I Spy a Naughty Game sa-2 Read online

  “Right. You’re the Master of Illusion,” he intoned, wiggling his fingers as though casting a spell. “Sort of like our personal Criss Angel. Mindfreak! ”

  Emma rolled her eyes. “Get outta here, slacker. Go catch a criminal.”

  Secretly, she was pleased by his praise. She was an artist first and foremost, one who spent hours on each agent to create the perfect illusion. To turn her subjects into someone completely different and unexpected, yet blend them seamlessly into their surroundings. Which also required hours of prep and research. If Michael said, “Agent Jones is being sent to Afghanistan in twelve hours. Make him blend into the fucking sand,” that agent’s survival began, literally, in her hands. Lives often depended on the believability of her disguise as much as the agent’s ability to carry off his cover. Ozzie was one of the few agents who remembered to appreciate that fact.

  Ozzie pushed up from his chair, sticking out his pendulous bosom. “I believe I will. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a small matter of espionage to attend to.”

  “Pull down your dress. Your hairy legs are showing.”

  “James Bond never has to put up with this kind of shit.”

  “Move to the U.K. and buy an Aston Martin.”

  “You’d miss me.”

  “I’ll front your plane ticket.”

  “Bull. You’d be crying in your beer the minute I left.”

  With that, he flipped the stringy hair over his shoulder and sailed from the room. She snickered and turned to put away the discarded clothing, makeup, sponges, and brushes. But her amusement fled as she contemplated Ozzie’s parting words.

  Okay, so it wasn’t just the job but the people she worked with that made her happy. Or as close to content as she could be lately. Without friends like Ozzie, she’d be lost and floundering.

  A sudden commotion in the hallway snared her attention. Urgent voices and running footsteps shattered the normally quiet atmosphere. SHADO’s compound, while not entirely peaceful, usually thrummed with vibrant energy as agents hurried about to this assignment or that meeting. This new disruption was something different. Ominous.

  Crossing to the door, she stuck her head out just in time to see a gurney wheeled around the corner at the far end of the corridor, closely followed by Michael Ross, Dr. Taylor McKay, and a handful of agents dressed in fatigues and carrying M16s.

  Emma grabbed an agent’s arm. “What’s going on?”

  “Rescue op gone bad,” he said curtly. “Got two agents down who might not make it.”

  “Who are—”

  “Sorry, gotta go.”

  A shiver of apprehension went down her spine as she watched the man jog to catch up with the others, the group likely heading for the elevator that would take them to the fourth-floor on-site hospital. An agent down. Everyone’s worst fear, but not uncommon. Not in this business.

  SHADO employed several hundred men and women, and many of those were in the field. Could be anyone.

  Anyone except Blaze, because that SOB possessed either nine lives or the devil’s own luck. Probably both, since he did everything one way — balls out.

  Now there was an image she didn’t need. Why the hell couldn’t she stop thinking about him? About that woman’s lips wrapped around his cock, his sexy face a study in bliss as the three of them writhed together?

  And why, even now, did the memory stir something besides anger and hurt? Something very much like…

  No. No way.

  The warmth between her thighs and the hardening of her nipples were nothing more than a visceral reaction. After all, she wasn’t frigid. Contrary to popular speculation.

  She enjoyed sex as much as the next person. She just didn’t understand Blaze’s world or what made those people tick. What was it about dominating someone else or being dominated that satisfied a person’s needs? And how could those partners engage in sexual acts with a third person? Why would they?

  For the life of her, she wished she got it. These questions were at the heart of her break from the man she loved, and they’d tormented her relentlessly in the past few months. But it wasn’t easy to shove aside a rigid upbringing by strict parents who viewed things as black or white, right or wrong, with no shades of gray in between. The good are rewarded and the bad get punished. The good certainly don’t have masters and look forward to getting punished.

  Am I using my parents’ views as a way to take the easy road? So I can stay on my high horse and not have to deal with these confusing feelings?

