KICK ASS: A Boxed Set (17 page)

Without another word, Frankie disappeared down the hallway. She broke out of the mesmerizing aura he’d left in his wake and marched back into Ian’s office.

She found him sitting on the leather couch near the window, sipping a cognac.

“Yes?” His smile was as silky and intoxicating as the liqueur in his snifter.

“Didn’t you expect me?”

She pulled the locket Elise had given her out of her pocket and holding tight to the chain, let the charm drop and dangle.

“I’ve been trying all night to figure out why you brought Elise here in the first place and I decided that this little trinket answers my question.”

She tossed the locket at him and he caught the charm in one easy snatch. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You brought her here to tug at the old heartstrings, to make me feel for her and use my well-known temper to keep me on task.”

He popped the hinge on the locket and glanced at the picture inside, the one Marisela hadn’t been able to ignore, no matter how hard she’d tried. A tiny angel with dark eyes the size of saucers, sweet, bowed lips, and skin not the Caribbean dark of her father, but the porcelain alabaster of her mother. Yet the beauty of the child hadn’t been the clincher. Marisela had seen the young Jessica in the photos during the first briefing and frankly, she didn’t care if the baby was pretty or not—she’d still care. What pushed this photo into unacceptable territory, beyond the means of delivery, was the inscription.

Return to Me
.

Had Elise worn this trinket all these years, her silent wish pressed against her heart? Marisela couldn’t imagine this gold charm coordinating with all the Ralph Lauren and Oscar de la Renta in Elise Barton-Ryce’s closet, but then, accessorizing expensive clothes wasn’t Marisela’s concern. The fact that she’d come all the way from Boston to give Marisela the charm—that’s what had her hackles up.

“Why would I need to manipulate you?” Ian asked, relatively unconcerned judging by the flippant way he tossed the necklace onto the table in front of him. “You’ve agreed to do the job. So far, you’ve trained hard and learned fast. I have no need to resort to emotional tricks in order to motivate you to perform.”

Marisela listened to his claim and didn’t buy a single word. She hadn’t known Ian Blake long, but his type was easy enough to peg. His confidence ran deep and he demanded perfection from everyone around him, but he also went the extra mile to ensure success. And if that meant playing with the emotions of his underlings, then that’s what he did.

Well, not with her.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re not so certain about what I’m going to find with Jessica, are you? You’re thinking I need to be emotionally devoted to returning this child to her mother, just in case the kid hates her guts for never trying to find her in the first place.”

“That’s not true! I did try to find her!”

She turned and found Elise standing in a door that must have led to her private stateroom, still wearing her outfit from dinner, only without all the spit and polish. Her hair had loosened from the twisted upsweep and a few wisps dangled alongside her face, providing a natural softness that contrasted with the stricken look on her face.

“I’m sorry, Elise,” Marisela offered. “I didn’t mean to imply that you didn’t search for your daughter. But think about Jessica. She’d had fifteen years to cook up scenarios where you hated her, maybe because of her black hair or because she cried too much as a baby. Maybe her father told her you took money as payment for her or that you begged him to take her away so you didn’t have to live with the shame of raising a bastard child. Bottom line, whoever goes after your kid’s walking into an emotional minefield that could prove deadly. So why not throw me in, not just as a competent agent,” she turned back to Ian, spearing him with a glare that insisted that’s all she wanted to be, “but as a woman on a mission involving a child ripped away from her mother? Go for the emotional jugular, you know? Make sure I know that if I fail, I’m not just jeopardizing the mission, but I’m leaving behind a young woman who was once a doe-eyed little girl clinging to her mother.”

“And why not?” Elise shot back, beating Ian to the punch. She strode into the room with such venom in her eyes, Marisela had to fight all her instincts not to move into a defensive stance. “If you fail, that’s exactly what will happen. This is my child we’re talking about. My baby. She was torn away from me and if I have to appeal to your maternal instincts in order to make you care, then so be it.”

Marisela didn’t spare another word or look at Elise Barton-Ryce. She didn’t blame the woman for her manipulations, not when Marisela knew that Elise Barton-Ryce never would have set foot on this yacht without Ian Blake’s approval.

