Looking down again was definitely a mistake. He got a real good look at those tanned, shapely legs and the chest that was now straining against the damp linen of her blouse. Her nipples were hard and pointy, and it didn’t take long to remember how they’d tasted in his mouth. How he’d sucked, nibbled, swirled, and tongued. How she’d arched deep into his mouth and moaned.
Yeah, definitely a mistake. He saw a slight tremor rack her body and suspected she was remembering it, too.
He looked back at her face. Their eyes met. “You know why I’m here.”
She sighed as if she’d had enough of him.Herenough ofhim. WTF?
“Look, it’s rainy, I was just mugged, and I’m wet, uncomfortable, and definitely not in the mood for this. If you came chasing after me to get me to go home, I’m afraid you’ve wasted a trip. I’ll go home when I’m done and not before.”
He wasn’t chasing after her. He didn’t chase after anyone.
He frowned. Well, maybe he wastechnicallychasing after her, but it wasn’t the way she implied.
“I told you that wasn’t a mugging,” he said. “Now get in the car.”
She looked at him as if he’d just told her to jump off a bridge. “What?”
“You said you were wet and uncomfortable. I’m taking you back to your hotel, where you can change”—preferably into something that didn’t want to make him rip it off her—“and we can talk about this rationally.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
When she didn’t pick up the keys, he bent over and did it for her. He also pocketed the gun—a 9mm GSh-18, the sidearm weapon of choice for Eastern operators—hoping to hell he wasn’t going to need it. “Fine, I’ll drive. Now, get in the car.”
She stood there stubbornly, clearly having no intention of doing so.
“I’ve already taken a big risk being here, Brittany. That picture you published has been all over the news, and your little boyfriend took a long look at me. After what just happened, the least you can do is listen to what I have to say.”
The reminder of him saving her ass did the trick. She hesitated, but only for a few seconds before giving an annoyed huff. “Fine. We’ll go back to my room and you can say what you have to say, but you aren’t staying.”
Neither was she, but he kept that to himself.
She got in the car and directed him to her hotel—a large American chain that was right next to the airport and train station.
Her room was on the tenth floor. He was pretty sure they hadn’t been followed, but he had her wait in the hall until he cleared the room just to make sure.
She didn’t argue, but she gave him a “you are way too paranoid” roll of the eyes when he said it was okay.
But John wasn’t going to take any chances, and being paranoid had saved his ass too many times to count. Whether she agreed or not, he knew that the guy who’d attacked her hadn’t been an ordinary thief. He’d been trained in hand-to-hand combat. Probably military. Possibly Special Forces.
John had been lucky to get the one solid blow in that he had. If he hadn’t landed the perfectly timed kick that broke the other guy’s arm while he was focused on shooting, John suspected the other guy would have given him a fight—arealfight. And not that he couldn’t use that right now, but he’d prefer not to do it when Brittany’s life was dependent on the outcome.
He’d have to thank Spivak, who was into MMA fighting—big-time—later. Spivak had competed for a while in the UFC heavyweight class before becoming a SEAL and had taken down the guy who eventually became champ. Water polo players were typical recruiting fodder for SEALs, but Spivak definitely made a case for the UFC ranks.
John hadn’t gotten a real good look at the guy, but his first impression had been Eastern European. Which wasn’t good for either of them if he was right.
Brittany dropped her bag on the bureau next to the flat-screen and bent over—he turned away from the sight of those shorts creeping higher on those kick-ass legs—to unstrap her sandals, before kicking them into the closet, where the rest of her clothes were half spilling out of her suitcase on the luggage rack.
Good riddance, he thought. Those shoes might have to get lost. From the looks of the mess in that suitcase, she wasn’t likely to notice.
She grabbed a few things and told him not to makehimself too comfortable. She’d be right out, and then he could leave.
John ignored the less-than-generous welcome and made himself at home, sprawling out on the small couch that was beside the bed. He noticed the opened bag of potato chips, empty chocolate bar wrapper, and can of Diet Coke on the coffee table and frowned. Some things hadn’t changed. He remembered her fondness for junk food. Forget the hit man. She was going to die of heart disease if she kept eating all that chemical crap.
He flipped on the TV and started to scroll through the channels. Even with extended cable, there wasn’t much to choose from. At home, he loved the late-night talk shows, but here he had to settle for BBC and the same fifteen minutes of news stories that they seemed to replay over and over.
She came out before the end of the first go-round. Skimpy damp clothes were gone, but bare feet, tight jeans, and a figure-hugging T-shirt hadn’t done anything to alleviate the sexy issue. He was way too focused on how good her ass looked in those jeans and how big her tits were in that shirt.
T&A was not what he should be thinking about, damn it. This was Brittany. Off-limits Brittany. The sister of his dead best friend, Brittany.
