Savage Secrets (Titan #6) (5 page)

“Doing okay over there?” A cocky grin went with eyes that said I-know-what-you-just-did.

He didn’t even pretend to have the good manners not to notice. She murmured a few words he didn’t seem to understand. She took a deep breath. “Just…” She gestured to the door, and he watched her wave to the shut door. “Making sure it shut.”

One side of his grin hitched, and he had a dimple. “Right. Door’s shut. Check.”

Caterina chewed the inside of her cheek, not to be outdone by a dimple and a smile. “
Bienvenido
.” She said welcome and that make him smile a bit bigger? She’d have to remember that information. Handsome liked the accent.
Check
. Still, she had an ace in the hole in what appeared to be their nice-to-meet-ya game. He had no idea that they’d met before Titan did the terrorist drop… but using his vulnerability as a potential one-up didn’t make her feel awesome.

“Interesting digs.” He walked the length of the run-down studio, eyeing the research-covered walls. Newspaper clippings from random countries. Photographs she’d collected over the course of years skipping country to country.

A pillow and blanket sat folded next to the couch. It was a meager setup, but she didn’t need much. Clean clothes and a roof. Diet Coke and Funyons. But now that he was in her apartment, self-consciousness nipped at her.

Rocco pointed to the clippings tacked to the wall. Some were highlighted, and others were connected with pieces of red string. “This looks a little like the work of those serial killer types. You know? The ones who tin foil their windows.”

“Serial killer?” She shrugged. She was on the hunt, and her target would eventually die. Maybe not a serial killer, but Rocco wasn’t that far off the mark, though she was second guessing her plans to invite him in. “It’s a temporary site. No access to a fancy Titan war room. It works for the job.”

He pivoted. “You know a lot about Titan.”

“I know enough.” Jared thought she could do this and had agreed to send his man. No way would that have happened if she didn’t have a decent chance at success. Caterina pushed her shoulders back, reaffirming that this charade was the right move.
The only move
.

Rocco circled round the room,
circled her
. The bang-bang of her heart accelerated. She felt more like prey than a ghost operative about to offer up her best plan to take out El Mateperros.

Out of habit, she stepped out of a danger zone and into the kitchenette to grab a Diet Coke. “Want one?”

“Diet? Nope.” He looked at the window, studying the busted frame and lock. “Fake sugar will kill you.”

Ha
. “Are you kidding me?” He went along inspecting her studio, like she hadn’t checked it out herself. “And what is it you do for a living?”

Rocco smirked. “I try not to get killed. Anytime there’s an easy way to avoid dying, it’s a no brainer.”

She cracked the top of the soda and downed a quarter of the bottle, then lifted it up in a toast. “Here’s to living on the edge and no brainer jobs.”

A grin tugged at his lips. Yes, he liked the accent. May’ve even liked her. That was good news because she was about to drop a bomb.

Grin sufficiently hidden again, Rocco raised eyebrows, finally looking more interested in the job than whether or not she’d secured her studio. “And our no brainer job is?”

The bubbles tickled the back of her throat. She tried to ignore the carbonation but scrunched her nose, taking all the seriousness out of what she was trying to explain. “We’re taking out El Mateperros.”

“El Mateperros, huh?” He laughed. “The two of us? Yeah, okay.”

She smirked at his unimpressed reaction. “You’re Daniel Locke, the next big thing in arms trading and El Mateperros’s next big dealer.”

Rocco’s don’t-believe-ya grin faltered. “You’re serious? The two of us and what back up team?”

“There is none.” She sipped the Diet Coke this time. No need for another bubble explosion.

“And, what… You’re…” He spun in a circle. The man could practically touch the opposite walls of her apartment. “My pretty friend who lives in a London shitshack, running an unsanctioned op out of a studio flat?”

Pretty
? Was that him being sexist and condescending, or was he passing out a compliment? The dimple flashed again, and she decided to ignore it as a compliment. She reached into her pocket and tossed a small box his way. He caught it in a fist but didn’t look at it.

