If Looks Could Chill Page 2

  They already knew that, but had dismissed it as unnecessarily dangerous. The staircase spilled out into the ambassador’s private living quarters rather than the hallway. De foutre.

  Quinn looked ready to strangle her. “And how the fuck is he supposed to get by the guards without being—”

  “He’ll look like one of them. And you and I will create a diversion,” she said impatiently, then turned back to Marc. “Just be in position and ready to roll in five, okay?”

  It sounded crazy. But crazy had worked before.

  “What the hell.” He grabbed the kaffiyeh from her and wound it expertly around his head and shoulders. They had to get what was in that safe—the al Sayika identity papers and bioweapon plans—at all costs.

  Besides, what was the worst that could happen? Firing squad at dawn? No big deal. Standard occupational hazard.

  “Safe combination?” he asked.

  She rattled it off and he committed it to memory. To his surprise, she reached up and gave him a kiss on the cheek, too. “Good luck.” Then she was off, hurrying back toward the dining room.

  Quinn shook his head, obviously not pleased. “Still time to call it off, buddy. Or switch back to our own plan.”

  “No worries, boug. But that diversion? Make it a good one. Anything goes wrong, see you back at the rendezvous point.”

  “Sure. Right after I kill that chick.”

  GRINDING his teeth, Bobby Lee Quinn strode double-time after the CIA babe. Sweet fucking Jesus. He and Lafayette should have bailed while they still had the chance. Wet floor varnish? Shit on a freaking brick. This thing had clusterfuck written all over it.

  Well, what did he expect from the Company? That they’d actually be able to find their ass from a hole in the wall? Christ.

  And here Bobby Lee’d had visions of trying to establish closer relations between their two organizations . . . Much closer.

  He snorted silently and followed the babe back through the beaded screen into the dining room. Darcy Zimmerman was hot as a Tuscaloosa afternoon in July, but if her lack of seasoning and preparedness got his friend killed—

  Bobby Lee had worked with the Cajun Lafayette off and on over his five-plus years at STORM and liked him a lot. Marc was the kind of man who expected the best from people and usually got it. Like now, for instance. Dude. What planet did he live on to think this plan could actually work?

  The long strands of beads clicked closed behind Bobby Lee, and to his momentary surprise Darcy Zimmerman greeted him with an “accidental” brush of her lush body as they rejoined the buffet line. He had to white-knuckle the plate in his hands so he didn’t drop it. The under-the-lashes look she gave him was pure, unadulterated, walking sex. She’d even managed to mess up her hair so it looked like he’d had his fingers in it just seconds ago.

  Well, okay, then.

  He readjusted his thinking. This part of her plan . . . Well, hell, it worked just fine for him.

  He’d caught on immediately, of course: they’d just slipped back from a steamy tryst in the hallway, which explained their sudden emergence from an off-limits area. The guard over by the archway was shocked to see them. But at that sizzling look from Zimmerman, he gave them a salacious grin and let it go. Bobby Lee waggled his eyebrows.

  Just call him Stud Lee.

  His plate suddenly disappeared from his hands and he found himself being steered through the crowd toward the front foyer with just enough casualness not to attract attention. But that full-body contact had already gotten his unwavering attention.

  And God, that dress. The floor-length gown she wore was a true work of art. Blue like the Prophet’s paradise, slinky like pearls running through your fingers, and without straps or any visible means of staying up, it hugged her curves like a man begging for more. And just about any man in the place would be begging for more, given half a chance. Including him. Hell, especially him. His breath was virtually backed up in his lungs waiting for her drapey blue bodice to come sliding down off her breasts. Her very amazing breasts. Full, ripe breasts that were pert and high and just the right size. Breasts a man could lose himself in completely.

  Maybe CIA wasn’t so stupid after all. Talk about Mata Hari potential.

  And okay, this diversion thing might work. It could happen.

