Enemy Mine (The Base Branch Series Book 1) (6 page)

Through gritted teeth the old man asked, “What happened?” After a breath, he added, “I want details. Don’t make me find them on my own.”

B
aine chuckled
, and the acrid sound burned Sloan’s ears. His laughter, healing in the past, now frightened with its hollow peals. His profile dominated her periphery. Dark, rumpled hair barely touched the slope of his forehead, which peaked gently at thick brows. Below them long lashes protected eyes she’d yet to regard. A prominent nose gave way to thick lips invented for loving and a wide, sturdy jaw made for boxing.

His humorless laugh died abruptly. “You requested a hit on a nation’s president on American soil, in its capital. You want a hit in a first world nation, you deal with first world problems. Heightened security. No access. A population with a bloody load of time on their hands to poke their noses where they don’t belong. Then you insist on sending a mob of knuckle-dragging fools with me. The situation was fucked from the outset.”

A small part of Sloan had held out hope that Baine hadn’t been there, since no one actually saw him in D.C. Well, that plane just got blown out of the air. A thousand questions shot across Sloan’s mind in an instant. None had answers. Each question spawned only new questions. The most critical one at the moment—would he recognize her from the bloodbath in Washington? Thank holy hell she hadn’t made eye contact with him. But realistically, how long could she avoid his gaze?

“Details,” Devereaux bit out.

“Ty got into it with an old lady outside the apartment. He stepped on her poodle’s foot. She went nuts. Close to shot time a couple of cops knocked on the door. Instead of dealing with the situation quietly, Ty opens up on them through the door. I took the shot early while shit went sideways behind me. The cops got a few lucky shots. Killed two of your guys. I killed the rest and got the fuck out.”

The other women in the room blanched. One gasped. Sloan rejoiced at their reactions. They camouflaged her shocked expression, because she couldn’t comprehend why he’d just lied. Maybe, if he hadn’t admitted killing any of his father’s men, she could understand him creating the fictitious scenario. Why bother, if he was going to admit to killing them anyway? To add more questions to the infinite list, why did he save her? If he recognized her from D.C., would he reveal her identity? Would he remember her from childhood?

She waited for someone to jump up and down, pointing and screaming, “Liar! Liar!” No one moved for an eternity, and Sloan realized she was the only one who knew he’d lied about how the D.C. massacre went down. Sure, parts were true. He’d probably seen the old lady with a poodle. He’d shot his father’s men, only more than he’d let on. The best lies were re-sculpted truths. Another question struck Sloan. Could she use this knowledge to her advantage?

Kobi broke the silence. “Why’d you kill them?”

But Devereaux answered. “So he could get away, and they couldn’t talk.” The man bobbed his head. “I’m not happy you cut my home force by a third, but I’m pleased you limited my exposure, and returned, of course.

“I don’t need to remind you both,” he said zeroing in on Baine then Kobi, “how important it is that things run smoothly from here on. Everything rides on the completion of this deal.”

Lana swallowed hard, and feigned a smile when Devereaux rubbed his thumb over her jaw. “Enough business for one night.”

As Devereaux said, it was so. Drinks flowed and spirits rose. As the meal advanced Sloan saw why Lana commanded the big bucks. Shortly after the confrontation she molded herself to The Devil. Whispering in his ear and petting him up, Lana took the rage right out of the bull while keeping her surroundings in check with casual, but calculated, slanting glances.
Smart lady. Too smart.
Yet another person she’d have to keep on her radar, plus the little morsel about the all-important deal. As if her darn radar wasn’t blipping out already.

Backup hadn’t been an option on this mission. Hell, it had taken every bit of juice the pictures of ball-gadded Senator Byron Graham had to get her in the fold of fanny Madam Walters shipped to Devereaux. Having Ryan play her handmaid and flaming makeup artist would have been priceless in both humor and support. As it stood now, her closest allies hid and waited for her signal nearly thirty minutes away on the best of timetables. She pictured her friend and the rest of the four-man team pacing, cussing, and playing poker to pass the time. Four days on her end was fast work. On theirs it was an eternity in purgatory.

Sloan shifted her legs toward Kobi in an effort to shield her face from Baine’s view, not to block out Nena’s lips on his neck or her hand on his knee, advancing with each hollow laugh she gave. Kobi’s gaze bore a hole into his plate instead of her breasts for a change. The wiry man stabbed the meat from some animal, eland or springbok, and carved it with jerky movements. Each bite he washed down with a small glass of clear liquid, and then he waived his hand in the air.

