The Bane Affair Read online

  And it would happen. That was one part of who he was that no role-playing game could disguise.

  Walking away without saying a word to her earlier had been a cheap trick, but she'd started talking about escaping her imaginary prison, and his past had rolled back in haunt­ing, menacing waves, more powerful for their invisible under­tow sweeping over him and dragging him down.

  Still, personal issues weren't at stake here. And he wasn't going to get very far if he didn't keep that foremost in mind.

  He had a feeling Natasha's curious nature was going to benefit his mission's cause. Though she seemed intent on pry­ing out his secrets—What was he doing here? How long did he plan to stay? Why hadn't he spent more time in the base­ment?—she was much less reticent to reveal her own private thoughts.

  Unless, of course, she was playing him to the same extent that he was playing her. Discovering that truth was now his top priority, a shift in strategy after what had gone down ear­lier tonight.

  What the hell was Woodrow Jinks doing sitting down to dinner with his kidnapper?

  Smithson's intel was never one hundred percent, but to have a mission's main objective blown out of the water less than twenty-four hours in? Uh-uh. Totally unacceptable. Christian needed to know where he was putting his feet each time he took a step.

  And Natasha was going to be his ticket onto this runaway train.

  He had to get to Hank, or to Tripp, who was monitoring the SG-5 communications while Christian was away. He needed sources double-checked, intel verified, rumors quashed, facts confirmed. He'd managed to relay most of that on the terrace earlier, contacting Smithson's gateway via his satellite phone.

  The call would have been rerouted and bounced until even the NSA would be hard pressed to locate either the source or the target, as was the case on all missions. Hank didn't take his sense of duty lightly, or treat his operatives as anything but the invaluable commodities they were.

  The one thing Christian would have to request in person, however, was his need to have every detail of Natasha's life laid bare. She was his in. And it was obvious that he was oper­ating blind. Not unfamiliar territory, but it sure as hell wasn't where he did his best work.

  The best laid plans of mice and undercover operatives . . .

  Returning to the guest suite's bar, he refilled his tumbler and had just reset the decanter's stopper when a knock on the door brought his head up. He glanced at his suit coat draped over the sitting room's wing chair, his tie tossed in the seat, his boots beneath, a lock pick in the sole of the right, a switch­blade in the left.

  His phone and headset sat next to his laptop on the desk. His SIG-Sauer P-232 9mm was in his attaché propped against the chair leg on the floor. His .45-caliber Ruger P97 and hol­ster were in his garment bag hanging in the closet. Nothing out of place. Everything accessible. He wrapped his hand around the cut crystal and headed for the door.

  "I'm sorry to disturb you," Natasha said, standing barefoot on the threshold. "But I didn't think to mention earlier that I won't be available for most of this upcoming weekend. In fact, I'll be leaving early Saturday and gone until Sunday afternoon late."

  He'd run out. He owed her an explanation. He'd slit his own throat before he gave her one. He was Peter Deacon, after all.

  The fact that she looked like she'd come here to take up where they'd left off, however, with her hair tousled, her eyes dazed, her lip color eaten away, made it hard to separate his two selves when both of them wanted her. "Does Dr. Bow know this?"

  She shook her head, her grin wry. "Everything tonight hap­pened so fast my plans totally slipped my mind. Wick rarely needs me on the weekends so I don't schedule my days off around him. And I wasn't aware of your visit, or had ex­plained what was expected of me until, well, until you were here."

  He gestured with the tumbler, filed away the information. "Don't worry about it."

  "It's just that I'm getting together with a few of my friends to celebrate a birthday, and it's been on the calendar for awhile . . ." She let the sentence trail and finally shrugged, yet seemed in no hurry to go.

  "Thanks for telling me. I'll find something to keep me busy."

  "That's one of the other reasons I stopped by."

  Christian waited, one heartbeat, two, boom, boom. Invite her in or send her away. Listen to his head or to the sweet siren of desire. In the end, she was the one who made up his mind, waiting as if she had more patience than any bloody saint yet looking like original sin.