  They got to the foyer and he tore his eyes off her long enough to do a quick survey. The evening was still early, but a few departing diplomats and their companions milled around, waiting for limos to be fetched by chauffeurs.

  He checked out the room itself. Despite having no furniture and no function beyond serving as the main entrance to the old palace, the massive octagonal gold-and-marble foyer was bigger than the whole stinkin’ house Bobby Lee had grown up in. Which admittedly wasn’t tough, since that had been a two-room backwoods shanty. Unlike that bad memory, this space was all done up fancier than a whore’s wedding cake with a series of deep, fussy alcoves around the perimeter that contained giant potted palm trees and aromatic flowering shrubs. The place smelled like jasmine and oranges.

  Or was that Darcy Zimmerman?

  She looped her arm through his and tilted her head a fraction toward the centerpiece of the foyer, the grand staircase that ascended like a gilded stairway to heaven. The one Lafayette would have to get across at the second-floor landing—past three armed guards—and reach the other side unseen before continuing up the harim stairs to the floor where the safe was located. Those guards looked big, mean, and no-nonsense, dressed in traditional Arab garb, complete with flashing scimitars hanging at their sides. Oh, yeah, and AK-47s.

  This could get ugly.

  “All right. Now what?” he asked under his breath, speaking into Zimmerman’s cloud of golden hair.

  He was six feet four, but he didn’t even have to bend over. Man, she was tall in those heels. And she smelled damn good, he couldn’t help but notice as she tipped up her face to answer. Not jasmine and oranges, but some exotic blend of—

  “You carrying a condom in any of those pockets?” she murmured, taking hold of his tux lapels and easing into him like a lover. Her fingers started to trail south.

  Whoa. Hold on, there. What? “Um—” What the fuck did she just say?

  Not that he wasn’t all over it.

  “Just in case you want to forget about the op and go back to my place,” she added with an amused wink.

  He felt his lips curve up. Very funny, ha-ha. Okay, point taken. She’d focused his wandering attention. But obviously, she had no idea she was playing with fire here.

  Far be it for him to warn her. Where there was smoke, fire wasn’t far behind. And the woman was insanely smokin’ hot.

  Distraction? He’d give her a stinkin’ distraction.

  He put his hands on her waist and leisurely ran them over her hips and down onto her ass. Like her lover might. He held her gaze as he gathered her in his fingers and press-ground her into him. Yeah, him. Center to center. Right where he was dying to have her.

  The room’s chatter suddenly dropped to whispers—some giggling, some disapproving—and he knew without a doubt that every person in the foyer was watching them.

  He tilted his head down again, murmuring, “There’s no ‘just in case’ about it, sugar. Later, you’re all mine.”

  Her eyes widened, as though his calling her bluff caught her slightly off guard. Hardly surprising. She was a real firecracker. Probably most men she encountered out in the world either wilted like a linen suit in all that heat, or turned tail and ran screaming from her kind of strength and audacity.

  Him, it just turned on all the more. He liked a woman to be his equal. Which she most assuredly was.

  Ignoring everything and everyone around them, he leaned down and languidly trailed hot breath over her cheek, down to her lips. She gasped softly as he covered them with his. And kissed her. Like he had every intention of following through on his threat, but right then and there.

  This was highly inappropriate behavior for an embassy party, especially with a Muslim country as host. He figured that outrageous kiss would earn him a resounding slap on the cheek. As part of the diversion, of course.

  But somewhere along the line his bold strategy backfired. Because she kissed him back. Like she had every intention of taking him up on that little dare.

  Christ on a fuckin’ cracker.

  From the second his tongue touched hers he was hard as the marble columns that surrounded them. Sweet mercy, she tasted good.

  But he couldn’t. Not here. Not now. The guards, he reminded himself. Distract them, not himself.

  He grasped her head in his hands and managed a glance upward at the second-floor landing as he changed the angle of the kiss. At least it was working. The three Dumanis were stunned by the sight of a beautiful woman’s very public kiss with a man obviously not her husband.

