Playing For Keeps (Montana Men) (4 page)

Between the vibrant color of her hair and the gorgeous
shade of her clothes, she looked like a flame swishing down the corridor. A
pissed-off flame! Duel licked his dry lips. His imagination caught, and he
thought of the actress Nicole Kidman when she wore her hair vibrant red and
with those soft-looking, remarkable auburn curls in the movie
Dead Calm
.

This woman had the same tall, willowy height and graceful
walk. The same sway to her firm butt. Hot. Sexy. She was a walking wet dream.
He thought of how it’d fee
l to bury his face in the glossy strands of fire, to hold
her beneath him, and drive his aching shaft inside her silken channel. It’d be
like being buried in warm, thick honey
—
all
that heat surrounding his cock, tugging him deeper and deeper, inch by inch,
until he lost all control.

Duel swallowed hard.
Damn.
He must really be tired, and in need of a woman. It wasn’t often his thoughts
strayed wayward, or dived straight into the gutter. Women didn’t play an
important role in his life. Not a steady woman. A night here, a night there,
brief consummations that left him free to walk away were ideal for his
lifestyle. He never looked back to where he’d been, not when it came to women
or relationships.

Never take a second
look or make a lasting memory. Second looks led to a third and a fourth. Those
looks led to love, marriage, and family, things that didn’t fit in his life.
Things
that might never fit in his life,
he
admitted with a frown.

Duel’s thoughts raced. Mac had retired. Did it also mean
the relationship was finished? Probably. If so, did the woman have a new love
interest? Or was she up for a new affair? Say—a single night? He didn’t want,
need or require deep emotional involvement, but he was attracted enough to
pursue her—if she was no longer involved with Mac.

She had so much fire, so much life. He was inexplicably
drawn to her even without having clearly seen her features. Damn, he wished
he’d seen more of the woman’s face, but all he’d glimpsed was a flash of her
profile—pure straight lines and fine, delicate bones, smooth, rose-tinted skin.
And a flash-fire temper.

But any female who walked the way she did was a ten in his
book. He had a feeling she might be the type who ripped a man’s heart right out
of his chest and trampled it with those six-inch spikes. He wasn’t into having
his heart impaled.

Nor was he interested in love.

One night with her was all he wanted. Duel scowled. The
ache in his groin told a different tale, and try as he might to deny it, he
silently admitted he wouldn’t turn down the opportunity for two, or even three
nights in the beauty’s bed. Any more than that, and it became so much more than
an off-the-cuff sexual encounter.

In his line of work, his life too often depended on
keeping a level head. Leaving behind a woman he was emotionally involved with,
thinking about her when his mind should be on his job, could get him killed.

Remaining detached was the only real choice. As long as he
remained an agent and accepted dangerous missions, it was the wisest decision.
It wasn’t fair to leave someone behind to worry about whether or not he
returned.

He’d learned it was plenty tough just having to leave his
brothers and sister behind. So tough, he’d told only three people what he did
—
his sister Dianna, because of what she
did professio
nally, Sheriff Danger Blackstone, for the same reason, and
Jace. He’d deliberately chosen his moment to tell Jace when he knew his elder
brother was in no shape to kick his ass.

Still, there were times in a man’s life when he needed the
comfort of a warm, willing woman in his arms. Today, Duel felt in need of a
tender touch.

A smile tugged at his sensual lips when he finally entered
the elevator. Samantha Rivers’ office complex was situated on the sixth floor
and his ultimate goal. All his concentration should be on that and whatever new
assignment waited on the horizon.

But he couldn’t get the mysterious redhead off his mind.
He knew his smile was filled with self-mockery. Hell, he doubted he’d ever get
the opportunity to bang her, and right now, he was too damned exhausted to
pursue the thought.

With an airy, musical
ding
,
the elevator arrived at the designated level. Duel stepped out and made his way
down the long corridor. It was easy to see a woman was in charge of this
particular floor. Huge, potted plants created little alcoves of false privacy
in sitting areas.

