Riding the Storm (18 page)

"It's
a boat."

"A
boat? As in, it floats? On water?"

He
halted at the doorway and frowned at her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Don't
lie to me, Haley." He moved toward her, and she saw that he'd grabbed the
knife he'd worn last night. "I hate being lied to."

"And
I hate being given orders."

He
arched an eyebrow, but the firm set of his mouth softened, and she wondered if
maybe going out on the pirogue was more about him wanting to get to know her
than it was about being in charge.

For
some reason, she hoped for the former, when the latter would have been
infuriating but better for the security of her career and personal goals, none
of which made room for a man.

"I
don't like water. There's a reason I joined the Air Force instead of the Navy.
No swimming requirement," she said finally, and if he thought he'd get
another word out of her, he'd been through one too many electrical storms.

She'd
hated water since she was six, when she'd fallen off a pier because her parents
were so busy making out that they hadn't been paying attention. Fortunately,
her dad had heard her screams and pulled her out before she drowned, but the
memory had stuck with her, and she'd never gone more than knee deep again.

Something
in her expression must have betrayed her, because he reached out, cupped her
cheek. An instant, sizzling spark arced between them, and she knew he felt it
too, because his eyes flashed with confusion and annoyance.

"I'll
take care of you."

He
swallowed her protest with a kiss, like he thought she'd swoon and follow him
anywhere just because he could do things with his mouth that were probably
illegal in this godforsaken state.

Of
course, when he slipped his tongue inside her mouth, tasting of toothpaste, she
did sort of melt against him. Her body went all pliant and hot, and her mind
went all blank and dizzy.

She
swooned, dammit.

His
tongue swiped her mouth, tickling her gums, her palate. He caught her bottom
lip between his teeth, drawing a long, loud moan from her. The sound signaled
her doom, and Remy pressed his advantage by turning the kiss into something
hard and deep and hungry.

When
he finally pulled back, they were both panting, and his eyes gleamed with
satisfaction.

"C'mon,
bebe
," he said, taking her hand. "We have a lot to
accomplish."

"I
need my cell."

She
grabbed her backpack containing her phone and firearm on the way out, ignoring
him when he told her a cell phone wouldn't work in the bayou. She followed him
to the garage, where he gathered a gas can and a flashlight, and then he led
her down the muddy driveway to a dock that looked about as sturdy as a
Popsicle-stick fence.

She
hoped he didn't notice how her legs trembled as she climbed into the
flat-bottom boat to take a seat on one of the two benches. Remy remained
standing and pushed off the dock, using something he called a paddie to steer
them through chocolate water clogged with weeds and rotting trees.

"So,"
he said, ten minutes later and in the middle of God-knew-where, "you said
you wanted to talk. About what?"

Placing
the paddie on the floor, next to her backpack, he sat across from her and
braced his forearms on his thighs, resting his palms on her knees. She tried
not to look at the water, or grip the sides of the boat too hard.

"Last
night."

"Is
there something you want to tell me?"

Shit.
In her head, she'd rehearsed what she'd say, but now, under his intense,
curious gaze, she drew a blank. All her careful planning had taken a dive right
into that alligator-infested, insect-ridden water.

Her
concentration scattered even more as his hands drifted upward in a slow,
squeezing, massaging action. "Haley?"

"Right."
She cleared her throat, at a complete loss, which was something that never
happened. "Awkward morning-after thing, I guess."

"Does
that happen to you often? You know, awkward morning-afters."

Well,
that pretty much made her throat close up. Before she could choke out an
indignant "No!" his fingers dug into her thighs, not hard, but firmly
enough to let her know he wanted her undivided attention.

"You
aren't married or anything, are you?"

"At
this point, does it really matter?"

"Last
night it didn't," he said, in a bitter voice that told her how much he
hated that fact. "Today, with my head clear, yeah. I don't poach, and if
some irate husband is going to come after me, I'd like a heads-up."

Hurt
and anger churned up like a dirt devil in her belly. Did he think she was the
type to cheat? Then again, he didn't know her at all, and she grudgingly
admitted that she might have wondered the same thing if the situation had been
reversed.

"I'm
not married. And to answer your next question, I'm on the pill, and my last
full physical two months ago came up clear." ACRO made all its employees
run the gamut of tests every six months—tests most doctors had never even heard
of.

A
sharp nod was his only response. What had happened to the Remy of last night?
The one who might have been half-crazed, but who also burned with life and
passion. She could talk to that Remy. This one was too cool, too emotionally
distant, and she couldn't read him at all.

One
thing she couldn't deny: Today's Remy retained all the sensual skill of last
night's version. The pads of his fingers tortured her with a measured amount of
pressure, no doubt designed to draw out the required response, to make her seek
his touch the way she needed it. Firmer. Faster. Higher.

Instead,
she sought composure in a gulp of musty bayou air and forced her hands to
release the sides of the boat. She planted them tamely on the bench. "Last
night you seemed to think my environmental study was bullshit."

"I
don't think." He traced a figure eight on her inner thigh. "I
know
."

Subject
displays arrogant tendencies.

ACRO's
profiler deserved a high five for that one. Remy couldn't "know"
anything. The agency had set her up too well, and her acting abilities didn't
suck that bad.

Sitting
up a little straighter, she squeezed her legs together, but Remy only smiled,
pushed them apart and continued drawing little geometric designs, his gaze
fixed where he played.

