Crossfire (11 page)

Quinn remained on the porch, watching Cait drive away until her taillights finally disappeared in the rain. He knew she would accuse him of being sexist—and maybe he was—but he had to force himself not to go after her. To protect her.

‘‘She’s an FBI special agent, for Chrissakes,’’ he reminded himself. ‘‘She’s been trained to handle terrorists.’’ Including the domestic types, which he feared this madman was going to turn out to be.

Although Phoenix Team took on bodyguard assignments, Quinn had never been interested in that kind of gig.

Until now.

The problem was, if he had offered his professional services, she’d have laughed in his face. Then probably drop-kicked his ass all the way back to Afghanistan.

Which meant he was going to have to find some other way to get involved.

He went back into the house, seeing it for the first time through someone else’s eyes. ‘‘I guess it could use some work,’’ he allowed.

The studs were up for the drywall; that’d be a start. Not that he wanted to cut the place into little boxes, but a separate bedroom might be an idea. While he didn’t mind racking out in the hammock—which was a helluva lot more comfortable than most of the places he’d slept over the past dozen years—or the sleeping bag he’d been throwing on the floor, he suspected the lady would probably prefer an actual bed. And a door that’d actually lock.

Over the years he’d never given a lot of thought to such things; the apartment back on Coronado where he used to crash between missions was as stark as he imagined a monk’s cell must be. He’d grown up traveling light, a behavior that fit right in with being a SEAL, and if women were put off by the lack of pictures on the walls, or pretty pastel towels and dishes of smelly wood chips in the bathroom, none had ever mentioned it.

Then again, most of the women he spent time with weren’t exactly into conversation. Which, again, was just how he’d always preferred it. If there was one thing life had taught him it was that very few things were permanent. Besides, while he’d never been afraid of hard work, long-term relationships just involved too much heavy lifting.

There was also the fact that, as one of the instructors in BUD/S had told the class when one of the guys had rung out of training because his fiancée wanted him home watching reality TV with her in the evenings, if the navy wanted a SEAL to have a wife, they’d issue him one.

Quinn could just picture it, like a scene from some black-and-white fifties sitcom on TVLand.

‘‘Hi, honey,’’ he’d say as he came in the door smelling of blood after returning from battle in some god-forsaken Third World hellhole. ‘‘I’m home.’’

‘‘Hello, darling.’’ His beloved wife, inexplicably clad in a dress, high heels, and pearls, would greet her grizzled warrior at the door with a perky smile, an adoring gaze, and an icy martini. ‘‘How was your day?’’

‘‘Just fine and dandy.’’ He’d toss back the drink and hold the glass out for a refill. ‘‘I killed a whole bunch of guys. So, how was your day?’’

Nope. While he knew SEALs who’d gotten married, that scenario had never worked for Quinn.

Until that night when he and Cait had found themselves together at that wedding reception. Of course, she’d been busily trying to drink her former husband out of her life when she’d literally thrown herself at him.

He shouldn’t have even been there. Ever since getting out of BUD/S, he’d taken to spending a couple weeks a year in Somersett with Zach and his old man, a former SEAL who’d done three tours in Vietnam. Quinn had always liked John Tremayne, who’d become sort of a surrogate father.

The problem was, the Southern city wasn’t the most exciting place on the planet, and since they’d come straight off a mission in Central America, both Zach and Quinn had been feeling antsy. Which was when, after reading in the paper that Cait’s former roommate was getting married, Zach got the idea to crash the reception at the Wingate Palace hotel.

‘‘Never met a woman yet who could resist the whites,’’ Quinn remembered Zach saying. Quinn’s own personal experience had proven those words to be true. So they’d put on their U.S. Navy dress white uniforms, which they’d brought along for some dog and pony show they’d agreed to do at the academy (which Zach had attended for a time before dropping out and becoming a SEAL), borrowed John’s F-350, and driven down to the hotel, where they breezed into the ballroom as if they had every right to be there.

The moment he’d walked into the gilded and ornately decorated room, Quinn’s eyes had immediately gone to the head table, where Cait Cavanaugh, wearing the most god-awful dress he’d ever seen, with her bright hair in some sort of fancy upsweep, was making a toast to the new bride and groom.

Her words were a mere buzz in his ears, drowned out by the jolt of testosterone flooding his system.

Later, looking back on it, he’d think it sappy, but he’d walked straight toward that long, white-draped table. Later, Zach told him that a buzz of interested murmurs had followed him, but looking neither left nor right, every atom of his body focused on her, Quinn hadn’t noticed.

Maybe she’d heard it. Or maybe it had been the same instinct he’d felt, because suddenly her gaze had shifted from the smiling bride and groom to where he was standing, just a few feet away.

Oh, she was good, even then. Her only outward response was a blink. And a slight stain on those cut-crystal cheekbones. Then she’d finished her toast, which must’ve gone over well enough, because Quinn was vaguely aware of a ripple of applause behind him.

Another clue that he wasn’t alone in his feelings was the way the lady tossed back the champagne, swallowing it in one long gulp, as if she needed the dulling effects of the alcohol.

As a sniper, Quinn knew that timing was everything. And it was definitely working in his favor when the wedding singer called for the bride and groom’s first dance.

The newlyweds, who’d obviously been taking lessons, did a few impressive turns and spins, ending in a deep dip that drew yet more applause.

Then the bride danced briefly with her father, the groom with his mother, after which the singer, a Tony Bennett wannabe, called for the wedding party to take to the floor.

