Rogue Soldier (11 page)

Her fingers slipped through his short hair, down
to his wide shoulders, gliding over corded muscles that rose and disappeared like waves as he moved. He let go of the nipple, blew on it gently, then after a moment, when it was aching with the pain of needing to be touched, he claimed it again, tugging on it, suckling with force, scraping it with his teeth until she thought she would go mad.

And then he moved over to the other one.

Blood was rushing to the vee of her thighs where she felt swollen, wet and ready to burst.

Not yet, not yet. If he could control his body, then she could control hers. She would not be the first to capitulate.

She leaned back until she was lying down, needing to put a moment of distance between them so she could regroup. Not to happen. His burning gaze caressed her skin as effectively as the most skilled seducer's touch.

“You could kill a man,” he said.

She watched his chest rise and fall. “That's what we've been trained for.” She didn't want to talk about the army now.

“I meant with wanting.”

He moved his body until he was above her, suspended on his arms, lying between her legs.

He dipped his head and placed a row of kisses along her crooked collarbone first, then the straight
one. The gesture brought to mind the incident that had broken the bone, her wrestling match with the alligator the day her Special Forces career had ended before it began.

“Let it go,” he whispered into her neck, reading her mind.

She had to, because the next moment he was dragging his whiskers across her skin, enveloping her in a haze of lust. He'd just been pretending that she was dominating this encounter. He'd been fighting all along. And he wasn't fighting fair.

She lifted her hips and slid against his hardness, gratified at the sound of his breath catching in his throat. Not enough. She slipped her hands under his waistband and cupped his bare buttocks.

He answered by grinding himself into her, making it her turn to gasp for air.

When his lips returned to her breasts, she squirmed with need and squeezed a hand between her pelvis and his, and once he figured out what she was about, he allowed her more room, enough for the second hand.

She tried to make quick work of her pants, but her fingers kept fumbling. She undid the snaps and the zipper and tugged the edges open, but could not pull the things down. Mike's hands were lost in her hair and rather than wait for him to mirror her actions, she went to work on his clothes next.

When she loosened his pants, she pushed her hands under the fabric and shoved it off together with the boxer briefs, twisting, trying to align their bodies. Then the core of his heat sprang against her naked skin, rigid and swollen, and for a moment she froze as her body soaked in the sensation.

His head moved up until he could look into her eyes. She wasn't sure what he found there, but he moved away.

“No,” she reached for him weakly, as he came to stand at the end of the crate that was now covered with their clothing.

Her mouth went dry at the sight of his nakedness. She had forgotten how big he was, or rather, she had thought the memory was an exaggeration. He had a warrior's body, and hers had no trouble recalling the things it used to do to her. She felt a gush of wetness that came to prepare his entry, an entry he might yet very well refuse.

But he grabbed on to her ankles and pulled her down until her knees bent and her feet dangled over the side of the crate. Then his fingers crept up her inner thigh and tightened on her flesh as he took hold of her once again and pulled her further down, leaving her with her buttocks resting on the edge, her knees pushed up now, one warm large hand of his behind each of her trembling thighs, his fingers splayed wide.

His gaze held her spellbound then it slid down over her body, and he pushed her legs apart, opening her to him. The muscles in his face and shoulders shifted, but she could no longer feel embarrassed, nor could she summon her old will to fight.

What would she fight against?

He had mastered her body and she had mastered his. The proof was as stiff as carved granite between them, if she needed any proof of his wanting.

He came closer, until he was pushing against her sensitized bottom, but he did not angle himself to enter her, content instead with leaving their bodies pressed against each other. He moved his arms and supported her legs with his body, seeking for his fingers a new occupation.

He parted her flesh with his thumb, finding the core of her pleasure unerringly and resting his fingertip against it lightly. When she squirmed, he increased the pressure, then let up, then increased it again. She felt her juices seep from her body and arched her back, shameless as she sought her release.

He responded by changing the rhythm and switching from pressure to circling. That nearly did her in. She was trembling on the edge when he pulled back. She bit her lip. She had given herself to him fully. He would not make her beg. She would not, if it killed her.

He eased back and she missed the heat and
hardness of his body. Then she raised her heavy-lidded gaze to his face and realized he was no longer watching her, but was looking intently at the wall. And then she heard it, men talking on the other side. The storm had died down.

