Ocean Kills (Ocean Breeze) (23 page)

T
en hours I'd been in Korea, and for five of those I was unconscious. Sleep deprivation had finally caught up with me, and upon arrival at Kim's house, I passed out. He lived in a three-story monstrosity, held prisoner by a black steel fence.

I knew this house well. The room I stayed in when I participated in the school exchange was the same floral and white affair.

Now, five hours later, I was focused, excited, and ready to learn.

I descended the stairs from the top story and came face-to-face with Mr. Kim's maid. She was pretty, petite, and entirely too demure for my liking. Ocean filled my head again—her crackle and fire. Her tenacity. Why couldn't I like agreeable women? I rolled my eyes. Because I'd walk all over them and be bored within two seconds flat, that's why.

“You looking for Mr. Kim. Yes?” the maid asked.

I nodded, looking around the living room for any glimpse of Kim’s wife. I’d grown close to her while living with them; it’d be nice to say hello. She was tiny, but had a temper on her, just like Ocean. “Do you know where he is?” I had questions for him. Lots of questions. Who I reported to. Whether I could pick my own cases. I had two in mind: hunt the Breeze family murderers, and help Wade with his missing girl mystery. And something top secret: investigate why Ocean could teleport. That one drove me nuts. 

She shook her head, disappearing into a small office off the lounge. The bottom level was huge. A sitting room stuffed with white leather furniture, blobbing like islands on the black tiled floor. A pink rug, the size of my apartment, rested under a ten-seater dining room table.

Did Kim have dinner meetings here with the KCIA? Why had I never heard of them? How did Kim keep me in the dark the entire time I worked in Bali? I had a feeling he and Maurice Green would get along.

The maid reappeared holding a red envelope. Something about the color caused nerves of excitement and curiosity to dance over my body. The hard lump injected into my arm twinged, reminding me I might be in way over my head.

Somehow, in a whirlwind of craziness, I was the newest Abroad Agent Intel for KCIA. It was fucking awesome.

“This for you. Mr. Kim say you go home, and he will be in touch with assignments. Something came up. He unable to show you personally.”

I opened the envelope and found a business class ticket to Sydney, along with a new phone. I didn't recognize the brand, but it was sleek and reeked of up-to-date technology. My eyes widened. “This plane ticket says the flight leaves in one hour.”

“Yes, I was about to wake you. You are late. But I arrange driver, he is waiting.”

For the first time, I noticed my suitcase by the large front door. On the other side of the glass sliders, a limousine waited in the marble courtyard.

Guess I better hurry
.

“Thank you,” I muttered, and bolted out the door.

*****

Ten hours later, I watched the taxi meter climbing higher and higher as I hurtled down the hill toward Bondi Beach. The flight was uneventful and I was unable to sleep because I was nose-deep in the missing girl's file from Australia. I thought I found a link to Bazeer, but I wasn’t sure.

My brain wouldn't switch off, and I was knackered again. So much for my five-hour nap in Korea. It was all beginning to seem like a weird dream. Did I really get diverted and injected with a tracking beacon? Was I really a secret agent for the Korean Central Intelligence Agency? I still had trouble believing it.

I relaxed into the vinyl seat as Bondi came into view. It was after nine in the evening and hard-core runners still ran on the dark beach, disappearing and appearing beneath huge spotlights. The waves were silver, thanks to the pregnant moon blobbing on the horizon.

Outside my building, I paid the fare, and punched the code to enter.

Something made my hackles rise. A smell, a sense—something was different.

I climbed the stairs slowly, trying to figure out why my instincts screamed. The stairwell was same old, same old. Nothing out of place. Perhaps a new tenant moved in while I was away?

I frowned as I slipped the key into my lock. A waft of a scent. Heavy, wild. . . infused with antiseptic. Some memory tugged at my jet-lagged senses.

My apartment was dark, the sliding door wide open how I left it. I wasn’t afraid of robbers. If someone wanted to risk climbing four stories, they deserved my crappy TV.

