Ice Cold (22 page)

Within minutes, the Challenger was airborne, and she watched the clouds streak by the window as she forced her tense muscles to relax, one by one, breathing evenly through her mouth until centered. Damn man was making her feel things she’d hoped never to feel, and she resented the hell out of him for doing so. The only saving grace was that he wasn’t aware of the effect he was having on her. At least she hoped he wasn’t. Who knew how much those dark eyes saw when he looked at her?

They’d inspected the other two bodies before boarding, finding the same rosebud tattoo on one and a small black lily on the other. The flower tattoos were in the small of their backs. The same location as Catherine’s.

Black flowers. Savage’s assets. Whether she was in lockdown or not,
someone
was directing the Black Rose organization, and Honey knew it wasn’t some demented Goth florist. She put all her money on Catherine Seymour aka Savage being behind
all
of this. It didn’t matter how much it killed her that a woman she’d trusted and called friend was pulling God only knew what on these banks. For reasons Honey couldn’t begin to fathom, her one-time mentor was determined to make it look as though her protégée was responsible and that Honey had gone to the dark side.

All this reinforced her belief that people weren’t to be trusted. Granted, it was a shit way to lead her life, but Honey didn’t need hit over the head with a two-by-four to know everyone had an agenda. Lip service was just that. Friendship with an agenda.

If Savage’s involvement hadn’t been obvious to everyone else before, now it was confirmed. The why of it was just a matter of time. Honey was used to ferreting out the most obscure bits of data. She’d figure this out too, and if necessary, present her completed findings to the powers that be when she was done. Hopefully, Navarro would listen to what she had to offer, and he’d agree with her assessment. Either way, she’d expose and apprehend Savage once and for all. The confirmation Black Rose was involved was no surprise to her. It begged more questions for which Honey had no answers. Yet. She’d been processing the how of it for hours, and for all she knew, it had been back there working in her subconscious while she was going about other business.
Just the usual multitasking—a combination of data analysis and hand-to-hand combat.
She shook her head at the thought.

What she’d come up with made sense, at least in her head. She’d run it by Navarro, hear his take on it, and go from there.

She contacted the Prague office to give them their ETA and to requisition several changes of clothes and footwear for both of them, then sent a hasty, quickly written report to Nielson to update her on what just transpired.

The next couple of hours were hers. Honey’s feet felt like blocks of ice, the ache too distracting to ignore. The LockOut had kept her core warm, but her feet, bare in the snow and on the icy concrete of the hangar and the metal catwalk, hadn’t fared as well. Unzipping the boots she’d left outside the hangar and retrieved when all the fun was over, she kicked off the expensive and impractical footwear.

Curling her bare feet up on the seat under her butt for warmth, she contemplated getting up and going into the aft head for a hot shower but was too drained from the wild surges of adrenaline to move. Her body had become leaden, its normal responses blunted by trauma. Maybe she’d try later. Leaning her cheek against the bulkhead, she watched the lights of London fade beneath scudding snow clouds. They’d been fortunate the weather had backed off enough for takeoff and perhaps prevented their assailants from following.

Who knew how long Andriy Kobevko would stay put in Prague. He’d been in the wind for almost five years, and this was the closest they’d come to catching him. She glanced at the complex watch on her right wrist. Two and a half hours to go, give or take a headwind. Time enough to grab a shower, something to eat, and perhaps even squeeze in some computer time. She decided it was worth it to try to overcome her lethargy after all, to make good use of what little time she had before the next clusterfuck started.

Tucking straggly hairs neatly back into the now messy twist, she observed Navarro’s approach, reflected in the window. Crappy timing. If she got up now, he’d think she was trying to avoid him. Hell, or maybe he’d think nothing at all. Perhaps she was overanalyzing him. Overanalyzing everything. The joke would be on her, the hotshot data analyst, in a big way.