How long ago? Had she made any loud noises? Had the crew heard?

She let her feet slide down the side of the crate, her body pulsating with need and disappointment, grieving the absence of Mike's. She had to get ahold of herself and get dressed. He caught her knees and stepped between them, slowly shaking his head. He didn't have to tell her to be quiet.

This time he parted her with two fingers and allowed them to slide down after a brief tease. He stroked her lobes, outlining her opening, circling over and over again as a second finger joined the first and the two glided around her sensitized entrance that was wet with her welcome.

She could think of little else but his entering.

Soon. He had to. He was only human. He couldn't torture her endlessly. At one point his own body would need release more than he could hold back.

He brought her to the edge several times just to stop, one time going as far as opening her folds fully and bending to blow cold air on her innermost parts to cool them. She wondered if the last three years she
had spent by trying to replace him with other men, he had spent by planning his revenge.

Then he finally shifted again and pressed his hard tip against her wet core. She squirmed to hurry him, but he wouldn't have it, holding her hips in place, his fingers biting into her flesh. Slowly he pushed forward, opening her to him as he inserted the very tip, but only until the ridge was in, then stopped. The walls of her body closed around him, trying to pull him deeper, but he resisted. He wiggled, just a little, and she opened her mouth to gasp at the bone-melting pleasure of it, but he leaned forward swiftly and sealed her lips before she could make a sound.

She couldn't make any noise. She could not cry out, no matter what he did to her, or she would risk discovery by the men on the other side of the thin plank wall. She had to remember that.

He held her bottom lip between his teeth and rubbed his chest over her breasts, his silky hair teasing her nipples into hard points of need. He obliged them by rounding his back and closing a warm lip over one, reaching up with one hand to roll the other between his thumb and forefinger.

He pulled the part of him that she wanted the most at the moment, until the ridge cleared her opening, then eased it back again, sucking hard on her nipple
at the same time. And just as she felt her muscles quiver, getting ready to contract, he pulled up to standing, leaving her wet nipples hard in the cold air.

The Russians had some music on and were singing in their cabin. The blood was rushing in her ears so loudly, she could barely hear them. When had they started that party?

Mike's hands were on her hips. He was poised at her opening, waiting. Damn it, would he make her beg?

She was beyond pride. “Please.” She mouthed the word.

And still he didn't move. “Why?” He mouthed back, then bent to her ear. “To take your mind off being seasick?”

“Because I need you,” she whispered, stunned just how much of that raw need reflected in her voice.

“And?” He drew out the moment, bringing them face-to-face, his dark gaze looking to her soul.

“What more do you want from me?” She could not give more, didn't he understand? She could not give her heart.

He took a deep breath and the next moment he sank into her to the hilt.

He filled her to bursting, stretching her. Heat radiated from her core; waves of pleasure rippled through her body. Her fingers sought purchase on the crate as he took her like a man who meant the taking.

He mastered her with long slow strokes, grinding himself into her with each.

They were afloat on a rising wave, higher and higher, coming in with the tide. Then the wave crested, leaving her dizzy and spent, lying with her bones gone soft as pleasure licked at her shores.

He pulled her up and gathered her to him, his arms closing tight around her, his face buried in her hair. She could feel his heartbeat against her cheek, beating as madly as her own.

She felt spent, depleted, too much so to analyze what had happened between them, her brain still steeped in too much pleasure to consider regret or implications. She tightened her arms around him and let go any nudging worry, taking a few selfish moments to enjoy the way her body was still tingling from his.

His muscles went taut, and she almost laughed. No way. Not again. He couldn't possibly mean— Then she heard the noise, too, and stiffened in alarm. Footsteps vibrated the wood planks above them.

Mike swept her to the floor, pulling their clothes from the crate with his free hand just as the cargo hold hatch opened. She held her breath, grappling for clothes silently, then abandoning the effort. If it came to a fight, her nakedness might distract her opponent. It might give her a moment of advantage.

Mike handed her their only gun, crouching next
to her as bare-skinned as she was. Lord, they made a pair. A smile stretched her lips. He looked at her and grinned back, gave a what-can-you-do shrug.

