Flashpoint by Suzanne Brockmann Page A

radical change from the Joe Friday designer line of cheap-as-shit black suits that he’d worn as his uniform in the past.
    If Jimmy hadn’t known about the food poisoning, he would have guessed that Dave was completely stoned. He was sitting with his head lolled back and his body boneless—totally relaxed. In fact, he’d even smelled a little like the local weed. It was freaky.
    Who are you and what have you done to Dave “Puckerfactor Five Thousand” Malkoff?
    It was either
Twilight Zone
time, or weird Dave had created one damn good cover.
    “Who is he?” Tess asked, her breath warm against his neck. She was talking about Will, of course. “Red hair, right?”
    From his hiding place behind Tess, Jimmy could see only the back of the evil one’s head, but it sure seemed as if he were planted in his seat. He’d taken out a book and was reading.
    He maneuvered his mouth closer to her ear. “He’s a
Boston Globe
reporter. His name’s Schroeder.”
    She nodded. “Does he know you?”
    “Yeah. He knows I’m no relief worker—Deck, too,” Jimmy told her. “But then again, neither is Schroeder.”
    It was entirely possible that half of the people on this bus were reporters. K-stan had a no media, no cameras rule that was strictly enforced, and everybody and their CNN reporter brother were using this admittance of Western relief workers as a way into the country.
    Of course, the fact that they were letting in relief workers from the West at all was a sign of just how terrible the situation was in Kazabek.
    Tess shifted so that she could speak to Jimmy even more quietly. In fact, her lips brushed his ear as she spoke.
    “Even if he sees you, he won’t blow your cover, because if he does, you’ll blow his,” she concluded, quite correctly.
    His turn to put his mouth near her ear. He resisted the overwhelming urge to lick her. “Yeah, but once he sees we’re here, he’ll be on us like a dog in heat. He’s probably come for the disaster story, but it won’t take much for him to realize there’s something bigger going down.”
    “So he not only knows you’re not a relief worker . . .” Tess said.
    “Deck and I were sent to Bali shortly after the nightclub bombing,” Nash told her. “We, uh, interacted with Schroeder there. He’d have to be an idiot not to know that we were working for the government. And he’s no idiot.”
    Tess was silent for a moment. He could feel her breathing, feel her thinking. Finally she turned her head, her mouth again touching his ear. Christ, was she doing that on purpose?
    Maybe she was. And maybe tonight . . .
    But, “Sorry. The bus keeps . . .” She pulled back a little. “Do you really think we’ll be able to get off this bus without him seeing you?” she asked. “Once we disembark, I won’t be able to hang all over you like this. Public displays of affection are a big no in the streets—or so I read in my information packet on Kazabek. You know, the one you didn’t really expect me to read?”
    “You’re so funny,” he murmured.
    She laughed softly, and he was rocketed back in time to her bedroom. She was beneath him, out of breath, her legs still wrapped around him, her eyes dancing. . . .
    “So what’s the plan?” she asked now.
    They would get to Kazabek, hire a truck to take them to Rivka’s house, unload their equipment, have a little dinner, and then go into their bedroom and . . .
    And not jump each other.
    How could he be thinking about sex after that conversation he’d had with Decker outside the airport bookstore? Forget the threat of a beating—that was inconsequential. What mattered was that Decker had a thing for Tess. And despite his claims that it was too late for any kind of relationship between them, Jimmy was determined to make things right.
    He wouldn’t be jumping Tess tonight or any other night. Even if she begged him to. Which was about as likely as Elvis parachuting out of an alien spacecraft, onto the fifty-yard line of the