“I laugh quite often,” he informed her haughtily, delighting in the look of incredulity that spread over her scrubbed-clean face. Emily was the type of woman who needed no artificial enhancement. Her skin was clear and bright. Her lips naturally pink. In fact, he far preferred her au naturel. Perhaps because Emily sans makeup conjured up images of how she’d look the morning after a night of intense lovemaking. Mascara rubbed off. Lipstick kissed away.
“Bullshit you laugh all the time,” she declared. “You laughing is like a solar eclipse. Rare and slightly terrifying to those who don’t know what’s going on.”
She had him there. When she was around, he didn’t laugh. That was because he was trying to stop himself from tossing her up against the nearest wall and silencing her wicked mouth with a deep, punishing kiss.
“So what’s so funny?” She cocked a hip against her hand.
He could have told her she was the reason for his humor. “I wouldn’t have disturbed your…workout.” He’d been ambling by the back door after fetching a cup of tea—you could take the man out of England, but you couldn’t take the Englishman out of the man—when he heard her interrupt Ozzie and Samantha. She was keenly funny. Funny and bossy and sexy and…infuriating. Watching her cover her mouth with her hand and giggle like a schoolgirl had charmed him and tickled him in equal measure. He had been replaying the scene in his mind when she marched up the steps.
“I recognize it is your standard mode of operation to get all up in everyone’s business, as Ozzie would say,” he told her, “but some things, I prefer to keep to myself.” Especially how much she affected him.
The look that entered her eyes told him to sod off. But to his surprise, there was no flurry of barbs hurled his way. Instead, she waved a hand and said, “Fine. Maintain your air of mystery.”
She pulled out the chair at the head of the table, the one usually reserved for Boss. In Boss’s absence, she had deemed herself BKI’s standin head honcho.
Cheeky wench.
Tapping a finger on the recently delivered file, she regarded him consideringly. Too consideringly. When he couldn’t take it a second longer, he blurted, “What, pray tell, are you thinking?”
“I really like your hair.”
He lifted a hand to his freshly cut hair. Like everything in his life, his hair ritual was strictly regimented. “You do?” he asked in disbelief. Emily had never complimented him before.
“Yeah.” She nodded. “Tell me though, how do you get it to curl out of your nostrils like that?”
His hand jumped to his nose before he realized she was having him on.
“Gotcha.” She grinned evilly, her lush lips a taunt.
Everything inside him ordered him to pull her out of that chair and crush those lips with his own. So it was a good thing Ozzie and Samantha had begun to make their way up the stairs.
*
“I don’t understand,” Ozzie said.
Emily watched him close the file. A deep frown pinched his brow.
“Don’t understand what?” Christian asked, sipping tea.
Ozzie, Christian, Emily, and Samantha were the only ones left awake inside the warehouse. They were seated around the conference table, and Ozzie and Samantha sported the rosy, disheveled look of the recently laid. Emily felt a pang of jealousy. It had been a really long time since she’d gotten herself a little afternoon delight.
Or morning delight or evening delight, for that matter.
“I mean, I just did a cursory read, so maybe I’m missing something.” Ozzie slid the folder to the center of the conference table. “But I don’t understand why these files were redacted. Everything in there seems pretty standard for two guys who did two tours. There’s some cryptic mention of an incident involving their unit and an Iraqi translator near a little town by Habbaniyah Lake, but—”
Emily must have made a noise, because Ozzie stopped abruptly, his sharp blue eyes cutting into her like the early April wind in Sox Park. “That little town wasn’t called Albu Bali, was it?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact, it was.” Ozzie’s brow furrowed. “How the hell would you know that?”
She shook her head slightly, darting a quick look at Samantha. Obviously, it wasn’t quick enough, because Samantha caught it.
“What?” The reporter blinked, glancing around the table.
No one spoke for long moments. Then Ozzie finally piped up. “I told Samantha I used to be a SEAL.”
“You told her?” If dubiousness had a face, it would be Christian’s. “You, sir, are the reason the gene pool needs a lifeguard.”
“Hey,” Ozzie barked. “She knows how dangerous it would be if she ever put that information in print.” Ozzie dared Christian to naysay him. “So she won’t. End of story.”
Well, now that’s interesting, Emily mused. Writing a story about a true-blue, top secret military operator turned custom bike builder was just the thing to launch Samantha’s career to the next level, a human-interest story sure to be picked up by the Associated Press. That Samantha was willing to give up that opportunity was huge.
Very interesting.
“Emily.” When Ozzie said her name, she turned her attention from Samantha to him. “I trust her. I hope you will too.”
Trust was a tough one. Emily tended not to trust anyone or anything. But Ozzie wanted to pull the curtain back, just the teeniest bit. And who was she to say he couldn’t? “Okay.” She nodded. “So then…cone of silence?” She pinned Samantha with a look she’d developed in her blue-collar Bridgeport neighborhood and perfected while working for the Company. It was her patented Don’t you dare fuck with me, or I’ll rip your heart out look.
Samantha lifted her chin. “Cone of silence.”
Emily flicked her gaze back to Ozzie. His expression said, Trust but also tread lightly. She got that. Samantha being willing to forgo writing an article about former spec-ops guys turned motorcycle mechanics was one thing. Asking her to keep it to herself that those former spec-ops guys turned motorcycle mechanics were, in fact, the personal, private goon squad for the president was another thing entirely. Any reporter on the face of the planet would think the American people had the right to know that. Not to mention that it was Pulitzer Prize–winning material. A bigger story than the one the Boston Globe ran when it outed the Catholic Church for willfully keeping pedophile priests in parish churches.
So okay. Tread lightly. Not a problem. Emily had been treading lightly her entire career.
“All right,” she said. “Well, since it appears we’re doing a reveal, guess it’s only fair I open up my trench coat. Hi.” She waved at Samantha. “I’m Emily Scott. I used to be an office manager for the CIA.”
Samantha blinked. Emily could see the wheels turning, grinding to a stop, and then turning again. Finally, Samantha swung her attention to Christian. “And let me guess, you’re what? Retired MI6?”
“Pfft.” Christian waved a hand through the air. “Those pansies? Please. I was SAS. That’s—”
“British special forces,” Samantha cut in. “Yeah, I know.”