She couldn't see the stairs from where they were, way in the back, but she could hear boots stomp on wood as someone came down.

 

W
HERE THE HELL
was Brady? He was supposed to check in by now. His cell phone was set on voice mail. It didn't look like he'd been checking it. The Boss slammed the receiver down. He had already left three messages.

The last time he had talked to Brady, the man was going to take care of their little problem. Didn't look like that worked out. At this point the odds were that Brady had failed.

Damn Mike McNair. Why couldn't he pick up his girlfriend, take her back to the nearest hotel room and screw her brains out? Where the hell did they get off, deciding they were on a mission to save the world?

Somebody had to teach those two to mind their own business. He was just the man to do it.

All he had to do was find them.

It was too much to hope that Brady took them out on the ice fields and the reason he hadn't reported back was because polar bears ate all three of them. Brady's loss would be a bonus, if indeed that was
how things had gone down. He would have had to take care of the man, anyway. He'd been a decent enough partner, but leaving loose ends was never a smart thing to do. If Mike, or a disgruntled polar bear, took care of Brady, so much the better.

The warheads were out of the U.S. He was as good as in Belize. He would see to the safe delivery of the goods then go to the sunshine that awaited him a couple of thousand miles to the south.

Finding Mike and Tessa shouldn't be too hard. If they were alive they would be following the transport. Which meant, all he had to do was wait. Sooner or later they would come to him.

Tessa held her breath as the man came down the steps and stopped. One person only, judging by the sound.

She stayed absolutely still, gripping the gun, hidden behind rows and rows of crates. They should be okay. He might go the other way, in any case.

He didn't.

Her muscles stiffened in alarm as his boots scraped the wood nearer and nearer. It wasn't that they couldn't handle the man between the two of them, but if they took out this one, complications would quickly follow.

She relaxed her shoulders then her entire body, keeping her muscles ready to move if she had to lunge at him and take him down. Mike had his knife. She gripped Brady's gun, although shooting the man would be their last resort.

If they shot him, the others would hear, then Mike
and she wouldn't have any other choice but to take over the whole boat. Without the original crew, they would have to bring the boat to port themselves. And then how would they explain that to the port authorities when they docked?

They had to remain hidden.

The man came closer, no more than a row or two of crates between them now, close enough that the light of his lamp reached them. He stopped. Maybe he was looking for something. She hoped he would find it and wouldn't need to come any farther.

If he did, if he saw them, their best bet was the knife. They would have to take him quietly and hope his buddies didn't notice he was missing until after they reached port. Not much chance of that on a boat this size.

Why the hell did he have to come now?

The man was moving around, setting her nerves on edge with anticipation. She stared at the gap between the crates where he would be coming through if he decided to head this way.

Mike shifted silently next to her and put a hand on her knee. He could probably feel her body vibrate. She took a slow breath as he squeezed gently, allowing the warmth and strength of his fingers to relax her. He was trying to tell her that she wasn't alone in this mess, that they would be all right.

She nodded without looking at him, not daring to take her eyes off the gap between the rows.

He was coming.

Mike and she pulled back simultaneously into the narrow spot between their crate and the wall. Their bunched-up clothes lay at their feet. She glanced around. Nothing hung out. They were still okay, as long as the man didn't decide to look behind their crate.

The air still carried the scent of their lovemaking she realized and felt a moment of panic. Could he smell them?

His feet sounded heavier on the wood, as if he were carrying something. He was, the loud thump of some kind of box being dropped onto their crate confirmed it. He walked back, brought over the lamp.

For sure he would see them now. Tessa crouched as low to the ground as she could, trying to melt into the floor and, at the same time, maintain a position from which she could come up swiftly, take the man before he could get out a warning shout to his friends.

He grunted instead, and wood creaked. He was working on opening the box.

Seconds flew by, then minutes. Dust floated through the air, but she didn't dare sneeze. She didn't dare reach up to pinch the bridge of her nose, either, a trick to make the urge pass. The slightest movement might give them away.

They waited, frozen as motionless as two ice carvings until the man finally picked up his lamp and walked away. They didn't get up until the hatch door rattled closed behind him.

“What is it?” she whispered, feeling around in the box the man had left open. Her fingers closed around a small can.