  He stepped back and ushered her inside, wondering with no small twist to his gut what she was doing here or if he even wanted to know. He shut the door behind her, leaning back with one hand on the knob.

  Halfway between the doorway and the desk, she turned, a shoe held in each hand. "I am supposed to be seeing to your needs while you're here, so would you like me to arrange any­thing for you to do while I'm gone?"

  He fought a grin at the possibilities. "Such as?"

  "The library and the media room are off to the left of the foyer if a book or a movie interests you. The lake fishing is ac­tually quite good. And Wick still keeps horses. Mrs. Court­ney's husband loves showing off the estate on horseback."

  "No, but thanks." He filed that away, too, wondering what about him made her think of fishing. Still. . . why not kill two birds with one stone? He stared down into his drink, swirled the remaining liquid around in the glass before looking up again. "I'm going to have to make an unexpected trip into the city this weekend anyway."

  Her eyes lit up.

  "My leaving makes you happy?"

  "Of course not," she said shyly, dropping her gaze for a moment before going on. "I hate to sound stupid"—she glanced back up—"but are you familiar with the city? Wick didn't mention where you're visiting from."

  "I know New York, yes. I have an office there."

  "Okay. I just thought. . ."

  Snap went his trap. "You thought we could make the drive together?"

  "Well, that, yes."

  He pushed away from the door, walked toward her. "And?"

  She frowned curiously. "And?"

  "Instead of a 'but'," he said, then downed the rest of his drink. "It sounded like you wanted to add an 'and'."

  She took a deep breath. "I did." "And?"

  "And perhaps you might enjoy having a drink with me and my friends?"

  He crossed behind her as he made his way back to the bar, refilling the tumbler with ice and scotch he didn't intend to drink. "As your date?"

  "Or my escort. Turnabout, and all of that," she said, wor­rying her shoes from hand to hand.

  He liked her show of nervousness. Liked it a lot. "Had you been planning on attending alone?"

  She nodded. "It's not a big deal. I'm okay with doing things on my own."

  "Miss Independent?"

  "Something like that."

  "Why?"

  This time when she frowned her expression seemed to be one of confusion. "Why am I independent?"

  "Why do you want me to go with you? If you're okay with doing things on your own?" He couldn't deny the small plea­sure at seeing her squirm. Meant her facade was subject to cracks and fissures. Taking advantage of both was his spe­cialty.

  She squirmed her way into a careless shrug that he didn't buy for a minute. "Just part of making sure you enjoy your visit. That is my job, after all."

  "Here, yes. Not on your days off."

  "I'm not so sure Wick would see it that way."

  "I'm more interested in how you see it." Leaving the drink on the bar, he headed toward her, stopping when they stood toe-to-toe. Hands at his hips, he drew his gaze with precision from her crimson toenails to her face. "If you're asking me be­cause it's what Dr. Bow would want, then we're done."

  "That's not the case at all."

  He studied her closely, seeing a flash of desperate disap­pointment before she lowered her lashes. Good. She didn't want to go, making her vulnerabilities his to exploit. Besides, her nervousness intrigued him
. Especially having seen her be­hind the wheel of Deacon's Ferrari.

  "Natasha, why did you come here?"

  Slowly, her chin came up, as did her lashes, until she re­turned his searching gaze. "Why did you walk out in the mid­dle of our conversation?"

  He blinked, and blinked again, the sound of his eyelids as loud in his ears as a gunshot. Play the part, Bane. Play the part. No bedroom confessions about his own prison experi­ence proving her child's play on the terrace to be just that.

  His gut knotted. "Why did you get cold feet when I kissed you?"

  "It wasn't my feet that were cold, remember?" she asked, her voice having dropped to a whisper.

  Yeah, he remembered that lie. "I was sitting beside you. I had my hand at your hip. I don't buy for a minute your story of being cold. In fact"—he reached for the edge of her wrap draped loosely over her shoulders, toyed with the sheer fab­ric—"I know exactly how hot you are."

