kidnapped by the terorists, and Blair who’d sent Gregg OCONUS—out of the U.S.—so he hadn’t found out about it for three critical weeks, leaving the trail stone cold. Unsurprisingly, Blair was the Zero Unit commander most determined to hunt Gregg down. “And contact the police, too. I want to know everything anyone even thinks they know about the attack.”
“Sure thing, Cap. What about Dr. Cappozi? You need help? I could—”
“No, I’m good. I’ll take care of her.”
“Copy that. I’ll get back to you.”
Gregg hung up and drove around in a pattern for a few minutes to make sure he was not being followed. He wasn’t.
When he got back to his apartment, he carried Gina into the bedroom and laid her out on his bed. He gazed down at her. At the tempting sight of her lying there so vulnerable and helpless, his pulse quickened and his body grew heavy with want. God, she was so damned beautiful.
And fuck . Was he ever a bastard for thinking those kind of thoughts.
He ignored his physical need and sat down next to her. Gently, he brushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen across her face. She stirred, and he moved his fingertips to trace along her jaw. At his touch, a whispered moan slipped past her lips.
A smile tipped the corners of his mouth. She might hate him, but she still wanted him.
Good. That would make this much easier.
He picked up a silver chain curled on the nightstand. At one end of the chain, a fur-lined cuff was fastened. The other end was attached to his bed’s heavy wrought-iron headboard.
For a moment he was tempted to buckle the cuff around her wrist and snap the padlock closed, as he’d done so many times before.
But this wasn’t about bondage and pleasure.
Setting aside the restraint, he opened the nightstand’s drawer and lifted from it a much more delicate silver chain. From it dangled a small silver heart. Much better. Reaching down, he looped the bracelet around her trim ankle, and fastened it there.
Then he straightened. And slowly began to peel off her clothes.
AT NFO—the Norfolk, Virginia, FBI field office—Rebel dropped a hastily assembled file in front of Alex, and gave him a smile she hoped didn’t betray her nervousness . . . or her massive confusion.
A medic had checked over their cuts and bruises at the Coast Guard facility in Portsmouth, then Rebel and the Coasties from the RB-M had endured a meticulous two-hour debrief by Homeland Security on what exactly had happened on the Allah’s Paradise .
The Coast Guard was part of the Department of Homeland Security, and DHS had apparently contracted STORM to track down some kind of “trigger” referenced in an e-mail intercepted from an al Sayika operative. Well, didn’t it just figure they’d send the one STORM agent on the planet who could tie her in knots and blow her world to smithereens?
After their debrief, Alex had driven her back to NFO, just over the bridge. The two of them now sat side-by-side squished into her postage stamp-sized work cubicle, attempting to come up with some kind of plan for how to proceed with the case of the exploding yacht. Which, somehow, they had ended up working on together.
Not that anyone had asked her .
But unfortunately, she’d already used up her daily quota of Divine Intervention mere seconds after Alex had dropped that unnerving bomb.
Mind if I stay at your place?
She’d been struck into dumbfounded silence at his total departure from their long-established platonic—their maddeningly, frustratingly, and no doubt very wisely platonic—relationship, after which she’d stammered out some nonsense about working late while she frantically tried to sort out her reaction to that bolt out of the blue.
Luckily, she’d been saved from an actual coherent verbal response when Lieutenant Montgomery had summoned him to a conference call between the Coast Guard and STORM Command regarding how to go about reaching the sunken yacht to search it for the unknown
“Sure thing, Cap. What about Dr. Cappozi? You need help? I could—”
“No, I’m good. I’ll take care of her.”
“Copy that. I’ll get back to you.”
Gregg hung up and drove around in a pattern for a few minutes to make sure he was not being followed. He wasn’t.
When he got back to his apartment, he carried Gina into the bedroom and laid her out on his bed. He gazed down at her. At the tempting sight of her lying there so vulnerable and helpless, his pulse quickened and his body grew heavy with want. God, she was so damned beautiful.
And fuck . Was he ever a bastard for thinking those kind of thoughts.
He ignored his physical need and sat down next to her. Gently, he brushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen across her face. She stirred, and he moved his fingertips to trace along her jaw. At his touch, a whispered moan slipped past her lips.
A smile tipped the corners of his mouth. She might hate him, but she still wanted him.
Good. That would make this much easier.
He picked up a silver chain curled on the nightstand. At one end of the chain, a fur-lined cuff was fastened. The other end was attached to his bed’s heavy wrought-iron headboard.
For a moment he was tempted to buckle the cuff around her wrist and snap the padlock closed, as he’d done so many times before.
But this wasn’t about bondage and pleasure.
Setting aside the restraint, he opened the nightstand’s drawer and lifted from it a much more delicate silver chain. From it dangled a small silver heart. Much better. Reaching down, he looped the bracelet around her trim ankle, and fastened it there.
Then he straightened. And slowly began to peel off her clothes.
AT NFO—the Norfolk, Virginia, FBI field office—Rebel dropped a hastily assembled file in front of Alex, and gave him a smile she hoped didn’t betray her nervousness . . . or her massive confusion.
A medic had checked over their cuts and bruises at the Coast Guard facility in Portsmouth, then Rebel and the Coasties from the RB-M had endured a meticulous two-hour debrief by Homeland Security on what exactly had happened on the Allah’s Paradise .
The Coast Guard was part of the Department of Homeland Security, and DHS had apparently contracted STORM to track down some kind of “trigger” referenced in an e-mail intercepted from an al Sayika operative. Well, didn’t it just figure they’d send the one STORM agent on the planet who could tie her in knots and blow her world to smithereens?
After their debrief, Alex had driven her back to NFO, just over the bridge. The two of them now sat side-by-side squished into her postage stamp-sized work cubicle, attempting to come up with some kind of plan for how to proceed with the case of the exploding yacht. Which, somehow, they had ended up working on together.
Not that anyone had asked her .
But unfortunately, she’d already used up her daily quota of Divine Intervention mere seconds after Alex had dropped that unnerving bomb.
Mind if I stay at your place?
She’d been struck into dumbfounded silence at his total departure from their long-established platonic—their maddeningly, frustratingly, and no doubt very wisely platonic—relationship, after which she’d stammered out some nonsense about working late while she frantically tried to sort out her reaction to that bolt out of the blue.
Luckily, she’d been saved from an actual coherent verbal response when Lieutenant Montgomery had summoned him to a conference call between the Coast Guard and STORM Command regarding how to go about reaching the sunken yacht to search it for the unknown
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