Kenney, Laina - Overexposed [DIG Security 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (2 page)

Chapter 2

Locke straightened to his full height of six two and frowned at his boss. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He looked down at the coffee cup in his hand in disgust. Hell, he hadn’t even finished lunch yet, and the day was already circling the bowl.

“No. No way. I’m not a goddamned babysitter, Grange. Not qualified, not interested. Teenagers give me hives. I’m not capable of being polite to some spoiled little girl for hours on end.”

In all honesty, he probably couldn’t manage to be polite for five minutes, but he wasn’t sure he should admit that to his boss. He liked having a job and a paycheck.

Locke ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Isn’t anyone else available to meet the damn plane?”

“The girl is a student studying for a theatre degree. She’s not some teenager. This is Conn’s niece, and it’s a security matter. You know he’d meet her himself, but he’s testifying in court this afternoon, and he’s been in Agent Morse’s hospital room all night every night. He’s got enough on his plate right now.

“You’ve worked on Conn’s team many times. Conn requested you for this assignment and said you’re to identify yourself to her using his name. There’s no good cause to refuse.” Grange’s tone was so reasonable that Locke wanted to punch him.

Locke could tell he was in a losing battle, but it just wasn’t in him to give up.

“Grange, you know I don’t wear easy on women. I don’t understand them, never did, never will. I’m not a smooth talker, and I couldn’t care less about the price of a good suit. Women like wine and roses. I like beer and bar fights.”

He gestured to his old jeans complete with silver rodeo belt buckle, faded T-shirt bearing the slogan for a smooth Tennessee sipping whiskey, and well-worn cowboy boots. Even when he was standing on a city street, he looked like a cowboy. Growing up poor on a hard-scrabble ranch with four hell-raising brothers, he was practically the poster boy for backwater Texas. He had an apartment in the city, but the country still showed.

“What I know,” Grange said, “is that you’re a damned good security agent, and as of now, this girl is a client. Conn says she’s scared out of her mind, frantic. He didn’t get the whole story about what’s going on back in Ireland, but he says the girl is calm most of the time and not given to exaggeration.

“When she called her Uncle Conn from a Dublin alley before midnight Dublin time, he heard enough within seconds to call a couple of his old contacts in intelligence for an immediate pickup. They had her on a plane and over the Atlantic in about an hour.”

An hour was a short timeframe to set up an op involving international travel. Conn’s friends played hardball.

Locke was interested in spite of himself. “Do we know what spooked her?” he asked.

Grange shrugged. “Conn said he has an idea what might have happened. He’ll worry about the full story when she gets here and he knows that she’s safe. She’s been travelling non-stop from London to Dublin to Texas since early yesterday. Whatever it is that scared her, she needs help, and we’re it.”

“A young girl will take one look at the scars on my face and run the other way, Grange. What do I do if she won’t come with me?”

Locke had a bullet burn across the side of one eyebrow and up onto his temple and a thin knife scar on his chin, and there were more scars. Each individual mark represented a moment of danger, a narrow escape. His scars said that he was damn lucky to be alive, and he knew it.

He had a horrible thought. “What if she cries?”

Grange’s hard mouth kicked up in a rare smile. “Don’t even try to tell me that one of DIG Security’s best agents is afraid of a girl who could cry. I might laugh out loud, and if anyone heard me, it would ruin my reputation.”

“Very funny. You’re a real comedian lately.”

Locke frowned at the amusement on his boss’s face. He opened his mouth to continue the protest, but Grange held up a hand.

“Locke, if you’re that worried about the girl’s reaction, take your big brother with you. Women of all ages respond to Sam very well from what I’ve seen.”

Locke snorted. What a hell of an understatement that was. No matter where they went, women followed his brother around. Locke and Sam were identical twins, but they couldn’t be more different, starting with the fact that Locke was a security specialist and Sam was a successful stage actor and aspiring playwright. Locke had been a bull rider who had followed the rodeo circuit for several years, and Sam wouldn’t even watch bull-riding events from the safety of the stands. Sam’s face was still smooth, handsome, and unscarred. Locke was scarred on the outside and cynical on the inside.

Hell, Sam had even dyed his brown hair to blond once for a part in an ongoing series of commercials. Locke couldn’t be bothered to get his hair cut at regular intervals. He ran a hand through it, tugging the longish strands, testing. Nah, it could go another week.

“Her name is Avelyn Reilly,” Grange said. “She has reddish-brown hair, green eyes, and she’s on the small side. There’s a family resemblance, so you shouldn’t have too much trouble recognizing her. Conn used to call her a bad-tempered pixie. And she’s landing in Dallas at two this afternoon, so you’ll have to get on the road soon.”

“Dallas? What, she couldn’t get a connector flight to San Antonio? Not even a charter? I could get from our building to the airport here in fifteen minutes.”

“She’s traveling under her own passport, her own name. There just wasn’t time for anything fancy.” Grange gave him a look that said he should damned well know that.

“Dallas is a big place,” Grange continued. He leaned back in his chair. “A person could disappear there easily enough. We don’t know yet how serious the situation is, but if the girl is traced, Conn wants her trail to end in Dallas not San Antonio. Best case, no one cares enough to follow the girl across the ocean. Worst case, this will buy her some time while we figure out what the hell is going on and how serious our response needs to be.”

Locke thought that any response from Conn on a threat to his niece would be serious no matter the circumstance. When any woman was in trouble, the big bastard solved the problem first and asked questions later if he asked them at all. Many of the DIG agents were alike in that respect. But family was another matter.