  She shrugged, and the garment drifted to the floor. Her shoes followed, a soft thud, thud as she dropped them. Her gaze was the third thing to fall, from his eyes to his mouth to the front of his shirt that hung open, and the belt at his waist, still unbuckled. Her examination lingered, and the rise and fall of her chest grew rapidly as she returned her gaze slowly to his.

  "How hot am I?" she asked.

  He would choke on his voice if he answered. He swore he would fucking choke. The sharp stabbing blade at the base of his spine knifed its way to his balls; his sac drew close to his body instinctively, a self-preservation reflex kicking in.

  What the hell was he doing, being afraid, or was fear even what he was feeling? Fear he knew. Fear he'd lived with. But this was a protectively primal urge to seek safety that made zero sense.

  With her eyes flashing a challenge Christian was loath to re­sist, he closed the last few inches between them, raising his hand to the ties at her neck holding her dress in place. As he worked at the fabric fastenings, she moved her hands to his hips, hooking her fingers in his belt loops and holding him in place.

  He backed up, bringing her along until his rump hit the desk. Once there, he opened his legs and pulled her between. One of her eyebrows arched, and he knew she was waiting for his answer, yet he still wasn't able to speak. All he was able to do was breathe, and not without effort.

  When the ties came free in his hands, he played the loose ends over her neck and bare shoulders, her eyes closing then, her chin lifting as she leaned into the caress. Hot wasn't even the half of what she was. She was hungry, she was ready, she was his. He bent forward, touched his lips to the column of her throat and peeled the dress to her waist.

  He explored the soft skin of her neck, nipping lightly, breathing in the scent of spicy florals while cupping both of her breasts. He took his time fondling her, stroking her, nuz­zling her, giving her a moment to catch up when his body and his instincts wanted the burning fire now.

  It had been so long. God, it had been forever. Or so the waiting caused it to seem. But then she moved her hands up his bare sides, shoved his shirt from his shoulders. And catch­ing up was no longer an issue.

  His elbows became trapped in the sleeves but no way was he going to move his hands from her body, even to cut himself free. Especially not when she was making these soft, mewling sounds, offering his hands and mouth complete access to whatever he wanted to take.

  She had no idea the hunger ripping and roaring through him, the appetite he kept leashed that even now strained his reins of control. He wanted her heat, wanted her wet mouth and warm, willing cunt, wanted more than he'd wanted from a woman since . . . since . . . no.

  Oh, hell no, he thought, as his world fell into the dark abyss of his past.

  Not now. Sonofabitch, not now.

  His heart thundered as he pulled his head away, as strands of her near ink black hair—too close in color, in texture, in scent to Malena's for him to separate one woman from the other—brushed over his cheek. He ground his jaw, certain the bone would shatter before he could see Natasha to the door.

  She slid her hands from his shoulders to his elbows, over the fabric of his sleeves to his wrists, and covered his hands on her breasts with her palms. She was so full, so ripe, firm and beautifully rounded, heavy and perfectly real.

  And when he would have let her go, she pressed harder into his hold. "Please don't tell me that you're going to turn me down."

  He looked up. The challenge was still in her eyes, as was uncertainty and a flickering ember of downright mad. "The way you turned me down earlier on the terrace?"

  "I didn't turn you down. I simply prefer soft beds to cement benches."

  "I don't play games, Natasha." He was barely managing to play this part. Too much of Peter Deacon, the fabric of who the man was, rubbed against the grain of everything Christian considered decent. Even the bigger picture of bringing down Spectra IT wasn't making this deception any easier to swal­low.

  And now that he was seeing Malena in Natasha's eyes . . .

  "But the rumor that I'll bed any woman given opportunity isn't true." He pulled his hands back to skate his palms over no more than the barest tips of her nipples. Around and around and around, until she shuddered and the peaks hard­ened. "At the very least, she has to want me, not come to me because it's her job."

  He waited for her reaction because, the mission and all the lies aside, he had to know. Did she want him? Or was she sell­ing her body for Peter Deacon's secrets? And what exactly was Bow hoping she'd discover once she took Deacon to bed?