The scent was stronger here, enveloping me with the night breeze.

Breeze.

Ocean!

I didn't flinch, even as my heart kick-started and my hands instantly slicked with sweat.

She was here. In my apartment.
She was here!

I moved slowly. Placing my suitcase down, I kept my back to the couch, where a silhouette rested in shadow. Was she here for me or her cash?
Don't answer that.

Time to play a little game. My fingers shook as I tiptoed into the kitchen and slid my hand behind my microwave. My off-duty weapon was located there. Cocked and ready. Time to get a little pay-back for the embarrassment and humiliation she put me through in England.

I took the bullets out—just to be safe and took a deep breath. This could totally back fire on me. Served her right. She was horrid to me in England; least she could've done was agree to a coffee.

Ignoring my sane side telling me I was nuts, I spun on my heel, yelling, “Who the fuck are you, and how did you get in here?”

Chapter Twenty-two: Ocean

S
leep shattered. I was under attack. The men I killed in the game reserve roared back to mind. They’d resurrected. They wanted to kill me. Black smog settled over my senses, telling me to inflict pain.
Ravage. Murder.

I shot off Callan's couch, unsheathing my machete in one fluid movement. I huddled, snarling in the darkness. Where was the enemy? Who was about to die? The strange anger receded leaving me confused.

My chest rose and fell hard. I blinked.

Callan freakin' Bliss aimed a gun at me, his legs apart, face unreadable. Shit, the guy held a serious grudge.

A tremor of warning ran over my flesh. My heart did some crazy Latin move leaving my lungs wheezing. Tension uncoiled from my limbs as I turned into a puddle of need.

He was delicious. Dangerous. Angry.

He didn't turn on the lights, but prowled toward me with liquid grace, seething with the sea’s energy.

“Is that my t-shirt you’re wearing?” His voice was a growl.

Lustful infatuation star-burst in my belly. Why did he have to be so sexy? I reined in my inappropriate thoughts and welcomed anger instead. “I used your shower, too. You’re late. You were supposed to be here yesterday.”

“Says who?” His eyes glittered.

“Says the flight from Manchester.” I desperately wanted to ask where he went. But I kept my lips closed. I wasn't interested.
Yep, I’m lying to myself again.
I was in huge trouble. Who knew pulling a gun on me was such amazing foreplay? My machete grew sensual in my hands. I stroked the shaft before resting the blade tip on his shag-pile rug.

Callan's hand shot out and flicked a switch. I winced; the overhead light blinded me. He turned the dimmer so the glare diminished to a soft glow.

My eyes fell from his face to the glint of light on the muzzle of his revolver. That was sexy as hell. Flames of need ignited. All thoughts of finding my cash were drowned by the urge to stroke him. Pet him. To see if his skin was as soft as it looked.

“Are you planning on shooting me for wearing your t-shirt?” I cocked my hip, daring him. I couldn't tear my eyes away. This was a very bad idea—I shouldn't have come. I was in deep trouble with the way my body totally disregarded me, snarling for his touch.

Callan scowled. “The t-shirt I can live with. How the flaming hell did you get in here? How did you know where I lived?”

I bristled. Was he not happy to see me? Then a shot of guilt reminded me of the way I treated him in England. He kinda deserved to be pissed.

Well, I was pissed too. He stalked me and invaded my private emails. I was the one wronged here—not him. “Probably the same way you found out where Maurice lived.” I glared, clenching my hands harder around my machete.

He gave me a reluctant smile. “Fair enough.” Eyes dropped to my weapon. “You figured you needed a sword in Bondi?”

“No. I took care of some business before coming here.” I sheathed it and placed it on the coffee table, baring my empty palms. “You're safe now.” I smirked.

“I am
so
relieved.” He held up the gun, placing it beside my so-called sword. “Now we're both unarmed.” He half-smiled, eyes lingering on my torso. “It's quite a welcome home—drawing a knife on me in my own apartment after the way you behaved in England. A bit of warning would've been nice.”

