Fatal Honor: Shadow Force International (3 page)

“You’ve been touching me everyday,” he said. “Torturing me with your fingers, your laughter, your simple presence. I want you so badly, I can hardly stop myself from throwing you on that bed and stripping you naked.”

Her nipples peaked under her thin nightgown. “Perhaps, I’d like that too.”

His brows crashed down over those beguiling eyes. His voice came out raspy. He searched her face as if looking for deception. “You shouldn’t. Being with me, even if I don’t share your bed, is dangerous.”

“I’m used to dangerous men. I know how to handle myself.”

“What kind of dangerous men?”

She came to stand in front of him, looking down into his handsome face. “My past is checkered with them, but I’m leaving that life behind as soon as I can. I have an incredible radar system that lets me know who’s dangerous and who’s not. You’re not, Miles. I know that. You’ve been sleeping in my bed for weeks. I’d like to truly share it with you.”

“Are you sure?”

Grasping the gauzy material of her gown, she bunched it up, raising the hem higher and higher. It grazed her thighs, her hips. Using both hands, she lifted it over her stomach and breasts. At last, drawing it out, she freed it from her head.

Closing the last bit of distance between them, she dropped it at his feet. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”

He gazed at her body with a look of wonder. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Letting him draw her into his lap, she sucked in a breath as his lips closed around one of her nipples.

Knowing this was all a dream—that it could never last—Charlotte tipped her head back and let herself be carried away.

Chapter Two

_____________________

______________________________________________________

San Diego

Nine and half months later

H
E
W
AS
B
EING
followed.

Two days ago, Miles noticed a black hybrid following him to the Hit & Run where he grabbed a bottle of caffeine and a protein bar to overcome the previous night’s whiskey-induced hangover.

Fresh off of his last job for Shadow Force International, he’d been lying low and kicking back, enjoying the mild Southern California weather and the fact he had running water again, unlike the Bosnian hellhole he’d been in just days before. Even the last job he’d had in the States, helping keep news journalist Savanna Bunkett from dying at the hands of the president, had been a cakewalk compared to Bosnia.

But Bosnia was a stone’s throw from Romania. Romania held answers. Answers he needed to know what had happened nearly a year ago when someone destroyed the helo his SEAL team had been traveling in. In those mountains with a beautiful brown-eyed blonde who haunted his dreams. He was going back to find her, or at the very least, the person responsible for the death of five good men, as soon as Emit Petit let him.

Which wouldn’t be anytime soon. He was finally due some R&R from SFI, and what did Emit say to him?
Do me a favor. Run the West Coast Division of Rock Star Security until a replacement can be found.

The Rock Stars were the cover business for SFI, and in this day and age of rich, famous, and reality TV wannabes, the security service was booming. Every man on the team was a former SEAL with a shady past. Each of them went by a codename in order to protect their real identities. Their skill sets were perfect for the bodyguard and security service work needed.

Although Miles had dabbled in the RSS side of things, he didn’t know much about running a group of bodyguards. But he couldn’t let Emit down, no how, no way. The man depended on him and Petit was a stand-up guy. An honorable one. He’d rescued Miles from Romania and gave him a job and a place to stay upon his return.

Miles had never wanted to be a leader—he preferred being in the field. At least the men working for him understood the job and the chain of command. They all shared a similar sense of duty, loyalty, and honor.

So, thanks to the debt he owed Emit, he was here in San Diego, recovering from his last paramilitary stint and wondering who his stalker was. The bodyguards now suddenly in his care were doing a decent job of handling themselves without him and for that, he was grateful.

Today, he’d seen the black hybrid behind him in the late afternoon rush hour traffic. Tonight, it was sitting a block south of his apartment.

He’d been declared MIA after his team had been destroyed in those mountains. His ankle had healed, but it wasn’t strong enough for him to return to the Teams once he was back home. He’d found he didn’t have the stomach for it anyway. He didn’t deserve to wear the emblem of the United States Navy anymore.

With his fellow SEALs all dead and him missing, the U.S. had presumed he was dead too. If it hadn’t been for that mysterious guardian angel who’d found him and patched him back up, he would have been.

Her luscious curves and beautiful face invaded his mind day and night even all these months later. Every time he thought of her—her tender, healing touch, the hours she spent tending to his wounds, the way she’d used her own body to help him regain his strength—he missed her. They’d shared food, shelter, and physical comfort in each other for six weeks, and yet he didn’t even know her real name. Sarah, she’d told him, but she looked close enough like the picture of Agent Butter that Andrew Hardy had shown him, Miles knew it had to be her. During their time together, he’d played it careful, trying to draw out her story without being obvious. Outside of a few throwaway childhood stories, she’d never talked about herself, always switching the conversation back to him or distracting him with sex.

He hadn’t seen her since the night she’d disappeared from the cabin and Emit Petit had shown up in those godforsaken Carpathian Mountains to rescue him. Truth was, at that point, he hadn’t wanted to be rescued.

He missed her fiercely. Her wildness, her kindness, her laughter. Some days, he wanted to escape his current life and go back to that time. To her.

The solid gold cross lying under his shirt warmed the skin next to his heart. The only thing he had from their time together. That and the memories.

He’d drawn a sketch of her face, ran it through the SFI facial recognition software. The closest ID he’d come upon was a British Intelligence agent named Charlotte Carstons. There were no decent photos of Carstons anywhere in the system. No social media or public photos either. Which only made him more convinced she was an undercover operative.

