Dagan was convinced thatsomethingshould be Chelsea’s job with the handsy bastard. They could prove that Morrison was Spider some other way. One that didn’t involve her subjecting herself to Morrison’s unsubtle leers, roving hands, and blatant sexual innuendos.
“I’m just saying”—he eyed her mulish expression—“if you were going to get the chance to plant the virus, it would’ve happened by now.”
“Says who?” She thrust out her chin. It was small and pointy, and he had the oddest urge to bend down and kiss it.
“Says me.”
She rolled her eyes and adjusted her glasses. “And you’re the ultimate authority…uh…why?”
“Let me see. Maybe it’s the hundreds of successful missions I’ve—”
“Lord have mercy,” she interrupted, slipping into the unhurried drawl that revealed her Southern roots. “You realize if I wanted to commit suicide, all I’d have to do is climb your ego and jump down to that place where you keep your humility.”
Before he could think of a good comeback, she continued. “And, sure, okay, let’s stand here and go through all the reasons I’m not qualified for this kind of work.Again. No, really. I love beating a dead horse. You go first. And when your arm gets tired, I’ll jump in. Ready? Go.”
“Bloody hell!” Christian, a former SAS officer who, for reasons known only to a few, had left Her Majesty’s Army to go to work for Black Knights Inc., called from the kitchen. “Would you two stop trading verbal punches? It’s too early in the morning. I’ve yet to finish my first cup of tea, and all that blathering is giving me a sodding headache!”
“Oh, now you’ve done it. You’ve gone and angered the Brit,” Colby “Ace” Ventura said, sauntering up beside them and planting a kiss on Chelsea’s cheek.
Before coming to work for the Black Knights, Ace had been a crackerjack Navy pilot, hence the nickname “Ace”—although there was some speculation that his last name and the Jim Carrey movies had played a part in his nom de guerre. Dagan respected the shit out of the guy. But right now? Well, he was hard-pressed not to punch the fucker in the mouth. If the guy’s lips were busted, maybethenhe’d keep them to himself.
But the dude’s gay, one might argue.
Didn’t matter. When it came to a man’s mouth on Chelsea, Dagan’s green-eyed monster made an appearance. Because the fact of the matter was, despite their daily verbal boxing matches, helikedher. Had since the first time he met her back at Langley all those years ago when she’d given him an Intelligence report. Looking at her, he had seen nothing but soft curves. Listening to her had revealed a sharp mind.
It was a wonderfully complex juxtaposition, and Dagan had determined to get her in bed on the double. But since he had rarely been stateside back then, the opportunity had never arisen. And just as he had been poised to return to the United States for a good, long stint, an op in Afghanistan had gone horribly wrong, and five people had paid for his mistake with their lives. Afterward, he’d been fired from the CIA quicker than you can say,Clear out your locker, dickhead.And as if allthatwasn’t bad enough, following his expulsion from the Company, he’d briefly gotten himself involved with a corrupt senator.
Both of those screwups were black stains on his character. He was convinced that a woman like Chelsea, a woman who was upright and true, wouldn’t give him the time of day. Not knowing what she knew about him.
“Do you have everything you need?” Ace asked Chelsea, handing her a travel mug of coffee. “Perhaps you could use some Mace? Or electric underwear so every time that old bastardaccidentally”—Ace made air quotes with his fingers—“rubs your ass, he gets a nasty shock?”
“Thank you, Ace honey.” Now it was Chelsea’s turn to smack a kiss on Ace’s cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Dagan’s inner six-year-old stomped his foot and sullenly shouted,What about me? I’malwayslooking out for you!But he quickly reminded the little brat of Afghanistan and Senator Aldus.She wants nothing to do with the likes of us, and you know it.
“My pleasure. Teamwork makes the dream work, am I right?” Ace winked at Chelsea. He really was a handsome bastard. All blond hair, sea-blue eyes, and a physique that looked like it belonged in an underwear advertisement.
Dagan’s jealousy was ridiculous. But that didn’t stop him from wallowing in it when Ace opened the front door and Chelsea walked into the hall that led down four flights to the hustle and bustle of London’s streets.
After the door shut behind her, Ace took one look at Dagan’s face and sighed. “Come with me, Werewolf of London.” It had been a running joke since they’d taken up residence. The town. The beard. Dagan got it. He just didn’t think it was nearly as funny as the rest of them did. “Let’s get some of Christian’s tea in you. Maybe it will settle your nerves.”
“If only it were that easy,” Dagan muttered, allowing Ace to pull him through the living room and into the kitchen.
Sitting at the small circular table in the corner was Christian. The three of them made up the team that had volunteered to move to London to provide Chelsea with support. And after living together in such close quarters—the flat only had two bedrooms, so all three men were bunked in one room—and with no real purpose except spending their days poring over every bit of Intel and research they could find on Morrison, a.k.a. Spider, they’d taken to busting each other’s balls more frequently than usual.
Case in point…
“What happened to my bagel?” Ace demanded after opening the toaster oven and peering inside.
Christian glanced at the remains on his plate and grinned.
Ace spied the half-eaten bagel. “You shit-swizzling breakfast stealer!” He had a rare talent for coming up with imaginative insults. “I had that toasted perfectly!”
Christian picked up the bagel, studied it from all sides, then took a considering bite. “Indeed it was,” he said around a mouthful. “Thank you.”
“I should rip off your dick, shove it down your throat, and feed you your own ball sac for dessert. But rumor has it, you sport a microwang, and I don’t want to strain my eyes trying to find it.”
Aw, yes. The attack on the size of a man’s meat. Classic.
