Code Name Desire (13 page)

“Yes.”

“So look into my eyes, Teague. Read what’s in
my heart.” Her voice broke.

Hope opened his expression as he sat. “Say
it, Jaeda.”

“I love you.”

He leaned close and tenderly kissed her. “Say
it again.”

“I love you, Teague.” She didn’t have to move
much to press her lips to his. Relaxing against the pillows, she
said, “You won my heart last night. I was so afraid you would see
it. Afraid that if you did, I’d scare you away.”

“Because of the mission?”

She shook her head. “Because of my heart.”
Gulping, she dragged her gaze from his. “What did you mean
downstairs when you said the director mentioned six months, but
that we’ll see?”

He tipped her chin, making her look at him.
“I meant we could make this six months…or we could make this
forever.”

Forever.
Her heart raced and all the
loneliness of the past seven years disintegrated into nothingness.
Forever with Teague Jameson – financial genius, gorgeous man, and
her personal hero.

“In that case,” she said, “you’d better kiss
me properly.

The End

Coming Soon

MAKING THE MARK

Chapter One

Cassie Granger groaned when her PDA warbled.
The ring tone told her she received an email from headquarters.
Setting her champagne flute next to her plate, she scooted her
chair and made excuses to the bridesmaids seated to her left.

On a private terrace at the rear of the
reception hall, she accessed her inbox and opened an attachment
from her contact. A virtual file folder marked
Top Secret
opened to reveal an assignment sheet. It appeared typical. A man
named Damon Vuiller in the French government was suspected of
selling secrets to China.

Secrets. Could they be more vague? Whatever
the guy sold had to involve the United States or they wouldn’t
involve her. She shook her head and turned the page.

Damon Vuiller lived in Paris, worked for the
French prime minister at his residence and offices inside the Hôtel
Matignon in the Vlle arrondissement, and specialized in diplomacy
and protocol. He lived alone in a townhouse he owned, had never
married, and surveillance reported he had not dated in over six
months.

Six months? She glanced at the quick stats.
Six feet, three inches tall, black hair, blue eyes, thirty-four
years old, family background unremarkable, and education finishing
at a master’s degree.

Okay, so the guy wasn’t stupid, had a great
job, and owned his own place. Six months? No dates and no sex in
six months? She hesitated to turn the page, which held an image
flag.

Her last three targets had been hard on the
eyes. Pock marked skin, wrinkles, no chin, overweight – she’d seen
it all. And two of them required that she pleasure them before they
gave up their secrets. For her country, it was worth it. But she’d
paid her dues. She wanted a pleasant assignment.

With a sigh, she turned the page. Her lungs
seized, causing her to hiccough. The man was beyond handsome. He
was beautiful.

Her heartbeat pulsing in her throat, she
flipped through the various images. Damon crossing a street, a pale
blue button-down taut across his chest as he looked over his
shoulder. Damon coming out of his townhouse, a smile brightening
his features while he talked on a cell phone. Damon at a meal with
the French prime minister, their heads close in conversation. Damon
in a park, wearing blue jeans and a dark green T-shirt that showed
his broad shoulders, trim waist and tight rear end to
perfection.

How in the world had the women in the city of
love let the likes of this man go six months without a bed
partner?

Cassie gulped. Merely gazing at the pictures
turned her on. What would the man in the flesh do to her? Now she
almost wished he had less appeal. Almost.

In many ways, less attractive men presented
easier marks. They succumbed to her charm quickly, enjoyed her
compliments, and responded well to her manipulation. Somehow, she
suspected Damon would not. She would have to work hard on this
mission. She smiled, hoping so. She loved a challenge. She would be
her own main obstacle, if her reaction to the pictures showed any
indication.

“There you are,” said Jaeda.

Before turning, Cassie checked her agenda.
Her flight left in three hours.
Gee, thanks, guys.
She
closed the email.