“Are all of your agents briefed this way?”

He put down the brandy and sat back, relaxed in the chair. “Of course not.”

“Then I’ll consider this a one-time lapse in judgment. I’ll do my job because it’s what you pay me to do, what I’ve trained to do, not because I’m some bleeding heart girlie-girl with an overactive supply of estrogen. I’m not going to get sucked in to every sob story that goes along with your missions. I did that once and the results weren’t pretty.” She pointed at Ian, jabbing the air with her finger to make sure he understood the intensity of her emotions now, because he wasn’t going to see them again. “Don’t fuck around with me. Treat me the same way you treat anyone else in your employ, got it?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, but swept out of the room and slammed the door, careful not to look at Elise on her way out. It wasn’t as if she didn’t care. She did. She wasn’t some coldhearted bitch with only her own paycheck on her mind. But she wouldn’t let Ian use her heart against her—not without a fight.

She didn’t take a normal breath again until she was locked in her stateroom. She scrubbed her makeup violently from her face, brushed her teeth, peed, and then settled under the silky covers with a bilingual curse. Yet before she clicked off the light, she retrieved the dossier Ian had, as promised, had delivered to her room.

Turning to the first page, she caught sight of the entry and slammed the folder shut. How could Ian send this after all she’d said? With a second curse, she realized her warning rant had obviously preceded the delivery of the documents. This one time, she’d give him the benefit of the doubt.

She opened the folder one more time and with a sense of heavy foreboding, read the complete letter written in a child’s hand begging her mother to take her home.

Twelve

Three days later
, Marisela and Frankie departed the
Oceanus
via a tender that slid them into the port of Miami unnoticed. Once there, a dark sedan met them, driven by someone Frankie referred to as Dion, a thick-muscled man with a sly smile. The men didn’t chatter during the drive, but they exchanged enough conversation to allow Marisela to conclude that Dion was on the Titan payroll and would be instrumental in the abduction of Ricky Ochoa. They’d be briefed further after they checked into their hotel, changed clothes, and assumed the lethal roles of Dolores and Rogelio Tosca.

As they drove, Marisela couldn’t help peering through the tinted window, wondering about the city outside, the one she’d never seen except in movies and television shows. Neon lights streaked by, as did the unmistakable silhouettes of tall, spiky palms. Cars whizzed alongside them on the highway, the thump of extreme bass from jacked-up stereos injecting into her veins. Here was a city that would welcome her, a city with the same soul as Marisela’s—rhythmic, dangerous, and open to a million diverse wants, each contrasting to an equal number of different needs. She could lose herself here in Miami. She sat back into the seat. Perhaps she was better off locked inside the car.

“Roll it down,” Frankie said, jerking his hand toward the window. “You know you want to.”

“I’m fine.”

Frankie arched a dark brow. “That I know.”

God, how she’d resisted him during the last leg of their trip, she’d never figure out. Probably came down to the fact that they hadn’t had one moment to themselves since Elise Barton-Ryce had been deposited at an unnamed port at dawn the next morning after her outburst in Ian’s office and she, Frankie, and Max had set about to perfect the plan to retrieve Jessica Perez without further distraction. She and Frankie had memorized every minute fact about the Toscas from their preferred beverages to the bloody path they’d swept through the criminal underworld.

They’d learned about their childhoods in Castro’s Cuba, including Rogelio’s stint in the dictator’s army. He’d passed his knowledge of explosives, learned in the service, to his wife, a clever communist spy with her own dark credentials. They’d defected young and with contacts to the mob made in Havana casinos, had started their own murder-for-hire business. With high fees and a keen investment strategy, the couple could have retired as multimillionaires years ago. But they liked their jobs—and had paid for that passion with their lives.

Marisela was determined not to make the same mistakes. If experts could blow themselves to kingdom come, she wasn’t about to get cocky when it came to C-4. When she wasn’t working out with Frankie or reviewing procedures with Max, she’d been studying the properties and weaknesses of the explosives until she could recite every word in her sleep.

She wasn’t going to screw up. She wasn’t going to end up in a million pieces. At least, not this early in the mission.

