Heart Strike (12 page)

* * *

Richie watched Melissa spasm and thrash and he wanted more. He wanted to draw it out and discover what her soldier's body could take.

Take.

The word lodged somewhere in his consciousness. He needed to take this woman, the amazing, beautiful spectacle of the ultimate female form.

He found his pants, cast aside. Foil packet in the pocket. Sheathed himself as he kept her right where he wanted her, pinned in place by only his tongue as he tasted her. She tasted of glory.

Richie needed to drive in, to pound, to possess.

But instead his body found the gentler rocking of the plane. He entered her, not in one satisfying plunge into heat, but rather in small stages, letting the rhythm of the sea slide them together.

And that's how they rode the waves their first time, together. A long, slow, almost agonizing descent that shattered any experience he'd ever had before.

She cried out when her release slammed into her. That cry, that exaltation of absolute triumph, echoed deep inside him and carried him over the crest as well. He had no voice to give it, but as he lay down upon her, wrapped in arms and legs inseparable as his or hers, he knew that triumph was but a small shadow of how he felt about Melissa The Cat Moore.

Melissa couldn't stop smiling as she flew the Twin Otter toward Aruba, threading her way between Cuba and Haiti.
Flying over the bright blue seas to piracy we go, way-hay.
She knew she was mixing Gilbert and Sullivan operatic metaphors, but her body was humming with music.

Even as brief as their time had been, Melissa couldn't recall a more incredible bout of sex. Maybe it was because of the long dry spell, but somehow she didn't think so. She glanced back over her shoulder into the cabin and couldn't help smiling at the scene.

No, it wasn't just the long gap. Her gorgeous warrior still lay on the blankets in the center of the cargo bay, sprawled naked and so exhausted that even the jouncing takeoff hadn't woken him. If only she could fly such cargo every time.

If she'd had a chance, she might have gone back to hold up a mirror to see if he was still breathing. She tried to count back and wasn't sure if he'd actually slept since she'd met him. She was tired, but they were a legitimate flight with a filed flight plan, so she was flying up at ten thousand feet instead of a hundred. Much less concentration was required when you weren't constantly less than two seconds from a fatal crash.

They were half an hour out of Aruba when the sun started setting. The horizon turned yellow then orange as the sun journeyed down into the wine-dark sea—my but she was getting poetical all of a sudden if she was fishing up
The Iliad
now. But the sunset reminded her so much of the sunsets over Victoria Harbour as she rode the little water taxi home from the museum, so the poetry shouldn't be a surprise.

Many evenings, she and her parents would sit out on the tiny porch built onto the roof of their houseboat and look out over Victoria Harbour. Neighbors would be close by on their own tiny balconies…it was a neighborhood in miniature. No one lived more than a narrow dock away from the next house. Yet the head of the pier, where the nonfloating world began, might as well have been on another planet for how little impact it had upon them.

The sun would drop down over the low hills of West Victoria, sailboats that had nosed out for a quick evening sail would ghost across the harbor, silent except for brief snatches of laughter. The occasional seaplane would choose its lane, crank up its engine, and roar aloft before some jet skier could slip across its path.

The sudden pang of loss was so deep that it hurt, and she rubbed a hand against the center of her chest. She'd left so much behind. Her brother, her home, her schooling. Even her career in the museum's exhibit shop had been disassembled and left for another to build.

But when she did rub her palm there, she felt the silly little gold-plated doubloon medallion. And she recalled that he'd ignored the pounding on their hotel room door long enough to trace his fingers over where it lay between her breasts and brush a thumb over her lips. He hadn't gone for a last grab and squeeze; he hadn't touched her breast at all. Instead, he'd let her know that it was her he was seeing, and not her body.

She knew her body wowed guys, but they were easy. It had certainly grabbed Chad's attention. Despite being arrested and photographed, she'd bet not a single officer could have described her face afterward.

But Richie was different. Well, that was something of an understatement; Richie was exceptionally different on a dozen fronts. But one of those was his habit of looking her in the eyes and at least acting as if he saw her.

Her hand brushed again over the medallion. No, he didn't act as if he saw her rather than her body—he actually did. No matter how much their first experience together had been about need and their bodies, she could still picture his dark eyes watching her intently as he took her body to places it had never imagined existed.

