“Oh,” he said. Then, “Oooohhhh.”
“Is there an echo in here?” Chelsea demanded, hands on hips Wonder Woman–style.
Dagan lifted a brow, imagining her in bed, pleasuring herself with a vibrator. His little downstairs buddy liked the imagery very much. Too much.
Damnit.He glanced at his watch. He should’ve still had thirty minutes to screw her brains out. He’d have to have a talk with Angel when he saw him. Not sticking to the schedule was wreaking havoc with Dagan’s sexual ambitions.
“And why are we talking about any of this anyway?” There was no mistaking the two red flags of color in Chelsea’s cheeks. She might be one tasty little wildcat in bed, but out of it, she was still a Southern girl. Talk of her adult toy collection—he hoped it was vast.Please let it be vast—embarrassed her. “We shouldn’t keep Angel waiting.”
Dagan tossed an arm around her shoulders. He thought he felt her tense and wondered whatthatwas all about. They’d cleared things up, hadn’t they? They were on the same page, weren’t they?
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll be on our way. But at some point in the future, I expect you to introduce me to Mr. Patrick. I’m curious to meet my competition.”
“Gag me with a very large spoon.” Emily threw her hands in the air. “You two are so adorable that you’re making me sick to my stomach.” She turned and flounced down the stairs.
Chelsea glanced at him through the fan of her sooty lashes. There it was again, thatsomethingin her eyes.
He was done trying to figure it out on his own. Best just to sac up and ask. “What is it, babe? What’s bothering you?”
“You really believe love conquers all?” She gnawed on her lower lip.
He gave her the words she needed to hear, promising to prove them to her every day for the rest of his life. “I do, Chels. I really, really do.”
Chapter 35
Chelsea followed Dagan down the stairs on rickety legs. She was old enough to know that words were cheap. It was easy to say something in the heat of the moment. But it was another thing entirely when the chips were down and the truth was revealed.
Dagan reached the bottom step and turned, offering his hand. Scratch that, hispaw—the man’s hands were too large and scarred and callused to be called anything else.
She reached for his fingers, and the instant they were skin to skin, a jolt of electricity zapped her system. Was it her imagination, or did the lights flicker? Would she always feel that white-hot frisson of awareness? If he were to touch her every day for the next fifty years, would she still feel a shock at the brush of his fingertips?
Please, Lord! Let me find out.
“In case it isn’t obvious,” Ace said when they walked into the living room. Joy of joys, the whole gang was gathered, grinning at them like a bunch of nitwits. “These two have finally admitted they’re hot to trot for each other.”
“More like ass over teakettle,” Emily chimed in. “According to Zoelner, they’re in love.” She made the word into two syllables.Luh-uv. “And as I said upstairs, another one bites the dust. It’s nearly enough to make a single girl want to scream and pull out her hair.”
“Mmm,” Angel hummed noncommittally. “I suppose congratulations are in order, then.”
The former Israeli Mossad agent looked at Chelsea with his dark, uncanny eyes. The man gave new meaning to the phraseRiddle wrapped in a mystery shoved inside an enigma. In all the time she had worked as the CIA liaison to Black Knights Inc., Chelsea had only met him on a handful of occasions. Each time, she had come away feeling slightly unsettled.
There was just something about Angel.
“Thank you for doing this, Angel,” she said. “You’re saving my bacon.”
“No thanks necessary.” He spoke with a precision that would make an English teacher weep with happiness and an accent that was impossible to place.
Chelsea reckoned both affectations were intentional.
“Well, now that the social niceties have been concluded, let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” Emily said. “This has been one long-ass day, and I, for one, can’t wait to hop on that swanky private jet and catch some z’s. Adrenaline is hell on the body.” She shouldered into her backpack. When she had trouble with one strap, Christian obligingly helped her on with it. “You know”—she turned to the Brit and smiled—“you’re really not so bad.”
Christian clutched his chest. “My God! I’m having that put on a T-shirt.”
“Like you’dweara T-shirt.” Emily rolled her eyes, then turned to Angel with a hand on the knob of the front door. “Say, Angel, whatdoesthis friend of yours do with a submarine in the English Channel, anyway?”
Angel’s face was expressionless. “He is not a friend. He is a…contact. And one would not necessarily call him a law-abiding citizen.”Drug smuggler, Chelsea thought, her stomach sinking. “Are you certain you wish to know the what, why, and how of his operations?”
Emily curled her lip. “Well, not when you put itthatway. Jeez!”
