when he normally limited himself to one-night stands? Could he let her that close?

She smiled up at him, clearly aware of his quandary. Her fingers continued their dexterous encouragement, fanning the flames of arousal she’d kindled in his balls. There was no hiding his response. And given what had happened the other night, she knew he wasn’t immune to her attractions. Yet while she reciprocated his desire, he could sense cool control at the heart of her, directing her actions.

This was a power play. More proof that she was the right person for the job. He gritted his teeth, fighting to maintain a calm demeanor in the face of her extreme provocation. But when her fingers danced over his hard-on, he could only widen his stance and let her fondle him to even greater firmness.

“How many women are we talking about?” Damon barely got the question past his tight throat, wanting full contact, aching to have her hands on him, caressing him, with nothing in between.