Deadly Promises (Tracers #2.5)(47)

CARRIE WAS TRYING to interpret the sudden dark look that crossed his face when she heard movement outside the tent. Suddenly Cavanaugh was lying flat on top of her, covering her mouth with his and grinding his hips into hers.

She’d been riding the razor’s edge of flight or fight for days and both kicked in with a vengeance, rocket-fueled by panic.

She bucked, she rolled, she pulled his hair and rammed her knee up hard into his groin.

“Whoa. Whoa now,” he said around a mean laugh, like he was enjoying the fight as he easily grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand.

She finally came to her senses. Came back to the fact that he was not the enemy and that there was method in his actions.

He turned his head and looked over his shoulder as he worked his shirt buttons with his free hand. “She’s a wild cat,” he said, and she realized the general had arrived unannounced.

“I’m always up for a party, but I prefer to handle this on my own.” He shrugged his shirt off one shoulder and, fumbling for his belt buckle, lowered himself over her again in a clear indication for the general to leave.

“My apology,” the general said, and he walked back outside.

Her heart beat like thunder as Cavanaugh pressed her into the mattress. Broad chest. Thick biceps. Intense brown eyes. Eyes that were regretful and something else. Something that kicked her heart rate even higher.

“Sorry,” he whispered against her mouth. “The pervert wanted to make this a threesome.”

Oh, God. She was suddenly aware of the hard rise and fall of her breasts, which had been bared by her wild struggle. By the pounding of his heart against hers. And by the irrational thrill of the thick erection against her belly.

CAV NEEDED TO get up and off of her. He never let anything distract him from an op. Never. Yet it would be damned easy to get sidetracked by her. Practically naked, frightened, and alive like fire was alive.

He damn sure needed to get up.

Only he couldn’t—not yet.

First, the general was clearly distrustful, and Cav was certain he’d left someone nearby. There would be… expectations.

Second. Carrie Granger had knobby knees and they’d connected with her target. The boys were not happy, and he wasn’t certain he could walk just yet.

“Sorry,” he gritted out again and tried to shift some of his weight off her while reaching between them and making a careful adjustment to his package.

Bad move.

Very bad move.

The warm, naked flesh of her belly pressed against the back of his forearm. The heat of her mons and the sweet cleft between her parted thighs cradled the back of his hand. With only the most minor of adjustment he could be there. Right there. Inside her. And his stupid dick was totally on board with the idea.

Fuck.

Screw caution. Screw pain. With Herculean effort, he shot up off the cot and turned his back to her, giving her a chance to cover herself.

Giving himself a chance to get it the hell together.

He reached for the lone lightbulb and yanked the damn string. The tent went dark, providing anonymity from spying eyes. Only then did he shrug back into his shirt and start working the buttons, his fingers shaking.

Jesus.

He walked to the table and reached for the whiskey bottle, then poured a shot glass full with an unsteady hand.

He didn’t get it. Didn’t get why he felt not only responsible for her but also inexplicably drawn to her.

He’d known a lot of women. Seen them at their best. Seen them at their worst. Never, though, had he seen one this vulnerable—and never had he felt such an intense and visceral reaction to a woman because of that vulnerability and her utter determination not to give in to it.

He slammed back the whiskey. Savored the burn.

He couldn’t explain a thing about his reactions to her. They’d barely exchanged words. She was in a state of shock. Her responses were propelled by desperation and fear, and her actions spoke less about who she was than about what had happened to her.

But there was something in those eyes… those all-American-girl blue eyes when she’d stared up at him… something that touched places inside him he’d never let anyone have access to before.

So why is she getting to me?

Because Carrie Granger was a woman of substance, that’s why. Her courage, as she had endured yet one more humiliation, told him just how much strength she really had.

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. That didn’t mean he could afford to let this escalate. And for damn sure it didn’t mean he could break his own rules.

Never get involved.

Never let things get personal.

Just do the job.

Rules he lived by. Rules that had kept him alive in the past, and rules that would get them both out of this alive now.

“I’m going outside,” he said without further explanation.

Just like he didn’t have an explanation for what had almost happened on that cot.





Seven

If there was a God, Cav thought twenty minutes later as he headed back for the tent, the distracting, delicious, and distressed Miss Granger would be dressed when he stepped back inside. The olive T-shirt and camo cargo pants ought to go a long way toward drabbing her down.

He nodded cordially to the guard who stood near the tent with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. Then he tipped a finger to his forehead in an amiable good night to the other guard who had shadowed every step of his stroll around the dimly lit perimeter of the camp.