  The truth was, the recollections of what went on in that club made her pussy wet, made her breath catch in anticipation. Made her palms sweat. And whatever might have been, she’d thrown away the opportunity to find out.

  She’d thrown away the man she loved, and a fresh wave of pain doused the smoldering heat of arousal. Who was she trying to fool with this distance she’d forced between them? She missed him so badly she ached inside, and his loss hit her all over again, as strong as any physical blow.

  She missed his laughter, the way his smile lit his tanned face. His gregarious, fun-loving personality. The way he interacted with the other agents, always extending himself, always joking around. The man never met a stranger, radiated sultry appeal, and as a result was a magnet that drew everyone around him into his circle before they quite realized it.

  She should know.

  And how long had she been leaning in the doorway of her studio, staring at the empty corridor? Mulling over visions of a giant group sex sandwich with Blaze starring as the meat?

  “Pathetic,” she muttered, annoyed with herself.

  Her stomach rumbled a complaint, and a glance at the clock on the wall confirmed that it was well past lunch. If she hurried she’d have enough time to grab something from the cafeteria before she taught the afternoon surveillance class to a group of wide-eyed baby agents.

  She retrieved her purse from her office and walked to the cafeteria at a brisk pace, not wanting to waste more time on the uncharacteristic woolgathering she’d been doing lately. Economy of movement and purpose and a sensitive bullshit meter. As far as she was concerned, those qualities were the key to survival. They’d saved her life so far, hadn’t they?

  In the cafeteria line, she studied a bowl of wilted salad with disgust. How did people eat that crap and take in enough fuel to keep going? Instead, she grabbed a paper plate loaded with a cheeseburger and fries from under the warmer and slid it onto her tray. Hell, she wasn’t built like a flea and had never apologized for it. On the contrary, her body image was just fine, and despite the occasional burger, she typically ate well. Her daily trip to the gym would work off excess calories and maintain her muscle tone.

  After fishing a carton of juice from the cooler, she paid for her meal and found a seat at an unoccupied table. She wasn’t antisocial — she did have a couple of friends like Ozzie, after all — but neither was she one for idle chitchat. Especially when she had work to get back to.

  She’d taken only a few bites of her burger when the conversation from the table behind her began to filter gradually into her awareness.

  “… say what happened?”

  “Don’t know, man. Some sort of rescue op involving St. Laurent. The whole deal went FUBAR is what I heard.”

  Emma chewed slowly, forced herself not to react. Jude St. Laurent? According to Robert Dietz, Michael’s right hand, that agent was killed months ago in a car accident.

  The first man snorted. “Yeah, whatever went down is some fucked-up shit, for sure. One agent risen from the dead, only to maybe bite it for real this time, the other one not far behind. And rumors about Dietz flyin’ all over the fucking place.”

  “Dietz,” the second one spat. “If that bastard is responsible for taking out two of our own? I hope to God Ross tosses him below and throws away the goddamned key.”

  “If Michael needs a volunteer to torture information out of the prick, I’m his man. Never liked that fucktard.”

  “Second that.” A pause. “Wonder
if Ross will call a meeting?”

  “Probably. He won’t keep us in the dark any longer than necessary.”

  A third voice, out of breath, joined the first two. “Did you hear about our guys? Dietz turned traitor and tried to off them both! Kelly took a couple of bullets trying to protect St. Laurent, and they’re both critical. Then Agent Vale shot Dietz. Jesus.”

  Emma’s burger turned to ash in her mouth, and the rest of their exclamations were lost in the roar of blood rushing in her ears. She swallowed and pushed from her seat, giving up any pretense of not listening. Whirling, she grabbed the third man by his collar, the one standing by the table who’d just spoken, and shook the little gerbil like a rag doll.

  “Agent Blaze Kelly? Is that who you’re talking about?”

  He jerked in surprise. “Y-yes! I didn’t realize—”

  Emma released the man and turned to her tray, scooped it up, and strode for the exit. On the way out, she dumped the remains of her lunch, and in seconds she was jogging for the elevator.