His expression was inscrutable as he took the seat beside her. He removed a handgun from the small of his back and placed it beside hers on the table. Next, he unstrapped the small H&K from his ankle holster, the knife from his other ankle holster, and reached into his pocket to remove a remarkably nasty little switchblade. He briefly arched his back, stretched his long legs, and sat back. Effectively blocking her way, unless she wanted to climb over him. She had no intention of touching any part of him. She hoped he realized that. The night before had been an aberration. A onetime pass.

“You were a fucking marvel back there. You blew me away.” His words warmed a cold place inside her.

“We did our jobs. I never liked Poole anyway.” It hadn’t surprised her to see Navarro stroll into the hangar out in the open, the bright lights making him an easy target. Crazy damned man.

Observing him from high above, she’d seen him play cat and mouse with the other operative, like the legendary maverick he was. “If the positions had been reversed, I’d have shot him first, asked questions later.”

“Believe me,” Navarro said dryly, “that crossed my mind. Figured I’d try to get something out of him before it came to that.”

The entire time she’d had her laser-like attention on Poole’s back and on his hands. The instant he’d reached back for his weapon, she’d fired. Navarro had done the same thing simultaneously. He was lucky she hadn’t shot
him
instead.

But all that shooting had in turn brought out the big guy with the rock-solid fists ten feet ahead of her on the catwalk. LockOut was amazing, but if someone punched you with their entire body weight behind it, and they weighed a good eighty to one hundred pounds more than you did, all of it muscle, it still felt like a goddamned mule kick.

Navarro lifted the armrest between them, tucking it out of the way. The plane seated twelve; there was absolutely no need for him to sit practically on top of her. The smell of clean sweat, coupled with Navarro’s own natural musk, attacked her senses like a computer virus, tearing down her defenses and sending a jolt of lust through Honey so intense it made her dizzy. She wrapped her arms around her belly to contain it.

Wanting Navarro was as dangerous and stupid as going into combat without LockOut. Worse, because a bullet could only kill her once. Tangling with emotions—her own—and lack of same—his—would kill her by slow, painful degrees, and leave her shattered, unable to think or work.

The T-FLAC shrink had informed Honey when she was hired on that she had abandonment and trust issues. No shit.

Whatever other perceived issues or difficulties she might have, she didn’t need to learn lessons twice.

“I thought he was a bit off when I met him.”

“Yeah. He was an odd one.” Navarro paused, dark eyes skimming her face. “Where are you hurt?”

Damn rude of him to presume that she was. “I’m good.” Other than her entire body feeling like one giant bruise. “LockOut saved my ass.” She wasn’t ready for a conversation and turned her head to look out of the window. Since it was pitch-black outside, all she saw was the reflection of the pale oval of her own face, and Navarro sitting far too close. She rested her cheek against the bulkhead, closing her eyes. Eventually, he’d take the hint.

“Let me take a look at your feet.” He suited action to words, wrapping a warm hand around her instep, which was just visible beneath her butt. With a determined tug, he pulled her cold, dirty, bare foot into his lap. “Jesus, Honey!”

It was the first time Navarro had used her name. That, combined with the intimacy of his warm fingers on her icy skin and the slightly uncomfortable angle of her knee, made her turn away from the window, made her face him again. Since it would be undignified and, she suspected, useless to struggle, she left her foot where it was. The feel of his strong fingers sent warning electrical currents zinging up her leg, to come to rest in a hot pool at the juncture of her thighs. It was too much. Heat suffused her, making a mist of perspiration sheen her skin as her heart raced uncomfortably.

It took every ounce of willpower she had not to yank her foot out of his hold and race to the aft cabin, putting the solid bulk of the door between them. Honey was many things but cowardly wasn’t one of them. She met his hot gaze with a cool, casual look of her own. She felt every hard knock of her heartbeat behind her eyes, as she said calmly, “Yeah. I’ll shower in a bit.”

