Sake Bomb (9 page)

A twist of the dial and the water came out
close to boiling. Showering was usually a short affair—the less
time she spent sudsing, the less likely anyone had the chance to
get the drop on her. But sleep had her firmly in its crosshairs.
Kizzie was simply too relaxed to move.

Until the shower curtain shifted.

A subtle sway, like the pressure in the room
changed. Enough of a swing to wake her up faster than if the water
had gone ice cold. Senses on high alert, she honed in on the
distance between the towels on the shelf and her location under the
spray.

Her heart beat faster, rushing blood to her
brain and ordering her thoughts. Someone was in the room. Who,
what, why—didn’t matter. One objective: decommission the
intruder.

Quickly.

Kizzie peeked out the gap between the
curtain edge and the shower wall.

Nothing.

She eased back the drape enough to slip
through, careful not to let the metal rings scrape the bar, and
went for the towel.

Gone.

All of the towels were gone.

Water pooled on the laminate floor and she
recalled the layout of the room. Bed to her left; chair and table
beneath the anti-suicide windows at 12 o’clock; dresser and TV at 3
on the same wall with the door. The closet bothered her. Once in
the room, the closet would be at her 6. The mirrored door slid on a
track. She’d left it open after her second sweep when she came back
from the walk. Most logical choice for an attacker’s location.

Another glance at the empty towel rack.

She’d have to improvise.

Grabbing her weapons, Kizzie tiptoed through
the half-gaping bathroom door and down the short hallway that led
to the main room. The intruder wasn’t even hiding; standing at the
bed a short distance away, rifling through her things. He
stiffened, and then slowly turned, a smile on his face and her
chocolates from Phil in his large grip.

“Princ—” Barked laughter cut off the
annoying nickname. Xander tossed the candy on the bed, motioned
toward her hand. “The hell were you gonna do, sweetheart, TP me to
death?”

She hurled the roll of toilet paper at his
head. “Distract.” He ducked it easily as she thrust her other hand
forward. “Attack. Believe me, I’da found a way to push this
toothbrush through your eye.” Her lip curled in a snarl. “Still
might.”

“You missed me, didn’t you?”

“Like a frosty, metal speculum. Hand me a
towel, Duquesne.”

Xander didn’t move, stared at her hair
although the rest of her was dripping wet and naked. She
self-consciously palmed the damp ends at her shoulder.

“You cut it.” He said it as though it
bothered him. But damn all that—he said it as if he had any choice
in what she did with her hair. Or the rest of her, for that matter.
“Black’s too dark. Drowns out your eyes. And way too short.”

“Towel, Duquesne.” Xander had already seen
far too much of her for her liking. The horribly-timed thought of
when she was last under his control made her wet nipples bead. She
inched closer. “I’m freezing here.”

“I don’t think you’re cold at all.” Xander
licked his lower lip, gaze caressing her skin. She couldn’t stop
the shudder. “Happy Birthday to me,” he said, voice a velvet-soft
mumble. “This is a nice present. Unexpected…a little early…but very
nice. Remind me to thank Phil.”

Phil was
so
getting his ass
kicked.

Seeing Xander earlier should have squelched
any nervous energy at their reunion, but her belly fluttered
something crazy, and that was not okay. “Uhh…‘bout that
towel….”

“I prefer my sub naked, but I guess we can
get you dry.” Xander plucked a white cloth from the pile on the bed
and opened it wide. Standing too close, he started drying her
breasts.

Kizzie snatched the towel and wrapped it
around herself, cutting her eyes at him. Xander chuckled. “Gotta be
careful with those. They look soft, but I found a knife in one.” He
dug in his pocket and came out with her lucky blade.

Perfect. Getting to her other weapon meant
going through him. Not an impossible feat. If he tried anything
stupid, Xander would be the one with the knife in a gunfight.
Pretty basic; no frills. Bullets didn’t need frills…

“This is special to you.” His thumb caressed
the handle of the knife she’d carried for years. “Wood’s worn.” He
hovered it over her open palm; jerked it away and smirked when she
reached for it. A short scrape and click sounded, exposing the
sharp blade. “A personal thing, using a knife. Feeling it slice
through skin and muscle. Hit bone. It can take a while; the type of
kill that stays with you. Not nearly as easy as pulling a
trigger.”

