kicked him out last night when she’d had the chance, but she hadn’t been able to, and the whole bodily harm thing—well, been there, done that, and his hard body was very … hard.
She’d always melted when she was around this man. Even before she’d actually met him and had only seen him from afar, she’d managed to screw up the car bomb she’d planted, which was supposed to take him out. That was three years earlier, in Bogotá, and all because she kept picturing him while she was wiring his car.
Id-i-ot .
So yes, she’d known Dylan Scott aka Deacon Sanders could be a potential weakness from the beginning, having ended up in his bed that same night, and had confirmed it a few months later.
Two and a half years earlier—Rio de Janeiro.
She’d finished up a job, guarding a government official and preventing a planned assassination attempt. A fairly easy job—she’d been well paid … and as a bonus, Dylan Scott was in town.
She’d told herself that wasn’t the reason she took the job, even though she’d known he was on an extended mission in the area, because he’d finally called her and they’d made plans to meet earlier.
“ Hey, it’s me,” she told him now when he answered. “I finished early—thought I’d meet you at the hotel. ”
“ Then you should hurry,” he told her, his voice tinged with an impatience that made her smile .
“ I’m a block away,” she told him, and then the explosion sounded in her ear and shook the street at the same time. She took off at a dead run, her heart plummeting .
When she arrived on the scene, she saw that the hotel she’d been headed toward—the one Dylan was staying in—was no more than a shell. Fire ripped through what was left of the structure, the steel beams exposed and folding under the intense heat .
Now the polícia were holding her .
“ Did you see … Where are the people?” She was aware she was yelling, half English, half Portuguese—the only way to be heard among the screams and sirens and other noises filling the disaster scene .
The polícia who held her shook his head, said roughly , “Não sobreviventes!”
No survivors .
She yanked away from the officer and he let her go, believing she wouldn’t launch herself in the direction of the building .
“Desculpa, lady,” he told her .
She was sorry too, stumbled away from the scene, her lungs burning from being so close to the burning building .
The only thing she could do was walk back to her own hotel in a numb fog of grief. Took the elevator, let herself into her room …
Found Dylan Scott sitting on her bed .
“ Jesus … Dylan,” she whispered, shut and locked the door behind her and made her way quickly toward him. “Was the bomb meant for you? ”
He laughed, an oddly hollow sound, accentuated by the hoarseness of his voice. It was then she noticed that he’d definitely been near the building when it blew, that it most likely had been a very close call for him. There was soot on his face and clothes—a larage scrape on his neck and another on his arm .
She pushed the hair out of his eyes as he spoke. “My mission’s complete. They needed to think I was dead. ”
“ And you couldn’t have warned me?” she demanded .
He took the phone from her hand and opened the back, pointed to the bug that had been placed there .
Dammit. Dammit to hell .
She’d learn quickly that this wasn’t the first instance of him dying—and that it wouldn’t be the last. But her reaction had been so completely visceral that it frightened her .
She’d been with him only once before. And even though she didn’t want to get attached, she couldn’t deny that she already was .
“ I wasn’t sure you’d care,” he admitted .
“ I don’t.” Of course, her retort was basically negated by the fact that she was already grabbing the back of his neck, her words nearly lost as she kissed him, a long breathless kiss intended to make him forget about anyone but her
She’d always melted when she was around this man. Even before she’d actually met him and had only seen him from afar, she’d managed to screw up the car bomb she’d planted, which was supposed to take him out. That was three years earlier, in Bogotá, and all because she kept picturing him while she was wiring his car.
Id-i-ot .
So yes, she’d known Dylan Scott aka Deacon Sanders could be a potential weakness from the beginning, having ended up in his bed that same night, and had confirmed it a few months later.
Two and a half years earlier—Rio de Janeiro.
She’d finished up a job, guarding a government official and preventing a planned assassination attempt. A fairly easy job—she’d been well paid … and as a bonus, Dylan Scott was in town.
She’d told herself that wasn’t the reason she took the job, even though she’d known he was on an extended mission in the area, because he’d finally called her and they’d made plans to meet earlier.
“ Hey, it’s me,” she told him now when he answered. “I finished early—thought I’d meet you at the hotel. ”
“ Then you should hurry,” he told her, his voice tinged with an impatience that made her smile .
“ I’m a block away,” she told him, and then the explosion sounded in her ear and shook the street at the same time. She took off at a dead run, her heart plummeting .
When she arrived on the scene, she saw that the hotel she’d been headed toward—the one Dylan was staying in—was no more than a shell. Fire ripped through what was left of the structure, the steel beams exposed and folding under the intense heat .
Now the polícia were holding her .
“ Did you see … Where are the people?” She was aware she was yelling, half English, half Portuguese—the only way to be heard among the screams and sirens and other noises filling the disaster scene .
The polícia who held her shook his head, said roughly , “Não sobreviventes!”
No survivors .
She yanked away from the officer and he let her go, believing she wouldn’t launch herself in the direction of the building .
“Desculpa, lady,” he told her .
She was sorry too, stumbled away from the scene, her lungs burning from being so close to the burning building .
The only thing she could do was walk back to her own hotel in a numb fog of grief. Took the elevator, let herself into her room …
Found Dylan Scott sitting on her bed .
“ Jesus … Dylan,” she whispered, shut and locked the door behind her and made her way quickly toward him. “Was the bomb meant for you? ”
He laughed, an oddly hollow sound, accentuated by the hoarseness of his voice. It was then she noticed that he’d definitely been near the building when it blew, that it most likely had been a very close call for him. There was soot on his face and clothes—a larage scrape on his neck and another on his arm .
She pushed the hair out of his eyes as he spoke. “My mission’s complete. They needed to think I was dead. ”
“ And you couldn’t have warned me?” she demanded .
He took the phone from her hand and opened the back, pointed to the bug that had been placed there .
Dammit. Dammit to hell .
She’d learn quickly that this wasn’t the first instance of him dying—and that it wouldn’t be the last. But her reaction had been so completely visceral that it frightened her .
She’d been with him only once before. And even though she didn’t want to get attached, she couldn’t deny that she already was .
“ I wasn’t sure you’d care,” he admitted .
“ I don’t.” Of course, her retort was basically negated by the fact that she was already grabbing the back of his neck, her words nearly lost as she kissed him, a long breathless kiss intended to make him forget about anyone but her
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