Chapter 1
Emily Scott was having a good day.
She’d pawned breakfast duty off on Christian. She was wearing her favorite sweatshirt, the one Paulie Konerko had signed after he helped the White Sox win the 2005 World Series. And she was on her way home. Back to the world of baseball and deep-dish pizza, towering skyscrapers and a lake so big and blue it looked like an ocean.
Addto that the fact that she would no longer have to stay cooped up in a tiny cottage with four of the most testosterone-packed males on the planet, and she’d go so far as to say her day wasn’t good; it was Tony the Tigergrrrreat. Which was why she should have been prepared for things to start circling the drain.
Long ago, she’d discovered that good days were the ones she should worry about,since life liked to rise up and bite her on the ass when she least expected it.
Case in point: she found herself blinking in slack-jawed astonishment when two hours after she finished scarfing down Christian’s delightful English breakfast—minus the baked beans, natch—he opened the front door of his uncle’s cottage only to have a microphone shoved in his face.
“Are you Corporal ChristianWatson?” a redheaded woman in a yellow pantsuit demanded. “Is it true you were the SAS soldier captured during the Kirkuk Police Station Incident?”
“Where have you been, Corporal Watson?” a man in a raincoat and cabbie hat demanded, holding up a digital recorder. “What have you been on about since you left Her Majesty’s Special Air Service?”
Emily got a glimpse of half a dozen other peoplegathered on the cottage’s front stoop—a honking big camera on the shoulder of one man—before Christian slammed the door shut and twisted the lock. His face was a thundercloud when he swung back into the room.
“Bloody, fecking hell,” he snarled, then followed that with a string of profanity so blue it would make a sailor blush.
Why did curse words sound better coming out of his mouth? Oh,right. Becauseeverythingsounded better coming out of his mouth. That accent!
Turning to the trio of men behind her, Emily found their expressions mirrored her own. In a word: shock. In two words: rampant curiosity. And in three words? Well,what the fuck?came to mind.
“What in the ass?” Ace asked, adjusting the straps of his backpack more comfortably on his broad shoulders.
Theyall had backpacks stuffed with the essentials needed to flee the country—basic toiletries and a change of clothes. Usually included in their “essentials” was an array of handguns, knives, and other pointy or bangy things which, when used correctly, resulted in death. But they’d had to leave their arsenal behind during their initial attempt to hop the pond a few days prior. Since then, Emily had wonderedif the men felt naked without their customary repository of combat blades and sidearms.
“I mean, seriously, what in theass?” Ace repeated.
Colby “Ace” Ventura was a former U.S. Navy pilot turned operator for Black Knights Inc., the covert government defense firm founded and privately run by none other than the president of the United States himself—now theformerpresident of the UnitedStates—and staffed by some of the blackest of black-ops warriors on the planet. The firm Emily had gone to work for after she bugged out of the CIA. Although, in reality, it was probably more accurate to say the Black Knights had taken her under their wings after the fiasco with her former boss hadforcedher out of the CIA.
For the record,shewasn’t one of the blackest of black-ops warriors.She was their office manager, having come along on this mission in a failed attempt to keep them organized, on task, and out of trouble.
“That’s one way of putting it,” she said. “Another way of putting it would be to steal the timeless words of Ricky Ricardo.” She exaggerated her expression. “Christian…you got some ’splainin’ to do.”
All those hours parked in front of the television asa kid watching reruns ofI Love Lucywhile her parents were out doing who the hell knew what had paid off with a spot-on impersonation.
Unfortunately, her flippancy was wasted on Christian. “Shit,” he hissed, followed by “Bloody, fecking hell.”
“You said that already.” She tried her best to lighten his mood. Anytime she thought of the vulnerability she’d seen in his eyes in that firstsecond after she woke him from his nightmare, her silly, squishy, far-too-soft heart turned over. “Try something else. I like to go withbugfucking dickmunchorson of a bee-stung bitch. But I might also suggest—”
“Sod off, Emily.” He glowered at her. Really, Christian could glower like nobody’s business. “Now is not the time for your scathing wit.”
“No? And here I was thinkinganytimewas a good time for scathing wit.”
“There are bloody reporters outside.”
“Yep. Saw ’em with my own two beady eyes.”
This time he gifted her with a put-upon grimace. The man seemed to have a vast arsenal of sexy sneers and bone-melting scowls. And truth? She enjoyed each and every one of them.
They gave her a glimpse at the real man beneath the carefully styled hair, the designerclothes, and the expensive whatnots. The man who was down and dirty, gruff and gritty. The man a part of her couldn’t wait to meet.
Onlypartof her, you might ask? Yes, onlypartof her. The wild part. The careless part. Thecrazypart that didn’t have a thought in its ditzy, horny little head exceptYowza! Gimme, gimme, gimme!
As you might imagine, that was the part she tried like hellto ignore, choosing instead to focus on theotherpart of her. The sensible part. The rational part. The practical part that didn’t dare give him any more sexy ammunition to use against her already panting libido.
“What do we do now?” Ace asked.
