Hot Ice (16 page)

Houston

Taylor didn't say a word, sarcastic or otherwise, on the drive from the downtown hotel to the airport. But Hunt read something in her eyes. Fear? Apprehension? Nope, mutiny most likely. Knowing Taylor, she was probably already plotting her next great escape. He wasn't about to let that happen. Again.

His men accompanied them, and all waited, much to her obvious amusement, while she retrieved a suitcase from a locker in the busy concourse at George Bush Intercontinental.

She'd escaped him once, and if it entertained her knowing it took seven men to watch her every move in a crowded public airport, so be it. Hunt curtly refused her request to go into the restroom to change out of the outrageous red dress. Time enough for that once they were in flight.

Then, if she wanted to get away, her only option would be a free fall at thirty thousand feet. She was a lot of things, but he didn't think stupid or suicidal were among them.

"How many suitcases are waiting at how many airport terminals, do you think?" Max Aries asked Hunt as they watched her wrestle the small case from the locker. The two men stood slightly apart from the others.

"With this woman? Probably at least one complete disguise in every airport in the world," Hunt answered flatly. They'd emptied the second hotel room of her personal effects before she'd returned and found another disguise. Wig, brown contacts, a change of clothing, and another passport.

Frowning, Hunt watched Austin, a younger agent, help her with the recalcitrant case, and dissolve under Taylor's smiling thanks. He'd have to caution Austin about the dangers of smiling women—especially
this smiling
woman—at the first opportunity.

Annoyed, and not quite sure why, Hunt motioned the others to get the lead out. They had a plane to catch. No matter that it was a private T-FLAC jet, fueled and waiting for him and his team. The point was, they had a schedule to keep, and by damn, he was through letting the little jewel thief screw with his plans. She was both an aggravation and a lure.

Hunt fell behind with Max as the group finally moved,
en masse
, down the concourse, Bishop now carrying the small case. "Whoever the hell's making her passports is a genius," Hunt said. "With her ability to completely change her appearance, coupled with brilliantly forged documents, no wonder she can disappear into thin air. She's good. But without those perfect papers, she'd have been easier to catch. Never seen anything like them. You?"

Max shook his head. "Work like that doesn't come cheap."

"She can afford it." And more. She must have enough money to buy a medium-sized country, for God's sake.

What could she possibly be talking to Bishop and Austin about? And why in the hell did he give a continental damn? Still, he'd lengthened his stride, to close the gap, when Max put a hand on his arm. "Maybe you should let someone else head up this portion of the mission," his friend said.

That stopped him. He snapped Max a dark look. "Who'd you have in mind? You?"

Max shrugged. "It's a little too tame for me, but my head is on my shoulders, not between my legs."

"When I need your damn advice on when to get laid, I'll let you know."

Max lifted both hands and shook his head. "I'm just saying—"

"I know what you're saying and my pants are firmly zipped. Not that it's any of your damn business." He'd said it mildly enough, but wanted to punch out his friend for being
that
good at reading him. "Hell, it's tame for both of us. But not for long. The second we have those codes, we'll mobilize, and you'll have all the excitement you need."

"Promises, promises."

Max Aries was an adrenaline junkie, a trait Hunt was fairly sure he had in common with Taylor Kincaid. If her performance at the gallery was any indication, she did her best work under pressure. Impressive, Hunt thought, too bad she'd chosen to use her powers for bad instead of good. Criminal deeds instead of something in a more legal arena.

She was attracting a lot of attention. At this ungodly hour of the morning most people were bleary-eyed and looked as though they'd dressed in the dark. Barely five A.M., and Taylor was still wearing the painted-on, short, tight, screaming-red cocktail dress. Maybe his curt dismissal of her request to change had been a minor tactical error on his part. Taylor looked as out of place strolling through the airport as a hooker at a church picnic.

And poor helpless morons were swallowing their tongues and walking into walls while taking in the low-cut dress parenthesizing her breasts. The breast men's eyes stayed on the pale twin globes. Glazed and greedy. The leg men let their attention skim her body down to her creamy pale, mile-long legs encased in high-heeled sandals. One poor idiot walked into a pillar. Another tripped over a trash barrel.

An irritated glance showed Hunt the ass men, turning around when they passed, or even walking backward to keep her in their sights. Jesus.

He almost wished that Interpol and the State Department had been called in to interrogate and remove her.

Hunt stepped between her and Bishop like a guy cutting another man out on a dance floor. He glanced at her profile as they walked side by side. Apparently oblivious to the attention she was garnering, she stared straight ahead. But if he knew women, which he did, and this one in particular, which he did, her brain was going a mile a minute. As stupid as it would be for her to try, he was braced for her to make a run for it at any moment.

She glanced at him, a glint of humor in her eyes as she lifted one perfectly shaped brow. "Do I have something on my face?" Now he could see that she was indeed aware of the reaction she had on the men around her. She'd dressed to impress.

He picked up the pace. Her long legs kept up easily. He imagined her smooth, creamy thighs—the fractional area not revealed by the short dress—as she walked, and found his jaw aching from grinding his teeth. "No," he finally replied.

"Then stop staring at me," she told him crisply.

