Hot Intent (Hqn) (7 page)

“Lemme think,” she drawled. “More time to spoil their adorable only grandchild rotten? Gee. I don’t know.”

Alex smiled briefly, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. He had some inkling of who’d taken that shot at her and why. What about that had him so freaked out? Enough to give in and let her come to Cuba with him? Was it really going to be safer for her in a hostile country where being caught meant arrest or even possible death?

Wow. Not reassuring.

CHAPTER FOUR

A
LEX
LEANED
BACK
in his uncomfortable airplane seat and pretended to sleep. Why hadn’t CIA satellites picked up anything
at all
on the shooter at his condo yesterday? He’d been on the phone no more than two minutes after the shooting and André had promised the agency would take a look at its live security telemetry of the nation’s capital.

The day had been sunny and clear. They should have seen
something.
A car, a figure moving away from the area on foot, a flash off a gun scope, anything. He’d given André detailed descriptions of all three of the perches a sniper could possibly use to hit that planter on his terrace. How hard could it have been to check out three lousy hides?

His gut churned alarmingly. Something was wrong. What wasn’t André telling him? His instincts warned that the agency’s analysts had seen something but elected not to share it with him. What? And why were they hiding it from him?

And now they were sending him to Cuba, a known swarm of Russian intelligence activity, on a flimsy excuse.
Why?
What did they think Peter was up to? Or were they just using his father’s name as a hot button to get Alex to jump into Cuba?

André had been cagey when he pushed his boss for details. Fortinay had flatly refused to divulge why he and Katie specifically had to go to Cuba and what exactly they were supposed to be looking for when they got there. No way was this a random aid mission. The CIA was up to something. But André steadfastly avoided revealing even a hint of what was up.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, Alex really didn’t like the fact that D.U. was determined to send Katie with him. He’d tried to talk André out of it, but had failed spectacularly. He got that they wanted someone watching him, but he resented the idea that they thought they could use his civilian girlfriend that way.

This whole business of being a good guy, of playing along with their damned rules, was starting to grate on his nerves. He was half tempted to go back to the good old days when everybody hated him and he lived on the edge, tiptoeing between his enemies to stay alive.

Katie’s head landed lightly on his shoulder and he shifted to make it into a more comfortable pillow for her. She gave him a purpose in life, but God, the cost of being with her and Dawn was daunting at times. He so wasn’t an inside-the-box kind of guy.

And it wasn’t as if he had any right to ask her to live outside the box with him in his shadow world. If Dawn weren’t in the picture, maybe he would ask it of her. But the two of them had committed to raising the orphaned child, and he wasn’t about to back out of that commitment any more than Katie was.

It was hard enough for him to straddle the world of espionage and the bright, shiny world where people fell in love and had families, and he had a lifetime’s experience doing it. No way could Katie handle both. If only he could offer her and Dawn some kind of security for the long term.

Miami International Airport was as huge and chaotic as he remembered it. The plan was to wait out Hurricane Giselle in Florida, and then make their way to Cuba after it passed. André’s contact in Cuba had flatly refused to let Alex bring any of his own equipment or supplies into the country.

The unnamed Cuban had apparently assured D.U. that plenty of emergency medical supplies were in place on the island.
Riiight.
Alex smelled a whole bunch of meatball medicine under horrendous conditions forthcoming.

He glanced over at Katie, who smiled excitedly at him, and he just shook his head. The girl had an adventurous streak a mile wide. It had gotten her in trouble before, and he had no doubt it would get her in trouble again. He was beginning to suspect it would turn out to be his fate in life to protect her from herself.

They collected their bags and found a shuttle to take them to their hotel. He had to give D.U. credit for springing for upscale lodgings. Most of the time, D.U. staffers lived in miserable field conditions—crude tents with no running water or electricity among refugees and the destitute, treating injuries and disease under grueling pressure. He had faith Cuba wouldn’t be any better when they got there in the aftermath of a major hurricane.

Speaking of which, the sky overhead looked ominous. By the time they reached the hotel, the first fat drops of rain were starting to fall and the wind was picking up. Miami was forecast to get hit by peripheral rain bands but not much more.

