Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(13)
“The Olivia Mortier?” Uncle John asked. “As in the woman Doc was talkin’ about last night?”
“That’s the one,” Leo admitted, still not quite believing his eyes. “And I think some serious ass-kickin’ is in order. Because I told ’em I—”
Woof!
Having lost patience in the kitchen, Meat had his snout pressed against the screen door, his bark the doggy equivalent of What’s the holdup? Then he spotted Mason and his very manly sounding woof turned into a series of terribly girly-sounding yip-yip-yips! Leo managed to peel his eyes away from Olivia long enough to turn and see Meat spinning in circles behind the screen door, unable to contain his doggy excitement upon the return of his beloved owner.
Then Leo’s neck jerked around so fast it was a wonder he didn’t give himself whiplash when four pairs of footsteps pounded up the porch’s wooden steps. Olivia was suddenly standing in front of him in that oh-so-confident way she had, all while wearing…that.
Woot-whooooo!
If he wasn’t mistaken, that was the wolf-whistle sound that was supposed to accompany his tongue unfurling from his mouth to hang down to his knees. He’d only ever seen her in baggy, desert-drab cargo pants and scuffed-up combat boots. Which meant all the skin now on display was enough to give him an eye-gasm.
“Hello, Leo,” she murmured in that smoky, Stevie Nicks voice that just…holy Christ… It got to him. And, as if that wasn’t enough, her subtle perfume drifted on the balmy morning breeze, causing his nostrils to flare wide.
He remembered that smell all too well. How the hell could he forget it when it haunted his dreams at night? And damned if he could ever figure it out, but even after twelve hours under the baking Syrian sun, she’d still managed to exude that tantalizing aroma. Like wild jasmine, all things sweet and exotic.
“Olivia.” He nodded, giving himself major points for playing it cool when cool was the dead-last thing he was feeling. He was on fire from head to toe. “What brings you here? Wait”—he held up a hand—“let me guess. It’s thanks to five Navy SEALs. And as soon as I get ’em alone, I can assure you their asses will be grass.”
For such a small movement, the lifting of one perfectly arched black brow packed quite a punch. “Your men don’t have anything to do with why I’m here.”
“They don’t?” He looked around at the faces of some of the men in question, quickly noting their amused, slightly quizzical expressions. “You don’t?” he demanded of them, a sense of foreboding scratching at the back of his brain.
“We found her at the airport, LT. Swear on my mother’s grave,” Bran vowed, his bastardly arm still around Olivia’s shoulders. Leo had never before begrudged Bran his wavy dark hair or lithe swimmer’s physique. But right now, he couldn’t help but wish the guy looked a little less like he belonged in underwear commercials and a little more like he belonged under a bridge.
“She was about to hop on the Seaplane Charters’ Otter when we spotted her. And, can you believe it? She was headed this way. Says she has something she needs to…uh…discuss”—Bran wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully—“with you. So, I guess it’s a classic case of ask and ye shall receive, eh, paisano?”
All right, and now the least of Leo’s worries was Bran and his too-friendly embrace of Olivia. Because all of his foreboding instantly morphed into dark dread. He turned back to her, ignoring the cheap shot her pretty, heart-shaped face always delivered. “So then what the hell are you doin’ here, Olivia?”
And though he hadn’t meant for it to be, he could tell by her expression he’d just posed a loaded question, loaded six ways from Sunday. He knew deep in his gut he wasn’t going to like her answer.
“I’m here to call in all those IOUs,” she told him, her laser-blue eyes gleaming in the dappled morning light cutting through the palm trees and lighting up the front porch.
“What IOUs?” He lowered his chin, regarding her over the tops of his Ray-Bans. He didn’t remember filling out any IOUs.
“Okay, you got me.” She smiled, flashing him that slightly crooked front tooth, the one so sexy it made his bare toes curl against boards of the porch. “So, the truth is, I’m here to ask you for a favor.”
Uh-huh. And suddenly he knew why his sixth sense was screaming and running around in circles like its hair was on fire. Because when a CIA agent came begging for favors, you knew it was time to bend over, put your head between your legs, and kiss your ass good-bye.
He didn’t want to ask, but, “What kind of favor?”
She glanced over at his uncle, and Leo remembered his manners. “Olivia, this is my uncle, John. And whatever you have to say to me, you can say to him. Now, what kind of favor?”
She seemed hesitant to talk turkey in front of a full-on civilian. That was the closed-mouth, mum’s-the-word CIA agent he’d grown to know and…um…know. Then she shrugged. “The kind where you help me retrieve three capsules of sunken chemical weapons my supervisor and I inadvertently gave to an al-Qaeda faction.”
Shhhiiiiit!
And the theme for the day was definitely holding strong…
Chapter Three
7:46 a.m.…
Leo didn’t jump back or gasp at her words. He just got very still. Which Olivia suspected was the hardened operator’s equivalent of both of those reactions. And as mottled sunlight caught in his sandy locks—burning and brooding and laughing at her and the temptation she felt to take a step forward to run her fingers through the thick mass—she watched the jaws of the other four men sling open in horror, as if they were attempting to swallow the bomb she’d just dropped. Of course, since she was in the business of dropping literal and figurative bombs, their impersonations of Pez dispensers didn’t much faze her.