check out a suspicious individual who’d ducked into the building next door. When he’d come back, Dez and three others lay dead on the street and Gina was gone.
Kick blamed himself big-time for falling for the decoy. Which was bullshit, of course. If the threat had been real and he hadn’t investigated, the outcome would have been just as bad. It was a no-win situation, either way.
Now the team was galvanized. Out for blood. And Alex desperately wanted to be back up in New York with them, helping to run van Halen to ground. But Commander Quinn insisted someone had to investigate the sunken yacht, and that someone was Alex. The yacht might hold evidence about the rumored attack on Washington, D.C., Quinn had argued, and possibly clues as to where van Halen was holding Gina. Not to mention the illusive “trigger.”
Alex slashed his hand through his hair. He hated being the invalid, deliberately kept away from the action. He needed to do something. Tackle someone. Shoot someone. Hell, any thing.
“You okay?” Rebel asked, coming up beside the captain’s chair where he sat white-knuckling the cabin cruiser’s wheel.
“No! I’m not fucking okay,” he snapped. Then squeezed his eyes shut to compose himself. Hell .
“Language, Zane,” she said, but with such compassion that it made him even more furious.
His temper had gone totally haywire since returning from captivity in the Sudan. His therapist said it was probably a reaction to having to hold in his rage for so long under so much duress. But Alex thought it was just that his whole fucking life had gone to shit since coming back from the dead. There were days when he actually yearned for the basic simplicity of his imprisonment.
And not having anyone nag him about his goddamn language.
“I’ll stop swearing when you start fucking me,” he gritted out.
She just gazed at him with her big, sympathetic green eyes. “They found the bodies of the two dead men from the yacht this morning,” she said, ignoring his outburst. “They were floating half out of the water onshore farther up the bay.” Then she sighed and walked away.
Shit .
“Angel, wait.” He swiftly slowed the craft, threw it onto autopilot, and went after her, catching her by the wrist before she could escape below. She didn’t want to come, but he pulled her into his arms and held her. “I’m a fucking bastard,” he murmured. “No wonder you don’t want any part of me.”
If he’d hoped she’d deny the notion, he was sorely disappointed. “Yeah. You are,” she said. “When you want to have a clean, civil conversation, let me know.” She tried to pull away.
He held her tighter. “I do want to,” he said. “I’m a goddamn mess, I admit it. But I need you, Rebel. Even if it’s just to talk, I need you with me.” He grazed his lips over her springy red hair, kissing her temple. “You’re my rock, baby. The only one I can tell what I’m really feeling. You do know that, don’t you?”
It had always been that way between them. Since the first time he’d met her. One of her first assignments as a new FBI agent had been as liaison to CIA’s Zero Unit, where he’d already been an operator for a half-dozen years at the time. They’d talked endlessly in those days, sometimes right through the night. They’d never so much as kissed; it hadn’t been a sexual thing between them. Not that he hadn’t been incredibly attracted.
But that was exactly why he hadn’t let himself feel that way about her. Not consciously, at any rate. To a woman like Rebel Haywood, sex meant commitment. Long-term, picket fence, baby-making commitment. None of which he’d been willing or able to take on. Not with a woman he actually loved. Because of the job, he’d told himself. Yeah, and then there was that other not-so-little issue.
But that was five years ago. A lot had changed in five years. He’d definitely changed. And now he was free of that ill-conceived marriage of convenience to
Kick blamed himself big-time for falling for the decoy. Which was bullshit, of course. If the threat had been real and he hadn’t investigated, the outcome would have been just as bad. It was a no-win situation, either way.
Now the team was galvanized. Out for blood. And Alex desperately wanted to be back up in New York with them, helping to run van Halen to ground. But Commander Quinn insisted someone had to investigate the sunken yacht, and that someone was Alex. The yacht might hold evidence about the rumored attack on Washington, D.C., Quinn had argued, and possibly clues as to where van Halen was holding Gina. Not to mention the illusive “trigger.”
Alex slashed his hand through his hair. He hated being the invalid, deliberately kept away from the action. He needed to do something. Tackle someone. Shoot someone. Hell, any thing.
“You okay?” Rebel asked, coming up beside the captain’s chair where he sat white-knuckling the cabin cruiser’s wheel.
“No! I’m not fucking okay,” he snapped. Then squeezed his eyes shut to compose himself. Hell .
“Language, Zane,” she said, but with such compassion that it made him even more furious.
His temper had gone totally haywire since returning from captivity in the Sudan. His therapist said it was probably a reaction to having to hold in his rage for so long under so much duress. But Alex thought it was just that his whole fucking life had gone to shit since coming back from the dead. There were days when he actually yearned for the basic simplicity of his imprisonment.
And not having anyone nag him about his goddamn language.
“I’ll stop swearing when you start fucking me,” he gritted out.
She just gazed at him with her big, sympathetic green eyes. “They found the bodies of the two dead men from the yacht this morning,” she said, ignoring his outburst. “They were floating half out of the water onshore farther up the bay.” Then she sighed and walked away.
Shit .
“Angel, wait.” He swiftly slowed the craft, threw it onto autopilot, and went after her, catching her by the wrist before she could escape below. She didn’t want to come, but he pulled her into his arms and held her. “I’m a fucking bastard,” he murmured. “No wonder you don’t want any part of me.”
If he’d hoped she’d deny the notion, he was sorely disappointed. “Yeah. You are,” she said. “When you want to have a clean, civil conversation, let me know.” She tried to pull away.
He held her tighter. “I do want to,” he said. “I’m a goddamn mess, I admit it. But I need you, Rebel. Even if it’s just to talk, I need you with me.” He grazed his lips over her springy red hair, kissing her temple. “You’re my rock, baby. The only one I can tell what I’m really feeling. You do know that, don’t you?”
It had always been that way between them. Since the first time he’d met her. One of her first assignments as a new FBI agent had been as liaison to CIA’s Zero Unit, where he’d already been an operator for a half-dozen years at the time. They’d talked endlessly in those days, sometimes right through the night. They’d never so much as kissed; it hadn’t been a sexual thing between them. Not that he hadn’t been incredibly attracted.
But that was exactly why he hadn’t let himself feel that way about her. Not consciously, at any rate. To a woman like Rebel Haywood, sex meant commitment. Long-term, picket fence, baby-making commitment. None of which he’d been willing or able to take on. Not with a woman he actually loved. Because of the job, he’d told himself. Yeah, and then there was that other not-so-little issue.
But that was five years ago. A lot had changed in five years. He’d definitely changed. And now he was free of that ill-conceived marriage of convenience to
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