They checked into their room with no trouble. He was amused that André had booked them one room with a king-size bed. Keeping the watcher and the watched close, much?

“How bad is the weather supposed to get here?” Katie asked as rain pounded at the big windows.

He flipped on the TV to check the latest updates. The weather channels were still showing a direct hit on Cuba. Giselle, a small but strong category-four storm and intensifying, was expected to run, literally, the length of the island. “Nothing to write home about here in Miami. But Cuba’s going to get clobbered.”

“Where will D.U. send us?”

“East end of the island. The mountains down its spine will weaken the storm significantly, and the west end won’t get hit nearly as bad.”

“So, the category five will be down to a measly category three or so when it hits Havana?” she asked wryly.

He shrugged. “They’re used to hurricanes. Havana will be fine. It’s the poor, isolated villages in the east that will be in trouble.”

“Have you ever been to Cuba?” she asked curiously.

“Not on our list of approved conversation topics,” he replied shortly.

“We still have one of those?” she asked in dismay.

“You thought having sex with me entitled you to all of my secrets?”

“Well, yes.” She looked crestfallen.

He grinned and shook his head. “I swear. You’re such a newb.”

“If you won’t tell me all, then can we at least have sex?” she asked hopefully.

His grin widened. God, she was good for his soul. He took a step toward her, but his phone rang, and he swore under his breath.

“Alex Peters,” he snapped.

“Am I disturbing you?”

His father’s unwelcome voice startled him, and he replied tersely, “What do you want?”

“I hear you’re taking a little trip. Is there anything I can do for you while you’re there? I have a few contacts who might prove useful.”

Alex’s jaw dropped. How in the
hell
did Peter know about their secret trip to Cuba? Obviously not so secret a trip, dammit.

Christ. Who else knew about their supposedly secret infiltration onto the island? How dangerous was this trip to Cuba going to be, after all? He glanced over at Katie in alarm. And she was out here in the line of fire with him. On the one hand, he was glad to have her close by where he could personally ensure her safety. But on the other hand, he’d promised her she’d never be in life-threatening danger again if he could help it.

Yeah, he’d bet his Russian spy father had plenty of contacts in flipping Cuba.

Why did the man feel obliged to let his son know that he was aware of this planned junket? What was his father’s ploy? Was Peter worried about Alex’s safety and genuinely warning him that his mission was on the Russians’ radar? Or was the man putting him on notice that his every move would be watched? Or was it merely part of their long-standing pissing contest to show that FSB intelligence sources were better than the CIA’s?

It was always like this with his father: circles within circles. Meanings hidden below layer upon layer of meaning. Sometimes, Alex got so damned tired of it all. Maybe that was why Katie’s directness appealed to him so strongly.

Peter. How to answer Peter?
He forced his mind back to the sparring at hand. His father had asked if there was anything he could do to help. Alex replied, “Actually, there is something you can do for me. I’m going to need medical supplies when I get there. Nothing fancy. Sterile needles and syringes. Clean surgical implements and antibiotics. Maybe an X-ray machine.”

“It will be waiting for you when you get to Baracoa.”

The air rushed out of Alex’s gut like he’d been punched. How on earth did his father know exactly where in Cuba he was going? Alex himself didn’t know where he was being sent yet.

Did Peter’s mole at D.U. figure it out, or worse, did the information come from the Cuban government? Either way, it was a stunning display of intelligence power. Russia might be a fading empire, but its legendary spy service wasn’t dead yet.

Not that it mattered at the end of the day. He and Katie would go where they were sent, treat the sick and injured until the two of them dropped from exhaustion, discover what was being smuggled and go home. He would do the job they’d asked of him, but that was it. He was damned well keeping his nose out of any other CIA
or
FSB business while he was in Cuba. He ended the call abruptly and jammed his phone in his pocket.

To hell with them all.
He closed the distance between him and Katie.

*

K
ATIE
STOOD
BACK
from the steamy mirror to inspect herself. Nobody would know she’d just screwed the living daylights out of her boyfriend...she hoped. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes sparkling, but that could be put down to good health and excitement over the trip to come, right?

The water cut off in the shower. “Could you pass me a towel?” Alex asked.