The coffee table was between us, but the air crackled with a fusion of energy and awareness. This man was totally delusional. I laughed, my temper hot. “You have nerve saying that after you stalked me.”

His eyes snapped to mine; their green was a deep emerald tonight. “Stalked you? I didn't hear from you. What was I supposed to do? I thought you were dead! Then you kick me out within ten minutes. It was humiliating.” His body tensed. “You really are a piece of work. I don't know why I bothered.”

My chest tightened. Was he finally giving up? I straightened my back. Of course he gave up. Why would he chase someone who obviously didn't want him? I was a bitch, and I’d ruined whatever might have been between us.

My head dropped. “I'm sorry, Callan.” The words were out of my mouth before I could think.

He blinked, eyes heavy with jet-lag.

“I was rude to you in England, and I shouldn't have come. But I need that money. If you give me the envelope, I'll leave.” Something tickled my scalp—rejection. It hurt more than I thought. Served me right. There was only so much a man would take before he threw it away. And I couldn't chase him. I didn't chase friendship or love. I chased monsters and killers.

Callan groaned, swiping a hand through his hair. “You play dirty, you know that? Lurking in my apartment like a spider, then springing an apology.” He ducked around the coffee table, standing only a foot away from me. “I want to tell you to shove it. That I've had enough. But I won't.”

My heart thudded. He was still interested? And why did that excite and relieve me so much?
Cash, Ocean. Ignore him.

“I want my money.” My voice was breathy.

Callan huffed and brushed past me. Our shoulders connected. A tingling raced along my skin. He didn't seem to notice and threw himself backward on the sofa, looking up through dark eyelashes. “Can you let me relax first? I've just come back from a whirlwind trip to England and Korea. I'm knackered.”

I smiled in spite of myself. His eyes had trouble focusing; his body was lethargic. How long was it since he slept? And Korea? What the hell was he doing in Korea?

I looked down at him, hands on my hips. “No one told you to go to England. That was a crazy, stupid trip you wasted. Not to mention expensive.”

He chuckled. “I used your cash.” Eyes flashed with challenge. “Hope you don't mind.”

Excuse me? He chased me using my own money!? Oh, the
nerve
. My body ran hot. I stuck my hand out. “Give it. Now. I want to leave.”

Callan grabbed my hand and tugged me toward him. I lost my footing, sprawling in his lap. I pushed his chest, anger and embarrassment flushing my cheeks. He was so warm, and muscular, and hard. He smelled of unwashed male and salt.

My heart raced as I disentangled my limbs from his, scooting to the other side of the sofa. The whip-marks on my back twinged from his rough handling.

Callan eyed me, then yawned. “After the shoot-down you gave me in England, I never thought you'd be in my apartment.” He yawned again, showing perfect teeth. Something melted in my belly. I couldn't tear my eyes from his lips. He clamped a tanned hand over his mouth before mumbling, “I just wish I could keep my eyes open long enough to take advantage of the fact.” His eyes closed. Feather-shadows danced on his cheeks from his eyelashes.

He was vulnerable. The cop was replaced by a surfer on the verge of collapsing into deep sleep. My mouth watered as I noticed a vein running up his muscular neck. I wanted to taste. To savor.

On a suicidal impulse, I leaned in and kissed him.

His eyes shot wide; breath caught.

He tasted sweet like pineapple, and smelled even better up close. I moved my lips, encouraging him to kiss me back.

His shock disappeared; a warm hand captured the back of my neck. I struggled against the pressure, wanting to stay in control, but he held fast. Strong. Possessive.

I'd only meant to kiss him for a second. To kiss him once, then take my money and run. But he angled his chest to draw me closer, pulling me with his hand. His tongue licked my bottom lip. I moaned.

It was as if a bonfire ignited between us—suddenly, hands were everywhere. Mine in his silky hair; his cupping my neck and cheek. I couldn't get close enough. I wanted to feel him. I
needed
to feel him.