The sunset reminded her so much of home…and she wanted to share it with him. Home had always been a very private place. Just her family. It hadn't even included herself very often since her brother's death. The impossibly empty gap had been too hard on both her and her parents.

But still she wanted to share it with Richie.

She considered letting him sleep, considered leaving him there in the middle of the cargo bay all naked and glorious for the customs inspector to find. The image of a “product safe for import” stamp applied to Richie's heel tickled her.

Though she'd done her own inspection of him after he'd kissed her and rolled to lie on his back close beside her. Altogether a very pleasing package. Even in repose he looked strong. And in his sleeping smile she saw little of the genius boy and a lot of the man who had so perfectly ravaged her body.

But they were coming into Aruba shortly, and she wanted help with navigation and the radio work as well.

“Richie,” she shouted back into the cabin.

Not so much as a wiggle.

“Richard Goldman!”

Nothing.

Then she remembered the pilot's cabin PA. She found the switch, set the volume to maximum, and flicked on her mic. Because he was such an old movie buff, she couldn't resist shouting.

“The Russians are coming! The Russians are coming! Everybody to get from street!”

She couldn't hear him over the noise of the plane, but his head popped up in alarm, looking in every direction but hers. When he finally did look in her direction, over the length of his sprawled naked form, a bright smile lit his face. She looked away before she could be tempted to land the plane and go back to tackle him again.

A minute later, a clothed Richie dropped into the seat beside her without so much as a kiss or a shoulder squeeze.

“Good morning.” She did her best to sound arch.

“Uh-huh,” was the grunt she received in response.

“Have a nice nap?” Which was about all it had been; five hours on a severe sleep deficit.

“Uh-huh.”

“Any synapses going to start firing soon?”

“Uh-uh.” He rubbed at his face. “Not unless you're actually real and this isn't a dream.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This old plane. The sunset. A tropical island on the horizon. And you smack in the middle of it all. Reality never looked this good.” Then he leaned over and kissed her hard on the shoulder.

“And I thought I was the one feeling poetical.” She tried not to feel pleased by the compliment, but he'd given it so simply that she couldn't ignore it. Plenty of guys had sweet-talked her or tried to. Maybe if a few more had tried to talk sweetly to her instead, she wouldn't have gained the reputation of being the Ice Queen.

“Huh,” was his noncommittal response about his abilities as a poet.

“There. I feel better now. Are you sure you're a Delta operator? You strike me as way too considerate.”

“Okay. I can cut down on that.”

And she laughed. She couldn't help herself; it just slipped out. She hadn't laughed this much since her brother's death. As a matter of fact, thinking back, she wasn't sure that she had laughed at all since then until she met Richie.

Together they circled down to Queen Beatrix International Airport in Aruba, remembering to extend the wheels out of the floats so that they could land on the runway.

The customs official was courteous…far more than the departing Bahamian official had been. “Welcome to the Kingdom of the Netherlands.”

“Excuse me?”

The official smiled amiably. “Always surprises foreigners. There are three islands in the Dutch Caribbean. We're our own country but part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands.”

He eyed them curiously when he did a search on the plane's registration. “Andres Estevan of Maracaibo? Six months deceased. I think you will want to be updating the registration.”

“Is that something you can help us with?” Richie asked casually.

Melissa was about to protest at how unlikely that was, but the official offered an odd grimace that she couldn't quite read. Usually she was good at reading people.

“It is difficult, sir. Different departments, you understand.”

“Of course I do.” Richie shook the man's hand and Melissa almost missed the transfer of a couple of hundred-dollar bills. “Anything you can do would be appreciated.”

Melissa caught up. A customs official worked on one of the primary drug smuggling routes into Europe. He knew Estevan's name and also about his death. How much money had this man made in the past from turning a blind eye to such trade?

“Well, I can make no promises, but if I can contact the proper authorities for you, who should the registration be changed to?”

“Carla Ander—” Richie glanced at Melissa. “Make that Melissa Moore.” And he gave the standard drop box that had been assigned to his team. It was a secure P.O. box in Denver that would autoforward to their commander at Fort Bragg.

