Seduction Game

  Warmth blossomed behind her breastbone.

  Marc glanced around. “Where’s Sophie?”

  “She, Kat, and Natalie are running a few errands,” Tessa answered.

  “Oh.” For a moment, Marc looked confused. “Errands. Right.”

  It didn’t take advanced training in HUMINT techniques—human intelligence collection—to know that they were up to something. But, lulled by the morphine, Holly quickly forgot what they’d said, drifting in and out of sleep while her friends talked quietly around her.

  Then it was time for Kara and Reece to get back to their kids, who had swimming lessons. They each gave her a hug, Reece bending down to press a kiss against her cheek. “Feel better. We’re just a phone call away if you need us.”

  The conversation turned to Marc’s shooting practice.

  “How’d it go?” Tessa asked.

  Marc grinned. “One-inch groups at three hundred yards.”

  “What Hunter here means to say is that he did all right. I bet I could kick his ass in tactical handguns.”

  Holly had listened to the guys banter about firearms more times than she could count and had always found it amusing. But it wasn’t funny now, the words filling her head with images she wanted to forget.

  “Please,” she said, interrupting them. “Can we not talk about guns today? I just saw a man who was shot in the head.”

  “You don’t need to explain.” Marc shared a glance with Julian. “Sorry.”

  Someone knocked on the door, and Sophie peeked inside. “Can we come in?”

  “Please do,” said Tessa, in her sweet Georgia accent. “I was about to throw our husbands out of the room for being insensitive louts.”

  “Insensitive? Our husbands? Never.” Sophie walked over, gave Marc a kiss, then bent down and hugged Holly. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’m never going to date a billionaire again.”

  Another knock, and Kat James entered, holding the hand of her toddler, Nakai. She spoke quietly to him in Navajo, her native language, then scooped him into her arms and gestured to Holly with a nod of her head. “Can you say hello to Auntie Holly?”

  Nakai buried his little face in Kat’s chest. She laughed and brushed a dark strand of hair off his forehead. “He fell asleep in the car and isn’t quite awake yet. Gabe would have come, too, but Alissa is running a fever, so he stayed home with her.”

  Then Natalie and Zach McBride walked in. Natalie had once worked for the I-Team, but had left journalism after she and Zach had gotten married. Now she had taken up fiction writing and was almost finished with her first romance novel. She was also seven months pregnant.

  They all exchanged hellos and hugs.

  Natalie had brought a bouquet of pink and yellow roses. “It’s from Javier and Laura. They send their love. They’re up at the Cimarron with Nate and Megan, giving those friends of theirs from Sweden a tour of the Rockies and helping Nate manage things while Jack and Janet settle in with the new baby.”

  The Cimarron was a mountain ranch owned by Nate’s family. The Wests ran cattle and bred horses—and hosted the world’s best barbecues.

  “That’s so sweet of them.” Holly sniffed the roses, then accepted Natalie’s help settling the vase on the nearby stand. “I bet they’re having a great time.”

  Holly knew how much Laura looked forward to visiting with those particular Swedish friends, and she knew why. She’d helped pull some strings behind the scenes, though Laura and Javier didn’t know that. They never would.

  The phone rang—not for the first time—and Tessa answered.

  “No, I’m sorry. She’s not taking calls from the press. No, not even from you, Alex. Bye-bye, now.” Tessa hung up. “Well, bless his heart.”

  Alex Carmichael, the jerk who covered cops and courts for the I-Team, would do anything for a scoop or quote—including harass a coworker in the hospital, apparently.

  “Is the media giving you trouble?” Marc asked.

  Holly nodded, reciting a possible front-page headline. “‘Naked woman found in bed with murdered billionaire.’”

  “Yeah.” Marc nodded in comprehension. “That will move a lot of newspapers.”

  “She’s had five requests for interviews in the past hour,” Tessa said. “The hospital switchboard is stopping most of them.”

  There was a lull in the conversation.

  Zach broke the silence.