Some time passed before their eyes got used to the darkness again and they could make out the label.

“Ravioli,” Mike said, and set a can on the crate to jab his knife into it.

The wind and waves picked up again outside, enough to mask the sound as he opened the can. She dressed, then took the food when he offered it, but she couldn't eat. The smell of tomato sauce mixing with the musky smells of the cargo hold was too much for her already-unhappy stomach. It roiled again, and she handed back the can.

“No, thanks.”

He nodded and made quick work of the rest of the ravioli once he was done putting on his clothes. She looked away. Even the sound of his swallowing bothered her.

She'd been fine while they'd been making love, her attention thoroughly diverted, and again as they'd crouched behind the crate ready to attack, with her mind focused on the danger and forgetting her body.
Now she noticed the sway of the ship again, and the sensation weakened her knees.

“How much longer?”

He shook his head. “Can't be long now,” he said, and put down the can to fold his arms around her.

They stayed that way for what seemed years before a rush of activity above deck told them they were finally coming to port.

 

T
HEY WERE IN
U
ELEN
.

Mike waited in a crouch behind a pile of smaller crates beneath the stairs, Tessa to his right. He focused on the sounds above: men moving around and talking, feet shuffling on wood. But while his brain was tuned to their mission, his body was tuned to Tessa, aware of her nearness, still buzzing with the amazing lovemaking they had shared.

She'd been worth the wait, not that he was foolish enough to believe that she would come around now to accept that there was no man for her but him, just as for him there could be no other woman. She had given her body, but she wasn't ready yet to give her heart. That he had to win back still or spend his life trying.

The boat rocked slightly as the men tied it to the wharf. Footsteps scraped the deck, coming toward the hatch door above them. One man only. With luck,
he would go to the back, and they would be out of here and off the ship before anyone noticed. In case the man came snooping in their direction, Mike had the gun ready. A well delivered blow to the head should give them enough time to get away.

The door rattled, and he readied himself, but instead of the hatch opening and feet appearing on the stairs, he heard the distinct click of metal above. The footsteps faded away.

They waited and listened. The only sounds now were the waves gently lapping against the hull and the occasional bump of the boat against the dock.

“What happened?” Tessa whispered after a few minutes.

“I think they left the unloading to the morning.” He stood and walked over to the stairs, stepped up enough so that he could reach the door above him, pushed against it carefully at first, then with more force. It didn't budge more than an inch.

“Padlocked,” he said. “They must have locked up the ship against thieves.”

“Can you shoot off the lock?” She had come up behind him.

“I could, but there must be some port authority around. It's one of the nearest Russian ports to the U.S. I'm guessing it's guarded, especially at night. We shouldn't make any more noise than we have to.”

“We can't wait. Can we break over to the crew's cabin?”

“If they locked this door, they would have locked that one, too.”

She stepped away from him toward the wall. It was too dark to see her once she moved a couple of feet away, but he could hear her moving around.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for a window.”

Of course. He went to do the same, scanning the wall, feeling for any opening. And then he found it. “Here.”

The porthole was on the starboard side, disappointing in both its location and size. No way his shoulders could squeeze through that. “Anything over there?”

“Nothing.” Tessa was coming to his side. “This is it.”

“Too small,” he said.

She fiddled with the latch and opened it. The cold sea air rushed in to hit them in the face. “Not for me.”

“I'm not letting you go alone.” Over his dead body.

“I can climb up to the deck and open the hatch for you.”

“Do you know how cold this water is?”

“I don't need to know. I don't plan on falling.”

“Mmph.”

“You have to trust me.”

“I do.”

“Then give me a hand up.” She stripped off her parka.

And in a moment of insanity he helped her out, regretting it as soon as she caught on to the railing and he saw her feet dangle outside the window for a long soul-freezing moment before she swung up to relative safety. He followed her movements by the sound of her boots on the deck, picturing where she was, what she was doing. He stood under the hatch door when she got over there, waited patiently while she fiddled with the lock.

“It's not going to work,” she whispered down the crack. “I'm going to see if I can find a crowbar.”

“Good idea,” he said, and felt the boat sway slightly as she pushed away to jump to the dock.