Xander held her gaze a beat, then angled
away, sliding his hand between the mattress and box spring. When he
regained his height, her Beretta was in his grip.

Kizzie’s stance didn’t change, palm still
open and an impatient “give it to me already” look on her face.
Inside was a different matter. Inside, her heart sped to breakneck
pace and her ribs compressed, too small for her lungs. The
adrenaline surge said run. Phil warned her Xander would do anything
to distract her from her goal. Not breathing would be one hell of a
distraction…

Assess.

No quick moves. Unless the barrel pointed
her way. Then she’d fight like hell.

Studying the weapon, Xander checked the
safety and set it on the nearby nightstand. “I wonder, could you
really kill a man with this?” He indicated the knife. Then his
scarred brow lifted. “If you had to, would you kill me with
it?”

Her mouth turned up a hint at the
corners.

“I don’t know if I like that smile.” He
frowned but his lips twitched. “I give this back to you, how do I
know you won’t hurt me?”

“You don’t.”

Grinning, Xander folded the knife closed and
pressed it into her hold, curled her fingers over it. Warm lips
brushed her cheek. “I missed you, too, Princess.”

He lingered too long—soft-spoken words and
decadent cologne doing tricks on her brain—and then left too
soon.

Xander stepped around her and went to the
bathroom, and Kizzie’s eyes slipped closed. She released the breath
she’d been holding, tossed the knife onto the open duffle on the
bed. The torrent of water stopped at the same time the tingling in
the pit of her stomach subsided.

And then a hard, dull
whump
connected
with her ass and rocketed through her body.

“The hell!” she shrieked, rubbing her
stinging cheek. She glared at him as he came back around to face
her; frowned when he used the cloth over her belly to wipe his wet
hand.

“How’s the shoulder?”

The previously dislocated joint in question
came courtesy of the deranged submissive she needed to hunt down.
It wasn’t every day Kizzie got to reunite with someone high on her
shit list. She was looking forward to it.

“Fine.” A small lie. The shoulder gave her a
problem sometimes, but nothing major. And it wasn’t Xander’s
business anyway.

“You get it X-rayed like I told you to?” She
didn’t answer and he sighed his disappointment, shook his head.
“The ribs?”

A gift from Sacha Sokoviev, a.k.a. The
Puppet Master. He’d hit Kizzie hard enough to crack a couple bones
and then added to his handiwork by carving a four-inch slice in her
belly. She shouldn’t think ill of the dead, but as they say, thank
goodness that fucker’s dead. “The ribs are fine.”

“Stitches held okay?” Xander reached for the
towel to have a look for himself and she jerked away.

“I’m good, X. Everything’s…good.” His
concern confused her and made her insides warm at the same time.
Warm fuzzies were not okay for an agent to have when dealing with a
known criminal. Especially when, not so long ago, said criminal had
both her gun and her knife aimed at her person.

Xander cupped her cheek in his hand, thumb
lightly stroking over the fading bruise beneath her eye. A crease
dug into his forehead. “Who’d you piss off, then? I have an
aversion to other people marking you.”

She swallowed hard. The third-degree had to
end. Body contact, too. Yep, that definitely had to stop. She
pulled away, steeled her voice. “Some clown. Friend of yours—ICBG.”
Xander sat on the Board of Directors of Kizzie’s International Club
for Bad Guys. She needed to remember that.

The firm set of his mouth melted into a soft
smile. “Just worried about you when you left. And you shouldn’t
have left with the shape you were in.”

Worry? This was too much. He’d come at her
like a whirling-dervish, too many emotions in too short a period.
His presence, his scent, his voice—hadn’t counted on
missing
the dark timbre—and a flurry of questions. It knocked her off
balance. She had to get a grip.

“Why’d you cut your hair?”

Hugging the towel closer, Kizzie squared her
shoulders. “
My
hair. I do with it whatever I want.”

His warm chocolate eyes went cold, staring
at her locks like they were Medusa’s snakes. “I hate it.”

“You’ll get over it, slick.”

“And I
hate
when you call me
that.”

“You’ll get over that, too.” Kizzie
shrugged, feeling a bit better. She looked past him toward the mess
on the bed. “Trying to hack my gear is a waste of time.” Three feet
of space between them and it still felt like his hands were on her.
Clothes. Now. And someone had taken the liberty of pulling them all
out for her. How kind.