  Her expression, however, never wavered. Never grew shut­tered as if to hide guilt. Never veiled as if to hide hurt. She seemed unflappable, that steel-willed nature a fascinating dis­play of character. One that renewed the desire he'd never fully tamped down.

  Her silence continued as she slid her palms to his wrists, en­circled him with her fingers and pushed him away. He shrugged back into his shirt and watched as she snagged up her wrap and her shoes. Her breasts bounced as she bent and straight­ened, and it was all he could do not to groan.

  But instead of heading for the door, she headed for the bar, where she set down her stilettos, freeing her hands to drape and settle the triangle of fringed fabric over her shoulders be­fore she picked up the drink he'd abandoned.

  She tossed back the fiery scotch and poured another, look­ing down as she swirled the melting ice through the liquid, while all Christian could do was stare. At her face, which was set in an expression he couldn't decipher. And at her breasts, which the sheer black material showed off like her dress never had.

  Her nipples puckered and his mouth watered; he pushed off the desk and walked toward her. She picked up both shoes, warding him off with that hand while swallowing half of her drink and letting the burn toast its way the length of her throat.

  Only then did she turn to face him and approach him, one measured step at a time until she stood but inches away. Fire burned in her eyes; her chest heaved beneath her ragged effort to breathe. And a corresponding coil of desire wrapped itself around the base of his cock and squeezed.

  "If you can't tell the difference between a woman who wants you and one who considers sex part of her job, then you have no business bedding anyone." She pushed past him, her shoulder shoving him out of her way.

  He didn't even stop to think. The lines blurred further be­tween who he was and was not, and he reached out, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her flush to his body.

  Six

  His fingers tightened around her wrist until Natasha knew her choices were limited. She stayed, he let her go, or she broke bones fighting to escape.

  Independence and feminism be damned, she didn't want to escape. She wanted every bit of what his eyes promised. Never in her life had a man looked at her with Peter's intensity, with a focus that saw all the way to the essence of who she was.

  It took all of that strength, that confidence, that composure and independence to keep from offering herself up as the sac­rifice that look made her feel. Made her l
ong to be.

  Made her ache to be.

  She wanted him. God, but she wanted him. Wanted him so much and in so many ways—ways she feared could easily make her seem stupid for refusing to resist the temptation of their pull. She didn't care. She was the hare, racing toward the reward for which she'd been waiting. And right now she was beyond separating her body from her brains.

  "Did you want something?" Good. Her haughty tone hadn't faltered or broken, allowing her to smoothly slide her gaze from his to the hold he had on her wrist and back again with a ques­tioning arch of her brow.

  He nodded, the tic at his temple telling of his battle for con­trol. He hadn't dropped his gaze to her nearly bare breasts even once. "I want you."

  She lifted her arm, the one he still held, her pulse beating wildly beneath the binding ring of his fingers as she moved her wrist into his direct line of vision. "This isn't the way to go about it."

  A smile crept over his face, the right corner of his mouth crooking upward; the lines that fanned out from his eyes to his temples ran deep. But he didn't for a moment even pretend he would release her. In fact, he held her tighter, pulled her closer, and settled his lips over the soft inner skin of her wrist.

  He kissed her there slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, drawing on her flesh like a vampire seeking blood, like he needed the simple contact if he were to remain alive. A fever raced over her skin, an awareness not unlike a current running overhead through high wires. She felt the same sort of deadly threat, the same sort of high frequency buzz in her ears, the same sensation of walking beneath the dangerous fallout.

  Dear Lord. Dear God. What was happening here?

  She dropped her shoes, slipped her free hand beneath his open shirt and around to his back. His skin was so warm and so smooth there where she spread her fingers, measuring the distance and the firm muscles between his shoulder blades and pressing him close.

  He came willingly, and when she opened her mouth at the base of his throat, he growled, easing his hold on her hand— though he didn't release her. Instead, he moved her palm to his abdomen above the fly of his pants, and held her there.