No! Damn it. She was
not
supposed to leave the boat. What was wrong with looking for a crowbar right here? He went up the steps and heaved against the door with newfound strength. What on earth was she thinking?

You have to trust me,
she had said. He was pretty sure the white-knuckled terror he was experiencing at the moment didn't qualify as trust, exactly. He took a deep breath, then another. She'd had some of the same training as he had. Nobody in their right mind would call Tessa Nielsen a defenseless woman.

Still, he couldn't sit still doing nothing. He went back and found the empty ravioli can, emptied his bursting bladder into it then stashed the can in a corner. Much relieved after that, he walked from crate to crate, prying the tops open, looking for any tool that would aid his escape. The first crate he tried contained more canned food; the second, boxes of laundry detergent. Looked like the fishermen didn't waste their involuntary visit to Nome and packed up whatever they could trade well back home.

Except, port authority and customs would never let them bring in this quantity of goods. The thought stilled his hands. The men must have planned on getting their loot off the boat before morning inspection. Which meant they'd probably gone off to get a truck or some other form of transportation. And they could be back any minute.

As if to confirm his worst fears, boots thumped onto the deck, footsteps coming straight for the hatch. He moved as close as he could while still staying in cover.

Metal clinked on metal, wood creaked above, followed by a loud pop, then the next second the door flipped open. He sat on his haunches, ready to pounce on whoever came down those stairs. Mukluks came first, hardly distinguishable.

“Mike,” the intruder whispered into the darkness.

He relaxed. “I'm here.” He stepped from behind the crates and locked her in a bear hug.

“All right, now. Don't get all mushy on me.” She punched him in the shoulder when he let her go. She shrugged into her parka. “We better haul ass.”

Apparently, they hadn't been fast enough.

They met the returning crew as soon as they came up from the cargo hold. The men were in the process of boarding the boat, the surprise about equal on each side.

He stepped back immediately and Tessa followed, backing down the stairs. He made a motion with his hand in front of his mouth, signaling her to be quiet. Under no circumstances could they let on that they were American.

It would make a world of a difference afterward what the crew reported to the authorities—two thieves from the village, or two stowaway American spies. They might not even bother to report thieves, especially if they realized nothing was missing, that they had been in time to prevent being robbed.

They came down, four big men, swearing in Russian, their voices menacing but kept low. They didn't seem to want the attention of the port authority, either. They probably thought the four of them were more than enough to fend off a pair of starved thieves from the village.

Mike had the first one knocked out and on the ground the second he'd cleared the stairs. That made the rest more wary. They kept shoulder to shoulder as they backed away to give themselves enough room to maneuver.

 

T
HEY WERE TALKING
in Russian, scolding, Tessa thought, not understanding the words. Their gestures looked threatening, as if they were trying to shoo the thieves up the stairs and off the ship. Apparently, their confidence in whupping the opposition had fallen with their unfortunate comrade.

She glanced at Mike, and he shook his head.

He was right. They couldn't go. They had to make sure the men wouldn't sound the alarm. Things were bad enough already, they couldn't risk further delay.

She squared her shoulders and caught the gun Mike tossed her. He opened the switchblade and set his feet apart, bent at the knees.

The men backed off farther, quiet now. They were unarmed.

And unwilling to give up their loot.

The largest of them rushed Mike, knocking him into the wall.

The other two, realizing she was reluctant to use her gun, came after her.

Man, oh, man. She really didn't want to have to
hurt them. They weren't what she'd been trained to fight, terrorists or enemy combatants. They were just fishermen, their families waiting for them at home. Even if she could have used her weapon without attracting the attention of the port guards, she would have had a hell of a time justifying killing these men. They'd done nothing to deserve being shot, their only misfortune being that their boat had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She fought back with all she had.

Wearing a fur parka was no advantage in hand-to-hand combat, limiting her range of motion. On the other hand, it did soften the blows that came at her with disconcerting regularity from two sides. Unfortunately, it softened her impact as well. Elbowing one of the men in the stomach didn't even faze him. With all the padding on her, it probably felt as if she'd hit him with a pillow.

She tucked her gun away and put all her focus into pushing her attackers into retreat. As long as she was merely defending herself, they had the upper hand. She had to turn that around, to take out one then the other. From the corner of her eye she could see Mike rolling on the floor with the third man.