She’d never seen him so riled up; it was a little unnerving.
Without her realizing it, he’d pushed her back against the car. “What the fuck were you thinking, Brittany?”
Two fucks in two sentences. Definitely not good.
Her heart was fluttering a little fast, but she forced an even tone to her voice. “I was thinking that since you weren’t going to tell me anything, I would have to find out what happened on my own. But that guy who attacked me didn’t have anything to do with you or my stories.”
Oops. He didn’t seem to like that. His face turned really tight and angry. The hang-loose surfer looked like a mean, black-hearted, pillaging Viking.
“Are you out of your sweet, ever-loving mind? I don’t know what the hell you’ve been smoking lately, sweetheart”—Sweetheart? She’d never heard an endearment from him before—“but why else do you think he was trying to kill you? This is Norway; they don’t do violent crime here.”
“He was trying to take my bag.”
John was leaning in so close now, she could practically feel the anger reverberating from his tensed muscles. There was rather an impressive lot of them to tense, and her skin prickled in an all-over flush. Unfortunately, it wasn’t with fear. It was with something else. Something that was making her blood race, her breath quicken, and really stupid parts of her body tingle.
How could she be turned on at a time like this?
“That guy wasn’t a purse snatch. He was a professional. Didn’t you see him?”
“Not really.” She just had a vague impression. Tall, strong, shadowed features. A smell of . . . aftershave? Soap? She couldn’t put her finger on it. But he’d been clean-shaven. Otherwise, with the rain, darkness, and hoods, the two men would have been eerily similar.
She frowned. But that didn’t mean he was a professional. John was just trying to scare her. Which he didn’t need to do. She was scared enough.
“Well, I did,” John said. “And that guy was trained. He sensed my approach and blocked my blow too easily. I was lucky to get the gun away from him.” Brittany hadn’t seen any of it; she’d had her face pressed against the pavement. “He would have snapped your neck with one twist if I’d been a second later. Do you have any idea how lucky you are that I got here when I did? If the guy you picked up in the bar tonight had taken any longer to persuade you to go home, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
This was a conversation? It seemed rather one-sided to her.
She’d never heard him raise his voice to anyone like this before. And from the way his hands were clenching and reclenching at his sides, she got the definite sense that he was trying to decide whether to shake her or ravish her senseless.
Emphasis on the senseless.
She shuddered, the unwelcome tingling turning to full-fledged clenching. With the length of his powerful body leaning against hers like this, it was too easy to remember how it had felt to have him inside her. Sinking into her with those long, deep thrusts that had possessed her entire body.
She wasn’t going to do this. She didn’t know whether it was what had just happened, what he was saying, or the desire that was crashing over her, but she suddenly felt overwhelmed, upset, and maybe a little vulnerable.
And she didn’t like it. She pushed him back with the flat of her hand on that steely chest. “Stop bullying me, Johnny! I know you are mad that I didn’t do your bidding after you went to such great efforts to see that I did, but I’m not twenty-two anymore. I’m not going to put this aside just because we slept together. And you had no right to get rid of Nils whether I picked him up or not!”
She was really stepping in it with him tonight. His eyes turned black. “Don’t push me right now, Brittany. You might not like what happens.”
She shivered, fearing she’d like it a lot. What kind of warped person was she to get excited by all this raw, masculine anger? She must be going off the deep end.
“You were the one who told me I needed proof,” she said. “Well, I’m getting it.”
“How? By picking up guys in bars for information and acting like a frog hog?”
If Brittany weren’t so furious, she would have laughed. How dared he accuse her of being a slut when he was the one who was indiscriminate in bed partners?
“You have got to be kidding me. This from you? One of the biggest players I’ve ever met? The guy who slept with two women in one night to prove a point? Thanks, Johnny, but I think I’ll take my dating advice from someone else.”
* * *
• • •
“That wasn’t a date,” John said. “That was you pumping some poor kid for information. Just how far were you going to go to get it, Brit?”
John knew he was being an ass, and although he wasn’t the player she thought him, he’d had his share of hookups. Okay, maybe a few more than his share, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from lashing out.
He was angry, and worse—scared. He couldn’t get that image of her in that guy’s hold out of his head.
He’d almost been too late. He’d been so pissed by what he’d witnessed in the bar—and that she was leaving with the young soldier—that he’d finished his beer rather than follow them out right away. And then he’d taken time to get rid of “Nils” first.
Previously-unknown-to-exist jealousy had nearly gotten her killed. It made him sick just thinking about it.
Brittany gasped with outrage at his accusation. She gave him a look that could kill. “It’s none of your damned business how far I would go!”
That wasn’t exactly what he’d expected her to say. “You aren’t going to deny it?”
She lifted her chin—which was too damned cute—and glared at him something fierce. “Why should I bother? Since you have obviously drawn your own conclusions, it would be a waste of time.” Those pretty blue eyes pinned him. “But I’m not sure how leaving a bar with a guy equates to sleeping with him.”