A server stationed on the wall behind them stepped forward, poured Kobi another shot of Stoli, then retreated only to return a few moments later. With the money they worked with she’d have thought the ambitious man would’ve basked in the bills that weren’t his own by tossing back Belvedere. She scanned the room. Chivas Regal. Remi Martin. Imperial. He chose to drink bottom shelf liquor while the top shelf labels were available. Interesting. Of equal interest was the rate with which he consumed the alcohol. She’d counted six shots in as many minutes.

Having the man snockered worked to her advantage. Having him passed out at the dining room table screwed her more than any of the men in the room planned to. Most of them anyway. Baine hadn’t so much as glanced in her direction. A gift, and somehow a curse.

Sloan leaned toward Kobi, making certain the heart of her bare breasts greeted him along with her words. “I hope you save room for dessert,” she cooed to the man who had peasant tastes and severe impulse control issues.

As if just remembering she existed, Kobi’s head swung around. Swamp-brown eyes surveyed her, not head to toe, but mouth to boobs, then back to boobs.

“How in the hell could I forget about you?” he mumbled, almost to himself. His gaze rose from her chest, and their clarity surprised Sloan. Apparently, this man had loads of practice tossing em’ back. “You’re the best part of the meal. In fact, I’ve suddenly lost my appetite for the main course altogether.” His hand snaked possessively under the hem of her dress, and rubbed the top of her thigh. He closed the gap between them in a rush. Sloan lost what little appetite she had as his lips neared hers.

“A toast,” she giggled, turning her face and retrieving her glass of wine just in time.

His brow knit together, but he flicked his hand at the server and returned her smile. “If we toast together, we drink together.”

“As you wish.”

“Another glass,” he demanded to the young man in black and white.

Kobi slid her the small glass, sloshing its contents. “What’d you wanna toast?”

Playfully, Sloan wrapped her forearm around his. “To wild nights.”

The sinister laugh said he agreed, a little too much.

The liquid cooled its way down Sloan’s esophagus and plummeted into the hollow of her gut. When Kobi gestured for more drinks, Sloan snagged the roll off her dinner plate.

He thrust the shot at her. “To wild days.”

After four more rounds, Sloan could take no more toasts to wild anythings. Liquor in her enemy was her ally. Liquor in her was her enemy’s win, and therefore unacceptable. So, she changed tactics.

Pulling his head toward her with a firm grip on his tie, she pled into his ear. “Take me to your room.” A nip of his lobe drove the message home, and elicited a moan from his throat.

Kobi stood on sea legs, and took her hand in his. “Follow me.”

Sloan ignored the wobble in her own legs. Instead, she focused on the thick back in front of her and the path he took. Out of the dining room through a lavish vestibule. He ignored a curving staircase in favor of the hallway on his left. Down the other hallway were the working girls’ rooms. Five doors lined the new corridor—three single doors on the left and one set of double doors on the right. He turned into the room on the right, confirming her suspicion that Baine's and Devereaux’s rooms were on the second floor, along with The Devil’s office.

He flicked on a light and two lamps sparked on either side of a queen sized bed. The room was nice, but no more so than the one she occupied down the way. Before taking in all the details she required, Kobi’s weight pushed her against the now closed bedroom door. Sloan relaxed her muscles, which screamed for the freedom to unleash hell on the slimeball. In this inner struggle the liquor actually worked in her favor, taking the edge off her razor sharp reflexes. His hands breeched the privacy of her skirt and kneaded the flesh of her butt. She closed her eyes and breathed through the scorn his touch created. When those cold lips plundered the curve of her breasts, Sloan thought about the lovely cry they would surrender just before she broke his neck.

Muscles loose, Sloan held her inner self in a tight ball, allowing only the facade of playgirl to permeate. Until his mouth climbed her neck and moved toward her own.

“You must excuse me for a moment,” Sloan begged, slipping her hands up his chest and pressing him back slightly. The motion disconnected his lips from her skin, settling her tilting stomach in the slightest way. He seemed dazed, pupils wide as they struggled to center her. She used his state and the momentum she’d built to slip from between him and the wall.

“No,” fled his lips in an unyielding tone, but it was his biting grip on her wrist that stopped her cold.

Sloan turned, eyes apologetic. “I just need to get ready for you.”

“You look ready enough. I know I’m ready,” he added with a nod toward his pathetic excuse for a dick.

“I’ll be one minute,” she said, but his grip held. Time to switch tactics again. “I drank too much at dinner, and I know it’s a little crass, but I really need to use the restroom before we get started.”