“Hey, blushing bride. Did you come to get
some fresh air, too?” She took a deep breath and realized for the
first time how sweet England’s spring air smelled. As she tugged at
her salmon chiffon gown, a pollen-scented breeze swept across the
terrace.

“No. It’s time for the toasts. Come tell
pretty lies about me.”

Cassie laughed, following through a French
door into the wedding reception. A caterer in a white chef’s jacket
pushed a stunning cake of enormous proportion toward the center of
the tables.

Cassie grasped her best friend’s hand.
“Jaeda, I’m sorry to do this but I’m going to have to leave your
wedding right after the toasts.”

The bride beamed, seemingly unable to see any
darkness on her happiest day. “I’m just glad they left you alone
long enough to be my maid of honor. Now, come make everyone cry
then go save the free world.”

Cassie trailed Jaeda to the head table then
lifted her glass of champagne. “A toast! To the bride.”

The guests quieted and every eye turned her
way.

She stood straighter, enjoying the attention.
“To the lovely bride, Jaeda Jameson. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t
it?”

An appreciative round of chuckles rewarded
her.

“Jaeda has been my best friend and kindred
spirit for years. She’s gorgeous, brilliant, accomplished, and many
more wonderful things too numerous to list. I always thought if she
ever decided to marry, she’d have to settle for a man who didn’t
deserve her, because who could? Right? Well, I was wrong. Jaeda has
found her equal in Teague.”

Cassie turned and addressed the couple. “What
an amazing pair you make. And heaven help us when your children are
grown, because they’re going to take the world by storm with their
good looks and extraordinary intelligence.”

Laughing agreement echoed around the
room.

She held her flute high. “To the bride!”

“To the bride!” cried the guests, raising
their glasses. Everyone drank.

Cassie returned to her seat. The best man
stood and made his speech. Staring at him, she didn’t hear a word.
She couldn’t hear anything past the roar of rushing blood in her
ears. Rubbing her hands together under the table, she tried to
remember the last time she’d experienced such excitement for a
mission. She hadn't used her French in ages, and on this job, she’d
speak nothing but French. A great refresher.

At her earliest opportunity, she made a
graceful escape. She practically ran to her rented convertible.
Taking advantage of the sunny afternoon, a treat in London, she put
down the top, kicked off her strappy heels, and removed the clip
holding her curls atop her head.

“Woo-hoo!” she yelled with glee, pulling into
traffic and thrusting a hand into the air. Damon would make one
heck of a notch in her lipstick case.

* * * *

“You know I can’t leave right now, Dad. I’m
in the middle of an important project.” Damon placed his palm over
the phone's receiver and mouthed
one minute
to his
secretary.

“I know, Damon, but we have you in France so
rarely. And you’re in Paris. It’s not natural to stay away from
your family when we’re only twenty minutes away. Your mother and I
are proud of you, and your sister misses you. Spare us one
weekend.”

Brigette scowled and tapped her appointment
book.

“Dad, I have to go.”

“Promise you’ll come this weekend. Bring a
date. We don’t mind. You can stay in the guesthouse. Your mother
redecorated it.”

A date. Now there was a complication he
didn’t need. “I can’t talk about this right now.”

“Damon, don’t put me off. Promise you’ll
come.”

He respected his father more than any man in
the world, and he would rather face torture than treat him rudely.
If he didn’t agree, he’d have to hang up on him, and that simply
wasn’t going to happen.

“Fine,” he said, eyeing the group of suited
men forming outside his office door. Brigette sent him a panicked
glare.

“Good. Your mother wants you here Friday at
seven o’clock for a family dinner.”

Damon rolled his eyes. “See you then.”

After his meeting with the economists, he put
the finishing touches on the prime minister’s press package and
followed his secretary out. He didn’t like keeping Brigette late
since she had a husband and two children to care for in the
evening. So rather than inviting her to come to the bar, he said
goodnight and went alone.

The usual group occupied the usual table.
They drank the usual wine and beer, and he suspected they made the
usual conversation. He liked the predictability, and regularly used
their jovial company to shed a day’s irritations.