  Bobby Lee caught a glimpse of Marc taking a careful step out from the shadows of the east-wing hallway.

  This is it.

  He needed to be absolutely sure those guards would stay distracted, shocked motionless, so absorbed by what he and Zimmerman were doing that Marc could glide past their backs in perfect safety.

  And that was the only reason he spun her around and walked her backward one deliberate step at a time, kissing her to within an inch of her life. Honestly it was.

  He aimed for the short wall between two of those fancy archways and kept going until her backside hit mosaic tile. Which finally roused her. She jerked out of his arms, took a second to regroup, then shoved him away with an embarrassed giggle, playing the enamored junior embassy staffer belatedly trying to salvage her job. “Darling, stop! People are staring!”

  But her eyes said, “Just wait till I get you alone, boy.”

  Real, or part of the charade?

  Both?

  One could only hope.

  “Okay,” she murmured, taking a deep breath. “Marc made it to the other side.”

  Thank you, Jesus.

  Bobby Lee straightened his jacket, joining her where she leaned her back against the cool wall. He was breathing hard, his body thrumming with need. Damn, he wanted her.

  “So, are you always this creative in your operations?” he asked, pitching his voice to barely audible. Suddenly he was insanely jealous of all the other operators she might have done this with in her short but no doubt illustrious spook career.

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” she said.

  Oh, he doubted it.

  “But it seems to me you’re the one who took it up a notch,” she pointed out.

  Possibly.

  He looked at her. Wondering. Was this personal? “You didn’t seem to object.” He shrugged, playing it cool. “Got the job done.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “It did.”

  He stuck his hands in his trouser pockets so he wouldn’t grab her again. “By the way, you’re one hell of a kisser.”

  She smiled. “I know.”

  He barked a laugh. “That mouth of yours gonna get you in real trouble someday.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Okay.” He made a quarter turn to face her, dead serious. “When they fire you tomorrow, come work for me.”

  She blinked, and stared at him. “Don’t be absurd. They won’t fire me.”

  “Maybe not tomorrow. But I’ll bet you a thousand bucks that within two weeks you’ll be suddenly transferred. To somewhere not nearly as glamorous as Istanbul. And they’re gonna ask you to do things you won’t want to do.” He hoped to hell she didn’t want to do them. “When that happens, give me a call.”

  “I’ll take that bet,” she said. “Because you’re crazy.”

  “Maybe. But I’ve been in this game a long time, sugar. I know how your bosses operate.”

  Her look turned incredulous. “All this because I let you kiss me?”

  “Hell, no. It was the way you let me kiss you.”

  She obviously didn’t understand. And he had to know.

  He stepped in close, as though whispering licentious suggestions in her ear. “My kissing you had nothing to do with this job. You and I both know that. But they don’t. They won’t understand that I’m an irresistibly sexy guy and you want me naked. They’ll think you’d do this with anyone they order you to.”

  He held his breath, waiting for her reaction.

  “Oh. My. God.” Her mouth went crooked. “You really are insane.”

  Fuck.

  “Just remember, STORM Corps. We’re in the D.C. book.”

  “Look. I appreciate the—”

  But he didn’t give her the chance to finish the thought. He cut her off and in an instant was back to business.

  “It’s Marc. He’s back on the landing, giving the signal that he has the package. We better do something quick.”

  DARCY Zimmerman had seen some massive egos during her short tenure at CIA, but STORM operator Bobby Lee Quinn really took the cake. Banking her amazement at the sheer conceit of the man, along with her incredulity over his presumptuous job offer, she prepared herself to continue their mock-seduction-slash-pantomime-diversion.

  They were still leaning with shoulders against the wall, face-to-face, when he grabbed her and pushed her right into the nearest alcove.

  She yelped. “What are you—”

  His mouth crashed onto hers. Apparently the provocative but fairly harmless kissing she’d expected was not what Bobby Lee Quinn had in mind. Now, there was a shock. The man was simply unpredictable.

