The Espionage Effect(19)
“You’re not field ready.” He grabbed a thin white cardboard tube from the back corner of the desk, slid the blueprints into it, then plugged the end with a plastic cap.
I edged closer, leaning into his space so near that the heat of his chest began to make my pulse hum again. “So train me.”
His dark brows drew together into an imposing scowl. “In a couple days? Impossible.” He turned away, jogged up the steps, and went into the bathroom, flicking on the bright lights again.
I followed close on his heels, refusing to give up on an idea that energized me to a level I hadn’t expected, beyond anything I’d ever known.
Not feeling even an ounce of remorse, I stared up at his shoulder, to where my untutored stitching burrowed under his skin. He pulled his black T-shirt over his head, hiding the evidence we both knew existed. “You know I’ve got combat skills. Try again.”
In a sudden whirl, he was on me, crowding me back until we crashed against the wall. Both of my hands were suddenly pinned over my head, my wrists locked into the iron grip of one of his, then he grasped my chin with a firm hold. His fierce gaze arrested mine.
I stood there, frozen.
Why hadn’t I fought him? My body betrayed me—it wanted this. I wanted this.
And as I tensed against the unyielding grip around my hands, my excitement ratcheted up with my pulse, thrumming a steady aching heartbeat stronger and stronger between my thighs.
His eyes widened at whatever he saw in the depths of mine. On a hard headshake, my chin broke free of his hand and I lifted it defiantly.
His chest rose and fell. His nostrils flared. His jaw clenched and released once, twice. Whatever he held back took incredible willpower to restrain.
Then he let out a low growl, tightened his grip on my wrists, and released me. As I stumbled forward, he took two robust steps back toward the center of the square bathroom, increasing the distance between us.
He stared at me, a vibration trembling through him until his gaze shot to the floor. “Fuck,” he bit out. “I want to see you again. But I’m not training you. Not risking you.”
An odd flip happened in my chest, and I frowned. My thoughts blurred. I wanted to see him again too. Sexual chemistry had only been something I’d read about, researched, but I’d not experienced it before. Now its exhilarating tension hazed around us, thick in the air.
When his gaze shot back up to mine, mild panic flickered there. Like he was afraid to stay, to give more than he’d been prepared to.
I moved to block his path, but he was too quick and brushed past me before I anticipated the move.
After a step, he turned, glancing over his shoulder. “I have to go. If you want a ride to the hospital, meet me out front at noon.”
Then the door was opened. And he vanished.
Right as the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him, I blinked, stunned. A split second later, the magnitude of the night’s events crashed into my brain with the force of an avalanche.
In the early-morning hours that followed, I’d crashed hard after puzzling over Alec, my sudden overheated sex drive, and my unexpected desire to forge a new career path into spy games. A series of soft clanking noises woke me. Disoriented only for the seconds it took to remember my foreign environment, I yawned, stretched, rolled over, then drifted back off after vaguely recollecting that the noises were the delivery of the standing-breakfast order Anna and I had scheduled for every morning at 10:30 a.m.
After the fifth positional shift, when my muscles and brain finally gave in to being more awake than asleep, I pushed upright with a final stretch, then tumbled out of bed and stepped toward the door.
I twisted the metal lock and slid open the bar latch, both of which seemed necessary after the events of last night. Although, evidently, a coconut palm was the only access point Alec had needed.
Two trays waited outside, one on a corner shelf built into the white stucco wall, the other sitting atop a large wooden trunk that resembled a treasure chest with its arched lid. With a grunt, I lifted the heavy tray from the shelf, bracing its weight with the filled coffee and tea carafes against my breastbone, and carried it to down to the small mahogany table in front of the couch. Then I transported the other tray laden with two plates of eggs, bacon, and toast; a basket of assorted pastries and breads; a platter of sliced melons and strawberries; and two glasses of juice, one the mellow orange of guava nectar, the other pink grapefruit.
Not caring where I put the even heavier tray, I took two steps into the room and lowered it onto the foot of the bed. My gaze drifted beyond the food to the center where only a crumple of sheets existed, but where a bronze-skinned man had been not long ago as he patted the smoothed-out surface of the duvet in temptation. The spot may as well have been on fire for how the revisited thought heated me now, tempting me to wonder what would’ve happened had he given in to what he’d clearly been fighting and stayed…instead of bolting.
I let out a measured breath as my pulse began to thrum harder. Then I tore my attention away from the one spot in the room that seemed to glare at me in the brightness of the day. My gaze landed back onto the tray of food, but with the level of nervous anticipation vibrating through my body, the idea of eating anything turned my stomach.
Some hundred feet away at the shoreline, the gentle rhythmic roar of ocean waves crashed, providing the soothing calm of a natural soundtrack. At the far horizon line, a dusky blue ocean peeked through the french doors and windows…whose shutters had been opened wide.