“That’s not going to repair these fucking lacerations! Jesus Christ, woman . . . Let’s get these cleaned up first.” He patted her instep as if it was a lapdog. “Relax a minute, I’ll be right back.”

“I’m f—” she said to his back as he strode down the aisle between the seats. “Fine and about to shower,” she yelled, pulling her foot back onto her own seat and wrapping both hands around it to get rid of the sensation of his touch. It wasn’t a caress, for God’s sake. His attention was nothing more suggestive or salacious than the concern of a fellow operative caring for his partner as she’d done for him last night.

Then they’d had sex.

She skipped a few steps in-between. Her cheeks flamed, and she bent to pretend to pick something off the floor so he’d attribute the blush to exertion.

He returned with a towel and a couple of sloshing trash cans as she straightened, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“What’s the smile for?” He sat down, spreading a towel over his lap, then wrapping warm fingers around her right ankle to tug her foot back to rest on his thigh.

“I was picturing Roan Banks allowing you to stro—wash his feet.”
I’m imagining you stroking those strong, sure hands up my leg . . .
Honey straightened, attempting to pull her leg back. His hold was gentle but inexorable. He used the other hand to unstrap her ankle holster and the small boning knife she favored.

“Nice,” he said, before tossing both onto the table with the rest of their weapons.

Even though she was covered from ankles to throat in LockOut, jeans, and a sweater, having him hold her naked foot in his hand made her feel far too vulnerable and dangerously exposed. Honey didn’t want to feel defenseless, especially not with Navarro. His touch gave her a panicky, fluttery feeling. He made her exceedingly nervous, even when not touching her, which annoyed her. She hated feeling at a disadvantage.

Vulnerability made one weak. People took advantage. She’d learned that early and well. Dangerously, his touch, the tender look in those black eyes, made her want to believe that what she saw was real.

It’s not. It never is.

Take a chance,
a small voice egged her on.

Hell no.
The risk of decimation was too great.

It had taken her years and years to perfect the illusion of having no feelings. Even more years before she believed it herself. She wasn’t willing to throw that icy, protective shell away for another romp in the sack with a man who was a professional at notching his bedpost. Besides, it hadn’t been worth it. It never was.

Not that she wanted anything permanent. God only knew she didn’t. Pollack was enough family for her. He was eighty-six years old and wouldn’t live forever. She was used to being alone. Self-contained. She’d be alone again soon enough, and she was absolutely fine with that. But being pragmatic didn’t help when the lights were low, the engines throbbed, and her body yearned and pulsed for Navarro.

Stupid. Dangerous. She
never
allowed herself to want anything this badly. The more she wanted it, the worse it hurt when it was invariably taken away. Time to put a stop to this before she bought into the fantasy like every other woman fool enough to fall for the “I want you more than I want my next breath” look in his eyes.

He adjusted the overhead light so he could inspect the bottom of her foot. His black hair gleamed, shiny and so tempting, Honey curled her fingers into fists to prevent herself from reaching out to touch it. “Gotta wash this dirt off before I can see how badly you’re hurt.”

She eased her foot off his hard thigh. “Banks would shoot you if you messed with his—anything.”

“If Banks was stupid enough to run around barefoot in this weather, under these circumstances, and was too stubborn to take care of it on his own, of course I’d-” His eyes gleamed as he tugged her foot back over the space between their seats. “Nah,” he smiled. “Son of a bitch would be left to his own devices. His feet couldn’t possibly be as pretty and sexy as yours.”

Her stomach jumped at his words. “I’m presuming you’re not flirting with a fellow operative, Navarro.” She kept the tremor out of her voice and steeled her entire body for his touch. Flirting was Navarro’s superpower. He excelled at it. She was damned if she’d fall into his arms just because he had a sexy smile and humor dancing like the devil in his obsidian eyes.

“I never flirt with fellow operatives, but since you’re injured and we have a couple of hours’ downtime—consider that ban lifted.”