“What’s this?” He still didn’t look at the box.

“The scariest thing I’m sure you’ll ever hold.” With a deep breath, Caterina smiled as sweetly and convincingly as she could. Years of that practiced look failed on Rocco. It felt like he could see straight through her saccharine charade and knew she wanted blood.

“Cute, Kitten.”

Her face fell. “Caterina. Cat for short if you must.”

“I like Kitten.”

She rolled her eyes. “
Estás loco
.”

“Kitten it is.”

Fine, be that way
. “Actually, if you want to talk names, I’m
Mrs.
Locke—your wife—and you’re holding a wedding band. We check into a swank hotel tonight.” Shock waves scrolled across his face. Caterina loved it, tacking on a waggle of her brows. “We’re honeymooning.”

Color fled his tan face. Soft brown eyes panicked. That chiseled jaw dropped, and the dimple fled. But even stunned silent, mouth gaping, he still looked like his nickname.

She laughed, amused and aroused and annoyed. All kinds of opposing feelings. “Don’t look so surprised. There’s more to our relationship than even you know.”

***

Hanging with Caterina in her crazytown apartment talking spy games had all been fun and games until she threw a honeymooning grenade. Then he felt like a freight train that locked its brakes, screeching and smoking and skipping off the tracks. Rocco’s test-the-waters, check-out-the-girl attitude choked.

He let go of the small box. It hit the floor like it had morphed into a lead-lined anchor. Marriage was marriage, even the make believe kind. Didn’t he just escape from one marriage-hungry woman? No matter how smokin’ hot Caterina was or how much he loved listening to her talk with that accent, the commitment convo gave him the heebie-jeebies even if it was an undercover ruse.

Maybe he’d misunderstood. He looked at the floor, then at her. No misunderstanding. This Penelope Cruz lookalike had dropped the m-bomb, and he had been holding a ring box. He shuddered. Few things in life sounded like a prison sentence. Marriage topped the list.

One of her eyebrows arched, her dark cherry lips puckered, and whoa, was she sexy.

“So, I should call Jared? Ask for someone else to work with?”

Shake it off, man
. This was a cake walk—with
her
, and no way was anyone else from Titan nearing this job. He could pretend he’d just walked down the aisle, and if he got his ass in gear, maybe this op would be all work
and
play. No complaints there.
You got this
.

“Honeymooning?” He rolled his shoulders and snapped his head back and forth like he was walking into the ring, gloves on. “We just got hitched?”

She nodded. “Ink’s not even dry yet.”

He narrowed his eyes on the pretty pout of her lips, then looked at the box burning a hole in the carpet. Freakin’ Kryptonite. Who was Daniel Locke anyway? Rocco’s specialty was logistics. He could fly anything. Drive anything. Blow walls down. Take bridges out. But playing the likes of happily ever after? Much as he wanted to see how she’d honeymoon on the job, a chance to take out El Mateperros wasn’t worth blowing over some
muy caliente
pussy.

“Sounds like a good gig, but I’m not suited for this job.”

His eyes slid down from her white tank top to her blue jeans. It was his favorite look. She’d be fun, a hot handful who kept him on his toes. Or maybe his back…

“You’ll be fine.” She took a sip of her soda. “I take your silence as agreement?”

Yeah, nope. Too busy having some kind of moral argument with myself, thank you very much
. “Not really.”

“Come on, big boy. Easy gig. Talk guns and pretend you don’t mind me hanging on your arm.”

Sounded simple coming from her. Then again, married? “Someone’s going to call bullshit. It’s not believable.” He shook his head, pissed that he wasn’t ready to fake it with a foreign beauty rockin’ an all-American girl look. “I don’t look like the white picket fence type of man. Call your boys at MI6. Find some Bond looking dude.”