“Not interested in your gear.” Xander moved
toward the chair and removed his coat, dropped it over the chair
back. “Wear the blue ones.”

Kizzie reflexively reached for the lacy
panties set apart from the rest of her belongings and paused. Then
she grabbed a pair of peach satin.

“Between you calling me ‘slick’ and your
disobedience, we’re at what in terms of punishment? 18?” A picture
of control, Xander unbuckled his belt. “Although, I may add a few
smacks for you cutting the hair. Major changes like that you
discuss with your Dom.” Slowly, he pulled the strap out of the
first loop, leather hissing softly as it slid against the material
of his slacks.

Eyes riveted on the belt, Kizzie’s tongue
darted out to wet her lips. She dragged a breath through her nose;
watched the tail snake through the second loop then disappear
behind his back. In her periphery she was aware of Xander watching
her, but she fixated on the leather, waiting for it to break free
from the other side. Xander paused; Kizzie’s body tingled. She
curled the fingers of the hand clutching the panties, scratched the
material over her dampening palm.

The train started up again, and finally the
end of the strap emerged, breaking the spell. She took a step back
and looked up. “I’m not…your sub, Xa—”

“Where’ve you been, Princess?” His smile
mocked her. He tossed the belt on the bed and her eyes shifted that
way, came back to his. “Judging by the tan lines on your beautiful
skin, somewhere in the tropics. Though, not home to Panama. Why
haven’t you moved yet?”

Straight to the point, her Xander.

Not
my
Xander
.

No idea where that thought came from, but it
could go back and have a seat right after it shut the hell up!
Months spent tracking and tagging Sanzio Galletti with unwavering
determination and focus, but a handful of minutes in Xander’s
presence had her flustered? Time to end this. Right now.

“Sure you don’t want to see me in the red
ones?” A bend at the waist and Kizzie lifted the silky briefs with
a finger. “I think you might like these. They fit real snug,
usually get me compliments.”

His brow lowered. “Blue, and you know I
don’t like repeating myself. You’re up to 21.”

“As you wish.” Swapping out the undies,
Kizzie bit her lip and slowly strolled over to where he stood in
front of the chair. “Look…I’ve had time to mull this over, and I
think we should stop with the games. We’re two adults, obviously
attracted to each other, and to be honest, I prefer you trying to
get in my pants to you trying to get in my head. So, how ‘bout it,”
Kizzie said, adding a deliberate and sultry, “Sir?” and looking up
from beneath her lashes.

She dropped the towel.

“Any way you want me. Tie me up,” she
touched her tongue to her upper lip, “spank me,” smoothed her palm
up the front of his shirt, bringing the other hand up to start on
the buttons. “Fuck me. Hard and fast…nice and slow. Whatever would
please you.”

She leaned into him, enjoying the feel of
his solid chest and the fire chasing his palms as they skimmed down
her spine.

God, those hands. Possessive brands on her
skin.

Lifting a bit brought her mouth closer to
his, and she breathed the next words over his lips. “Any. Thing.
You. Want.” His head lowered, mouths almost meeting. It took all of
her strength to rock back out of reach. “But first…”

He cleared his throat, a heat simmering in
his eyes. “First?”

“First, you need a shower,” Kizzie’s
whispered. “‘Cause I don’t like the smell of her perfume.”

A hard shove dropped him and the bewildered
look on his face into the chair. A wink later, she backed away,
moving toward the bed for her clothes. She stepped into the peach
satin and yanked a pair of jeans up and over her hips. A bra and
cotton tee followed and then Kizzie went about repacking the
belongings she hadn’t unpacked in the first damn place.

Silence reigned as she neatly folded and
re-rolled clothes, positioned the few pairs of shoes in the small
suitcase with military precision. A shopping bag sat on the bed.
She removed a box and lifted the lid, revealing the boots she’d
snagged leaving the De Galle airport. Hand-stitched Italian
leather; overpriced, but too cute to pass up. Double bonus for
being comfortable and sturdy. Considering all she had were a pair
of sneakers and sandals, the heavy-duty boots weren’t a hard sell.
She set them on the floor.