Kiss or Kill. Lyn StoneЧитать онлайн книгу.
when infiltrating a terrorist cell in France?
Since Alexander hadn’t yet opened his mouth, she would give him the benefit of the doubt. If he revealed who she was, he would expose himself. Same with her. She raised a brow and offered him the ghost of a smile. He returned it, just a small quirk of his lips. Nice lips they were, too. She remembered them well. Their texture. Their taste. Their hunger that had fueled her own. A spike of warmth shot through her. Make that heat.
One kiss, mind-blowing as it had been, did not provide a basis for putting her life in the man’s hands. That killer body of his could be just that, the body of a killer. The memory of how her wayward mind had wandered directly to him the morning after that kiss, as she hovered between sleep and wakefulness, disturbed her even now. She had clearly visualized him, standing in the shower, soaping himself, his head thrown back, exposing his strong, corded neck as if he invited her to put her mouth there and feel his quickening pulse. Her own body had hummed.
Renee shook her head. The vision firmly engraved on her mind might have been buried, but hadn’t lost its clarity.
Renee straightened and pushed off the wall, taking a seat on one of the overturned boxes that served as extra chairs. “Where are the others?” she asked, ignoring Alexander as best she could.
“Checking the perimeter. Sonny and Beguin will be up in a few moments. Tonight’s the night we get down to business,” Deborah announced.
Finally. Renee kept her expression bland. She knew the job, in general anyway, and hoped to find out where the strike would occur so she could get people in place to prevent it. This was yet another planning session. Deborah seemed to get off on having rendezvous in secret locations, the seedier the better.
Sonny’s last job had been an attempt to abduct a
U.S. senator’s son. It had been foiled by the Secret Service and Renee’s team, COMPASS, one of the civilian special ops teams formed under Homeland Security. The giant, more commonly known as Sonnegut, had escaped capture and fled here to France, doing a bang-up job of covering his tracks. But Renee had located him.
Her stated mission was to identify Sonnegut’s affiliation, find out who was behind the kidnapping attempt and determine what they had been after. Indications were that the motive had been political. So far, she had tailed him until she could befriend one of his cohorts and work her way into this little gang.
It was a start. Deborah Martine was Sonnegut’s lover. Renee had begun to suspect she might also be the person in charge. The question was whether or not she reported to someone else, higher up. Unfortunately Renee thought she might have to abandon her primary mission in order to throw a monkey wrench into the strike the cell was planning. But first she needed to discover how the group was financed, and, most important, the target and timing of their strike.
Renee had struck up an association with Martine, gaining her trust in the guise of a French-Canadian expatriate whose father owned a demolitions business based in Calgary and who had taught his only child everything he knew about explosives, hoping she would carry on.
Her cover contained a great deal of truth, but there were no records available to prove or disprove it. She had told Deborah at the outset that her father had disowned her and she had intentionally “erased” herself. Martine had professed to admire her precautions and apparently accepted her story.
Demolition was a handy skill in the underworld, much in demand. Credentials weren’t required. The proof was in the execution, so to speak.
Renee glanced again at Mark and saw that he was assessing her, no doubt wondering if she had switched loyalties. Neither of them had any option but to play this out, at least until they could talk in private. And even then, would either dare admit why they were really here? As far as he knew, she could be exactly what she appeared to be. And so could he.
Every tenet of her training demanded that she erase any threat to her mission. So would his. They had trained together in the life-or-death black ops field, after all.
Two years ago, the FBI had hosted an international working seminar on nontraditional methods of dealing with terrorists. Fifty elite agents from as many organizations had attended. No operative had been identified other than by name, no countries or organizations revealed.
At the time, Renee had figured Mark represented the U.K. because of his accent and surname. And that polite reserve of his had seemed distinctly British to her. Maybe her assumption had been wrong. Ordinarily she knew better than to assume anything, but it hadn’t really mattered back then.
Even at first glance, just as it did now, her heart had raced with both fear and fascination. Aside from the wide shoulders set on a body that wouldn’t quit and a face that boasted intriguing features, her attraction to him surpassed the physical. There was something dark about Alexander that went deeper than the fathomless eyes that seemed to peer right into the very soul of her. He made her feel exposed…vulnerable…hot. What’s more, he made her like it. Dangerous, indeed.
When she’d known him then, just as now, she had needed her entire focus to remain on the job. Renee had staunchly kept her distance. But she’d sensed a definite reciprocal interest, proved beyond doubt when he had impulsively acted on it. And kissed her. Afterward, they had avoided each other and only spoken in passing when paired off in a shooting match.
Even so, she’d hardly been able to concentrate whenever he was in the vicinity. And the vision of him naked that she hadn’t consciously sought, yet couldn’t seem to dismiss hadn’t helped. Renee had vowed early on that until her career was well established and she had proved her worth, a personal life would be out of the question. Apparently Mark’s goal hadn’t been any different.
Avoidance had become a game until their schooling was over and they parted company with merely a couple of satisfied nods, wordlessly acknowledging their shared battle and mutual success.
In retrospect, maybe she shouldn’t have been so hell-bent to deny any interaction. At least then she might be able to guess something about his mindset now.
Sonnegut slammed into the room, his great height and boisterous energy almost comical considering the secretive nature of the meeting. He was a good-looking fellow of German extraction, cocky as hell, larger than life, auburn-haired, blue-eyed, built like a monster truck. There was simply too much of him to be believed.
Beguin followed him, a pale shadow in Sonnegut’s wake. Thin, dirty blond hair hung like fringe over his craggy features. Darting close-set eyes peered from behind the sparse strands. He moved like a wraith and always gave Renee the creeps. She prided herself on her uncanny recognition of accents, but she hadn’t figured yet where Beguin had hatched. He never had a word to say.
Deborah Martine’s eyes lit up and a smile curved her generous lips whenever Sonnegut appeared. “Everything as it should be, Sonny?” she asked, her voice rife with authority. Her attitude had become increasingly bossy lately, Renee had noticed.
The big man nodded and shot her a merry grin. “I had to get rid of a vagrant. He was getting too curious.”
Martine’s smile slipped at that. She probably worried about the eventual discovery of an errant body mucking up this new meeting place, but she said nothing more about it. “I meant the phone calls you were to make regarding Alexander. Results?”
Sonnegut brushed his hands together and nodded vigorously. “He’s solid. Brugel said he does good work, so did Hamish. Best they know of for providing surreptitious entry. Both vouched.”
Martine reached inside her pocket and retrieved a cell phone that must have been set on vibrate. She clicked it on, listened, nodded and answered briefly and affirmatively in Italian. It was the third language Renee had heard her speak fluently.
They all conversed in French, of course, except when Martine encouraged her to use English. That was Martine’s native tongue, though she was as proficient in French as anyone born to it. Apparently she was pretty good in Italian as well. She was speaking with the man called Brugel, whom Sonnegut had just mentioned.
After she put the phone away,