It didn’t. Or it didn’t necessarily. But it was what had led up to it that had made him crazy. The guy had been touching her. He’d been leaning in tight and had his hands on her. John had wanted to kill something—preferably the other guy.
“So, the flirting and sexy getup is a coincidence—is that it?” His eyes drew down the length of the low-cut blouse, skimpy shorts, and strappy fuck-me sandals, which, given that the rain was making her clothes damp and clingy, wasn’t a great idea. She looked hot, and he didn’t like it. She needed to go back to businesslike and girl-next-door. “I suppose this doesn’t have anything to do with you getting information?”
Her flush deepened just enough to let him know he’d hit a nerve—a guilty one. Or at least a not-so-innocent one.
“You had no right to spy on me. I knew someone was watching me. Where were you?”
He shrugged. He hadn’t intended to spy on her. He’d walked into the crowded bar planning to drag her out of there, but when he’d seen her laughing with the guy in the booth, it had stopped him cold in his tracks. He’d felt something hard and tight in this chest. Something that made him feel as if acid were eating away at his lungs. Something he didn’t recognize.
He’d taken a seat in the opposite corner of the bar to wait for it to go away, but it had only gotten worse. The burning started to pound through his veins. It felt like anger, but he realized it was a different kind of anger. It was jealousy. And that had taken a couple beers to deal with.
He didn’t get jealous. At least he never had before. So why now?
He must be getting old. That was it. Could you have a midlife crisis at twenty-nine?
Maybe when he got home and this mess was all behind him, he’d buy a car. Pathetic old guy in a sport car was better than pathetic old guy getting jealous over some kid.
That wasn’t her type, was it? Clean-cut, Boy Scout—or whatever the Norwegian equivalent—who probably hadn’t done anythin
g more dangerous than lift his gun in target practice.
She needed someone who knew what to do with all that intensity and energy she gave off. Someone who was as strong-willed as she was. Someone with experience. Someone she could talk to. Someone who could make her laugh.
John’s mouth fell in a hard, grim line, recalling that she’d been laughing in the booth with Nils.
She seemed impatient and appeared to give up waiting for him to answer. She crossed her arms in front of her chest, and he had to look down to make sure she wasn’t tapping her foot, which would have really pissed him off.
“Just tell me what you want, John. I assume you are here for a reason?”
Looking down again was definitely a mistake. He got a real good look at those tanned, shapely legs and the chest that was now straining against the damp linen of her blouse. Her nipples were hard and pointy, and it didn’t take long to remember how they’d tasted in his mouth. How he’d sucked, nibbled, swirled, and tongued. How she’d arched deep into his mouth and moaned.
Yeah, definitely a mistake. He saw a slight tremor rack her body and suspected she was remembering it, too.
He looked back at her face. Their eyes met. “You know why I’m here.”
She sighed as if she’d had enough of him. Her enough of him. WTF?
“Look, it’s rainy, I was just mugged, and I’m wet, uncomfortable, and definitely not in the mood for this. If you came chasing after me to get me to go home, I’m afraid you’ve wasted a trip. I’ll go home when I’m done and not before.”
He wasn’t chasing after her. He didn’t chase after anyone.
He frowned. Well, maybe he was technically chasing after her, but it wasn’t the way she implied.
“I told you that wasn’t a mugging,” he said. “Now get in the car.”
She looked at him as if he’d just told her to jump off a bridge. “What?”
“You said you were wet and uncomfortable. I’m taking you back to your hotel, where you can change”—preferably into something that didn’t want to make him rip it off her—“and we can talk about this rationally.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
When she didn’t pick up the keys, he bent over and did it for her. He also pocketed the gun—a 9mm GSh-18, the sidearm weapon of choice for Eastern operators—hoping to hell he wasn’t going to need it. “Fine, I’ll drive. Now, get in the car.”
She stood there stubbornly, clearly having no intention of doing so.
“I’ve already taken a big risk being here, Brittany. That picture you published has been all over the news, and your little boyfriend took a long look at me. After what just happened, the least you can do is listen to what I have to say.”
The reminder of him saving her ass did the trick. She hesitated, but only for a few seconds before giving an annoyed huff. “Fine. We’ll go back to my room and you can say what you have to say, but you aren’t staying.”
Neither was she, but he kept that to himself.
She got in the car and directed him to her hotel—a large American chain that was right next to the airport and train station.
Her room was on the tenth floor. He was pretty sure they hadn’t been followed, but he had her wait in the hall until he cleared the room just to make sure.
She didn’t argue, but she gave him a “you are way too paranoid” roll of the eyes when he said it was okay.
But John wasn’t going to take any chances, and being paranoid had saved his ass too many times to count. Whether she agreed or not, he knew that the guy who’d attacked her hadn’t been an ordinary thief. He’d been trained in hand-to-hand combat. Probably military. Possibly Special Forces.
John had been lucky to get the one solid blow in that he had. If he hadn’t landed the perfectly timed kick that broke the other guy’s arm while he was focused on shooting, John suspected the other guy would have given him a fight—a real fight. And not that he couldn’t use that right now, but he’d prefer not to do it when Brittany’s life was dependent on the outcome.