  “Any time you want me to start running background checks on the men you date, just let me know.” There was a teasing note in his voice, but she could see the steel in his gray eyes and knew he meant what he said. He looked over to Julian and Marc, motioning toward the hallway with a jerk of his head. “Can I talk to you two?”

  He knows something.

  He must know that Dudaev wasn’t what he’d appeared to be. As chief deputy US marshal for the Colorado territory, he’d have access to intel not readily available to the police. That didn’t include Agency files, however.

  Marc and Julian followed him out the door.

  Natalie rubbed her lower back and sat with a relieved sigh. “I’m so glad you’re going to be all right.”

  “So am I—and thanks.” It was then Holly noticed that Sophie, Kat, and Natalie were all holding bags. “You’ve been shopping?”

  The idea lifted Holly’s spirits a notch.

  Shopping was, after all, her native habitat.

  Sophie sat at the foot of the bed. “Do you remember what you did when I was arrested and spent the night in jail? You charmed my attorney into letting you pretend to be his assistant, then smuggled in makeup and a brush so you could do my face and hair before my arraignment in court.”

  Despite the morphine fog, Holly remembered. “I couldn’t let you walk into court looking guilty. First impressions matter.”

  Sophie smiled. “You made me feel human again. In that moment, it was everything to me.”

  “Remember when those bastards attacked Zach and me and I was waiting at the hospital, not sure he was going to make it?” Natalie asked.

  Holly nodded, an image of Natalie’s tear-stained face coming to mind.

  “I was soaked through to the skin from that thunderstorm and out of my mind with worry. You and Kara showed up with a change of clothes and makeup. I’ve never forgotten that.”

  Holly felt tears prick her eyes. “You’re going to make me cry again.”

  Then Tessa spoke. “When I witnessed María Ruiz’s murder and broke down in the women’s room at work, you gave me a little emergency makeup kit and helped me put myself back together. Now it’s our turn to help you. We thought you might want to go home wearing, you know, clothes—or at least lipstick.”

  Natalie stood, and she and Sophie and Kat laid the bags on the bed.

  Sophie looked inside them. “We don’t have your talent with fashion and makeup, but we hope you at least like what we got you.”

  But Holly knew she would love it all, even if the clothes were burlap and the makeup was nothing but finger paints. It had come from her friends.

  * * *

  Zach McBride waited for Hunter and Darcangelo to join him in the hallway. He kept his voice quiet. “This Sasha Dudayev was no art dealer. He’s got a long criminal history that includes everything—robbery, assault, murder, human trafficking, drug smuggling, and arms trafficking. From what I could gather, he was some kind of leader in the Georgian mafia.”

  Hunter gave a low whistle. “Jesus!”

  Darcangelo shook his head. “Holly is damned lucky to be alive.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” They weren’t going to like this. “Last year, he struck up a relationship with a young Italian journalist—a real beauty. She became his lover and served as his courier for a while. Eventually she got tired of him and wanted out. They found her in pieces. Dudaev hacked her to bits while she was still alive.”

  Both men winced.

  “Shit. Well, I guess I’m glad he’s dead,” Hunter said.

  “Save
s me the trouble.” Darcangelo had made a reputation for himself in the FBI fighting human trafficking and had a hard grudge against criminals who preyed on women. “He must have been hoping to recruit Holly.”

  “That’s what we’re thinking.” Zach felt his cell phone buzz, pulled it out of his pocket. He had a text from Corbray.

  We’re on it.

  “The art gallery would have been a nice way of bringing his operations to Colorado,” Hunter said.

  Zach tucked the phone back into his pocket. “DEA already found a shipment of heroin in a crate at his warehouse.”

  “Any idea who might have killed him?” Darcangelo asked.

  “I’m getting to that.” Zach knew both men wanted answers. He did, too. They all cared about Holly. “The moment I started looking into his background, everything on him disappeared. The files just vanished.”

  Hunter and Darcangelo glanced at each other, then looked at him.

  “Are you thinking this might be federal?” Hunter asked.

  Darcangelo nailed it. “You’re thinking CIA.”

  “I called Corbray and asked him to look into it. Derek Tower has all kinds of connections with the CIA that might prove useful—if that’s what’s happening here. He just texted me back to say they’re on it. I’ll keep you posted.”