The walls were painted one of those jewel-tones that
soothed the eyes and made one think of a breezy tropical island. Cream-colored
tiles covered the floor from wall-to-wall, at least down th
e
hall
—
the
various sitting areas were covered with plush beige carpet. How Sam managed to
keep everything spotless with the amount of traffic that came through was
beyond his male grasp.

Sharply, he rapped on Samantha’s door and waited. No
answer. Impatience seethed through him. He’d never been one to cool his heels
and wait, but when he tried the doorknob, he found it locked. So she’d left
already, too. He probably shouldn’t have made the detour by Mac’s office. Doing
so, along with the delay at the elevator, had cost several minutes. He
shrugged. Maybe Sam didn’t like cooling her heels either.

He turned and walked four doors down and pecked on Travis’
door. “Trav, you still here?” Duel rattled the knob, but the door didn’t budge.
Apparently, his partner hadn’t stuck around either. Damn. Had both Sam and
Travis left for the day, or were they on another floor taking care of last
minute business and planning to return?

If he’d known Travis wasn’t going to wait on him, he’d
have stopped for something to eat and grabbed a cup of coffee on his way from
the airport. His stomach felt as empty as a dry socket.

And he needed a caffeine boost. Now!

Heading back in the direction he came, he stopped two
doors from Sam’s office and unlocked the door to his. Duel walked in and nearly
tripped over the year’s worth of mail piled on the floor. Crap. He guessed when
he told everyone to stay out of his office right before he left last year, or
they’d lose their right pinkie, they’d taken him at his word. He shut the door
behind him, scooped up half the mail, and piled it on his desk.

Duel eyed the mountain of remaining envelopes on the
floor, then glanced at his desk with distaste. “No way.”

There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell he was going to
tackle that mess right now. It’d waited a year. It could wait another
twenty-four hours. After a long hot shower, a decent meal, a round or two of
good rowdy sex, and a good night’s sleep, then he might feel human again, and
in the frame of mind to muddle through year-old mail.

The air in the office smelled old. He adjusted the
thermostat and opened the vents. By morning, the mustiness would be dissipated.
Duel stretched and yawned. After spending days worrying about his sister, so
many sleepless nights at the hospital in Havre, Montana, not knowing if Jace
was going to make it, with little thought of eating, what meals he did get were
taken at the hospital cafeteria, then toss in the long flight to Langley,
Virginia, Duel felt
 
utterly wiped out.
Every inch of his body ached from both mental and physical exhaustion.

It was a good thing he kept a car available at the D.C.
airport. It saved time, and wear and tear on his body. It also kept him from
having to hail a taxi to get from point A to B. However, he wished Samantha had
given him the reason for calling him to duty. She’d known how bad things were
in Montana. For the first time in a long time, he desperately needed to be
closer to his family.

Giving his office one final sweeping glance, Duel sighed.
Exhaustion trampled him like a herd of wild mustangs. There was no use hanging
around here. Samantha had his cell phone number. She’d call.

In the meantime, he decided to return to the small alcove
near the bank of elevators. If either Sam or Travis got off on this floor, he’d
know it immediately. They’d both told him to wait. So, he’d wait. They’d find
him.

Duel eyed the small private sitting area with big
comfortable chairs and a row of vending machines. The tinkle of coins, then a
brown paper cup blazing with dancing hearts dropped into a slot and swiftly
filled with the overwhelming aroma of vending machine coffee. Strong was what
he needed.

“Ahh.” The first sip scalded his tongue, but he was too
tired to care. Choosing the most comfortable-looking chair, he sat down, leaned
back his head and puzzled over Sam calling him back to work.

What did she want?

Why tell him to meet her at her office, then not be there?

And where the hell was Travis?

His mind whirled. Nothing made sense. He knew he could lay
the blame on his tiredness. God, he was so beat, he actually felt dizzy. His
mind simply refused to wrap around the mystery of it all. If only he
could—close his eyes—a moment—a second…

*
* * *

Six hours before the assassination…

Flayme Jansen hurrie
d down a corridor of the CIA building
at a brisk pace. Deep inside, she silently raged with anger. Swear to God, if
that beastly worm of a man touched her again, she’d bust his balls with a good
swift kick. Then she’d
―

She
curved her sharp nails into her palms and tightened her lips to keep from
spewing the unladylike words piercing her mind. “Get control, Flayme. Don’t
lower yourself to his ape-like level.”