She
huffed. "Why don't you enlighten me on how you
know
?"

"Why
don't you come clean about why you're here?"

"For
my job."

"Ah."
The patterns he made on her skin now seemed random. Like her heartbeat.
"So we're back to the environmental study? Are you still trying to pass
that bullshit off on me?"

Something
flitted around in her stomach, too large and vigorous to be butterflies.
"My job was to study you."

He
nodded like he'd expected the answer. "Who do you work for?"

"This
sounds suspiciously like an interrogation."

His
gaze snapped up, caught hers and held it prisoner. "If it were, you'd be
in the water instead of on it." A brief smile curved his mouth, as though
to soothe her. "Now, who did you say you work for? "

Oh,
yeah, this was an interrogation, no matter what he claimed. He'd simply
tailored his skills to extract information from a female who was sexually
attracted to him.

Smart
son of a bitch. Too bad for him she had planned to spill all anyway.

"I
work for a secret agency that employs people with extraordinary
abilities."

"Like
what?"

"Levitation.
Pyrokinesis. Channeling the dead." She paused, searched his face for
disbelief, but he remained expressionless. "Some can read minds. We've got
a guy who can absorb the entire contents of a book or file just by touching it.
Another who has webbed feet and poisonous spurs—"

"What
about you? What do you do?"

His
fingers traced light, straight lines. Curves. Something familiar… Ah, yes. He
was drawing her tattoo.

"I
study weather at the agency's meteorology lab. I don't have any special
abilities."

He
raked her with a dark, appreciative gaze. "Don't sell yourself short,
bebe
.
You showed me all kinds of special abilities last night." The air whooshed
from her lungs at his words. "So tell me, was fucking me part of your
job?"

A
breeze stirred the trees, and okay, now she got it. The calm wasn't calm at
all. This was Remy containing his anger. He lunged forward and slapped his
hands on either side of her bench, caging her with his body and thick arms. If
he thought he could intimidate her, however, he was very, very wrong.

She
might be terrified of water, but Remy Begnaud didn't scare her one bit. Or so
she told herself as she looked him in the eye.

"You
didn't seem to mind."

Grasping
her entire thigh in one hand, he pulled her against him so her butt hung off
the edge of the seat. "Does this feel like I minded?" His erection
rocked into her center, and while her mind knew he was messing with her, her
body spun up with desire. "Was it part of your job? Tell me."

"Or
what? You'll pleasure the information out of me?"

She
wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him close, enjoying the brief
startled look that softened his chiseled features before he shuttered himself
off again.

"Maybe
it won't be all that pleasurable."

Arching
into him, she rubbed, taunted, gave him a taste of his own medicine.
"Don't try to scare me, Remy. You don't have it in you to hurt a
woman."

"How
the hell do you know? I've got you alone out here, where no one could hear you
scream… what makes you think you know me well enough to be sure?"

"Because,"
she said, "I know you better than anyone on this planet."

He
snorted and pushed away from her. "After a night of sex and a couple days
in my house? You don't know shit."

Cocking
an eyebrow, she leaned forward. "I know that your longest relationship
took place while you were stationed in San Diego. She was a Hooter's girl named
Kimberly Boone, and you dated for twenty-seven days, though you only saw her
for fourteen of it. She dumped you the day after a particularly nasty
thunderstorm."

He
rocked back onto his bench like he'd been slapped, and she rode the momentum.

"I
know that when you were being held prisoner in that hellhole in Guatemala, you
drew comic strips on the cell walls. I know it hurt every time your teammates
looked at you with distrust when equipment failed. Worst of all was when your
GPS broke and it wasn't your fault, but they accused you with their eyes
anyway. That was the first time you thought about leaving."

It
was her turn to lean forward, to maintain control of this tug-of-war for power
in which they were engaged. "Now, you want to tell me I don't know
anything about you?"

A
muscle in his jaw twitched as he stared at her, his expression one of fury and
disbelief. "How?" he growled. "How the fuck do you know this
shit?"

"I
told you, I work with people who have abilities you can't even
comprehend." The wind stirred the bayou again, and she frowned.
"Well, maybe you can."

"Bottom
line, Haley. What do you and your agency of misfits want with me?"

"We
want
you
. My job was to make sure you were the real deal. You are. We
can help you learn to fully control your gift—"

"Gift?
Is that what they told you to say to me? To make me think this is something I
should be thankful for?"

"You
don't need to be thankful for it, but you can choose to make it work for you.
And for the good of the world."

Thunder
cracked. Haley jumped.

"The
good of the world," Remy mused, looking out over the swamp. "And how
were you supposed to convince me to join your special agency?"

Lightning
flashed over the top of the trees and in Remy's eyes. "Sex?" He
reached for the fly of his cargos, let his long, sexy fingers linger. "Is
that your preferred method?"

Her
mouth went dry, and she struggled for an answer. Maybe the storm was messing
with his libido, would give her a chance to delay the conversation a bit, maybe
use sex the way he said, the way the Seducers had taught her.

He
stood, rocking the boat enough to make her grasp the sides. His fingers worked
the buttons, and each time one slipped through the buttonhole, her body
reacted. Her breasts flushed with heat. Her pulse ricocheted through her veins.
On the last button, a rush of moisture drenched her panties.

"Was
it sex, Haley? Or something way more fucked up?"

With
a jerk, he tore open the left side of his pants to reveal a patch of skin at
his hip. An angry, reddened patch of skin.