Hunt was doing his best to ignore her considerable sex appeal. It was an uphill battle. He'd never had a weakness for milk white skin, but he was rapidly developing one. God only knew. She was exposing most of hers in that barely there scrap she was wearing.

She not only looked like a walking centerfold, she exuded an "I'm available for the taking" signal that was unmistakable. The depth of his annoyance came as a surprise. Why did he give a flying fuck
how
many men wanted her? Or how many passersby stared avariciously at her long, pale legs and velvety décolletage? "A cat can look at a king," he told her sharply, irritated at himself.

She frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means," he snarled, "if you want to go unnoticed, don't wear a dress that shouts
Hey, buddy, check me out
!"

"That's very caveman of you."

"You asked."

"And believe me, I'm regretting it." She glanced up at him. "Besides, it's not my fault. I
wanted
to change clothes, remember?
You're
the one who said no."

"And believe me," Hunt told her grimly, "I'm regretting it."

"Whatever," Taylor muttered, her cheeks flushing with—must be anger, no woman dressing this way could possibly have an embarrassed bone in her body.

Hunt picked up the pace again, forcing her, and the whole team to catch up in a hurry. She shouldn't really be pretty, for God's sake. Average nose. Average chin. Dark hair. Good body. Great legs. No big deal. But somehow, it was.
She
was.

A tired-looking businessman glanced up, saw Taylor strolling toward him, and did a classic double take. Then he walked into a row of seats and did a pratfall.

Jesus. She was a lethal weapon.

And unlike him, these strangers hadn't seen her most spectacular feature—her incredible blue eyes. And it wasn't as though they'd touched that skin and
knew
it felt like velvet.

One incredibly amazing
almost
sexual encounter shouldn't give him this possessive feeling of ownership. It never had before. They hadn't even gotten to the good stuff. His annoyance needle zinged completely off the meter. Hell, all he'd done was kiss her… touch her… bloody hell.

Bishop held the door open for her, and she passed through to the secure area flanked by his team. If she so much as looked as though she was going to—what? Hunt asked himself. What the hell did he expect her to do? Anything. Everything.

He didn't
know
. He just knew she'd do
something
. And soon. She'd make her play before boarding the plane. No way was she going to meekly go along with this. It wasn't in her nature.

They passed through the TSA checkpoints unfettered. He drew everyone to a halt at a conveniently placed table through the doors onto the runway. "Hand me that," he told the younger man. Austin passed him her case.

"Hold on to her," he told Bishop. "And, all of you. Watch her like hawks. Don't even blink."

He wanted to remind them that the woman was ostensibly their prisoner, not a prom date, for sweet Christ's sake. But if he gave
them
that lecture, he'd have to listen to it himself, and he wasn't in the freaking mood.

"Shoot her if she moves more than half an inch." He tossed the not surprisingly heavy suitcase onto the flat surface and sprang the latches. "Not in the head though. Go for the leg. Or a gut wound. We'll need her eyes."

Taylor shook her head as if he were nuts. "I'm behaving," she reminded him, irritated. "Which is more than I can say for you."

"Lady," Hunt growled, "trust me when I say if I wasn't on my best damn behavior, you'd be bound and gagged and tossed into the cargo hold. So don't fucking push me."

Both of her eyebrows lifted. "I'm guessing there weren't any charm schools in your background."

"You'd be guessing wrong." Although charm school wasn't what the schools he'd gone to were called. "Don't get any ideas." Hunt flipped the lid, then systematically went through the suitcase, looking for any concealed weapons or anything else she might have stashed in case of emergency. Hell, it wouldn't surprise him if she had a parachute packed away—just in case.

This woman didn't leave anything to chance, so neither would he.

She stood by, unmoved, watching him sift through silky panties and see-through bras. He removed two passports, one in her own name, Swiss, and another in the name of Gloria LeRue, from the Netherlands, and tucked them into his back pocket. Satisfied by his inspection, and hating the fact he'd been turned on by the feel of her sheer lingerie, he slammed the lid and closed the case.

Aries and Bishop preceded them across the tarmac and boarded the jet. The others would leave the airport after takeoff, awaiting further orders. Hunt indicated the rolling stairs beside the plane to Taylor. "Move it."

She laid her hand on her chest and heaved a dramatic sigh. "Since you ask so nicely…" She gripped the handrail and started up the metal stairs, giving him a spectacular view of her taut butt beneath the clingy red silk, and a close-up view of her truly spectacular bare legs as she climbed ahead of him in those sexy high-heeled sandals.

His own observation, and his reaction to her, continued to piss him off. He didn't
want
to find this woman sexy. She was merely a means to an end. But it was impossible to forget the feel of her supple body beneath his, or the taste of her mouth.

She disappeared through the door, and since he'd lagged behind to ogle her, he had to sprint up the rest of the stairs to catch up. He was male, she was certainly all woman. A man would have to be dead, buried, and nailed into his coffin
not
to react to such overt sensuality.

Fine. His body could crave all it wanted. His dick wasn't in charge. His brain was.

But damn it to hell. It was worse than a sexual attraction. He found Taylor Kincaid..
. fascinating
.

In less than twenty-four hours, Miss Taylor Kincaid would be someone else's problem. Twenty-two hours, thirty minutes, ten seconds… not that he was counting.

Chapter Fifteen