“Dallas it is, then.” Locke looked at his watch and grimaced. “Shit, you do believe in cutting it fine, boss. If I get on the road right now and pick up Sam on the way out of the city, I could almost make it in time.” He breathed deeply. “All right, I’ll call Sam, and we’ll head for Dallas. You win.”

“Thanks. I like to win. Take Sam’s car. That thing of beauty is faster than your old pickup truck. And it doesn’t have manure on it.”

“I washed my truck,” Locke said before he caught sight of Grange’s expression.

“Smug bastard,” Locke muttered and scowled as he walked out the door.

Grange laughed.

Chapter 3

Avelyn huddled in her seat on the plane, still wrapped in the gray wool shawl. New York had been rainy, but the sun was shining in Dallas, and it made her feel warm inside for the first time in two days. She folded the old shawl and threaded it through the handle of her leather bag.

Avelyn waited until most of the other passengers had left the plane before slowly getting to her feet.

She almost groaned aloud at the pain of her abused muscles, but she didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself. She already had a swollen, bruised cheek and looked like the wrong end of a pub crawl. The cut under the edge of her jaw was covered with a flesh-colored bandage from the small first-aid kit now stored in her bulging leather bag. There would be enough attention aimed her way because of those injuries without adding to it by complaining.

She had braided her hair, cleaned her teeth, and gingerly applied some makeup to the glaring purple bruises in the plane’s tiny washroom, but she still felt self-conscious.

Her life had altered in a day. After hearing her father’s odd message on her voice mail, she had grabbed a glass of milk instead of dinner and traveled over three hours from her flat in London to see her father in Dublin.

Add to that a further fourteen hours of travel in the same damp, stained clothes to arrive in Dallas, Texas on a plane full of well-dressed, well-fed Americans, and she was feeling grubby and out of sorts.

The snack food served on the transatlantic flight had been long ago and inadequate to satisfy her appetite. Her stomach growled all the way down the concourse and through the customs station lineup, but she didn’t have any American currency, and she didn’t think she would be able to use a credit card to buy a bottle of fruit juice.

After a lengthy interview with two security agents due to her facial bruising and suspicious lack of checked baggage, she finally exited customs and walked through the sliding glass doors and into the bright pickup area.

By now she was suffering the deep cramps of true hunger and hoped that Uncle Conn was waiting. With his towering height and his auburn hair, he should be easy enough to spot, and the man always had some kind of snack food in his pockets.

She scanned the shifting crowd but couldn’t see him. What she did see was a sign with Conn Reilly’s name, carried by a pair of gorgeous cowboys in blue jeans, boots, and those attractive black hats. What were they called, Stetsons? Yum.

She was halfway down the concourse before she realized that she was moving.

As she got closer, she noticed that the two cowboys were brothers, maybe even twins, and that the group surrounding them consisted entirely of women in high heels, short skirts, and rolling designer luggage.

Avelyn frowned. The women seemed to have lost all interest in leaving the airport. They were much more focused on attracting the attention of the two tall and tanned cowboys.

She couldn’t blame the women. Long, lean, and muscular, the men were eye-catching. The true American Dream in the flesh. But the fact that they were carrying that sign meant that they were waiting for her and her alone. Both of them.

Too bad, ladies.

Avelyn smiled for the first time in what felt like days. Feeling the light of mischief in her soul, she slipped her heavy Celtic gold ring off her right hand onto her left-hand ring finger and affected a smooth hip-swiveling walk.

She walked right up to the cowboy holding the sign and handed him her bag with a saucy smile. His blue eyes narrowed and raked down her body. She turned to the second cowboy, rose on tiptoe, and pulled his head down to kiss his startled mouth.

He recovered quickly, snaking one strong arm around her waist and pulling her closer to take control of the kiss. He slanted his lips over hers and possessed her mouth with slow, intimate strokes of his tongue on hers. The sweet flood of arousal dampening her core was unexpected. This cowboy packed a punch.

The world spun as she was tugged out of his arms and into the arms of his brother. He bent her over his muscular arm and fastened his mouth on hers while his other hand slid into her hair. The taste of him was hotter, spicier somehow, and she felt her nipples peak in a tingling rush. She could feel the hard ridge of his erection against her belly, and she couldn’t resist the urge to nudge against it.

His tongue thrust into her mouth over and over, a blatant sexual act that sent her blood singing through her veins. Her bones felt like they were melting, and she sagged, letting him support her weight while he plundered her mouth in heated silence.

After a thorough exploration, he pulled back a little to brush his lips over her mouth and cheek.

She took in a dizzy breath flavored with his clean, masculine scent. His eyes burned into hers for a long moment before he gently righted her. Her pussy throbbed once, and she almost sighed at the loss of his warmth on her aching breasts.

It occurred to her pleasure-fogged mind they were still in the airport in the midst of a group of gaping women.

“Hi, honeys, I’m home.” Her voice was undeniably husky. “Congratulate me, boys. I just won the ladies boxing title.”

The crowd of women took one look at her bruised face scattered in record time.

The intense cowboy let her go with a frown when the other one pulled her close to his side and laughed. He hugged her gently, laughing again when her stomach growled.

“I’m Sam McCann,” the laughing one said, “and this is my brother Locke. That was great. You are something else, girl.” His tone was appreciative, his gaze admiring until it settled on her swollen cheek and froze there.

“Your Uncle Conn sent us to pick you up, Avelyn,” the other cowboy, Locke, said. “From the sound of things, we’d better buy you a late lunch before we leave Dallas. Airplane food is awful, no doubt about it.”