Hell for Leather (Black Knights Inc. #6)(46)
“Uh-huh.” He refused to let his eyes dart down to the curve of her ass, hugged so tightly in a pair of black slacks. Chelsea tried to hide her figure behind severe clothes, but with a rack like hers, not to mention that bodacious booty, it was an impossible endeavor. She might be short, probably no more than a couple inches over five feet in Zoelner’s estimation, but she had the curves of an Amazon woman. There was a lot of boom and pow packed onto that tiny frame, and, if you can believe it, he’d once heard her lament being fat.
Fat? Oh, hell no. Well…according to the ridiculousness of today’s fashions—skinny jeans and whatnot—perhaps she was a bit…plump. But in his humble opinion, that little bit extra she was carrying around meant that she was straight-up, lip-smacking delectation on two legs. The kind of woman men dreamed of sinking into. Soft, warm…
Good to know that hasn’t changed either. Fuckballs…
“So now tell me why you’re really here,” he demanded, watching her nod to the people who’d gathered around her. His teammates wore various looks of intrigue, consternation, and…um…okay, so Delilah and Mac looked more like cats caught in the cream. And was that pinkness around Delilah’s mouth a beard stubble rash? Momentarily distracted, he mentally slapped Mac a high five, silently congratulating the guy on finally pulling his head out of his ass. Then Chelsea snagged his attention when she said, “Like I already told you, I’m here to help.”
“And like I already told you, that’s…survey says? Complete bullshit.”
“Wow.” She nodded. “With sweet talk like that, it’s almost hard to believe you’re not married by now, Z.”
“Many have tried, babe.” He smirked at her. “Many, many have tried.”
She rolled her eyes and lifted a hand toward Delilah. “Hi,” she said, flashing that friendly smile that had been the first thing he noticed about her during a sit-rep—situation report—down in some windowless room at Langley. Well, that, and her amazing rack. “I’m Agent Chelsea Duvall, and you must be the intrepid Delilah Fairchild. It’s nice to meet you. I’m so sorry to hear you’re short one uncle for the time being, but I’m hoping I can help with that.”
“H-hi,” Delilah said, making no effort to hide her curiosity as she took Chelsea’s hand. And on the introductions went—What is this? A goddamned tea party?—until finally Chelsea came to Ozzie. BKI’s techno guru grabbed her hand, lifted it to his mouth, and kissed the back of it while wiggling his blond eyebrows at her enticingly.
“Ethan Sykes at your service, ma’am,” he murmured like one might say meet me in bed in two minutes. “But everyone calls me Ozzie.” And, then, apropos of nothing, “You have beautiful eyes. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Well…” Chelsea raised her free hand to her throat, batting—yes, actually batting, for God’s sakes—her lashes.
Dagan had had enough. “Cut it out, Ozzie,” he groused. “And stop slobbering over her hand like it’s a medium-rare steak.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Ozzie said, sliding him a measured glance. “Doth my eyes deceive me? Or is that a little green monster sitting atop your right shoulder, Zoelner?”
And now Dagan was the one to find himself in the position of labeling Ozzie’s rapier repartee annoying. It was not a little green monster. He told the guy as much while avoiding Chelsea’s searching glance. “It’s a little red-eyed monster sitting there. And he’s pissed because he doesn’t appreciate the giant plate of horse crap Agent Duvall is trying to feed him.”
“I beg your pardon,” she harrumphed, fisting her hands on her hips, looking for all the world like a bespectacled, pint-sized version of Wonder Woman.
“Beg all you want, Chels,” he pointed a finger at her adorable button nose, “but the fact remains when it comes to you CIA types, it’s better to find out what the strings are before they’re even attached. So, spill. Why are you really here?”
“Are you deaf?” she huffed. “I’ve been appointed the CIA’s liaison to Black Knights Incorporated. And my supervisor sent me here on a goodwill mission in an effort to assist you in your exemplary work for the president—”
“The president and his Joint Chiefs, yada, yada, yada,” Dagan finished the sentence for her. “Yeah. You already played me that tune over the phone. Which is another thing. Where exactly were you when you made that call?”
“Huh?” Her smooth black brows crinkled. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, were you in Chicago, New York, DC?”
“I…I was in my apartment in Georgetown,” she said, thrusting out her stubborn little chin. The woman could do mulish like nobody’s business. Most days, he admired that aspect of her character. Right now, it made him want to put his fist through a wall. Because there was something she wasn’t telling him. And—yes, goddamnit—it hurt that she didn’t trust him enough to give him the truth.
Will I never get out from under that catastrof*ck in Afghanistan? His guilt, usually relegated to the recycle bin of his subconscious—except for on the anniversary of that disastrous date—suddenly popped back up to be reused. Oh, great. As if my day wasn’t already circling the drain. But he’d be damned if he’d stand there playing the poor-me card when he could do something more productive. Like, say, raking the ever-exasperating Agent Duvall over the coals.