The blood flow returned to her arm as his fingers loosened then released her. She smiled. “Fix yourself a drink. I promise to make it worth the wait.”

“I know you will,” he replied, tone tipping toward harsh.

Once behind the bathroom door, Sloan locked it, turned on the sink to full flow, and threw herself at the toilet. A mixture of bread, bile, and liquor fell into the bowl thanks to a well-placed middle finger and the thought of Kobi’s mouth on her skin. No way in hell could she let the alcohol cloud her judgment or dull her reactions. Sloan flushed away the mess, rinsed with mouthwash, and blotted the make-up under her lashes.

With seconds to spare she considered her reflection. Her hair remained impeccably styled in a low ponytail that cascaded down her back in uniform ringlets. Amber eyes as clear as the Baltic gem. None of the drama within showed on the cool exterior. A lifetime of training did that trick. Blotting the bold lip-stain she applied, Sloan smiled, and opened the bathroom door to deal with Kobi Ross and find a clue to the whereabouts of Devereaux Kendrick’s black book.

The best laid schemes.

“
W
ow
! This place is amazing.”

The young woman drooping off Baine’s arm titled her head in an awkward angle to take in his suite. He was amazed the words came out in any discernible form, since she stood with one foot dangling over the cliff of pissed drunk. One gust and she’d be legless.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Yes. Please,” she nearly hollered into his ear. As acting crutch, Baine helped her over to the bed with only a slight weave and wobble in between. The duvet’s fabric snapped, echoing in the big room, and puffed up around the redhead as she sank back onto the covering.

“You’re amazing too,” she said, raising one brow. Her hands fumbled around the top of her short dress, pulling here and tugging there. She looked like a pretty cat stuck in a sock. The thought made the corner of his mouth quirk up as he turned. He didn’t like cats, but boy, were they amusing for a minute.

Baine made his way to the bank of floor-to-ceiling shelves where a decanter of single malt scotch sat. Glasses clanked as he arranged two and poured in the dark liquid. With his back to Kobi’s camera, Baine added three drops of clear liquid to one. By the time he returned to the bed, the cat was out of the bag, or dress, as it were. She lay starkers across the mattress, chin propped in one hand.

“You don’t waste time.”

“Not tonight,” she said, curling her index finger at him. “Most of the time this job is work. But every once in a while it’s pure pleasure.”

On a different night, he might have entertained her. Occasionally, he eked a modicum of satisfaction from the stale entanglements. Most times, he left the bought women to the others. When his father made a point of giving him a girl, he dealt with them.

“Then,” he said, moving to the bedside and handing her a drink, “we drink to pleasure.”

“To pleasure,” she agreed before tipping up the glass.

After she emptied it, Baine took the glass and returned it to the shelf. He flipped the power to the antique turntable on, and lowered the tonearm onto the record. Pablo de Sarasate’s artful violin filled the room with haunting beauty. Sarasate was fine. Nowhere near his favorite pub band, or better yet, silence. But the music served two purposes. Annoy the bloody hell out of Kobi and keep him from hearing any other noises.

Baine returned to the bed. Red’s head had slipped from its perch and nestled into the comforter. She smiled up at him under heavily lidded eyes and tried to sit up. He leaned over, flipped the switch, and the room plunged into darkness. After pulling the covers back and arranging the pillows, Baine lifted the small woman and rearranged her neatly on the bed, then pulled the duvet over her naked body. A small sigh breached her lips as she snuggled into the sheets.

“Sleep well,” he said.

The first inconvenience dealt with, Baine’s curiosity and irritation ripped from their neat restraints. His fists clenched as he moved silently from the room. In the bathroom he locked the door and placed a folded towel at the threshold to block any light from the cameras. He slapped the closet light on, then shrugged out of his jacket and tie and slung them at the hamper. Both articles of clothing smacked the wall before plopping to the floor.

“Par for the course,” he grumbled.

Back at the safe, he punched in the code and retrieved a thin black laptop and started it up.

Kobi thought himself Devereaux’s watchdog, constantly nipping at Baine’s heels and barking in his ear. Like a dog with a bone, Kobi had curled his lips and raised his hackles the moment Baine had shown an interest in his father’s dealings nearly two years ago. It either showed the man’s desperation to stay in Devereaux’s good graces or spot on instincts that Baine was a bad jack, or both. Regardless of the reason, Kobi had screwed up his plans for the last time.