  Taken by surprise, she didn’t have the presence of mind to resist. And after about three seconds, okay, call her fickle, but resisting was the last thing on her mind.

  Sometimes unpredictable was good.

  Good lord, what a kiss.

  Everything about the man was hard. His body was hard against hers. His muscles were hard pressing into her. His lips and tongue were hard as they took her mouth in a blinding, grinding assault. His cock was huge and hard as it rocked into her belly, telling her it wanted her now. He practically vibrated with sexual power and virility.

  Did she say mock seduction? If this was acting, Bobby Lee Quinn deserved a freaking Oscar.

  She moaned, unable to stop her body from responding to the onslaught. Her nipples tightened. Her pulse throbbed. Her limbs weakened—along with her mental capacity.

  He might have an ego the size of Canada, but he was ridiculously, totally, to-die-for sexy. In college she would have done Quinn in a hot second. She’d like to think she had more sense now, having managed to avoid men altogether since her last disastrous relationship. Talk about a train wreck. That one had actually had the audacity to propose marriage and babies while seeing someone else on the side.

  But this man . . . This man made her stomach zing and that sweet spot between her legs ache with a breathtaking need for his touch.

  She might just have to let him have her.

  She completely melted under his hands as they claimed her, touching her body, caressing her breasts. Dipping into her strapless bodice with bold fingers.

  Sweet mercy. “Quinn!” she squeaked.

  “Distraction,” he muttered.

  She sucked in the cry of utter protest that leapt to her lips. But his fingers found her nipples and squeezed, hard, and she cried out loud, for real.

  Except it didn’t sound like her. The cries sounded male. But not Quinn’s. His mouth was still too busy kissing her.

  She ripped her lips from his.

  The guards. It was the guards shouting. At them.

  For the second time that night, she forced herself to break out of Quinn’s sensual web. How did he keep doing that to her?

  Her neckline had slipped down precariously close to indecency. She attempted to yank it back up, but the guards were on them too fast. Yelling. Waving guns. Pulling them apart. Dragging them out into the public foyer.

  “Damn it, let me go!” she screamed at them.

  His expression appalled, Quinn struggled to get free, to get to her. Apparently not what he’d had in mind. That was a relief.

  “Leave the lady alone! For chrissakes, let her cover herself!” he shouted. Among other choice, anatomically impossible suggestions.

  As a diversion it was pretty damn good.

  She was half naked. Quinn’s vocabulary was amazingly imaginative. Deadly AK-47s were pointing at their heads. Everyone in the place was mesmerized with shock.

  Except the third guard.

  This was the night in her fledgling career that Darcy Zimmerman learned an important lesson: there’s one in every crowd—the inevitable one member of the enemy camp who is actually alert and good at his job.

  The third guard wasn’t staring at her almost bare breasts. Or aiming his weapon at Quinn. Even though he was standing in the middle of the melee, he was watching the stairs like he was supposed to be doing. Which was where he spotted Lafayette. Sneaking down. She cursed under her breath. Where were Marc’s kaffiyeh and agal? He must have decided to take a shortcut and try blending into the crowd.

  “Halt!” the guard shouted, rushing over to intercept him before he jumped the banister and got away. “Stop or I shoot!”

  The sound of a half dozen guns being locked and loaded echoed like shots off the marble.

  Lafayette froze. And was instantly surrounded by three more guards.

  Darcy’s stomach plummeted.

  Oh, fuck.

  They were so screwed.

  TWO

  Five years later

  December, present day

  Lower St. Martin Parish, Louisiana

  BODIES lay scattered on the wet ground in an unholy tangle of bones and rotting flesh. Swamp mist swirled in wispy drifts through the chilly morning air, making the scene seem almost surreal.

  Marc Lafayette waded slowly through the still, green waters of Bayou Creche, taking in the putrid jumble of remains scattered above the low bank. It was real, all right. All too real.

  Rage exploded within him. Dieu, it was bad. The worst kill yet.