With
each incensed step, her six-inch heels tapped her fury on the tile floor. To
soothe her ire, she fussed with the front of her dress suit, her breasts
heaving in frustration. After dealing with that slime ball, Neil Turner, she
needed something cold to wash the awful taste of his slobbery kiss off her
lips. She shuddered. God, the gorilla kissed like a–
a
―
hell,
she couldn’t think of a comparison bad enough
―
maybe
like having a plunger stuck to one’s lips.
Yuck!

Pausing
in front of the row of vending machines, she fished several coins from her tiny
change purse and jingled them in her hands as she eyed the soft drink labels.
Inside, she seethed. Not only was Neil a sexual predator, but he was the worst
gossip she’d ever had the misfortune to meet. He should have been born a
female, she thought. He was as catty as some women she knew. He thrived on
innuendo and lies. Not a day went by that the cad didn’t spread vicious rumors
from floor-to-floor, person-to-person, especially about her. Why he’d targeted
her, she hadn’t a clue.

But every time she delivered a memo to his office, she
felt like she’d just played the common scene of a secretary chased around the
desk by a
horny male, and heck, she wasn’t even his secretary. One of these days when he
grabbed her ass or groped her breasts, she was going to plant her knee
―

Startled
by an unexpected sound behind her, Flayme whirled, her heart in her throat.
Oh, God,
please, don’t let it be Neil. Please don’t let him have followed me. I
can’t take another round of his lewd remarks and caveman groping.

She froze at the sight of a man slumped in a wide chair in
the cor
ner
of the tiny alcove
―
snoring?
Yeah.
Soft snores to be sure, but definitely noisy little vibrations. Flayme traced
her gaze over him
―
what she could see anyway, and felt her
heart trip in her chest. There was just something genuine and appealing about a
ma
n in a Stetson, even when it rode low over his face and shadowed his
features.

Huh. A mystery cowboy? Yum.

He looked long and boneless lounging there with one
jeans-clad leg draped negligently over the other at the ankles. The tips of his
western-cut boo
ts captured her attention. Genuine rattlesnake
―
a
dove-gray pattern with black markings. Nice. Oh, yeah
―
the
boots rated right up there with the pearl-gray Stetson. Manly. Tough. A
definite sexual aura mingled with the mysterious allure the Marlboro man had
projected.
Hmm. Unlike Neil, she bet this cowboy didn’t have to chase a woman around a
desk to kiss her.

She snorted. Marlboro man? What she knew about cowboys was
just about what she’d seen on a billboard or the occasional movie.
Hah! One doesn’t have to know art to
appreciate it,
her inner demon argued
.
And how dumb do you think I am? Wait, don’t answer that!
She was an East
Coast city girl, for heaven’s sake, born and raised in the D.C. area. Cowboy
hats, boots, and chaps were pretty darn scarce in her little corner of the
world.
So what is it about this strong
looking cowboy that brings out my primitive desire?

Suddenly her inner demon lacked a snappy retort, but
somehow she knew this man delivered whatever he promised. Flayme studied the
sleeping mal
e
with silent regard. His left arm rested casually across his flat stomach. He
was long boned, lean, rugged
―
a cowboy
―
correction,
a hot, sexy cowboy
―
yummy from the crown of his hat to the
tips of his shit-kickers. There was just something about him that loo
ked
tough and rangy, a real bronc buster and not the dime store wannabes one saw in
night clubs.

And he was totally out of place in the CIA building.

Making a snap assessment, she knew this man was the real
McCoy. She felt it all the way to her soul. So what was he doing here? Where
was he from? Texas? Oklahoma?

But the real question was what the hell was he doing
sleeping
here―
when
an ice storm was due to arrive any hour? Obviously, he wasn’t some homeless
person seeking shelter, but
this was hardly a hotel either, certainly
not some place for a person to come in out of the weather, kick back and take a
nap.