Mitch looked all the way downto her toes and back up again toher eyes.
Normally Kinsey didnt give a flip what other people thought of her looks, but she wanted to meet with Mitchs approval. Silence stretched out between them as he devoured her.
He moved so fast she hardly had time to jump. But all of a sudden he loomed before her, blacker than the night and more dangerous than sin. His hands were on her, climbing up her back, drawing her against him.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted back to her eyes. He murmured, his voice a low, tight rumble.
Im going to spend the entire evening imagining ripping that dress off you, throwing you down and making love to you until you scream.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cindy Dees started flying aeroplanes while sitting in her dads lap at the age of three and got a pilots licence before she got a drivers licence. At age fifteen, she dropped out of school and left the horse farm in Michigan where she grew up to attend the University of Michigan.
After earning a degree in Russian and East European studies, she joined the US Air Force and became the youngest female pilot in the history of the Air Force. She flew supersonic jets, VIP airlift and the C-5 Galaxy, the worlds largest plane. She also worked part-time gathering intelligence. During her military career, she travelled to forty countries on five continents, was detained by the KGB and East German secret police, got shot at, flew in the first Gulf War, met her husband and amassed a lifetimes worth of war stories.
Her hobbies include professional Middle Eastern dancing, Japanese gardening and medieval reenacting. She started writing on a one-dollar bet with her mother and was thrilled to win that bet with the publication of her first book in 2001. She loves to hear from readers and can be contacted at www.cindydees.com.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the H.O.T. WATCH! Im so excited to get to share this new series with you! Over my years of working with and writing about Special Forces operatives, Ive always been fascinated by their real-life, yet nearly superhuman, qualities. And now you and I get to really explore that aspect of these amazing warriors.
As I sat down to plan this series, I asked myself, how am I going to do justice to this elite group of operatives? First I decided to give them a cool hideout full of high-tech gadgets. Then I had to give them some seriously evil bad guys to battle. After all, a hero is only as awe-inspiring as the villain he defeats.
Of course, I had to throw in plenty of steamy tropical islands, sultry nights, pounding surf and glistening muscles. Add a heaping helping of sex appeal, and we have a recipe for plenty of yummy fun. So get out your beach towel and suntan lotion and pour yourself a tall, cool drink. Then prepare to be swept away by the supermen and women of H.O.T. WATCH!
All my best,
Cindy
Taken By the Spy
CINDY DEES
www.millsandboon.co.uk
This book is for my real-life superhero friends
whose names I cannot print. You know who you
are. And may I just say, you ROCK!
For mum and mother-in-law, who in their
courageous battles with cancer have taught
me that lifes short, live hard.
Chapter 1
Smoking gun in hand, Mitch Perovski crouched over the crumpled form of the dead man and swore. One by one, droplets of blood plopped onto the boats deck in the charged silence. Glancing furtively around him for watching eyes, he crouched even lower and pulled out his cell phone.
Go ahead, a male voice said at the other end.
Lancer here, he muttered. Ive got a problem. My Plan B is dead, Im caught out in the open at a damned marina, and Ive got two, possibly three, gunmen on my tail. I need you guys to pull a rabbit out of your hats and get me the hell out of here.
Weve got you on the satellite map in a marina near the south end of Tortola. The boss man says to stay put for a minute if you can. Meanwhile, say your status.
For a moment, Mitch allowed himself to register the daggers of pain shooting from his left shoulder. Bad idea. He gritted his teeth, forced the agony back into a mental drawer, and slammed it shut. No time for that, yet. Im shot, he ground out. My left shoulder. I think the bullet passed through but I havent had time to stop and take a look. Im low on ammo and way exposed on this freaking dock.
Are you bleeding? the combat controller asked sharply.
Hell, yes, Im bleeding. I just took a bullet.
Apply pressure to the entrance and exit wounds with a clean pad, and hold it until the bleeding stops.
Gee, thanks, Doctor Kildaire. I had no idea what to do, Mitch retorted dryly. All the guys in the H.O.T. Watch were qualified EMTs.
