Ice Cold (8 page)

He still had the scent of her imprinted in his brain and the taste of her on his tongue. Maybe he was full of shit and she was
exactly
as she appeared, ice cold and aloof, and he should leave well enough alone. He liked his dick the way it was, not shriveled and frozen like a Popsicle with freezer burn.

The internal debate raged as he thought about her behavior back at the lab. Remote didn’t even begin to cover it. While he and Bäcker helped sift and sort debris, pulling aside anything and everything they found that could lead them to who was behind the bombing, Winston had gone off to an empty workstation, set up her computer, and hunched over it for hours without so much as glancing up to see if there was anyone else in the room.

She hadn’t encouraged conversation with anyone and had only spoken, briefly, when addressed. A query about stopping to eat earned him a scorching look. Even though the lab had bright lighting and an open plan, she gave the impression she was in a cubicle of her own. Totally isolated in a room full of people.

He pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt just as room service knocked. He wheeled the cart into the room himself, tipped the waiter, and closed the door. His stomach rumbled.

Even the Ice Princess had to eat occasionally.

Rafe knocked on the connecting door.

“Who is it?” He pictured her, SIG in hand, glaring at the door. Naked. Fresh from her shower. Fuckit. He had to get a grip here.

“Rafe.”

Pause. “What do you want?”

“We didn’t get dinner. Or lunch. I ordered room service.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Then you’re a robot.” Not far from the truth. “You haven’t eaten anything since that salad on the flight, twelve hours ago.”

“Who are you? My mother?”

“As delightful as it is standing here chatting while our dinner gets cold, open the door.” He wasn’t dicking around. He was hungry,
she
should be hungry, and he had two meals waiting. “Unless, of course, you’re naked and have two burly Germans in there with you?”

The lock disengaged, and she flung open the door. She looked like a million bucks, even with her face scrubbed clean and hair in a sexy, messy topknot. She was dressed in loose, black cotton pants and a black tank top. No bra.

“Only
one
burly German,” she told him coolly. “He’s naked and tied up in the bathroom. He can wait until I’ve eaten. Where’s my—What are you doing?”

“Wheeling the cart to the table,” he said, following his words with action. Realizing Winston had a sense of humor made being immune that much more difficult. Unless she really did have the naked guy in the bathroom and it wasn’t a joke. However, that seemed even more out of character than being amusing.

“Closing your computer,” he told her, suiting action to words and enjoying her indrawn breath of indignation. “Nah-ah. Workday is over. You have to refill the well if you want to be in top form for what tomorrow will bring.” He ignored her ladylike snort. He continued the play-by-play reporting; never let her say he didn’t answer questions fully.

“Moving it—
carefully
—to the credenza. Removing the dishes, taking the cover off my plate, your plate. Removing the plastic film from your water—You do want water, right? About to pour two glasses of wine.” She was still standing at the open door between the two rooms.

“Germany produces some of the finest white wines in the world from the Riesling grape. Would you like me to butter your roll?”

“What are you doing in my room, Navarro?”

He turned a chair around, so it faced the table, and sat down. Picking up his knife and fork, he cut into a three-inch steak mooing happily on his plate. “Eating my dinner.”

“In my room.”

“In your room.” The steak was excellent, and he swallowed another bite before picking up his wineglass.

“How did you get into the room next door?”

“The lovely woman at the reservation desk was very accommodating when I explained there must’ve been a mix-up and that we couldn’t bear to be apart.”

“We’ve been in each other’s space for more than twenty-four hours, Navarro.”

“Great, isn’t it?” He toasted her with his glass. “Come sit before I start thinking you’re afraid I’ll make a move on you before dessert.”

“I’m armed.”

The SIG stuck down the front of her pants made the elastic sag a little, exposing a sliver of pale, satin-smooth looking skin like a beckoning smile. Her weapon in no way distracted him from forming an opinion on her unfettered breasts. “You wouldn’t shoot a man before he finished his last meal, would you?” He put the wineglass down to hack off another piece of steak.

“I don’t eat red meat.”

“Of course you don’t. You drink tea made from straw. I got you baked chicken and a nice field greens salad, dressing on the side. Just as you like it.”

She gave him a belligerent look that spoke volumes. “You have no idea how I like
anything
.”

“Do you like baked chicken and a side of field greens?” God, she amused him. “Before you answer, know that I can spot a liar at fifty paces.”

“Fine. I’ll eat dinner with you. However, you aren’t staying. I have work to do.” She picked up the other chair, carried it to the table, and sat down. Her movements were graceful because she was innately elegant, but the attitude was as prickly as ever.

She picked up her silverware and sliced into the chicken breast as if she was a neurosurgeon.

“Does your butler serve your meals when you’re in town?”

“Pollack is my
houseman.”

“What does a houseman do? Starch your underwear?”

Forking up vegetation with relish, she said sweetly, “I don’t wear underwear.”

Rafe’s fingers tightened on the stem of his glass, nearly snapping it in two, and he was glad he hadn’t had a piece of steak in his mouth.
Damn.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why the hell would you tell a man that?” Especially a man already picturing what she had on under those loose-fitting, black pants. He already knew there was no bra under the thin, black tank top. Picturing no underwear was too Goddamn easy.

“Because you said you could spot a liar at fifty paces, and since only three feet separate us, I opted for the truth.”

Hell. Rafael cut another piece of steak, got it into his mouth without stabbing himself with the fork, tried to swallow without remembering to chew, and found it lodged in his throat. He downed it with a hefty slug of wine.