Another hundred followed the first two.

“I will talk to a friend.”

They shook hands like two men closing a business deal.

Richie scooped a hand around her waist and guided her off the field toward a taxi stand.

“Why would I want to own an ex-drug runner's plane?”

“Why not? The government is just going to scrap it. Besides, if someone checks ownership, I want us to look legitimate. Or at least partly so.”

“Sure, like that's going to work. The moment they look, they'll see that the prior owner was an eminent—”

“And dead.”

“—drug lord.”

“Which will make us even more legitimate. I hope that the Coast Guard has reported the plane as stolen. That would be even better.” Clearly Richie had been putting together a lot of the pieces as they'd descended into Aruba.

“Give.”

“I want to wait. See what the rest of the team has been up to.”

“And if you're right?”

He pulled her close, so that they were walking joined at the hip. “If I'm right, this is going to be a lot of fun.”

She knew that was the nerd part of his brain talking about the upcoming operation, but the way he felt against her, the way he was holding her, she was also counting on the warrior feeling the same way about the two of them as well. It had been a long time since sex had been really fun.

* * *

Richie's thoughts were fractured. He slipped his hand into the back pocket of Melissa's slacks as they walked and tried to remember ever holding a woman so closely—certainly not in public.

As they climbed into a taxi, his attempts to piece together the exact assignment that a Spanish-speaking Delta team and a Twin Otter were going to be assigned to dissolved into a need to nuzzle Melissa's neck. She still smelled salty. Next time he'd opt for the shower first, but he liked the scent of the sea on her. He'd always think of her that way.

“Are you a nymph?”

“Is your reference to the slutty or the Greek?”

“My golden Ilsa of the Cat Island reefs.”

“Greek then, and hogwash,” Melissa teased him.

“Mixture: three parts Greek, one part slutty.” He knew he'd never said such a thing to a woman before.

“And nine-tenths hogwash,” but she sighed when he kissed her.

And he groaned that there wasn't a hotel room in their immediate future, because he hadn't had nearly enough of this woman yet. Maybe he never could.

“Wow! Look at you two.” Chad thumped Richie on the shoulder hard enough that Melissa was surprised that he wasn't knocked out of his wicker chair.

Melissa didn't know what there was to see about them. They'd been waiting about a beer's worth at the restaurant. There'd been a palm-wood table—lustrous in the candlelight—set for seven, awaiting for them in an amazing locale. Twenty or so tables were right out on the beach and theirs was closest to the water and offered an uninterrupted view of the ocean. Waves lapped just a few meters away. Palm trees lined the beach and small candle lanterns lit the tables. It was one of those tropical paradise settings like they always had in the movies. It was her second such spot ever, also her second one today—a Bahamian beach shortly after sunrise and an Aruban one not long after sunset.

Melissa could definitely get into this aspect of a Delta operation. And she'd wager that she needed to savor them as they were probably few and far between. Richie's description of five months tromping from one Bolivian coca farm to another had sounded far less idyllic.

While waiting in this tourist poster place, she and Richie had been talking over the day's adventures, marveling that at this time last night they'd been practicing touch-and-gos on Old Tampa Bay in Clearwater.

Perhaps they'd been leaning a bit closely together; it made it easier to talk over the Caribbean band playing under the trees. She was fairly sure that steel drums had nothing to do with Aruba and a lot to do with Jamaica, but the band was good, so she didn't mind. She wouldn't mind doing a little dancing later.

“You two do look awfully cozy.” Carla dropped into the chair to Melissa's other side that Chad had been pulling out to sit in himself. She wore a different sundress, lemon yellow this time, and it looked fantastic against her skin—a dress color that Melissa couldn't even get close to without looking like she had jaundice. Kyle sat beside Carla, and Duane took Richie's other side, forcing Chad to the far side of the table, which was fine with her. She had no experience to judge his fighting skills, but she'd just as soon he kept a little more distance.

“Matching medallions,” Carla whispered to her privately. “Very sweet.”

“Fair copies of seventeenth-century four escudo doubloons, or so Richie informs me.”

And they shared knowing smiles. The line was so very Richie, and they both knew it. It made her feel even closer to him, so she slipped her hand into his.