* * *

The quality of their hotel room left a lot to be desired, but Marisela figured if living in a hovel for a couple of nights was the worst thing she had to deal with on this mission, she was coming out on top. Musty-smelling and decorated with flamingo-themed bedspread and artwork—if the word “art” could be used to describe several ill-framed posters featuring flocks of pink, long-necked birds dancing down South Beach’s Ocean Drive—the room contained all the paraphernalia they’d need to complete the final preparations for their mission. In the closet, she found two duffel bags. One contained stylish, but dark clothes in her size that wouldn’t seem completely out of place at a top-dollar marina, a collection of high-tech gadgetry, and Marisela’s favorite 9 mm Taurus, complete with her old shoulder holster, which she lovingly strapped under a spangled black tank top.

“You could have requisitioned a new harness,” Frankie said, snapping the worn leather that cut across her shoulder blade.

She swung around and shoved him back, though with a playful grin. God, she was pumped. Adrenaline seemed to accompany the presence of her weapon and with the night darkening and the time for the rendezvous nearing, she wasn’t sure where her fear started and where the excitement ended. Even Frankie’s smart-ass comments couldn’t bring her down. “I like this one. It molds perfectly to my body.”

She twisted seductively to prove her point and true to form, he grabbed her waist and tugged her flush against his taut silk T-shirt and slim black pants. His sex jutted hard against her belly and despite the ravenous look in his eyes, she knew not all of the lust coursing through him was because of her. She knew, because she felt it, too—the oncoming rush from what they were about to do.

Her senses were like trigger devices, sensitive to the slightest touch, primed to unleash an explosion of sensation at the least provocation. She tilted her neck and in seconds, Frankie’s lips were on her, biting a sweet path of need from just below her ear to the corner of her mouth.

As much as she’d been avoiding their attraction over the past few days, she couldn’t deny him any longer. She ran her hands up his back, then down so she could squeeze his amazing ass and hear him groan with appreciation.

“Is it always like this?” she asked, breathless.

His mouth quirked up in a half-grin. “Usually.”

With tongues battling, they kissed until the sparring of lips wasn’t enough. He dropped to his knees and placed his mouth directly over the crotch of her thin-fabric pants, firing her with his hot breath, teasing her with his fingers as they traced the tightening seams. She tore her hands through his hair, marveling at how silky the strands felt against her skin, how the air seemed rich with the musky scent of man. Crouched on his powerful legs, he’d started his ascent toward her breasts, his hands folding up the beaded blouse, when his watch beeped.

Fifteen minutes and counting to the first contact.

She slipped out of his grasp, panting.

“Later,
vidita
?”

She licked her lips, which still pulsed from their hungry exchange. “Will the rush last?”

His grin lent a sparkle to his shadowed eyes. “Depends on if we blow ourselves up. Sex is so sweet after you’ve faced death. And won.”

Ignoring a brief sting of jealousy—wondering just who Frankie had been with when he discovered this little snippet of wisdom—Marisela turned back to the duffel bag, her nerve endings sizzling and her heart racing at a pace at least a half a beat faster than normal. A layer of perspiration had formed at the back of her neck, but she dispatched that telltale sweat by sweeping her hair into a tight ponytail. Behind her, Frankie rechecked his spare clips before shoving them into a belt he’d wear hidden beneath a custom leather blazer. She couldn’t help but watch him dress. Down to his low-heeled boots and snug T-shirt, he looked every ounce the dangerous secret agent about to blend into the night.

“Who are we meeting again?” Marisela asked. Dion had briefed Frankie in the car, but she hadn’t paid close attention. She’s been too focused on the lure of the city.

“Dion and his partner, Pan.”

“Don’t these people have normal names?”

Frankie snorted. “Those aren’t their real names. We’re working with Titan operatives. They all have code names.”

They’d briefly touched on that topic during their training, but since neither she nor Frankie were official agents, they hadn’t bothered to take on Titan monikers.

“Can’t they pick better names than a fifties rock star and a little boy who flies to Neverland and never grows up?”

Frankie tossed Marisela a small leather pouch. “That’s not what the names mean. Dion is short for Dionysus.”