Ice Cold (12 page)

“Okay,” Navarro interrupted, probably realizing she was in another zone altogether. “Let’s let Winston concentrate on her job and get back to the devices.”

“We have confirmation that the partial detonator found in Athens is from the Ukrainian. Matches the one they found in Mexico.” Gil Mandek, big, black, and with muscles as big around as tree trunks, leaned forward, cradling a delicate tea cup in one large hand. “Coupled with the partial fingerprints, the component materials, and the construction, both detonators have Andriy Kobevko’s signature written all over them.” His refined British accent sounded incongruous coming from a guy built like a mountain; he looked as if he would sound like the Bronx.
All
of the Bronx.

“Unfortunately, Kobevko has been in the wind, believed dead, for the last five years,” Navarro said dryly. “So we have Mexico and Athens with all indicators that Kobevko’s involved. Bäcker believes the Dresden bomb used Kobevko’s technique as well, although he can’t confirm this as fact. There wasn’t so much as a detonator cap found in London. Nothing useful in the debris yet. We’re still looking. As far as Kobevko goes—if it looks like a duck—” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I say we follow this thread and see where it leads us. Then, let’s layer on a few more and see what that gives us.”

“Let’s go find him,” Poole said impatiently, just about coming out of his skin, which was pale, freckly, and dusty looking, for all that he was muscled and as fit as the other men.

God, Honey thought, was I ever that young? Were
any
of these hardened men on the team ever as young as Poole? As eager?

“Kobevko worked with Schorsch Adler,” Navarro reminded them as he pushed off the sill and went to the cart to pour himself another cup of coffee. “Let’s see if large amounts of Semtex have gone missing anywhere in the last week or so.” He paused with the carafe in one hand, cup in the other, to nod at Mandek, who immediately started typing on his encrypted laptop.

Rafael added six packs of sugar to his scalding hot drink then went back to his chair near Winston. “Banks, call Nielson, have her double-check our intel on Kobevko’s absence during the last few years, and while you’re at it, let us know what our pal Adler’s been up to recently.”

He observed Winston out of the corner of his eye. She’d ordered strawberries, in London, in the dead of winter. Woman wasn’t afraid to ask for what she wanted. Especially when cost wasn’t a factor.

Even though they were all on the same team, all sharing intel, she was the only one in the room with her monitor angled so only she could see it. Strawberries out of season and a proclivity for secrecy.

Dressed in skinny jeans and a long-sleeved, black top, her feet back in those kick-ass, black, high-heeled boots, she looked expensive and completely out of place. He’d never worked with an operative who had a penchant for fashion and looked like a damned model while she worked. Maybe it was the way her pale hair was impeccably and seemingly casually coiled on top of her head, or the discreet gold earrings at her ears, or the chic, elegant way she presented herself. Her appearance made Rafael want to haul her into one of the bedrooms, pluck the pins from her hair, fill his hands with her firm ass, and plunge deep to see if she was icy to the core. Two brief kisses hadn’t been enough, and as much as he hated to admit it, Rafael wanted more. Another thing that wasn’t gonna happen.

It was always good to want things, and better, too, for all concerned, if he didn’t get what he wanted.

If his better judgment didn’t deter him, past experience was there to club Rafael over the head whenever he needed a grim reminder. Been there, done that, got the physical and emotional scars to prove it.

Love was just a lure to lull a man into a false sense of security. An offer of a sweet, bright, shiny apple, only to have the prize whipped away when a guy least expected it. He’d had love once. It might’ve been fleeting, short-lived, but Jesus, it had been everything. When she’d died, the hole Rachel left inside him annihilated him for years.

Just the
memory
of that pain made Rafe’s balls retract and his chest ache. Nope. No temptation was powerful enough for him to risk his emotions again. And another fellow operative? Not gonna happen.

Rafael’s comm vibrated in his pocket. Nielson. Control calling was rarely good news. They’d each talked to her at various times throughout the morning. “Navarro.”

“The Croydon location was just blown to hell.”

“Putting you on speaker,” he said, giving her the head’s up as he did so.

“Croydon location just blown to hell,” Nielson repeated. “Three dead in the house with at least seven others injured. Two neighboring houses uninhabitable. High explosives.”

The safe house in Dresden and now London. Someone, Rafael thought grimly, on the
inside
. “So Dresden wasn’t collateral damage.”

The room fell silent, all eyes on him.

“Doesn’t appear to be.” Nielson’s voice was hard. “Don’t break up the team. I’ve dispatched Pickett and Tanalgo to the scene. They’ll report to you when they have anything.”

“You’re checking—”

“Disgruntled company employees? Hell, yeah. Tell me, Navarro, is there a connection between the safe houses and the banks? Do we have a rogue operative on our hands?”

He gave Winston a quick nod, indicating she should be the one to answer.

