Mastered By The Mavericks (40 page)

“Okay, okay.” Rebel’s placation came along with his hand on her knee, gentle but quelling.
“Everyone dial it back.”

Brynn squirmed. The message was right but the messenger was wrong. Rhett, with urbanity
in his veins and the North Sea in his eyes, was always their calm under pressure.
Rebel was the Caribbean savage, as willing to tread hot coals as he was to deactivate
an IED. Had they swapped more than spit during those kisses?

“Double-Oh’s trying to make a point.” Rebel patted her dry, taking extra care with
the tissues that were sensitive from use in the last twenty-four hours. “He’s just
not making it very well.”

Rhett snorted. “Thanks for the encouragement.”

Rebel side-eyed him. “Because you planned on throwing
me
any?”

“Hello?” She grabbed enough of the towel to whack out at him. “Dialing it back? Remember?”
She gave herself an inner five, at least for staying on message. Wasn’t the easiest
task, considering neither of them had opted to tuck themselves back into their jeans.
On any two other men, the whole drained cock/unzipped jeans look would’ve been justification
for the squeebs—but damn it if these two men didn’t have a pair of the most incredible
penises on the planet. Her blessing—and curse.

“She’s right.” Rhett tossed a look that ventured toward an apology. “We have to bury
the awkward—for now.”

His shot clearly addressed some kind of elephant in the room for them. Part of Brynn
ached for them, yearning to jump on the pachyderm’s back, help them wrestle it down,
then get the damn thing digested, bite by painful bite. The other half was pissed
at them both. Fate had given them something remarkable, and they were choosing to
throw the treasure back like it was rotten fish.

She’d show them rotten fish. His name was Master Peter, and he’d broken her sister’s
heart into a thousand pieces.

Rebel straightened. Set the washcloth on the far nightstand before dropping a decisive
nod. “Double-Oh brought up the teamwork thing because…on the way here, we had the
chance to discuss your game plan.” He let out a breath through flared nostrils. “Given
better logistics, it might be the best option we’ve got. I
said
, given better logistics.” His addendum shot out in response to her gloating grin.

Rhett dipped his head, underlining the command in Reb’s tone. “We’re going to talk
this through before making another move on it, Brynna. You’re not even going to sneeze
inside that complex without us giving you clearance first.” His shoulders squared
as he settled on both haunches. As he raised his hands back to his hips, a dry swallow
grabbed at Brynn’s throat. He looked just as foreboding as the moment she’d first
walked in here—except for the unzipped jeans and the exposed cock part.

“This isn’t us trying to be dickwads,” Rebel adjoined. “This is us, acting as the
eyes and ears you won’t have.” He turned toward Rhett. “Did you connect with El yet?”

Rhett nodded. “While you were outside.” He really could’ve been a Viking fighter,
with the afternoon sun streaming through a crack in the paisley curtains, painting
patterns of forest green and coral pink over his corded shoulders. “She’s standing
by for our go in a couple of hours.”

“A couple of hours?” Brynn jackknifed up so fast, her breasts wiggled a little—but
her joy was so consuming, she didn’t even mind the guys’ roaming eyes. “Seriously?”

Rebel grumbled a few sentences in gutter French before rolling off the bed and gawking
into her overnight bag. “This is a damn good time for everyone to rethink wardrobe
choices.” After tossing her a pair of shorts and a baggy T-shirt imprinted with the
Braneff Brothers logo, he palmed the shaft that wasn’t so soft at the V of his crotch,
and forced it beneath his briefs. With a matching wince, Rhett did the same.

They all sat back down on the bed—cross-legged this time, a triangle-shaped pow-wow.
Brynn’s pulse raced with excitement while her heart sang in hope—a mood
not
matched by the men on either side of her, their faces stamped with grim resignation.
Well, shit. She hadn’t seen this kind of tension from them in nearly a week, since
they’d stood in the Bommers’ living room ruling out the horrible possibilities of
what could’ve happened to Zoe. No. This was even worse. Deeper. Perhaps she needed
to understand that too. None of this was conjecture anymore. They were formulating
a real plan, going down with real logistics, in two hours. For some reason, it felt
even more dangerous than before, when she was flying solo.