  Heart in her throat, she punched the button for the fourth floor and was close to hyperventilating by the time the doors slid open.

  Blaze had been shot. Was critical. Might even be dead.

  Oh, God, no.

  She shoved through the double doors and hurried to the front desk, startling a passing doctor when she grabbed his arm.

  “Agent Blaze Kelly,” she demanded. “I want information about his condition, yesterday.”

  The man rallied, drew himself up. “Mr. Ross hasn’t authorized any disclosure of—”

  “Then fucking find him so he can authorize it!”

  “Mr. Ross gave specific orders that he’s not to be disturbed,” the doctor said in a steely tone. “If you’d care to take a seat, I’m sure he’ll be around shortly.”

  “I don’t want to take a goddamned seat! I want to know—”

  “Foster!”

  She whirled to see Michael bearing down on her, expression grim, eyes flashing with anger. Whether any of his ire was directed at her, she didn’t care at the moment. She grabbed his arm as he stopped in front of her.

  “How is Blaze? Tell me.”

  The reprimand she half expected didn’t come, though his jaw clenched and his body vibrated with tension as if he were fighting the urge to vent his frustrations at her.

  “Not here.” Those two words, husky and low, frightened her more than if he’d yelled them.

  She fell into step with him as he led her to a private room off the waiting area and shut the door, sealing them off from prying eyes and alert ears.

  Emma’s respect for Michael won out over panic, just barely. Crossing her arms over her bosom, she worked hard to restrain herself from barraging her boss with questions she knew he’d answer in good time, his way.

  Emma hadn’t seen the man since before his wife’s death, and the changes wrought by grief and stress were subtle but telling. Gone was the calm, controlled, urbane man with the ready, winning smile that belied his cunning. In his place was a stranger. His expensive tailored black suit was a bit too big now and looked like he’d slept in it, and his tie was missing, his blue shirt partly unbuttoned.

  Though still incredibly handsome, he could no longer pass for twentysomething among those who might venture a guess. Every one of his thirty-eight years was stamped on his angular face, carved in the lines around his full mouth.

  Instead of taking a seat, he paced the small space like a caged leopard, his expression a study of anguish. He pushed a hand through his short sable hair, causing the spiky strands to poke every which way, gold and red highlights gleaming under the fluorescent bulbs. His temples were touched by a hint of silver that she’d swear hadn’t been there three months before.

  “Where was he hit, Michael?”

  He halted in the center of the room and dropped his hand, shoulders slumped. “Head and chest. His vest saved him from the shot to his heart, so it’s his head we’re worried about. The bullet glanced off his temple, and he hasn’t awakened. Hasn’t so much as flicked an eyelid in the hours since it happened.”

  Fear slid bony fingers around her throat. Brain injury or even death could result from a head shot, whether the bullet penetrated the skull or not. If a man didn’t die outright, he could linger for weeks or months wasting away. She couldn’t wrap her mind around a vital man like Blaze being struck down like this.

  “What does the CAT scan show?” So calm now when she was shaking apart inside.

  “That’s what I’m waiting to find out, if you’d care to wait with me.”

  “I would, thank you.” An understatement. Michael probably knew he’d have to blast her out of there with dynamite if he wanted her to leave. They took seats next to each other, and she studied him carefully. “Rumors are already flying about Dietz turning traitor. Any truth to them?”

  “Shit, that didn’t take long.” He released a long sigh. “Yes, unfortunately, though I’m keeping the gory details need-to-know at this point between me, a couple of agents, and the president.”

  Emma’s mouth fell open. “Of the United States?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Jesus, I can’t even imagine what Dietz has done,” she muttered. Since SHADO was an independent ghost organization contracting out its services to the U.S. government for matters the president wanted handled under the radar, some contact between the higher-ups and Michael would be inevitable. But a direct line to the man himself? Whatever was going on must be bad.