Standard procedure to brief operatives on proper first aid when a wound is reported, the controller replied, equally as dry. That way when you die, your family cant sue us over your sorry ass.
Mitch snorted. He hadnt spoken to any member of the Perovski clan in close to ten years and didnt plan on doing so for at least another ten. The seconds ticked by at half speed while he scanned the area for signs of his pursuers. They werent showing themselves at the moment, but he didnt doubt for an instant that they were out there, waiting. Seconds turned into minutes, and he wondered how much longer his pursuers would sit tight. Eventually, they would run out of patience and come after him. He was dead meat if they caught him out here like this.
A new, deeper voice finally came on the line. Lancer, this is White Horse. His temporary boss. Navy Commander Brady Hathaway. Ive got a Plan C for you. About a half mile down the beach, Congressman Dick Hollingsworth has a vacation home. He has a fast boat, and I just got off the horn with him. Hes given you permission to use it. The spare ignition key is taped to the back of a painting of a clipper ship in the below-deck cabin. Youll have to break into the cabin, though. I told him well repair any damage you do to the door.
A half mile? Damn, that sounded like a long wayright now. What does the boat look like? Mitch bit out.
Its a thirty-eight foot cigarette. And was that a wince he heard in Lancers voice? His boss continued its pink. Named Baby Doll. But it goes like a bat outta hell, apparently.
It had better, Mitch growled. If I die in a pink boat, Im going to haunt you. And I wont be a nice ghost.
White Horse laughed shortly. Call us when youre safe. And take care of that shoulder when you get a chance.
Will do. Mitch tucked the cell phone in his pocket and briefly considered swimming for the pink boat. But his shoulder was throbbing like hell, and the idea of adding the burn of salt in the wound was more than even his pain tolerance would stand. He eased down the dock, staying low. If his luck held, he could sneak into that fringe of palmettos and bushes up the beach, and then make his way to the pink Plan C.
If his luck held.
Just another lousy day in paradise. Kinsey sighed and sat up. Shed spent the entire afternoon napping on the cigarette boats sleek hull, which rocked gently beneath her as the waves rolled in. A strip of white sand beach stretched away in both directions, fringed by rustling palm trees and kissed by turquoise seas so blue they almost hurt to look at.
As dull as it was down here, it was still better than being laughed at. Laughed at! Her. The darling of Newport society. Shed fled rather than face the cruel scorn of the country club crowd and those who called themselves her friends. In a few months, when the scandal had been eclipsed by some new sensation, maybe shed think about going home. But until then, she was hunkering down here at her fathers beach house. Okay, shed admit it, she was hiding.
The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon. Not quite sunset, but the days quality tanning time was over. She didnt feel like going inside yet, though. Maybe a spin in the Baby Doll would clear her head. She pulled a T-shirt on over her skimpy bikini and, jumping over to the pier, cast off the forward mooring line. She strolled down the dock to cast off the aft line.
A rapid, slapping sound made Kinsey look over her shoulder sharply. Feet striking the dock. Urgent. Staccato. Running full out. Nobody ran around here. It was too hot and humid in this tropical climatetoo damned languidfor anything so strenuous.
A tall man was charging down the long pier straight at her. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Black clothes from head to foot. Bulky black duffel bag slung over his right shoulder. As mesmerizingand lethalas a panther charging on the attack. He never even slowed as he twisted to look behind him. She glanced in the direction of his gaze. Two more men were coming on the runbrandishing guns.
She leaped into the boats open cockpit, searching frantically for the keys. Where in heck had she put them? There they were. In a cup holder. She dived for them, prayed shed grabbed the right key, and jabbed it at the ignition. Missed! She tried again.
Four thuds in quick succession made her duck instinctively. What was that noise? Whatever it was, it sounded bad.
The Baby Dolls three Merc 700 horsepower motors turned over with a single smooth rumble. The man with the duffel bag was almost on her. She threw the engines into gear and yanked hard on the steering wheel. The boat pivoted around practically in place, the rear hull digging deep into the water.
