Fatal Honor: Shadow Force International (16 page)

His eyes were heavy on her in the circle of light from her flashlight. “Why don’t you get some sleep. I’ll take first watch.” He turned his back on her, walking away and tapping one of the overhead bins. “Blankets are up here.”

She didn’t need a blanket, his words from the cab of the truck pinging around inside her like tiny missiles, heating her from the inside. “Miles…”

He stopped but didn’t turn.

She stammered. Truth be told, she didn’t know what to say even if he did face her.

What if he was right? What if the op went sideways and this was their last night together? Their last few moments alone? Was she going to waste it sleeping?

Unanswered questions.
Hate them.

Her silence finally made him look over his shoulder. “What is it, Charlotte?”

God, she sucked at this. Give her a cabal to infiltrate, a mafia lord to bring down, a terrorist cell to take out. But this…

Her finger trembled as she shut off the flashlight, sudden darkness enveloping them. “I can’t sleep,” she whispered.

“Fine. You take first watch and let me sleep. I could use some.”

His boots made a slight shuffling noise as he once again started for the front of the plane.

“My father,” she started, clearing her throat, “was Tactical Intelligence in the Royal Air Force, but he was first and foremost a physicist. He had a lot of ideas about the mechanics of pool that he tested with me when I was a kid, including my 3D perception and stroke control. As I got better at 9-shot, he upped the ante with trick shots. I prefer domino setups, but since I didn’t have dominoes tonight, I used other props.”

The footsteps stopped. Charlotte put down the bottles of liquid courage and stepped into the main cabin. Enough light from outside seeped through the windows that she could see Miles standing there, a few feet away, all broad shoulders and long, lean planes, the grey shadows dancing over his body. His angled cheekbones came into view when he leaned forward slightly, propping his big hands on the seats flanking him in the aisle. “Go on.”

He understood what she was doing—sharing a sliver of her past.

She wanted to rush him, to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him for his patience. “My mother was a homemaker. She made us matching dresses until I was ten and I insisted she stop. It was cute when I was a toddler, but the embarrassment when I got older was too much. Telling her that crushed her feelings. She was just trying to be a proper mother—her own had been less…conventional. Mum wanted to prove she was normal. I regret hurting her feelings to this day, but honestly, those dresses were dreadful. Purple and yellow gingham was her favorite. Every family picture we had made from the time I was a baby until that tenth birthday, she and I were dressed in matching gingham.”

His chuckle was low and light. “Sounds horrible, but kinda sweet.”

“Sweet, yes. After I refused to wear them anymore, I helped her turn the dresses into curtains for our kitchen windows to try to make amends. She was good like that. She covered her hurt and kept plunging forward, no matter the circumstances.”

He moved a step closer to her. “Reminds me of someone else I know.”

There was more, so much more that she wanted to tell him. About her mother, her father, herself. “My older brother, Landon, has autism. Mild, but still a strain on our family. This boy at school, Teddy Oostenrick, made fun of Lanny all the time and it really pissed me off. I finally punched him in the nose when we were seven. I got in trouble, of course, but it didn’t stop me. All through primary and into elementary, I took on anyone who made fun of my brother, and there were a lot. My dad finally taught me how to fight more efficiently and not get caught. I’d wait for the bullies after school, off school property, and then I’d kick their arses.”

Miles was chuckling now, slowly moving closer and closer. “Landon’s lucky to have you for a sister.”

“When we got older, he’s the one who made me look at things logically, with less emotion. I learned a lot from him. How to think outside the box, how to run numbers and combinations in my head and look for different possible outcomes. His autism felt like a burden growing up, but it helped me in so many ways. All of my family—my mom, my dad, Landon—they made me the agent I am today.”

He was close enough to touch her now. His fingers skimmed her hand, his thumb grazing her wrist. “When we’re done here, I’ll make sure you get back to them to tell them that.”

The thought of seeing them made a lump form in her throat. She hadn’t been home—really home—in years. Her mother was dead. An accident they said, but Charlotte knew better. She’d been there that night, had seen the blood on her mother’s chest, the fire bursting from the shop’s windows.

Insisting her mother had been murdered only resulted in her being put in a psyche ward, straps around her wrist, drugs pumping into her veins. She’d learned a lot since then. Her mother’s killer was still out there. Her father still wouldn’t speak of her death.

Miles brushed her face, stroking her cheek and jaw. “Out in the truck you said you didn’t know who you were or what you wanted. I think that’s bullshit. You know exactly who you are, Charlotte Carstons—a beautiful, intelligent MI6 agent on a mission—and I believe you know exactly what you want. You simply need to be honest with yourself.”

Her cheeks heated, the memory of his words in the truck filling her brain again.

…the one thing I want more than anything is to get you back under me.

She could be honest with herself. That’s exactly what she wanted too.

Looking up into his eyes, the night so dark and silent around them, she felt like she was back in her cabin. Snow fell outside, no one around for miles. Inside the plane, the air between them was charged with sexual longing. A craving so strong, she couldn’t deny it even if she was the best liar in the world.

“There’s more you should know about me, about my heritage. I don’t think you’ll care but some people do. My mother…well, I’m a
posh
ratt
. That’s slang for half-blood.”

“Your mother is a Horvath. I know,” he said, brushing his lips across hers. “She’s a Gypsy and you have Gypsy blood in you.” His hand circled back to rub her lower spine. “Probably put a curse on me, haven’t you? That’s why I can’t get you out of my blood.”

In Romania, she had to keep her half-blood status a secret. In the old country, they looked down on a Romani
rackli
—Gypsy woman—marrying a
gorga mush
—non-Gypsy man. The
chavvies
—kids from that union—were always outcasts and looked down on.

