Hot for His Hostage (3 page)

Shit.

It would be time to risk contacting his CIA point man, Dan Colton. He’d need an exfil
fast, if he lived that long. Finding a place to disappear for the night would be a
priority, too. Trusting the LAX security team wasn’t an option. He had no way of knowing
who Cameron owned around here.

Escaping to the Hilton with his two new dancer friends suddenly seemed the best plan
for the night—if they really weren’t working for Stock themselves. Which, despite
his earlier assumption, was an option on the table again.

How the hell was he going to figure them out? Getting them naked wasn’t a fail-proof
answer. Wasn’t like he’d find wires or trackers on them. Cocksuckers like Stock had
sneakier ways of keeping tabs on a guy these days, especially if they’d researched
their prey and learned he belonged to several high-end BDSM clubs in Pensacola and
Panama City. Wasn’t a secret that he was tapped to teach rope bondage classes when
he wasn’t tromping a desert or jungle with his Seventh Special Forces Group operational
detachment, as well. All those women had to do was entice him into a little rope play,
knowing he’d throw his entire attention into the scene, before distracting him just
enough for Stock to put a bullet through his skull or a knife across his throat.

It’d be a viable theory if he still had conscious women on his hands.

He turned back toward the bar in time to hear the
clink
of Ellie’s piercings as her head dropped to the marble. A contented smile was plastered
on her lips.

“El?” Brynn leaned over her friend, persistently poking Ellie’s shoulder. “El? Heeyyy,
wake up. We were just starting have some fun. Ellliieeee…woooo hoooo…anyone home?”
She knocked on El’s head like it was a neighbor’s front door. When she added doorbell
sounds, Shay wrote off his suspicions of the girls as Cameron Stock conspirators.
Or sadly, as potential playmates for the night.

As he allowed his big head to deliver the depressing news to his small head, another
text came in from Wyst.

New hatch time. 8 AM tomorrow. Sunset Airlines #403 to Sin City.

Papa Fox wants hens as insurance now.

Meet at the gate by 7.

So much for the rest of his hard-on. A strange recognition followed. While the update
pushed one concern off his shoulders, another replaced it. The blatant details of
Wyst’s message proved Shay’s cover story was still rock solid, but also revealed their
target wasn’t an empty airliner anymore.
Papa Fox wants hens as insurance.

Hell.

The burglary had turned into a hijack.

Shay glowered at his cola on the bar. He was tempted to shove the drink back and demand
something stronger, but didn’t. Watching Dad pickle his liver into an early death,
as well as Tait’s temporary surrender to the bottle after losing Luna, guided him
to pick and choose his dance cards with Mistress Booze.

Besides, Ellie and Brynn seemed determined to use the cards for everyone in the room.

“Ellliiee! Wake uhhh-hup. Hunk-of-hotness is off his phone and looks like he’s gonna
punish us for getting so turpsy. I mean tits-bees. I mean
tipsy
.”

Shay held back from huffing again. At any other time the girls’ antics would’ve coaxed
him into at least an indulgent chuckle, but he couldn’t shake off tonight’s tension.
The feeling turned into a freak case of Papa Bear syndrome. The hijack wasn’t set
to go down for another ten hours but he couldn’t stand thinking of the pair, embracing
life with such mindless happiness, to be anywhere near this airport when it did.

“No,” he told Brynn. “I’m feeling benevolent tonight. No punishments for you two.
Let’s just get you both on a shuttle back to the hotel, and—”

“Thank you, but they’re okay.”

The soft dictate didn’t come from Brynn. It sure as hell didn’t come from Ellie, who
giggled in her sleep then started snoring.
Then who…
?

Shay stared at a third woman who’d broken free of the estrogen pack in the corner.
Damn. How’d he gotten so distracted that he stopped focusing on his surroundings?
Clumsy shit like that landed guys like him at the wrong end of blades or bullets.

Especially if they were wielded by a beauty like her.

Holy fuck
.