Perhaps because you were flying totally blind
?

So there was something to be said for the blind thing. While she’d been racing around
with the “Save Zoe” banner, shields thrown up and rose-colored glasses on, there was
no possibility of confronting the truth: that Adler and his gang were very real, very
dangerous, shoot-to-kill sons of bitches. Staring at Rhett and Rebel now, as they
pulled out a smart pad with the schematic to the Verge building on it, all the Rambo
gung-ho and Beetlejuice sarcasm had been ditched in favor of just one element, overriding
all others.

Respect.

It spoke more volumes to her than anything else. The men might’ve hated the bastard
with every drop of blood in their bodies, but they still respected the living shit
out of him—a lesson she had to soak up as fast as she could, and remember with every
step she took into that complex as his cute, redheaded bait.

Because God help her—and Zoe—if she took just one wrong step in front of that man.

‡

R
ebel scowled. “You
think she’s okay in there?”

Rhett shrugged, going for a vibe of half-asleep nonchalance. Who the fuck did the
ass think he was kidding? Rebel would’ve called him on the act with a boot in the
side of his chiseled jaw, but battling the lust to kiss him again was proving a huger
challenge at the moment.

Damn.
Those kisses.

Those kisses with that man.

Few things had ever felt so fucking right to Rebel, in a life where so much had gone
so piss-poor wrong. He fought the urge to let his eyes slide shut, to let those perfect
moments consume his memory again. Those full, forceful lips beneath his. The heat
of the mouth beneath. The power that burst in that wet, hard tongue, meeting every
thrust he delivered, as if they both knew it was the closest thing to a real fuck
they’d ever get.

Now
who the hell was he kidding? He didn’t have to shut his eyes. The torture was just
as vivid with his eyes wide open, glaring across the bustling parking lot of a typical
suburban Texas strip mall.

He grunted hard. Groaned low. Readjusted himself in the driver’s seat of the SUV.
Even the hot little MILF walking by, so cute in a flowery top, tight capris and come-fuck-me
heels that should’ve been on a porn goddess instead, didn’t detract from the erection
that again swelled for the man just three feet away from him.

Rhett rolled his head from right to left against the passenger’s side headrest. Didn’t
bother to drop his Oakleys, though Rebel detected the eye roll under them. As he’d
just catalogued in silent but excruciating detail, the man’s mouth alone was very
expressive.

“You need to relax.”
Now
Rhett let the sunglasses drop—just by a fraction, so he could lock a visual on the
we-sell-everything fashion store they’d found for Brynna to run into. If she appeared
at the front gate of the Verge building in her clothes from earlier, Adler’s goons
would be taking bets on how many pharma offices she’d fucked her way through already.
The woman herself had forced them to recognize the fact, something along the lines
of Homer Adler preferring to think his dick would be the first inside a woman for
the day. After he and Rhett had choked back enough nausea to speak again, they’d reluctantly
agreed.

“Relax?” he countered. “So
that’s
the right call for the moment. Sorry; guess I was incapable of figuring that out
on my own. Should’ve observed your stellar example, pal.”

Rhett didn’t say anything. Just pushed his lips together—an action that obviously,
immediately reminded him of how kiss-stung they still were. Though he released the
pressure right away, the damage was already dealt to Rebel’s dick. He grunted and
shifted again.

“Goddammit, Moon. What’s your problem?”

“Nothing.” He thrust out a pout, too. Complete pussy move—but did he care? Just as
he’d known that Rhett would rise to his wanker-ific best and find the biggest carpet
under which to shove this afternoon’s magic, the ass should’ve expected the finest
quality Cajun brood from him. “Not a damn thing. Everything tidy and clear now? Good.
Let’s just drop that mike while things are good.”