A quick cascade of looks worked its way around the table. And though Richie put on a tough-guy, don't-mess-with-my-girl expression, she was close enough to see his blush in the candlelight. Her warrior-geek. Not separate, not as distinct as she'd first thought. She'd thought it was similar to a split personality, but now wasn't so sure.

She could feel the heat rising to her own face and searched for a subject change. The last empty seat provided it.

“Who's the seventh?” she asked Carla to give Richie a moment to recover.

“That would be me!” Fred, the cheery CIA agent, dropped into the last chair between Kyle and Chad.

“Good.” Melissa looked for a bright side to go with her opening response. She was exhausted from the day and the flight and growing even more frustrated about not getting her arms and legs around Richie. Agent Smith's arrival meant there wouldn't be a break anytime soon. Then she found her bright side. “At least we know who's picking up the bill.”

Agent Smith frowned but everyone else cheered at Melissa's suggestion.

“Glad you're back.” Carla leaned in. “He's been running our asses ragged.”

Melissa had assumed the rest of the team had been lazing about Maracaibo for the three days—only three?—that she and Richie had been gone.

“I know the feeling,” Melissa groaned in empathy.

And Carla's smile was again warm in return.

That's when Melissa knew she was screwed. After six months of despising Carla Anderson's merest existence, it was weird to discover that she liked her.

Chad, on the other hand. He was staring at her across the table. For just an instant she saw a wholly different expression on his face. The smooth charmer was gone. In its place was a dangerous, suspicious bastard who trusted nobody, least of all her. Every team had to have a bad egg, but why did he have to target her? Then the look was gone and he was all Mr. Smarm again, leaning in to whisper something to Duane.

Duane's gaze flicked in her direction, even as he was listening to Chad. His neutral expression didn't change in the slightest, but his look lingered on where her hand was still in Richie's, then he looked away.

Well, she'd fought her way through similar situations a hundred times in the lower ranks. No one ever believed that a pretty blond could outgun and out-nasty them. So far, she'd proven every single one of them wrong. Her awkward attachment to Richie added a new factor, but she was Delta and the battle didn't scare her.

Bring it on!
She aimed her thought at Chad.
I dare you!

His look shifted dark again for just an instant as if he'd heard and accepted the challenge.

This was going to be epic, and not in a good way.

No one else at the table appeared to have noticed the final exchange, they were all teasing Agent Smith about being nothing more than a desk jockey.

Richie squeezed her hand tightly and, when she turned to him, he brushed a light kiss over her lips that made her want to melt. She wasn't a hand-holder and the only men who'd ever wanted to kiss her in public were doing it as a power display to other guys. Richie, she somehow knew right to the core, had simply wanted to kiss her.

To hell with Chad!

Not the best thing to be thinking while kissing her man, but it was the best she had.

* * *

Case Officer Fred Smith was explaining why they were here.

The others looked surprised, but Richie had already put it together. With his expectations confirmed, he tuned Fred out. Bottom line, they'd be back in it by tomorrow morning; that was the only piece he'd been missing—the timeline.

Something else was going on around the table, a lot of somethings. He knew that social dynamics weren't his strength, but he focused on them.

One, Melissa had reacted to something and reacted hard. He could feel it through their joined hands. When he'd kissed her—there was no way he'd ever get enough of doing that, and if he didn't get more than that soon he'd go stark raving mad—there'd been a hardness there. It had melted in moments, which meant it wasn't directed at him, but it had been there at the start of the kiss.

But two, she'd relaxed during the kiss, which she wouldn't have if the threat had been imminent.

He surveyed the area in zones exactly as he'd been trained. The immediate team around the table was a known quantity. They had lived in each other's pockets for over a year now, so there was nothing here. Fred Smith was also a known.

The waitress who came for their orders had a strength of waiting tables, but a softness that belied being undercover military. She was very pretty and wore no ring—he gave Chad a fifty-fifty chance with her; then Chad lit up that smile of his and the odds shifted rapidly to seventy-thirty. Richie ordered the scallops Florentine per Vito Corello's suggestion because it saved him having to look at the menu.