She picked up her wineglass but didn’t drink. “Leaving out a lot of stuff that’s none of your business, Pollack worked for my parents. When they died, I inherited him. He’s eighty-six years old. He tended to put too much starch in my underwear, so I don’t allow him to do my laundry anymore. He dusts and sleeps in front of the television.”

“Where did you go after they died? You were, what? Thirteen? Fourteen?”

“Fourteen. I became an emancipated minor. Pollack and I shacked up.”

“You took care of each other.”

“He was more responsible than my parents. Movies. Fast crowds. Free travel. Them, not Pollack.” She shrugged as she sipped from her glass.

Sipped but didn’t drink, Rafael saw. He wondered what character she was playing now; she seemed perfectly at ease. Ate her meal, pretended to drink her wine, but there was stiffness to her slender shoulders and a tension in the elegant line of her throat.

“And T-FLAC?”

“Recruited my first year at MIT. I never went back. It was a match made in heaven. Pollack likes Montana. Except the winters, but he takes his vacations in sunny places when I can spare him.”

When she could
spare
him? “You love him.” She certainly didn’t sound as if she did, but he thought he’d test the waters and see if she really was as unemotional as they said.

She paused for a moment, then tilted her chin and said coolly, “Love? He’s a servant.”

She could sound as uncaring as she wanted, but her dilated pupils gave away the lie.

“Hasn’t he worked for you most of your life?”

“Yes.” She brushed a finger under her eye. “But I’ve had the same chest of drawers in my bedroom for the same length of time. I’ve always liked it, but I wouldn’t say I love it.”

“Jesus, that’s cold.”

She shrugged and cut off another slice of chicken. Her movements almost—almost—made him miss her infinitesimal flinch at his words. “You said you could tell if I was lying, so I didn’t see the point. How were you recruited?”

Winston might be as cold and uncaring as she appeared, but one thing Rafael knew—even saying the words about her friend, Pollack, had almost killed her. She loved the man, and she was adept at hiding it. He would have believed it himself if he hadn’t been watching for nuances in her expression and body language. The tells for the lie and the elaboration of that lie were all there for someone who was looking for them.

“Right from under the CIA’s nose. By Bäcker, as a matter of fact. He liked my work, we clicked, he recommended me, and like you, I took to it like a duck to water.”

“Bäcker told me you were the one who came up with the schematic for the sifter.”

Rafe shrugged. “A joint effort.”

“It’s a brilliant piece of engineering.”

“It does the j—” His comm rang, and he shifted to retrieve it from his back pocket. “Navarro.”

“We knew Afhan established another home base in Mexico City. Looks like they just presented their first calling card,” Nielson told him tersely.

Considered the A team of Muslim terrorist organizations and based in the Middle East, the group had success in big-ticket bombings. Responsible for the bombings of the U.S. Embassy in Beirut and the Israeli embassy in Argentina the year before. Bombing was their forte.

“Banco de Oro’s
main branch
in Mexico City
took a hit, fifteen minutes ago.” Nielson’s tone was hard. “Looks like we have a serial bomber. Find these bastards, stop them, and bring their heads to me on a silver platter, Navarro. Do it fast.”

SEVEN

 I 
nstead of going to Mexico City, they’d boarded the T-FLAC jet and headed to London after receiving the call from Nielson en route to the Dresden lab less than two hours before.

Must like travel
should be on a T-FLAC recruitment poster, Honey thought as she followed Navarro through the crowded concourse at Heathrow the next day. At 0913, the main branch of Monument Bank in London had been blown to hell. This time, the bomber upped the ante, setting the bomb to explode after the start of the business day when everyone arrived for work. The high death toll kept climbing, gaining worldwide media attention as various factions claimed responsibility and fingers pointed at others.

She still felt a sick lump in her stomach about what she’d told Navarro about Pollack. She loved him more than she’d loved anyone or anything in her life. He was eighty-six years old, and the thought of him dying was unbearable. But how she felt about her friend was none of anyone’s business, particularly Navarro. He’d see her love for Pollack as a weakness.

Emotions gave enemies a toehold and leverage. Not that Navarro was an enemy. Yet.

“Are all these bombings the norm, or am I just hearing about them because I’m with you?” Honey asked quietly into her Bluetooth headset, even though she and Navarro were walking close together. This way, they could talk without anyone overhearing what they said.

“Unusual to have so many clustered time-wise,
and
particularly this far apart geographically, unless they’re connected,” Navarro told her, duffel slung over his shoulder, his long legs eating up the concourse. Some internal radar helped him avoid crashing into people, and Honey kept up in his slipstream.

“There’s a connection, a pattern; I just can’t see it yet.”

She moved closer to him to avoid a slow-moving cluster of tourists and his hand accidently brushed hers. Skin to skin. A burning electrical current shot up her arm, resonating throughout her body like a tuning fork. Steps firm, despite her shaken equilibrium, Honey casually slipped her hand into her pocket, out of danger.

The unwanted, extremely unwelcome, visceral reaction to Rafael Navarro was something she’d never experienced before with any other partner, or any other man. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it
a lot
. She couldn’t afford to be distracted from her job. More importantly, she couldn’t allow feelings to cloud her judgment and make her soft. It would make her vulnerable.
That
was unacceptable. She didn’t do vulnerable. Whatever it took. She never did vulnerable.

Navarro’s dark hair fluttered around his broad shoulders, and he needed a shave. Par for his course. He also looked sexy, dangerous, and mouthwateringly tempting. It was taking a surprising and annoying amount of energy and willpower to ignore his insidious sex appeal.