“We don’t have any connection with the breach at the city center safe house and the bank sites. Rocha is making progress on his end, but, as is typical of Black Rose, there is not much to find.” Honey paused, looking at her computer screen, and something Rafe read as doubt flashed across her face for an instant before the frosty mask returned. “I’m onto a new line of inquiry, initial indicators are promising, but I need to expand the data set to maximize the results. The probability that the bank assaults are connected to the attacks on the T-FLAC locations is still small, but the team intel for this new device may alter the equation.”

“While I don’t believe in coincidences,” Navarro continued, “so far we’re not seeing that the events are connected. The Croydon house was miles from the bank
and
sixteen hours later. Maybe? Possibly? We’ll run the two investigations side by side, see if there’s any connection.”

“Watch your six,” Nielson warned before disconnecting.

Great. Now they had to watch each other as well as the tangos.

Finally. Blissful quiet.

The men had talked and paced, their comms had rung,
beeped
, and vibrated, they’d had simultaneous conversations and yelled questions from one side of the room to the other. Food was delivered and consumed with gusto. More coffee. More food. It was a madhouse for several hours.

It gave Honey a headache, which, now that the men were gone, might go away with a soothing cup of chamomile and one freaking question answered. Any question would do at this point, Goddamnit!

How did they work like this? Give her a quiet lab and her computer any day. The virtual private network provided a direct and secure encryption link between the hotel room and a T-FLAC satellite, bypassing potential prying eyes. A keyboard and a VPN were her weapons of choice. With them and some alone time, she could accomplish miracles.

A glance at the windows showed the snow had stopped, but the darkening sky looked heavy and ready to dump more. Navarro should get out there and do his job. Leave her alone to do hers.

Honey was preternaturally aware of him seated across the room, currently talking on the comm to Control. She worked but not at her normal pace. She couldn’t concentrate with Navarro’s eyes on her. Aware he was watching her; she felt his dark gaze like a caress on her cheek.
Damn you.
Go!

She glared at him, determined to get her point across. He disconnected, no polite hi and bye for him, and placed his comm on the cushion beside him. “Don’t let me bother you.”

It wasn’t a damned case of “letting” him, it was a case of not being able to help herself. She picked up her glass and sipped the iced lemon water before speaking. “What did Nielson have to say?”

“Follow-up from Athens. No big deal.”

Honey itched to get back to work, but Navarro rolled up his sleeves as if settling in. He needed a shave. He’d run his hands through his hair while he was on the comm, and it needed a comb. In other words, he looked ridiculously sexy.

Go. Away
. He wasn’t getting the subliminal message.

“I ordered more coffee,” he said from the sofa. His arms were spread wide across the plushly upholstered back, and one foot rested on the opposite knee as he lounged, as relaxed as a black panther on a tree branch. She used a similar body language technique when she wanted to appear open and accessible. Basic T-FLAC training.

She wasn’t fooled. Navarro’s pose didn’t reassure her in the slightest. Just the opposite, in fact. There was nothing open and accessible about him. He jangled her nerves and made her heart race just sitting there as she looked at him. She
liked
looking at him.
That
was a problem. Pheromones. A chemical reaction. Body chemistry.

Just an increase in her neutrophils and dopamine. Similar to adrenaline, norepinephrine was giving her the inappropriate, unwelcome, racing heart and feeling of excitement, even seated ten feet apart.

Logic could cut through anything. Or so she told herself. Repeatedly.

When she had a work-related problem, Honey systematically analyzed it, coming at it from every angle. Probing, unraveling, and working slowly and methodically, like a dog gnawing on a particularly juicy bone. Personal issues were another matter.
Those,
she’d learned, could be ignored and postponed until the timing was optimal, or until the problem just went away. Either way, she had a feeling Navarro wouldn’t be quite that easy to dismiss.

“Who do
you
think the imposter is?” Navarro asked, body still in the deceptively “open” position. Yeah, right. He had a dangerous, almost predatory sexiness that seemed to ooze from his pores and assaulted her at every level, whether she liked it or not. Not a slick charm, easy to ignore or deflect. No, he didn’t have “charm”; his was a natural sexual energy, all the more attractive because he seemed oblivious to it.
That
was subversive and a lot harder to ignore.

Operatives used scentless soap, when they were actively in the field, but Honey thought she could smell his skin. Something hot and sensual, a smell that made her hormones—well, damn it—moan. She knew he wanted to have sex with her. His black eyes, opaque as black glass, seemed to heat when he thought she wasn’t looking. It was hard
not
to make eye contact, especially since they were having a conversation. One they wouldn’t be having if the man would leave to do his
job
. She changed her depth perception so she appeared to be looking at him, but she was seeing the hunting painting on the wall ten feet behind him.

While she was all about solving puzzles, her tool was a computer. People’s motivations eluded her. Normally, she didn’t care why, just how a crime was committed. This doppelganger, this puzzle, hit way too close to home for comfort.