He widened the scope of his study. The couple dozen tables scattered along the beach were still filled despite the late hour. Ten at night, the slow tropical sunset had finished a while ago, yet the restaurant was in full swing. The waves, broken by an outer reef, merely splashed quietly against the low, rock breakwater that defined the edge of the dining area.

Young palm trees scattered among the tables were wrapped in cheery strands of white twinkle lights, offering good visibility among the candlelit tables. Tourists, wealthy locals, honeymooners, more tourists, girls'-night-out…it was easy to catalog every table. Not a single one of the other restaurant patrons paid his table the slightest attention except when Carla's or Melissa's laughs sounded particularly brightly. That and the four women at the girls'-night-out table, but it was easy to see what they were thinking when they looked toward his team. Not a source of danger.

Beyond that stretched brightly lit waterfront from other restaurants and souvenir stores down the beach with few interspersed patches of darkness. A distant threat seemed highly unlikely in the current situation. He and Melissa hadn't been followed; he'd checked their backtrail a half dozen times on their way to the restaurant. Often over Melissa's shoulder while they'd been fooling around in the backseat, but still their backtrail was clean.

Melissa apparently had been doing the same when they'd been turned the other way in the taxi, a fact she'd communicated with admirable subtlety with a simple shake of her head. The rest of the team would have done the same—it was a deeply ingrained Delta skill, so deep there was no real way to switch it off. Agent Smith was their only possible hole there because who knew what training the CIA gave to a case officer who wasn't a field agent. Richie hoped it was sufficient.

Finding no external threats, he focused back on the immediate zone for things that might have triggered Melissa's reaction.

That Carla clearly liked Melissa made Richie smile all on its own. Carla was the smartest person about other people he'd ever met. He'd observed that her rapid judgments were consistently more reliable than a month of his own study. Richie was always trusting someone he shouldn't, whereas Carla trusted no one who hadn't earned it ten times over.

Richie hadn't doubted his attraction to Melissa. Been surprised by it. Been shocked beyond wildest geek-boy fantasies that it was returned. But to have Carla confirm that Melissa was as wonderful as he thought made for a comfortable feeling. It also made him just that much more attracted to her. The candlelight caught in her hair, which was down and brushing over her shoulders. And the dark blue, sleeveless blouse he'd helped her pick out—from among the “I (heart) Aruba” T-shirts at a nearby market stall—made her eyes shine.

She and Carla had their heads together and were talking happily about something. He tried to tune in but could only catch snatches. Ah, their Bahamian arrest and incarceration told in grand-story style. There were other things that had Carla glancing over at him and smiling at him with a warmth she'd never displayed to him before, but he couldn't hear those at all.

Duane and Chad had picked up on the table of girls'-night-out ladies. The women were dressed up high—beach style but very well tended. Richie demoted the waitress back to forty-sixty against and felt a little sorry for her.

Thirty-seventy after he saw Chad's non-reaction when she arrived with their food. Personally, he thought Chad's meter was off; Richie liked the look of the waitress more than the studied beauty and overeager expressions of the group of women. Then he noticed that Duane, on the other hand, in his own quiet way, was charming the waitress. Perhaps that was what the two of them had been whispering about earlier—Duane asking Chad to clear the field so that he'd have a shot.

When the waitress leaned in to deliver his meal, Richie whispered quietly to her, “His name is Duane. He's quiet, but he's a great guy.”

The waitress studied him closely for a moment, then flashed him a smile with a, “Thank you, sir. Hope you enjoy your meal.”

Moments after she was gone, Melissa leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

“What?”

“You're just such a great guy, Richie. I honestly don't know what I'm going to do with you.”

“Well, whatever it is, I doubt we'll have a chance to do it before six a.m. tomorrow.”

She grimaced and nodded.

No chance this meal was going to break up before midnight. He'd had five hours sleep in the last three days; she'd had about eight in the same time span. They both knew that they'd need every second of sleep they could get tonight, which left him with no way to deliver on the hours of attention he'd promised.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“At least you finally got me a good meal.” She stuck her fork into a large shrimp dripping with a bleu cheese–shiitake sauce.

That's when he realized that she was left-handed. He ate his meal with his right hand, she with her left. They could still hold hands while they both ate.

How cool was that!