  * * *

  Nick arrived back in Denver early that evening as Nick Andrews, combat veteran turned writer. The lair he’d used for the past three weeks had been converted into a home. It looked like the Agency had bought out IKEA. The décor was Tasteful Single Guy with a few houseplants meant to show his sensitive side. Hell, did they have a decorator on the payroll, too?

  He wouldn’t be surprised.

  A dark yellow sofa sat in the living room, throw pillows in gray and black artfully arranged at its corners. There was a coffee table, a bookshelf, and an entertainment center in matching high-gloss black, as well as a tripod floor lamp with a black shade and a blocky armchair in black leather. There were curtains now instead of blinds. They’d even thought of magazines. He reached for one to find out what he was supposed to be reading. SKI, Men’s Health, Atlantic Monthly. So he was active, but intellectual and not afraid of poetry. Good to know.

  Nick walked into the kitchen and found it equipped and stocked—matching black plates and bowls, coffee cups, silverware. There wasn’t much food in the fridge—a steak, some eggs, basic condiments—but there was a bottle of wine on the counter. There was even an espresso machine. What the hell was he supposed to do with that?

  He found his desk and surveillance gear in the extra bedroom together with a set of weights and a treadmill. Well, thank God for the last two things. More time cooped up in this place was likely to drive him insane.

  On the desk was a folder with his social media info—passwords and printouts of Nick Andrews’s website, Facebook page, Twitter account. He glanced at the printout of his website’s home page, saw his own face smiling up at him. What a charming guy he was. The site even had excerpts from the book he was writing—all part of the cover.

  He walked to the master bedroom, dropped his gear on the bed—a high platform bed with a dark wooden headboard, a yellow and gray comforter, and way too many little pillows. Then he opened the closet.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  Whoever had put this all together must have read in his report about Bradshaw’s love of designer clothing and decided she’d like a man who dressed the same way. But Nick knew what really turned her on.

  Hard bodies. Jeans. A badass vibe.

  And that’s what Nick was going to give her—whether he wanted to or not.

  The little bitch.

  She had stolen that intel right from under his nose. Analysts had decided that Bradshaw must have downloaded the contents of the USB drive to a special cell phone then uploaded a virus that rendered the files unreadable. That way there was no drive for her to smuggle out and no chance that Dudaev would discover that the drive was missing and kill her.

  Nick had known she’d left her smartphone at home. That’s why he hadn’t been able to listen in on her dinner conversation with Dudaev. Why hadn’t it clicked that the phone he’d found in her purse couldn’t have been hers?

  You got sloppy, Andris, and she got away.

  Or so she thought.

  Bauer and Nguyen had played back the audio from the room that night, filtering out the argument Dudaev was having with one of his goons about the waiter they’d mistaken for Nick so that Nick could hear the digital beeps of the room safe as Bradshaw punched in the hotel’s override code. The time index on the audio feed had left no doubt that Bradshaw had played Dudaev and made off with the files.

  Either she had been the contact and had double-crossed Dudaev and simply stolen the files, or she was working for some unknown third party. Nick’s job was to use any means necessary to find out who pulled her strings.

  Fuck.

  This wasn’t his scene. He hadn’t trained for this kind of operation. There were men who had, but for some reason Bauer had insisted on sending him.

  Nick also had misgivings about moving against a US citizen in the homeland. “You have the evidence. Just arrest and interrogate her.”

  “That’s not an option,” Bauer had said, without explaining.

  Nick had laid down his boundaries. “I won’t terminate her.”

  Bauer had shrugged. “I don’t like the thought any more than you do, but she’s a traitor to her country. She might not give you any choice.”

  What had Nick overlooked in those three long weeks he’d spent surveilling her?

  He walked into the bathroom, took a leak, and washed his hands and face, marveling at the way the toothbrush holder matched the soap dispenser. In a cupboard, he found a selection of fluffy black towels. He reached for one, dried his face, his gaze landing on his own reflection.

  You look like a damned shaggy dog.