As the Baby Doll exploded away from the dock, a dark shape went airborne, crashing onto the boats deck behind her. Kinsey jerked violently. The guy in black. She started to throttle back.
Go! he shouted from where he sprawled. She hesitated, and he shouted, Hit it, lady! You and I are both dead if they catch us!
Wha? She slammed the throttles forward while her brain hitched and stumbled, tripping over itself. Dead? Both of them? What had she done to merit getting killed? The boat shot forward like a thoroughbred bursting out of the chute, slamming her back into the pilots form-fitting leather seat. In the time it took Kinsey to jerk in a startled breath and release it, the Baby Doll had accelerated to nearly seventy miles per hour.
Kinsey risked a glance at the man crawling into the seat beside her. His hair was black-coffee brown, his skin bronzeby sun or genetics, she couldnt tell. He looked Italian in an elegant, lounge-around-a-Tuscan villa way. He righted himself and commenced fishing in his duffel bag. His left sleeve was ripped at the shoulder seam andholy cowblood gleaned wetly over the tear.
Who are you? she shouted over the roar of the engines. She sincerely hoped this man was the good guy in that little chase scene back at the dock; otherwise, she could be in a world of hurt, alone and on the open ocean with a potentially violent man. Heck, even if he was the good guy, she could very well be in deep trouble.
He looked over at her. Their gazes locked and time stopped for an instant, the power of that split second staggering. His eyes were amber. As gold as the sunset beginning to form in the west and positively hypnotic. Was he the cop or the robber? No telling by his dangerous good looks. A distant roar behind them sounded like an angry lion.
Here they come. His voice was raspy from exertion and sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.
She glanced back toward shore. A boat was just pulling away from the next dock over, another long, sleek cigarette.
Who are they? she shouted.
He stared grimly over her shoulder at the cigarette roaring toward them. His reply was succinct. Hired killers.
Terror rushed over her; cold certainty that death was very near. Her legs abruptly felt unbearably restless and she restrained an impulse to jump up and run away.
Can we outrun them? he asked.
She took a closer look at the boat pursuing them. A forty-three or forty-four foot Super Vee. Nope. This boat tops out around eighty-five miles per hour. That one will push a hundred.
His metallic gaze swung back to her. It was cold. Utterly devoid of emotion. And that scared her worst of all. There wasnt any question of not doing exactly what he told her.
Then well stand and fight.
The link between reality and the nightmare unfolding around her stretched. Broke. Fight? The synapses between her conscious thoughts and having any idea what to do next shut down. Completely.
How good a driver are you? he demanded, yanking her back from the void.
She answered without even thinking. Shed been around water and boats since she was born. Very good.
Can you get me close enough to that boat to shoot at it?
Get close? Intentionally? she squeaked.
Yes. So I can shoot them, he repeated impatiently.
Shoot? As in guns and bullets? Was she about todie? The thought gave a terrible clarity to every breath, every sound. Her hands gripped the contoured steering wheel until they ached.
Damn, her passenger muttered. Hes got an angle on us.
If she couldve forced words past the panic paralyzing her throat, she might have asked who he was and why having an angle sounded bad. But then her passenger reached into the duffel at his feet and pulled out a short, thick machine gun. Oh. My. God.
Turn right! he ordered tersely.
Kinsey yanked the wheel, and the nimble boat whipped around so hard it made her neck hurt. The Baby Doll slashed across the path of the black cigarette at nearly a right angle.
A flash of light exploded beside her. A burst of rattling, deafening sound. Her passenger had fired his gun at the other boat! As the other vessel passed behind them, he whirled and fired again.
Bring us around for another pass! he shouted. Keep our nose or tail pointed at him and dont give him our broadside if you can help it.
Abjectly grateful for something to think about besides dying, her panicked brain kicked into overdrive. The sailor in her latched on to the problem his instructions posed. His orders were easier said than done. And frankly, shed rather have the bastards shooting toward her pointed prow and the compact living quarters inside it than at her stern where the enginesand gas tankswere housed.