“Oh, now you’ve done it. You’ve gone and angered the Brit,” Colby “Ace” Ventura said, sauntering up beside them and planting a kiss on Chelsea’s cheek.
Before coming to work for the Black Knights, Ace had been a crackerjack Navy pilot, hence the nickname “Ace”—although there was some speculation that his last name and the Jim Carrey movies had played a part in his nom de guerre. Dagan respected the shit out of the guy. But right now? Well, he was hard-pressed not to punch the fucker in the mouth. If the guy’s lips were busted, maybe then he’d keep them to himself.
But the dude’s gay, one might argue.
Didn’t matter. When it came to a man’s mouth on Chelsea, Dagan’s green-eyed monster made an appearance. Because the fact of the matter was, despite their daily verbal boxing matches, he liked her. Had since the first time he met her back at Langley all those years ago when she’d given him an Intelligence report. Looking at her, he had seen nothing but soft curves. Listening to her had revealed a sharp mind.
It was a wonderfully complex juxtaposition, and Dagan had determined to get her in bed on the double. But since he had rarely been stateside back then, the opportunity had never arisen. And just as he had been poised to return to the United States for a good, long stint, an op in Afghanistan had gone horribly wrong, and five people had paid for his mistake with their lives. Afterward, he’d been fired from the CIA quicker than you can say, Clear out your locker, dickhead. And as if all that wasn’t bad enough, following his expulsion from the Company, he’d briefly gotten himself involved with a corrupt senator.
Both of those screwups were black stains on his character. He was convinced that a woman like Chelsea, a woman who was upright and true, wouldn’t give him the time of day. Not knowing what she knew about him.
“Do you have everything you need?” Ace asked Chelsea, handing her a travel mug of coffee. “Perhaps you could use some Mace? Or electric underwear so every time that old bastard accidentally”—Ace made the quote marks with his fingers—“rubs your ass, he gets a nasty shock?”
“Thank you, Ace honey.” Now it was Chelsea’s turn to smack a kiss on Ace’s cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Dagan’s inner six-year-old stomped his foot and sullenly shouted, What about me? I’m always looking out for you! But he quickly reminded the little brat of Afghanistan and Senator Aldus. She wants nothing to do with the likes of us, and you know it.
“My pleasure. Teamwork makes the dream work, am I right?” Ace winked at Chelsea. He really was a handsome bastard. All blond hair, sea-blue eyes, and a physique that looked like it belonged in an underwear advertisement.
Dagan’s jealousy was ridiculous. But that didn’t stop him from wallowing in it when Ace opened the front door and Chelsea walked into the hall that led down four flights to the hustle and bustle of London’s streets.
After the door shut behind her, Ace took one look at Dagan’s face and sighed. “Come with me, Werewolf of London.” It had been a running joke since they took up residence. The town. The beard. Dagan got it. He just didn’t think it was nearly as funny as the rest of them did. “Let’s get some of Christian’s tea in you. Maybe it will settle your nerves.”
“If only it were that easy,” he muttered, allowing Ace to pull him through the living room and into the kitchen.
Sitting at the small circular table in the corner was Christian. The three of them made up the team that had volunteered to move to London to provide Chelsea with support. And after living together in such close quarters—the flat only had two bedrooms, so all three men were bunked in one room—and with no real purpose except spending their days poring over every bit of Intel and research they could find on Morrison, a.k.a. Spider, they’d taken to busting each other’s balls more frequently than usual.
Case in point…
“What happened to my bagel?” Ace demanded after opening the toaster oven and peering inside.
Christian glanced at the remains on his plate and grinned.
Ace spied the half-eaten bagel. “You shit-swizzling breakfast stealer!” He had a rare talent for coming up with imaginative insults. “I had that toasted perfectly!”
Christian picked up the bagel, studied it from all sides, then took a considering bite. “Indeed it is,” he said around a mouthful. “Thank you.”
“I should rip off your dick, shove it down your throat, and feed you your own ball sac for dessert. But rumor has it, you sport a microwang, and I don’t want to strain my eyes trying to find it.”
Aw, yes. The attack on the size of a man’s meat. Classic.
Dagan jumped into the fray, happy for the distraction. Anything to take his mind off Chelsea. “You going to let him dis your doodle like that, Christian?”
“This rumor is easy to refute.” Christian stood and reached for the top button of his jeans.
“I’ll thank you to keep your man stick to yourself.” Emily Scott sauntered in from the living room.
Whoops. Dagan had forgotten to mention her as part of the team that had come to provide support for Chelsea. Although for the life of him, he couldn’t understand how. Emily, the former secretary to an FAS, a foreign area specialist inside the Central Intelligence Agency, and current BKI office manager, was the one who had kept the refrigerator stocked these last few weeks in London and the one who twisted their ears when the laundry piled up. Without her and her Mother Goose ways, they’d likely be living on pork and beans and wearing three-day-old underwear.
“Hand to God, I’d rather have my right eye gouged out with a toothpick than see Christian’s dick,” she continued, projecting a toughness that he knew covered a soft, gooey center. Emily cared about all of them. She just didn’t like to show it. “There’s enough testosterone floating around this place without the addition of naked wagging wangs.”
“Once again,” Christian said, “let me point out that you didn’t have to come with us. No one twisted your arm.” His hoity-toity English accent made it sound like yoor ahm.
“And leave poor Chelsea to fend for herself among you three animals?” Emily snorted. “Not likely.”
And great. Dagan had enjoyed a brief reprieve, but one mention of Chelsea and his brain was firmly fixed on her. He hated that she was alone in that big penthouse with Roper fuckin’ Morrison. He hated worse that he couldn’t come up with a better plan to prove Morrison was Spider so that she wouldn’t have to be alone in that big penthouse with Roper fuckin’ Morrison.
“And speaking of Chelsea…” Emily continued. When she turned to Dagan, she rocked the eye daggers of doom. “I really wish you would refrain from giving her grief every morning. The poor, innocent woman has enough on her plate without you piling on.”
Innocent? There was a word. When it came to Chelsea, Dagan’s thoughts didn’t live in the same zip code as innocent.