So what if the woman was here to kill him? He almost prayed for it. With her face
as his last sight before the other side, Hades wouldn’t feel like a penance for all
the messy turns of his life. Seven years in Special Forces, taking more lives than
a man should be comfortable with. Relationships that had ended with even worse carnage.
A fucked-up obsession with honor and protectiveness, learned entirely from characters
in the movies he’d snuck into rather than doing homework, likely meaning he had no
real concept of the shit at all.

But in this moment, he sure as hell yearned to. Practically craved it as he soaked
up her heart-shaped face with its bow of a mouth, along with thick-lashed eyes framing
irises that entranced him like skies on the verge of wild storms. Her nose wasn’t
a petite cliché, and was decorated with a sapphire stud that matched her gaze. The
same navy blue color adorned the ends of her hair—holy God, what hair—its near-black
waves tumbling down her back despite her efforts to contain it in a loose braid.

She was otherworldly. Ethereal. He felt like a knuckle-dragging ape in comparison,
especially because words still eluded him.

Finding his tongue didn’t get easier when the woman bent to help Ellie but also gave
a view of her cleavage that banged another wake-up call for his cock. She’d never
be a curvy pin-up star, but what she had was tight and firm, two ideal handfuls.

“El,” she murmured to her friend. When the woman only snored louder and pushed her
away, she resorted to a full yell. “Ellie.
Ay
. Come on; you can’t do this. Let’s go back to the hotel,
corazón
, where you can sleep it off.”

“Looks like Ellie’s one step ahead of you, beautiful.”

Her eyes widened when he slipped in the endearment. Through the moment after that,
he basked in the searing paradise of her appraisal of him. He lifted his gaze, answering
her heat signal with a return beacon of his own. Thank God the messages were comprised
of raw sexual attraction, undetectable by the spooks’ radio chatter experts. If that
were possible, the guys in the control room would interpret the exchange as a plot
to blow something up. Not that exploding something here was such a bad idea…

Her scowl threw a soaking blanket on his illicit thoughts. “Look, Mr.—uh—”

“Burnett.” The cover name rolled out as easily as his own. Six months of regular usage
came in handy. “Shane Burnett. But please make it Shane.”
And please say it in your sweet, spicy accent, too
.

Brynn tittered again. “If you bellow something like ‘only my father’s called Mr. Burnett,’
I’ll
die
.” She used an exaggerated baritone for the middle portion.

“Good news.” He smirked a little. “Nobody will be writing your obit tonight.” He’d
called his father many things over the years, but nothing resembling the respectful
address. Tait had actually tried it once, and been whacked into the wall for being
a “cheeky jokester.”

“Well,” said the newest arrival to their exchange, tugging on a blue-tipped strand.
“
Muchos gracias
for that, at least. Now what do we do about El?” She shifted her fingers to the ends
of a tie-dyed scarf, seeming lost. Shay took advantage of the chance to scoot closer.
The top of her head barely came to his armpit. Once more, he fought the sensation
of feeling like an ape next to a butterfly. No. It sounded better in the language
her accent hinted at. An exquisite
mariposa
.

“Ladies.” He tagged it with another smile, relishing the chance to bury the ugliness
of tomorrow beneath tonight’s courtly façade. “Perhaps I can be of service.”

The two women stared as if he’d really turned into a giant chimp. Was that a good
or bad thing?

“Holy shit,” Brynn finally blurted. “Maybe I really will just die—but only if you’re
waiting on the other side, Mr. Shane Burnett.”

He breathed easier. All right, a good thing.

Until the
mariposa
stepped forward again.

“We’re grateful for the offer,” she stated, “but we’ll manage everything fine. Have
a good evening.”

At least Brynn was still on his side. As she glared at her friend, she grunted with
impressive force. “Zoe Margarita Madonna Chestain,” she snapped. “What the hell is
wrong with you?”