Damon signaled to the bartender. “I’ll have
two shots of tequila.”

“Tough day?”

“I had to promise my father I would spend the
weekend at the vineyard.”

“Ah. Papa’s using the guilt, is he?” He
pushed two small glasses of clear liquid across the counter.

Damon slapped a bill on the bar. “Keep the
change.”

The bartender glanced past Damon’s shoulder
and jutted his chin. “Looks like you’ve got an admirer.”

He didn’t bother to look. If he had to turn
down another bold proposition from a twenty-one year old built like
a boy, he’d have to get seriously squiffed. He went to his friend’s
table.

“Going for the hard liquor, Vuiller. Must be
a woman,” said his friend.

“Nonsense, Gerard. Maybe if you’d prepared
tomorrow’s press package, you’d be the one downing these shots
instead of me.”

His friend laughed. “Just because I work in
the same department and have an office next to yours doesn’t mean I
can do what you do.”

“Slacker.”

The table roared approval, and Damon put back
one of the shots. Fire scorched his throat and blazed a burn across
his eyes. Squeezing his lids closed to prevent tears, he exhaled
sharply. The pain subsided too soon.

He thought about downing the second shot to
renew the agony. For that brief moment, it overshadowed the ache of
going home to an empty townhouse. Seeing his family and sharing in
the embrace of their warm love would only make the reality of his
loneliness that much more bleak in the weeks to follow.

His mother kept hinting that he should find a
woman. Settle down. But he couldn’t bring someone into his life.
That would be cruel.

Gerard gave him a nudge. “I think she’s hot
for your body. She’s really devouring you with her eyes.”

“You’re so damned French. Whatever,” Damon
murmured, staring at his second tequila.

“That’s a compliment. And here she comes,”
said one of Gerard’s friends with a smug grin. “She’s going to jump
in your lap.”

Exactly what he didn’t need.

She didn’t stop, though. She sauntered past,
leaving a hint of a fine, soft perfume in her wake.

Sitting straighter, Damon caught a glance of
gold, three-inch heeled sandals. One foot in front of the other,
she walked like a model.

Her trim ankles led to muscular, shapely
calves. He tried to look away but couldn’t. Her legs tapered in at
the knees then flared gently as her thighs brought his gaze to the
hem of her dark red dress.

It hugged the generous swell of her hips only
to cinch at her narrow waist without any help. The fabric fitted
her form as if the garment had been made for her.

Her hair fell straight down her delicate
back. Brown? No, it seemed kissed with gold as she passed candles
at nearby tables.

The dress stopped at skin-tight cap sleeves
that gripped the rounds of her shoulders. Her bare arms glowed in
the low light, and when she switched her gold clutch purse from one
hand to another, muscles bunched then relaxed.

The woman was in great shape. No boyish
figure there.

Before she entered the lady’s room, she
stopped. Damon sat transfixed as she showed him her profile then
cut a turquoise glance at him. When she disappeared inside, she
released him from her spell.

“God bless me,” said Gerard in a tight
voice.

“I think I came in my pants,” said Gerard’s
friend, staring at his crotch.

Damon gave his other shot a second thought.
“You know what, gentlemen? It’s late. I’m going to head home.”

Gerard’s jaw fell. “Have you lost your mind?
It’s only eight o’clock. And she’s going to come out of there and
be yours for the having. Good God, man.”

“Sorry.” Damon stood, unable to leave fast
enough.

“Hey, if you don’t want her, you won’t mind
if I let her have her way with me?”

“Enjoy.”

About the Author

Laura Kitchell lives in Virginia with her
husband, daughter, and their spunky, affectionate, black Labrador
retriever. She was published for the first time in 2007, and became
a member of the Quality Novelists Coalition in 2013. She is a
member of Romance Writers of America and Chesapeake Romance
Writers. Contact her at [email protected], and visit her
website at
www.laurakitchell.vpweb.com
.
You can also follow her on Facebook at
[email protected].