the energy, but the
sound of footsteps froze her to the floor. Slipping into battle-mode, she
crouched low, crept silently to the room entrance. She flooded her body with
electricity. She feared no one, living or dead; she did, however, fear capture
by the enemy, and she'd die before she was taken again.
Of
course, anyone who had the balls and skill to take her wouldn't be clomping
across the marble tiles like a Clydesdale horse.
She
loosened her Beretta in its ankle holster, but rarely, if ever, did she need a
gun. She was a walking close-range weapon, preferring the personal touch. Which
cracked her up when she thought about it like that.
If
she needed to shoot, though, her target didn't stand a chance. With the
exception of one man, a sniper with extraordinary eyesight, reflexes and ego,
she was the best shot at ACRO. Not that she bragged. Much.
Her
knife, secured at her other ankle, saw even less action. If she was close
enough to her opponent to use the deadly blade, she was close enough to use
hand-to-hand combat or her gift.
The
door to the room banged open, and her heart lodged in her throat. She struck,
reacting on instinct and training that started nineteen years ago when the CIA
stole her from her mother at the age of two.
Shoot
first, leave nothing to question later.
A
massive bolt of electricity ripped down her arm to her fingertips, enough volts
to blow the soles off the guy's boots.
But
when she grasped his leather-clad biceps, the dude didn't so much as flinch or
smoke from his ears. He whirled, seized her wrist, and before she could fall
back on her combat training and slam the bastard to the ground, he stepped back
and dropped a duffel bag to hold up his other hand in defense.
"Why
are you trying to kill me, Annika? You know we're supposed to pretend to get
along, for Dev's sake."
Shit.
"Creed."
The ghost hunter towered over her, dressed in his usual head-to-toe black
leather, save for the black T-shirt, the tattoo that covered the right side of
his face and disappeared beneath his collar nearly glowing against his tanned
skin. The leather-clad Neanderthal peered down at her with amusement, which
made her want to knock the smirk off his angular face.
Either
that, or kiss him. He had the greatest mouth, full lips that were always
slightly tipped up like he knew a secret and wasn't telling, and a pierced
tongue that looked like it could create some of those secrets.
Apparently,
a lot of women had similar thoughts, because his reputation as a player famous
for one-night stands had been water-cooler talk for years. Not that she wasted
time gossiping, but some rumors took on lives of their own.
"Dev's
not around, kukhuvud , so I don't have to pretend shit."
"Kukhuvud?"
"Dickhead."
Yeah, she must have been pissed as hell to curse in Swedish, something only
Creed could do to her. The CIA had encouraged her to remain fluent in her birth
language, which was why she hated to speak it. She needed no reminders of her
life before ACRO.
He
cocked an eyebrow, making the piercing there, a silver barbell stud, crawl up.
It torqued her to admit it, but his tattoos and piercings fascinated her, made
her wonder if the parts she couldn't see were similarly decorated. She'd always
been a little envious of his capacity to express his individuality, since she
was unable to do the same. Not in that way. No undercover operative in their
right mind would adorn their body with identifiable marks. No, the ability to
blend in made a good agent. An agent who stood out was a dead agent.
But
that wasn't the only reason she disliked Creed. She also hated how his weird
psychic energy that chased everyone else away had the opposite effect on her,
drew her and buzzed through her like a vibrator with fresh batteries.
Not
that fresh batteries did any good in her vibrators, since she shorted them out
with the first orgasm.
Cursing
to herself because her life was pitifully short on orgasms and way too long on
fried circuits, she
sound of footsteps froze her to the floor. Slipping into battle-mode, she
crouched low, crept silently to the room entrance. She flooded her body with
electricity. She feared no one, living or dead; she did, however, fear capture
by the enemy, and she'd die before she was taken again.
Of
course, anyone who had the balls and skill to take her wouldn't be clomping
across the marble tiles like a Clydesdale horse.
She
loosened her Beretta in its ankle holster, but rarely, if ever, did she need a
gun. She was a walking close-range weapon, preferring the personal touch. Which
cracked her up when she thought about it like that.
If
she needed to shoot, though, her target didn't stand a chance. With the
exception of one man, a sniper with extraordinary eyesight, reflexes and ego,
she was the best shot at ACRO. Not that she bragged. Much.
Her
knife, secured at her other ankle, saw even less action. If she was close
enough to her opponent to use the deadly blade, she was close enough to use
hand-to-hand combat or her gift.
The
door to the room banged open, and her heart lodged in her throat. She struck,
reacting on instinct and training that started nineteen years ago when the CIA
stole her from her mother at the age of two.
Shoot
first, leave nothing to question later.
A
massive bolt of electricity ripped down her arm to her fingertips, enough volts
to blow the soles off the guy's boots.
But
when she grasped his leather-clad biceps, the dude didn't so much as flinch or
smoke from his ears. He whirled, seized her wrist, and before she could fall
back on her combat training and slam the bastard to the ground, he stepped back
and dropped a duffel bag to hold up his other hand in defense.
"Why
are you trying to kill me, Annika? You know we're supposed to pretend to get
along, for Dev's sake."
Shit.
"Creed."
The ghost hunter towered over her, dressed in his usual head-to-toe black
leather, save for the black T-shirt, the tattoo that covered the right side of
his face and disappeared beneath his collar nearly glowing against his tanned
skin. The leather-clad Neanderthal peered down at her with amusement, which
made her want to knock the smirk off his angular face.
Either
that, or kiss him. He had the greatest mouth, full lips that were always
slightly tipped up like he knew a secret and wasn't telling, and a pierced
tongue that looked like it could create some of those secrets.
Apparently,
a lot of women had similar thoughts, because his reputation as a player famous
for one-night stands had been water-cooler talk for years. Not that she wasted
time gossiping, but some rumors took on lives of their own.
"Dev's
not around, kukhuvud , so I don't have to pretend shit."
"Kukhuvud?"
"Dickhead."
Yeah, she must have been pissed as hell to curse in Swedish, something only
Creed could do to her. The CIA had encouraged her to remain fluent in her birth
language, which was why she hated to speak it. She needed no reminders of her
life before ACRO.
He
cocked an eyebrow, making the piercing there, a silver barbell stud, crawl up.
It torqued her to admit it, but his tattoos and piercings fascinated her, made
her wonder if the parts she couldn't see were similarly decorated. She'd always
been a little envious of his capacity to express his individuality, since she
was unable to do the same. Not in that way. No undercover operative in their
right mind would adorn their body with identifiable marks. No, the ability to
blend in made a good agent. An agent who stood out was a dead agent.
But
that wasn't the only reason she disliked Creed. She also hated how his weird
psychic energy that chased everyone else away had the opposite effect on her,
drew her and buzzed through her like a vibrator with fresh batteries.
Not
that fresh batteries did any good in her vibrators, since she shorted them out
with the first orgasm.
Cursing
to herself because her life was pitifully short on orgasms and way too long on
fried circuits, she
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