  “Believe me, you don’t want to imagine it. For the time being, he’s being held in one of the cells under heavy security. No unauthorized access.”

  “That’s quite a fall from being your trusted second-in-command,” she observed.

  “You have no idea. While I was grieving the loss of my wife, that bastard was busy selling out the people of the U.S. to — never mind. I’m exhausted and I’ve said too much.” Anger and bitterness shaded his voice. “After the president and I work out a plan of action, I’ll call a meeting for those involved and bring everyone up to speed. You’ll probably be in on it, so you know.”

  “All right.” Seemed the agents would require her magic. And something told her this would be the most dangerous assignment she’d ever taken. “Will we find out what Agent St. Laurent has to do with all of this? Dietz told everyone he was dead.”

  “Obviously Dietz lied, and I’ll fill everyone in at the meeting. Right now I can tell you that St. Laurent was poisoned, and his chances don’t look good. As it stands right now, we can only hope that he and Kelly survive.”

  Michael’s cold, flat tone left no doubt in her mind that if he could get away with killing Robert Dietz this very second, he wouldn’t hesitate to take the man apart. After what the traitor had done to two fine agents, he must be holding some damned important information close to the vest for her boss to allow him to continue to breathe.

  Blaze. Please wake up and be okay.

  The man was too much a force of nature to die. No matter the blow he’d dealt to her heart, he didn’t deserve that. Not an hour ago, she’d cursed him for being an SOB and now—

  Suddenly, she sat up and groaned. “Dammit, my afternoon surveillance class is waiting for me. I forgot all about it.”

  Her boss patted her knee in a brotherly fashion. “Which is completely understandable, given your history with Kelly. Call down to the classroom and cancel for today if you want. I doubt you’ll be able to concentrate, anyway, and they won’t exactly complain about having the afternoon off.”

  “You don’t mind?” She bit her lip, uncertain when she was normally decisive. She and Blaze were so over it wasn’t funny, and she didn’t have a good excuse for being here. Not one she was willing to acknowledge out loud.

  “If I did, I’d just tell you. Go ahead — call.” His soft voice, the warmth in his eyes, let her know without words that he understood her fear.

  She nodded, relieved. “I will, thanks.”

  Using a nearby in-h
ouse phone to dial the extension, she let an agent know about the cancellation and settled in for what might prove to be a lengthy wait.

  She didn’t care how long it took. She wasn’t leaving until she knew Blaze would recover.

  Damn the man for making her care. Again.

  * * *

  His situation was clear.

  Someone had beat his skull with a fucking sledgehammer, cut off his head, and then impaled it on a rusty pike for good measure. In which case, he should be dead and not in so much goddamned pain.

  I’m not dead?

  What the fuck had happened? The question was met with a big fat blank, so he put all his effort into concentrating on the here and now. He flexed his fingers, taking stock.

  Sheets. Lying down. A bed. Weird smells. Beeping.

  A hospital? He’d been hurt, then. Most likely on assignment.

  “Blaze? Can you hear me?” The woman’s familiar voice was soft and pleasant. It wrapped like silk around the one appendage apparently still working just fine.

  He parted his lips to answer, but nothing emerged. Swallowing to moisten his dry throat, he tried again. “Yes,” he whispered.

  Fingers squeezed his hand gently. “Thank God!” A pause, and a sniffle. “It’s about time, tough guy. Did you know you have the hardest head on the planet?”

  He didn’t even try to puzzle out that one. Simply prying his eyelids open proved enough of a challenge, but he managed, squinting through eyeballs that must’ve been scoured with sandpaper. A blurry form leaned over him — a woman with short blond hair.

  “Emma?” he croaked.

  “Surprise.”

  Emma. Here, at his bedside. Which meant he’d been in some deep shit for her to put aside her anger long enough to give a crap about him. “Why?”

  “Why am I here? Because I’m an even bigger idiot than you are.” The catch in her voice told him the words didn’t hold quite the sting she’d intended.

  The idea cheered him immensely. “Miss me?”