“Just drop that mike.” Stunningly, the guy actually punched a snarl beneath the echo—
and whoa kids, alert the press
—whipped off his sunglasses all the way. The blade of his steel-dark glare impaled
Reb’s chest with an implacable chill. “That’s how you want to handle whatever bullshit
this is, when we’re about to send Brynna into the lion’s den?”

Insult to injury
flashed instantly to mind and stuck there. Was the douche actually going there? The
king of head-in-the-sand about everything that had happened this week—was now attacking
him
about trying move on?

Fucker.

Still, he tried for the diplomatic route. He still felt too damn good from this afternoon
to give it up now. “Can you trust that I
am
handling it?” He answered the accusation in Rhett’s gaze with a lift of his head.
“When have I ever not brought my A game to an op, man?”

Double-Oh jutted his jaw. Arched his brows. “You’ve never been on an op like this
one.”

“And you have?”

“There’s a lot at stake here, Rebel.” He looked toward the store’s entrance again.
His profile tightened as if expecting the sliding doors to part for a royal princess.
“More than what we’re used to.”

“Yeah.” He paused for a long second, seizing the chance to openly stare at the man’s
bold forehead, noble nose, and high-cut cheeks. “Now we
can
agree. A hell of a lot.”

With vision edged by a fog that thundered with his heart, he reached out. Farther.

Curved his fingers around the hard meat of Rhett’s shoulder.

Waited for the flinch. The profane, pissed off utterance. The spell shattered.

Instead, he gazed in awe…as the man’s gold-tipped lashes slammed down. Listened as
a harsh sigh spilled off those strong lips.

“Fucking hell, Rebel.”

There was the profanity, at least. The rest of this—the conflict gripping beautiful
face, the tension conquering those broad shoulders—came so unexpectedly, especially
after they’d damn near Ozzy Osbourne’d each other’s head, that Reb froze, dumbfounded.
Him
, dumbfounded.

“Yeah.” The dull razor of his voice matched the moment so perfectly. He hated every
rasp of it. “You’re probably right about that, too. Fucking
hell
.”

Rhett’s head, following the lead of his lashes, dropped nearly all the way to his
chest. But at the same time, his hand lifted. His fingers—just the trembling tips—meshed
between Rebel’s. Twisted like a drowning man on a life ring. An equally tortured breath
stuttered out of him.

“I didn’t ask for this, damn it.”

Rebel let a growl tear out. “Neither did I.”

“I know, man. I know.”

Shock still flooded his senses. His brain dog-paddled to keep up. At least that was
the excuse he went with for what spilled out of him next. “I guess fate doesn’t need
clearance orders.”

Rhett clearly debated a laugh—but lost to the resignation sneaking over his eyes.
He dropped his hand back down to his lap. “Fate or not…you know we can’t do this anymore.”

Rebel slid away. Parked himself into the corner created by the seat and the car’s
door. “You mean you won’t.”

“Fuck.” It was little more than a grate—followed by a burst from the other side of
the communication spectrum. “Okay, asshole, so tell me how
you’d
do this. If you were me, would you be banking on Rhett and Rebel Airlines to even
clear the goddamn runway, let alone hit the mighty blue for fireworks and champagne?”

Rebel let that fun little idea roll around in his head for a second—before pounding
the steering wheel and letting his own profanities fly. In the filthiest French he
could remember.

The Prince Charming wannabe and the hopeless man-slut. Yeah,
that
was an idyllic vision.

No wonder Rhett glowered through the windshield and only saw a rock and a hard place
outside the car.

No wonder Reb looked the same direction…and saw the same thing.

He gripped the steering wheel as hard as he could…wishing the thing was his own neck.
Why the hell not? His throat was so dry and tight, he truly should’ve gone for it.

“Lange?” He didn’t look away from the parking lot.

“Yeah?” Rhett didn’t, either.