He’d have to thank Spivak, who was into MMA fighting—big-time—later. Spivak had competed for a while in the UFC heavyweight class before becoming a SEAL and had taken down the guy who eventually became champ. Water polo players were typical recruiting fodder for SEALs, but Spivak definitely made a case for the UFC ranks.
John hadn’t gotten a real good look at the guy, but his first impression had been Eastern European. Which wasn’t good for either of them if he was right.
Brittany dropped her bag on the bureau next to the flat-screen and bent over—he turned away from the sight of those shorts creeping higher on those kick-ass legs—to unstrap her sandals, before kicking them into the closet, where the rest of her clothes were half spilling out of her suitcase on the luggage rack.
Good riddance, he thought. Those shoes might have to get lost. From the looks of the mess in that suitcase, she wasn’t likely to notice.
She grabbed a few things and told him not to make himself too comfortable. She’d be right out, and then he could leave.
John ignored the less-than-generous welcome and made himself at home, sprawling out on the small couch that was beside the bed. He noticed the opened bag of potato chips, empty chocolate bar wrapper, and can of Diet Coke on the coffee table and frowned. Some things hadn’t changed. He remembered her fondness for junk food. Forget the hit man. She was going to die of heart disease if she kept eating all that chemical crap.
He flipped on the TV and started to scroll through the channels. Even with extended cable, there wasn’t much to choose from. At home, he loved the late-night talk shows, but here he had to settle for BBC and the same fifteen minutes of news stories that they seemed to replay over and over.
She came out before the end of the first go-round. Skimpy damp clothes were gone, but bare feet, tight jeans, and a figure-hugging T-shirt hadn’t done anything to alleviate the sexy issue. He was way too focused on how good her ass looked in those jeans and how big her tits were in that shirt.
T&A was not what he should be thinking about, damn it. This was Brittany. Off-limits Brittany. The sister of his dead best friend, Brittany.
But the reminders didn’t help. Especially when she dragged her fingers through her still-damp hair, tossed it over her shoulders, and came to stand directly in front of him. With him sitting and her standing, it put those spectacular breasts he’d just been trying not to look at directly in front of his eyes.
Was that lace he could see under the shirt? Damn it, not the Playboy Bunny underwear. Don’t think about the Playboy Bunny underwear and the soft, creamy, firm flesh spilling out. . . .
Fuck.
He looked up. He hoped she hadn’t read where his mind had been, but from the way she was glaring at him he figured he’d been caught.
Jesus, he was a guy. Put them in front of him and he was going to look. What did she expect?
“All right, John. Say what it is you have to say and get out. I’ve had a long night, and I want to go to bed.”
Her innocent proclamation sent his mind in not-so-innocent directions. He wanted to go to bed, too. But that wasn’t going to happen.
Again.
Don’t go there. “I’ll go just as soon as you promise me that you’ll get on a plane tomorrow and go home.”
She didn’t blink, but just held his stare. “Not going to happen. I’m not done here.”
John did exactly what he swore he wasn’t going to do. He tossed down the remote and stood, getting way too close to her. He could smell her lotion or shampoo—whatever the light floral scent was that was driving him a little crazy. “Yes, you are. You’re going to get on that plane if I have to put you on it myself.”
He knew better than to threaten her—it would only make her dig in her heels more—but something about her nonchalant, “you’re bothering me” attitude was really gett
ing to him.
He was the one who was supposed to be irritated. He’d had to leave his nice, safe little place in Finland, where everything was going fricking fantastic—wasn’t it?—to track her down in Norway and save her sexy ass from some guy who clearly meant to do her harm. And what kind of thanks was he getting? Attitude, and lots of it.
She poked him right in the solar plexus with a hard tap of her finger. It was surprisingly effective at stopping him in his tracks if he’d had any intention of moving toward her—which he might have.
He didn’t even recognize himself right now. He was from Berkeley, for shit’s sake. He was about as evolved as they came for a Teamguy. His mom had made sure of it. But Brittany had turned him into a caveman.
“I’d like to see you try. You’re supposed to be dead, remember?”
Yep, he knew it—digging in her heels even more. He could almost see the dirt flying. He was going to have to change tactics if he wanted to avoid a standoff.
Besides, she had a point. There was only so much he could do without drawing unwanted attention to himself.
But with her so close and every part of his body noticing, he couldn’t resist one more volley. “You’d be surprised how inventive I can be.”
He hadn’t said it with any kind of sexual promise. He didn’t need to. Sexual promise was pretty much a given when she was standing this close to him. The air was charged with it.
She got it, and wisely took a step back. He took that different approach. The “let’s be reasonable adults” approach. “I know I haven’t given you a lot of reason to trust me in the past, but after what just happened, you have to at least consider that what I’ve been telling you is the truth and that if you don’t back off this story, people—and not just you and me—could get killed. I know you don’t want that.”
He was rewarded with the first twinge of uncertainty—or guilt. Whichever one it was didn’t really matter if it meant that he was finally getting through to her.