“Besides that you’re loving an excuse to babble my full name?” The woman arched a
brow, kicking up the same side of her mouth. Part of Shay’s gut followed suit, kicking
to life at her mirth. The way it made her eyes shimmer no longer aroused his body
alone. She really was an exotic anomaly, intriguing him deeper by the minute. He yearned
to see her face come alive with a thousand more expressions. How did she look when
she laughed? Cried? Or parted those curvy, sweet lips on a long, breathy orgasm…

“You deserve every pissed syllable,” Brynn fumed. “What’s wrong with you, spewing
with the ‘tude when the world’s last chunk of chivalry is standing here in
that
suit, offering us the aid of
those
arms?”

Zoe Margarita Madonna Chestain had the grace to flush at that. She lifted her gaze
to his. “I’m sorry, Mr. Burnett. It’s been a long day. We had performances at all
ends of the city today, and we’re a little tired.”

He swung a glance toward her snoring friend. “Never would’ve guessed.”

“I don’t mean to be rude—”

“Then don’t be.” He made good use of the interruption. Before she could speak again,
he stepped over, slid a gentle grip around Ellie then pulled her off the barstool
and into his arms.

“Lucky bitch,” Brynn muttered. “And she won’t even remember it in the morning. Irony
is such a douchebag.”

The woman’s drunken giggle wasn’t shared by her friend. Zoe was glaringly sober, verified
by the half-drained water glass on the table near the purse she grabbed—and her taut
expression while doing so. Shay weathered another twinge to his gut. And a fresh surge
of blood to his groin. Deduction dictated she was a dancer, too. Every move she made
flowed into the next, never giving his attention respite from her supple muscles and
well-trained grace. Damn. She was probably flexible as shit, too.

Fine. He was attracted to her. A lot. That still didn’t explain the “twinge.” He mentally
backtracked the feeling. He’d first weathered it when realizing he’d ticked her off
with his boldness.
Not
normal shit. Since when did he care about irking anyone other than Tait, his CO,
and lately, Cameron Stock? Indulging in “caring” meant a sacrifice of focus.

Nope. Not normal. Not acceptable, either.

Which was why he now smiled at her, trying to be a gentleman and smooth her ruffled
feathers?

Forget unacceptable. He’d moved straight on to surreal.

As soon as he entertained the thought, it fled his mind. No. It was again replaced
by his fascination with her peregrine beauty. She treated him to an unguarded moment
of it after she gathered her friends’ purses, too, letting him stare his fill of her
huge midnight eyes and temptress’s lips.

All too quickly, she cast her gaze back down, elegant even in that movement.

Just like a flawlessly-trained submissive.

Good-bye, surreal. Hello, torture.

This isn’t the time for dungeon fantasies, asshole. Tame your dick and focus your
mind.

“The Hilton runs regular shuttles to the outside curb,” Zoe told him after she walked
back over. The group she’d just left released a collective whoop as they ordered two
more pitchers of margaritas. “At least I hope they do now.”

Brynn answered the quizzical stare he threw to both of them. “Their shittle—err, shuttle—van
was all broken when we called for it a couple of hours ago.” She turned her hands
up, fingers splayed like a little girl. “And we’re all in heels. And it was after
dark. And the hotel’s, like, a bunch of blocks away. A drink sounded good, and they
told us the fix time wouldn’t be more than an hour.”

“Which was two hours ago?” Shay couldn’t help a wry laugh after Brynn answered with
a sheepish nod. In all seriousness, he wondered if their hot-ass Vegas show company
had considered hiring a bodyguard to travel with these girls. If any of them were
his woman, he’d be demanding it.

Zoe’s heavy sigh broke into his speculation. “Let me call them again. Maybe they took
down my number wrong, or—”

“Fed you a line just to get you off their backs,” Shay interjected.

She yanked up her chin. Little sparks appeared in her eyes, tantalizing cobalt against
the deep blue. “Which means what?”

So much for not irking her again. Fine by him. He was a little rankled himself now,
largely from how cavalier she—and her half-wasted friends—were about their own welfare.
“It means they’re likely not going to pick up even if you do call, Miss Chestain.”

Her lips twisted. She’d obviously expected what he said, but didn’t like it. “Fine.
Then we’ll just take a cab.”