Baine sat on an armchair in the massive walk-in, typed his way through several security measures, then clicked on the video icon. Kobi had bugged Baine’s room, but obviously, from the hours of footage Baine had viewed, never thought his own haven could be bugged. Baine just hoped the fucker had been stupid enough to leak the information about the assassination from his room. In which case, Baine would have the proof on file, pass it along to his father, and wave good-bye to one of the two things standing in the way of finally taking his father out.

A levity he hadn’t felt in a couple of decades made his deep inhale a bit easier. The pinwheel on the screen whirled as he waited for the video feed to load. After a spell the console came to life, unfolding the dated log of days past on the left of the screen, offering menu options across the top, and in the center a reel of the current stream. Baine hunched toward the computer trying to figure out exactly what transpired in Kobi’s rooms at this very moment. He gripped the base of the display with both hands, tilted it back to remove any possible glare, and moved the computer closer still.

“Bloody bang.”

Baine watched the woman who’d been at the end of his barrel scant days ago step from Ross’s bathroom all legs and tits in a tiny dress. She looked nothing like the hard-hitting agent he’d hammered over the head in that vacant flat, but it was her. No doubt. Her features, though in costume, were too strikingly unique.

Barmy.

How could he be so unaware, so incompetent, not to notice her at dinner? For fuck’s sake, she’d been sitting right next to him, but he’d automatically discounted her as the hired help. A rookie cock-up for sure. One that could ruin everything he desired and worked damn hard to get. One that could get him killed.

Kobi straightened from the bedside table where he’d been hunched and rubbed the white of cocaine off his nose with the cuff of his jacket.
Old habits.
He beckoned her with his other hand. “I have something better than a drink.”

With a hip-rocking gate, she met him at the bedside. The chav gave a bobbing nod and crooked smile as though he were Casanova himself, and not a total douche. She peered over his shoulder at the offering.

“Oh,” she said, pulling her hand to her bosom. Lashes batting, she added, “I’ve never done that before.”

Kobi laughed. “A virgin. I’m surprised, with your line of work and all.”

The woman’s laugh held no amusement, and veiled another emotion that flickered in her eyes. Hatred. Anger. Disgust. Baine didn’t know, but was certain one or all applied. But Kobi missed it, busy ogling her chest.

“Could you show me how,” she asked.

He snorted two lines in tutorial, then stumbled forward, missing her hand completely when trying to hand her the fancy straw.

“Are you okay?”

She offered her hand and he levered his way up her body to stand straight.

“I’m... I… I’m so good,” he slurred, nuzzling his head into the crook of her neck.

Baine removed his hands from the computer, afraid he’d snap it with his grip. He crossed his arms over his chest, but his hands balled into fists anyway. How had she gotten here? She couldn’t have followed him. He’d backtracked and circled so many times leaving the scene it had been a damn miracle he’d found his way back to the airport at all. Plus, he’d knocked her solid. There would have been no way she could have followed. Hell, the fact that she wasn’t still in a bed resting spoke to the kind of person she was—tenacious as sin—and he didn’t like it one bit.

After a brief embrace, Kobi stumbled left before slumping to the ground in a useless pile. The vixen kicked off her heels, adjusted the top of the dress to cover the crests of her breasts, then squatted down to Kobi. She hooked her arms under the bracket of his armpits and wrestled his weight onto the bed. Once on the comforter, she stripped his suit, tie, shirt, and shoes off and unbuckled his belt. Nose crinkled, she averted her eyes, pulled back his trousers and fished out the guy’s dick.

“What the hell,” Baine whispered to no one.

The appendage sagged pathetically over the edge of his underclothes, garnering a quirk of her eyebrow. “Heh.” She tossed pillows from the bed and rumpled the sheets, then splashed some vodka on the bed before overturning the bottle on the nightstand. Finally, she slanted the lampshade and stepped back, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. She turned away, but paused, then wiggled a black thong down her legs and left it puddled on the floor.

Baine ignored his dick as it stirred at the sight. And refused to let his mind wander up her muscled thighs to her sweet apex.

Can’t go there, McCord.

When she prowled the room looking under every cushion, opening every drawer, and quietly tapping the walls and floors, Baine knew exactly what she was looking for. His blood boiled. No way in hell was she getting her hands on his father’s black book. It was his by blood right or by blood, whichever came first.

She wouldn’t find anything because he’d already been through that room on three separate occasions looking for leads to the book. And she wouldn’t get an opportunity to look anyplace else. He should’ve killed her the other day and saved himself a world of trouble.