She handed a dry towel into his outstretched hand with its long, strong fingers and dark tan. She would have expected a surgeon of his skill to have more...feminine...hands. Softer. His were anything but. They were more what she would expect of a trained killer. He even had the telltale callus at the base of his right thumb to indicate that he shot handguns. A lot. He’d developed that in the past year.

Her dad and brothers had the same shooting callus. She certainly knew how to handle a pistol—it was impossible to grow up in the McCloud house without knowing how—but she kept meaning to ask Alex to show her how to use a rifle one of these days. More specifically, a sniper rifle.

She tugged her sexy little T-shirt down to the top of her snug jeans. She might not be a doctor, but she knew how to fill out a pair of designer denims. And she could handle herself in a crisis. Compliments of more of her McCloud upbringing.

She took a quick look at the TV. The hurricane was wrapping tighter, intensifying its energy into a tight knot of monstrous strength. Its outer bands were lashing the east tip of Cuba now. By tomorrow morning, the island would be ground zero for the core of the storm. It was morbidly fascinating to wonder just how powerful the winds would get and how bad the damage would turn out to be.

“Ready?” Alex asked from behind her.

“Yup. I’m starving.”

“Vigorous sex has that effect on me, too. Although I have to say you didn’t do all that much work. Next time, you can do the heavy lifting and pleasure me while I sit back and relax.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and he dropped a kiss on the end of her nose. “And she thinks I’m kidding,” he murmured.

“I don’t for a second think you’re kidding. I look forward to having you at my mercy.”

That sent his right eyebrow into an arch and a speculative gleam into his silver gaze. Hah. She dared him to taste his supper now. Not that she was going taste any of hers, either.

His hand landed in the small of her back in the protective, possessive way that never failed to turn her on. Oh, so that’s how tonight was going to be, huh?

She leaned into him in the elevator, pressing her breast lightly against his arm as another couple entered the small space. He didn’t glance down at her, but a faint smirk curved his lips.

He asked for a corner table in the darkest part of the hotel’s restaurant. Pleased to see the long linen tablecloths, she immediately kicked off her heels and planted her bare foot in his lap. While she massaged his groin with her toes, he massaged her calf under the table until she was all but groaning in pleasure.

He murmured over their entrées, “So tell me, Katie. What naughty fantasy is rattling around in your head wishing to become real?”

Her steak knife fell to her plate with a loud crash as it slipped out of her fingers. Embarrassed, she picked it up and risked a peek at Alex. The smirk was firmly in place again.

Her gaze narrowed. “I rather like the idea of you on your knees. Maybe even with your hands tied behind your back.”

“And then what?” His eyes glittered like shards of broken mirror.

“I would...present...various body parts for you to...”

“Make love to with my mouth?”

“Exactly.”

“And if I do this for you? What will you do for me in return? Sex is, at its core, a trade, after all.”

She leaned back against the banquette. “That’s where you and I differ. For me, sex is a gift. Something I give freely to you. I don’t necessarily expect anything back in return. Of course, I generally do get plenty back. But it’s not like I think to myself, ‘Okay, if I give Alex
x
amount of pleasure, then he owes me
y
amount back.’”

He asked, amused, “Are you implying that I’m a selfish male?”

“I’m just saying your mind-set is different than mine. I don’t know if all men treat sex the same way you do or not.” She shrugged. “Frankly, you treat everything as a bargain, not just sex.”

“Do I, now?”

Interestingly enough, he didn’t seem offended. Thoughtful, maybe, but not angry. They finished the meal, and Alex ordered chocolate mousse for her without having to ask if she wanted any or not. The creamy dessert was, bar none, her favorite food on earth.

He let her get well into the mousse before he commented, “Sex has always been a transaction for me. I pay a prostitute, she gives me what I want.”

Katie waved her spoon at him. “You don’t want them to like it, do you? You go out of your way to make sure they don’t enjoy themselves.” Alex arched an eyebrow at her in mild warning that she was treading on dangerous ground. But she’d had one glass of wine too many to heed his eyebrow. “I think you’re taking out your anger over your mother’s abandonment on those prostitutes.”