He paused. She looked amused, a smile ticking on her cheeks, like this was what she expected, and it was only a matter of time before he agreed.

“I don’t want MI6, Rocco.” She had have rolled her Rs on purpose. “I want you.”

The words made his dick jump. Good freakin’ Lord. Talk like that would get them both in trouble. All she had to do was throw in a
por favor
, and he might just pick that box of doom off the floor and slip on some new jewelry.
Shit
.

She smiled, and if any man ever told her no, he’d change his mind soon enough. But not him. Wouldn’t work. He’d get them both killed.

“I don’t fit the part. As much as I want to say
I do
and partner with you—El Mateperros? He’s a big deal. I can’t let…”
who I want to screw
“…my interest in a job overshadow what’s best for the op. The guy needs justice shoved down his throat.”

Her dark eyes narrowed, shooting silent missiles at him as if he was already negotiating this marriage minefield. Her interrogator side surfaced. All business. Very deadly. Extraordinarily sexy. What, a woman who could kill him slowly a dozen ways was a new turn on? Hell no. Except for the fact that he was turned on and fighting it. Hard.

Toned arms crossed against the white tank. “Daniel Locke was a wannabe international arms dealer. You think he wanted white picket fences? You’d play an arms dealer. Think about it. You know guns. Explosives.”

Rocco shifted his weight. She had a legitimate argument, but she also had an insane plan. Marriage. “Okay. Point made, but—”

“
Ay Dios mio
.” She stared up at him through her dark lashes. “It’s the
job
. Over the second the bastard is—in custody. Calm down.”

He looked at the box again, seriously considering a closer look at it. Wait. No. He couldn’t. Even if he wanted to. Undercover work when he randomly tripped his balls off? Hallucinating at a moment’s notice? Yeah, couldn’t happen. No way. He’d get them both killed. Or Jared would find out it was still an issue then kill him anyway for not mentioning it.

She continued. “Failing would kill us both anyway. What was that whole line? You avoid death. Don’t fail, you won’t die.”

Exactly. They were on the same page—avoid death at all costs, and because of that, his answer was no. “Look, Caterina. I’m just saying there’s gotta be at least a handful of men out there who could stand in here.”

A ball-bustin’ grin pulled at her cheeks. “A whole handful in the entire world, huh? Guess I am in good company then.”

Already saying the wrong things and the ring wasn’t even on his finger. This woman was going to trigger some flashing lights in his head if she kept needling him, all sexy and pushy and all. He tugged at his collar. His pretend marriage was suffocating him, and he hadn’t even said yes yet.

Yet
?

Wait. Not-uh
. Not possible. Remember blackouts and fuzzy memories. “I’m just…not believable husband material.”

Her eyes twinkled. Thick lashes blinked so slowly he would’ve sworn the move had been done on purpose. “I’d believe it.”

Damn. That accent. And that mouth. The little flips of her tongue as words rolled off her lips were killing him. He was nearly ready to grab the ring box and put the job in motion. So many reasons to walk away…

“I
could
.” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and looked around the tiny studio. She was playing him. He knew it, didn’t care, kinda loved it. Maybe could work around his psychedelic complications. “That’s not the problem.”

She walked toward him. “I bet you could slide your hand around my waist like you’d done it so many times before.”

Man, did she know what she was doing.

“Rocco? You’re not up for the job?”

Where was the thermostat? It was getting warm. “I didn’t say I couldn’t or I wouldn’t.”

She put her soda on the coffee table—the last remaining barrier between them—and closed the distance, leaving a foot of space. Her spicy perfume and the kaleidoscope of browns in her eyes were the final selling points.

She knew it and went in for the kill. Soft hands smoothed against his chest, almost too delicate to interrogate a terrorist, too feminine to handle torture devices. Her eyes locked on his. The warm air felt alive. Tension burned hot, and that wasn’t the threat of imaginary marriages or his hallucinations. That was intoxicating lust hanging heavy.