  He hadn’t had time for a haircut before leaving Tbilisi, and he hadn’t had time while he’d been here keeping track of Bradshaw, either. His dark hair got wavy when it had any length to it, and it was almost touching his collar. He needed to shave, too, but he’d decided to wait. Bradshaw would like a bit of stubble on men.

  As he unpacked his gear, Nick thought through everything he knew about her.

  She’d been an Army brat, moving around the country. Her father was a career officer with Army intelligence, her mother a former model. Her parents had divorced when she was fourteen after her mother had had an affair with one of her husband’s staff, and Holly had gone to live with her mother. She’d gotten good test scores and had won both Air Force and Army ROTC scholarships. She’d chosen Air Force but had dropped out in her first year for reasons that weren’t clear. She’d earned a 4.0 GPA in college and graduated summa cum laude with a double degree—journalism and political science.

  What would make a good girl like Holly Bradshaw turn to the Dark Side?

  Growing up with a father in the Army probably meant that she hadn’t had many close friendships. Her father hadn’t been around a lot. Maybe she hadn’t gotten enough of Daddy’s attention. That could explain why she’d chosen Air Force over Army—a bit of rebellion to get the old man’s goat. And when he hadn’t given a damn, she’d dropped out and turned to her mother for approval, taking up expensive shoes and clothes.

  It was a theory, anyway.

  One thing was certain. Holly Bradshaw was smart.

  Her Air Force aptitude test had put her IQ at 154.

  Why with brains like that did she put so much emphasis on her appearance?

  Blame Daddy again. Her father had been gone a lot and had probably felt guilty. When he’d been home, he’d told his daughter how pretty she was and bought her pretty things, because deep down he had no clue how to relate to a daughter, especially not one who reminded him of his faithless ex.

  Nick had no idea whether he was hitting the target or just making shit up now. Yeah, he’d had HUMINT training, but Nick was a par
amilitary operator, not a profiler or analyst. He was used to being the muscle that backed up the Agency’s play. When they needed security or demolition, they brought him in. They had to have better men for this job, men whose Agency experience included using their cocks for counterintelligence.

  “Seduce her if you have to. You’ve kept her under surveillance for weeks now. You must know what makes her tick. How hard could it be to get into her pants?”

  Nguyen had seemed to get a kick out of Nick’s reluctance, hinting that his Georgian Orthodox upbringing was to blame.

  “Lighten up, Andris. You just might enjoy this. Most men would.”

  Stupid bastard.

  Nick had waited until he was away at college before he’d started bringing girls home, and he hadn’t fucked around as much as some of his friends had. But it wasn’t because he had some kind of guilt-based sexual hang-up. His mother had drummed it into him and his brothers not to treat women like disposable goods. Hell, he had every bit as much sexual drive as the next man. He just had more self-control.

  Getting sexual with a stranger wasn’t his style. Then again, Holly didn’t feel like a stranger. He already knew so much about her. Still, he hadn’t been with anyone since Dani, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get into another woman—so to speak—especially one capable of sleeping with men for secrets and betraying her country. How was he supposed to kiss her, touch her, give her pleasure?

  Okay, so she was incredibly hot. She had a body that could stop traffic.

  An image of her lying topless on the bed flashed through his mind again.

  Yeah, he could definitely see what Nguyen was saying.

  And yet his first impulse wasn’t to fuck her. It was to cuff her and haul her in for interrogation. She was a traitor, and she’d bested him.

  But Nick had more to think about than Holly Bradshaw. The missing and dead officers. Kramer’s warning and subsequent disappearance. The Batumi op. The internal investigation. The encrypted files on the cloned hard drive. The nagging feeling that Kramer, Bauer, and Nguyen had kept something from him.

  He stowed the rest of his gear, shoving socks, T-shirts, and underwear into the chest of drawers. That left his two semi-autos, the ammo, and the rest of the shit in his go-bag—thirty grand in cash, fake IDs, credit cards, a medic’s field kit, batteries, duct tape, a radio, and a whole bunch of other crap. Where the hell was he going to put these? The equipment didn’t go with his cover.