Jacked Up (Bowen Boys #4)
Elle Aycart
Dedication
To my mother, who passed away unexpectedly twenty days before this book was released.
You were as beautifully stunning as stunningly complicated. I hope you finally found in heaven the peace you so desperately sought on earth.
Prologue
Thinking with his dick was going to get Jack killed.
The guys he was dealing with wouldn’t hesitate to reach down his throat, rip his balls off, and make a Colombian necktie with them at the slightest hint of weakness. Or deception. Heck, just for the sheer fun of it. No big reason needed.
Too damn bad Jack couldn’t help himself. A cocked gun shoved to his head wouldn’t change shit.
He logged in to his e-mail account, the one he was supposed to ignore, hands f*cking sweaty. His heart leaped, lodging in his throat. Yeah, there it was. Unopened mail. From her.
He should have deleted this address the second she’d gotten her pretty, meddling little hands on it. Definitely before taking the new assignment. At the very least forget its existence. There was a reason for breaking all ties. Ties were dangerous, but here he was, literally unable to go a handful of days without checking that damn account. His only lifeline to the outside world. To her.
Yo, Borg, I thought I’d give you the immense honor of my company, even if you clearly don’t deserve it. It’s Christmas. No one should be alone on Christmas. Not even rude, insensitive *s.
Such a smart-ass. He could see her in his mind’s eye. All sass, throwing attitude left and right. That glossy dark hair cascading down around her shoulders, framing her killer, hourglass body, those big, bottomless black eyes narrowed at him, challenging him. Pissing him off and giving him the biggest hard-on of his life at the same time. Elle Cooper, the bane of his existence.
Is it snowing where you are? I hope you get a white Christmas.
Jack looked around him. He was in a helicopter in the middle of a jungle in buttf*ck nowhere, supervising a weapons run, and the only thing coming from the sky was a permanent horde of vicious mosquitos he’d long ago stopped caring about. Nope, no white Christmas for him. Not any other kind either.
Wherever you are, I’m sure you’ve booby-trapped the chimney, hell, the whole place, and Santa won’t be able to drop by to leave you anything without risking his life in the process, so I’ve sent you a present. A cyberpresent, as I’m positive you would have to kill me if you were to give me an address.
He clicked on the attachment and something exploded on the screen.
A Christmas card for badasses, it read, with Santa parachuting down sporting commando clothes and an Uzi.
Jack cracked a smile, the muscles of his face complaining at the rare gesture.
He hadn’t seen her since James’s wedding in August, yet her image was as fresh in his mind as if she were standing in front of him. All he had to do was close his eyes and there she was with him, in full 3-D and surround sound, exuding sex appeal and attitude and the most potent pheromones he’d ever experienced and against which he didn’t seem to have defenses.
He should have stayed away from her at the wedding, but with him being best man and her maid of honor, it had been virtually impossible, especially when the bride and groom had insisted on them dancing. Against his better judgment he’d acceded, and now the feel of her luscious curves were imprinted in his hands. In his brain really. Her sweet scent too. He’d avoided touching her for a reason and this, his pathetic, juvenile behavior while undercover, in the face of mortal danger, was exactly why.
He’d remained grim and silent during their dance, clenching his teeth, trying to block the sensory bombardment, but it had been too late. And she’d known it. She’d smiled that teasing smile of hers. So f*cking beautiful. And so f*cking aggravating.
He’d been under for five months, monitoring the flow of illegal weapons to the rebels and watching those motherf*ckers use the assault rifles and rocket launchers on civilians and peacekeepers. Five of the shittiest, most miserable months of his entire existence—which was saying a lot, seeing as he’d had pretty crappy assignments before; the only points of light were her wiseass e-mails. He’d gotten a zillion—well, ninety-three to be exact. For a guy who only got encrypted messages—a couple a month, tops, ninety-three were a shitload. Some of them were barely a line. A “Yo, Borg, sweet dreams, wherever you are.” Others were pages long.
His brain had ordered him ad nauseam to block her address. End of issue. No more spam. No more Elle intruding into his personal space, forcing him to interact with the real world. Ha! Like there was a chance in hell his body would follow through on that executive decision. He’d reread her messages many times. Knew them by heart. The sarcastic cracks too. He couldn’t get enough of her. Even when she just talked about her day, he’d greedily read every word, soaking them in. What was said, and what wasn’t.
Checking the sender’s details, he realized she’d written to him in the wee hours. Again. What the hell was she doing up at that time, on a regular Tuesday? And that was not an exception; it was the norm. Elle was a party girl. Always shit to do. Places to go. Men to entice. Not that she had to put too much effort into it; they trailed after her like lovesick puppies, ready to lick her toes and worship at her altar for just a smile. She was the kind of woman for whom necks snapped whenever she entered a room, and when she left it, there wasn’t a single guy not following her gorgeous behind. The kind of woman one could look at but should never touch. You touch her, you get burned. Jack was too old and jaded for that kind of crap. The aftermath of such a rollercoaster would be a killer. He’d rather get shot in the stomach and be left to die, thank you very much. Less painful.