While the Brits wouldn’t give him any info on her, Miles had done research, asking contacts and putting out feelers. Being part of SFI helped. Beatrice Reese, Petit’s second-in-command, was former NSA and knew everyone and everything. She’d put out a few feelers too, before getting her hands slapped by the Queen of all people. If their intel was correct, Charlotte Carstons had been MIA since that very time period Miles had spent healing and making love to a woman who still haunted his dreams. If she were indeed Butter, it was rumored she had been feeding Nicolae Bourean classified information and helping him sell it to the highest bidder.

Just my luck, I fell for a traitor.

Miles’ cell rang and he answered it without taking his eyes from his night vision goggles. “Whatcha got for me, Rory?”

“Not much, Poison.” Rory, the SFI tech specialist, referred to Miles by his Rock Star bodyguard name. Rory stayed behind the scenes keeping them all on track. A former SEAL as well, he’d done wet work for the CIA for a bunch of years before ending up with SFI.

The man had a voice only a mother could love. He sounded like he’d smoked too many cigars and enjoyed too many shots of tequila that evening. Probably had. “Car’s rented from a smalltime dealership in La Jolla. Name on the rental agreement is Veronica Whitman. Ring any bells?”

The name meant nothing to Miles, and yet, he felt a quickening of his pulse. A strange woman following him. Was it…?

No. It had been just over nine fucking months since he’d been in the States. Why would his guardian angel come looking for him now?

Nine months.
Shit
. Was he a father?

The thought rocked him. He had to take a couple of deep breaths. Finally, his brain engaged again and he discarded the idea. If the woman he’d known as Sarah had given birth to his baby, why wouldn’t she simply knock on his door and drop the bomb?

Because she’s the No. 1 on the MI6 Most Wanted list?

They’d fucked like rabbits but used condoms every time. They’d been careful.

And maybe she
had
been looking for him all along. He wasn’t exactly on Twitter and Instagram, telling everyone where he ate, slept, or worked out. “That name doesn’t even ring a distant bell.”

“Not a high school sweetheart,” Rory offered, “or former babysitter?”

“Nope. You got a picture?”

“The dealership does a lot of backdoor stuff, so no copy of her driver’s license is on file. I ran her name through the DMV and there are a dozen Veronica Whitmans in the United States. Four of them live in California alone. I have Facebook pages, YouTube videos, LinkedIn profiles, but no idea which one could be keeping tabs on you or why. Yet,” he added.

“I can help if you send me the links.”

“I’m cross-referencing each of them with your name to see if anything comes up. If that doesn’t give us a lead, I’ll start with the California girls and do more in-depth background checks.”

“Probably a false ID.”

Computer keys clicked on Rory’s end. “Then it’ll be a long night, but I
will
figure it out.”

That was the great thing about working with the former SEALs who formed Shadow Force International. They were all good men. Men who’d been screwed one way or another by the government they’d served, and who still kept the same determination to see justice done and to help the innocent. They helped each other too. Every one of them had the other’s back.

Miles leaned against the window frame. All was quiet on the street out front. He’d left the lights off in his living room and kitchen to make sure he couldn’t be spotted in this window. His bedroom light and TV were on at the back of the apartment. If the person in the car was casing his place, they’d think he was watching TV in bed.

“Did you check the airlines for her?” he asked. “If she’s renting a car, she might have flown in from somewhere.”

More clicking of keys. A long pause. “No Veronica Whitmans have landed at San Diego International in the past week. I can check LAX, but she probably would have rented a car up there, so that’s a long shot. Did you get a tracker on her?”

“Stuck a Shadow Tracker on the bumper as soon as the sun set.”

He’d crawled under the cars behind the black hybrid until he’d gotten close enough to tag the underside of the back bumper with the tiny GPS device. The size of a quarter and charged by the sun, the tiny tracker was specifically designed for asset and vehicle retrieval. “Do that cross-reference thing and I’ll follow her when she leaves, see where she goes.” Miles said. “Call me back when you’ve got something.”

“Copy that. If you send me the tracker’s ID number, I’ll keep a watch on her, too, via my software.”

“Done.” They disconnected.

Miles went into the bedroom and suited up. A nine-millimeter went into his shoulder holster, a couple of listening devices went into his Kevlar vest pocket. He pulled on a dark knit cap, a black jacket over the vest, and his motorcycle boots. Snagging his car keys and a power bar from his stash, he turned off all the lights and let himself down the fire escape in the back. He found the perfect surveillance spot not far from his car and sat in the dark with his binoculars and waited.

As suspected, Veronica and her Ford pulled away from the curb a few minutes later.

Miles got in his car and followed.

T
RACKING
A
F
ORMER
Navy SEAL who now worked for a private protection agency wasn’t easy. Tracking Miles Duncan, a
paranoid
former SEAL who once held the esteemed, if unofficial, nickname of Evasion God among his team brothers, was one of the most challenging missions of Charlotte Carstons’ career.

But she’d found him. Finally.

The bathroom was thoroughly steamy after her long, hot shower. After the sun had gone down, the car had gotten cold. She hated cold.

Being held in a Romanian crime lord’s torture chamber six feet under ground for months had done that to her. Like a person who’d had heat stroke and could no longer stand direct sun, she couldn’t stand the slightest chill. It took her right back to the living grave she’d endured and those horrible months at the hands of Nicolae Bourean.

She wiped the mirror off with her towel. The shower had done her good, warming her and relaxing her muscles. The scanner built into her phone had alerted her that Miles had somehow put a tracking device on her car. She had top of the line night vision goggles that had detected him standing in the shadows of his living room watching her. She’d waited until he’d left the window before she snuck out and removed the device.

Winding around the city’s hills and down to the wharves, she’d tried to pick up his truck following her. She’d never seen him. Not once. Still, she’d tossed the tracker into another car at the gas station before she’d gone back to the motel.