In Britain, standards among the Gypsy population were looser, although some still considered mixed blood a taint to the tribe. Like the Mudbloods in the fictional Harry Potter stories, she was ignored or even hated by those who felt she was beneath them. Her father’s job had given her a certain amount of insulation in school, but she’d hidden her half-blood status from many Gypsies over the years.

She leaned into Miles, kissing him lightly and laughing. “A spell to keep you lusting after me. There’s a dance that goes along with it. I can show you.”

They chuckled together, and then he kissed her for real, bending her back and parting her lips with his tongue. She welcomed it, wrapping her arms around his neck and feeling the surge of familiar passion.

So long
. She’d waited for this for so long, never believing it would happen. Now he was here, with her, and ready to pick up where they’d left off.

Heat prickled over her skin as his fingers went under her shirt and touched her gently on her back. His tongue wove around hers before his teeth nipped at her bottom lip.

Maneuvering her around, he guided her to the table, giving her a boost onto it. She spread her legs wide, allowing him access as he bent his head. Arching her own back, she let him kiss down her neck, across her collarbone, moaning as he licked the hollow of her throat.

His fingers still rubbed slow and steady up and down her back. Heady with lust, it took her a moment to realize he was tracing her scars.

Flashbacks of her time at Nicolae’s hands suddenly filled her head, making her stiffen. She turned her head away from Miles, revulsion thick in her throat.

It wasn’t only the awful memories of the beatings. She knew how to shove them deep into a mental hole. But she was full of scars, inside and out. Ugly scars that she needed to keep hidden.

As she tried to scoot away, he stopped her, his mouth brushing against her ear. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop the bastard,” he murmured, “but he won’t get away with what he did to you. To all of us. We’re going to take him down, and whoever was working with him as well.”

His warm breath on her ear, his solid hold on her—not constraining, only comforting—melted the unease flooding her body. Miles knew she had secrets and he’d already seen the physical scars. He hadn’t run, hadn’t told her to get lost. So why was she freezing up at the thought of him seeing those scars again, tracing them with his fingers?

Parting her lips, she let go of the breath she was holding. She looked into his face, the shadows making his eyes unfathomably dark. Her fingertips lightly touched his cheek. “You said earlier that I knew what I wanted. You were right. I want you. But I have to be sure…is this what you really want?”

His answer was a kiss, long and deep, his hand bracketing her face and holding her in place. He worked over her lips, then spread soft kisses to her cheeks, her forehead. He held her still as he broke away from kissing her and looked deep into her eyes. “I don’t know what tomorrow holds, Charlotte, but tonight, this is exactly what I want. You. All of you. No holds barred, no secrets between us.”

His hands caught the hem of her shirt and worked it up her arms, over her head, baring her to him. She let him slip her bra straps down, free her breasts, and once more lower his head.

As he used his skilled mouth on each breast, Charlotte closed her eyes and pretended they had a future.

C
HARLOTTE
L
AY
O
N
her stomach on the table, moonlight highlighting her back and the fine white lines crisscrossing it. They looked silvery in the light.

Miles kissed his way down the back of her neck, listened to her sigh. She hated baring herself in this manner, letting him see the scars, but he needed to. Hands working on getting her pants off, he took a moment to look—really look—at those damn scars.

He’d thought he’d seen it in the bathroom when she’d been exposed. Again when he’d removed the tracking device from between her shoulder blades. Now, with no towels or robes in the way, he was sure of it.

N-I-C-O. The letters were carved in the pale skin over her right hipbone.

The bastard had marked her as his.

Anger roared through him, sickening him at the thought she’d endured such torture. That Nicolae Bourean—or any man—thought he had the right to brand her.

Before he realized that his hands had stopped peeling off her pants, that his lips had stopped tracing her vertebrae, she jerked a look at him over her shoulder. He didn’t shift his gaze fast enough and she caught him staring at those letters. She jerked, half turning and tugging her pants back up.

“Stop,” he said, stilling her hands. “Let me look at you.”

“What’s there to see? Do hideous scars turn you on?”

“You’re beautiful, scars or no.” Did she even know Bourean had carved his name into her hip? “If you decide you want to remove them, I know a doctor who can help. She’s had good luck with laser surgery. Helped me with a few of mine.”

“You’ve had scars removed?”

He shrugged, unbuttoned his shirt to show her his chest. “More like refashioned.”

The scar on his chest, courtesy of some shrapnel from the helicopter crash, had been smoothed out by Dr. Pasil. Over it, Miles’d had his favorite tattoo artist create a stylized wave and trident with the initials of his dead Team brothers on the tip of each of the trident’s points.

She sat up and touched the tattoo, her fingers cool against his skin. “That’s wicked. I can’t see or feel the scar that was there at all.”

“I’m lucky the shrapnel didn’t do more damage and that the cream you treated it with healed the cut so well, but there was a decent scar there and the laser surgery reduced it significantly. Dr. Pasil can help you too. I’m sure of it.”

Her hand fell away, traced the hint of hair that ran down his stomach and disappeared under his belt buckle. She looked up at him, leaned forward and kissed the trident on his chest, causing him to suck in his breath. “We’re a mess, you know. All of our scars.”

Her accent had thickened, her eyes pools of the deepest blue in the moonlight. They
were
a mess, but he didn’t care.

He caught her mouth with his, laying her back down on the tabletop as he kissed down her neck, between her breasts, down her stomach. Morning was only a few hours off, and while he could have used the sleep, he needed Charlotte so much more.

Heart beating like a gorilla in his chest, he loved hearing her moan his name. Her hands were in his hair, the jeans sliding down her long legs and hitting the floor.

A buzzing came from his back pocket, his phone vibrating his ass cheek and disturbing the quiet of the plane’s cabin. He ignored it, spreading Charlotte’s legs wide and kissing the inside of her thighs.