Which was when Quinn made his move.

He stepped in front of his target, effectively blocking her way.

‘‘Sorry,’’ he informed the tuxedo-clad usher, ‘‘but this dance is mine.’’

The guy stopped in his tracks. Confusion clouded his expression as his gaze went from Quinn to his appointed partner.

‘‘Cait?’’

She rolled her eyes. Watching her, he could practically see the wheels turning in her head.

‘‘It’s Heather and Danny’s day,’’ she said. ‘‘I don’t want to do anything to cause a problem.’’

Although Quinn towered over the guy by a good eight inches and was radiating his best don’t-mess-with-the-big-bad-SEAL attitude, he had to give the kid credit.

‘‘But if this guy’s bothering you—’’ he started to say.

‘‘It’s okay.’’ Cait put a hand on his arm. ‘‘I know him.’’

As they’d stepped onto the wood parquet, her back couldn’t have been any stiffer if she’d had his sniper rifle strapped to her body beneath the fugly Pepto-Bismol-pink dress.

‘‘Small world,’’ he said.

‘‘I refuse to believe Heather invited you.’’ Her arms remained stiff at her sides.

‘‘She probably would’ve if she’d known I was in town.’’ The dress crackled like cellophane as he drew her into his arms while the singer suggested flying to the moon on gossamer wings. ‘‘She always liked me.’’

Cait glanced over at the couple who were so engrossed in each other, they could’ve flown off to their very own planet. In the galaxy lovey-dovey. ‘‘Her taste has obviously improved.’’

‘‘Ouch.’’ Fortunately Quinn had always enjoyed a challenge. ‘‘Actually, this wedding-crashing thing was Zach’s idea.’’ He splayed his hand against her back, pressed her a little closer. ‘‘But I’m damn glad he had it.’’

She sighed dramatically. ‘‘You realize I’m only dancing with you because I didn’t want to risk you causing a scene.’’

‘‘You want to believe that, go right ahead.’’ He lowered his head, nuzzling her neck, which was bared by her gravity-defying hairstyle. ‘‘Damn, you smell good. Same as you did that New Year’s Eve.’’

‘‘You were Heather’s date. Which meant you had no business smelling another woman.’’ Even as her tone was sharp, Quinn was encouraged when she lifted her bare arms and twined them around his neck. ‘‘And for the record, I don’t wear perfume.’’

‘‘I know.’’ Deciding that dragging her to the floor and lifting all those crinolines she was wearing beneath the Southern belle skirt would definitely cause a scene, he contented himself with brushing his lips against her temple. ‘‘Which, of course, made you even more dangerous.’’

She lifted her head at that. Looked him straight in the eye. ‘‘Good line. But there’s no way I’m going to believe a SEAL can be afraid of a mere woman.’’

‘‘Believe me, Cupcake, some women—of which you’d be at the top of the list—can be a helluva lot more dangerous than a nest of terrorists.’’

She slitted her eyes. Studied him as they swayed back and forth to the music, all those petticoats hopefully keeping her from realizing that he was rapidly getting a redwood-sized boner.

‘‘Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?’’ she asked.

‘‘I guess that’s up to you. What it is, however, is the truth. I knew you were trouble the minute you came out of that bedroom that New Year’s Eve.’’

She surprised him by laughing at that. A rich, deep sound Quinn decided was even sexier than her scent. ‘‘You’re the one who was trouble, McKade.’’

Although being a sniper required a great deal of patience, sometimes you had to act on instinct. Which Quinn did now.

‘‘I’ve got an idea.’’

‘‘What’s that?’’

‘‘How about we spend the rest of the evening getting into trouble together?’’

She stopped moving. Stood there on the floor, looking up at him. And, hoo-yah, actually seemed to be considering his suggestion.

He knew that the saying about time standing still was a cliché. But Quinn would’ve sworn on his life that it did at that moment.

‘‘Okay,’’ she said after what seemed an eternity.

Quinn had let out a breath he’d been unaware of holding.

Then bent his head and touched his mouth to hers. She tasted of champagne. Of temptation. And, as she tightened her arms around his neck and clung, of sex.

He might not have the moves of, say, George Clooney, or Brad Pitt, but Quinn did know that immediately dragging a woman you hardly knew out of a wedding reception to have monkey sex with her was perhaps over the line. Even for a U.S. Navy SEAL.

So, utilizing the same patience required in his work, he’d spent the next couple of hours making nice, chatting with folks at the open bar—including Heather, who’d looked surprised but not offended to see him— and watching Cait Cavanaugh toss back mojitos as if CNN Headline News had just reported that rum was going to be declared illegal come midnight.

‘‘You know,’’ he suggested, ‘‘if you have to get drunk to hang with me, maybe we ought to rethink this trouble thing.’’

They were back on the dance floor, swaying to another slow tune, and he was beginning to get the impression that part of the reason she was twined around him like a python was to stay upright on a floor he suspected must’ve begun spinning on her.

‘‘Isn’t that just like a man?’’ she muttered, tilting her head back to look up at him. ‘‘Losing interest just when you’ve finally got a woman on the line.’’

‘‘You’d have to do a lot more than down some drinks to get me to lose interest.’’ It was the absolute truth. ‘‘I’m just trying to be a gentleman here.’’

She stared long and hard at him. At least, as hard as she could with her unfocused lake blue eyes. ‘‘What would be the fun in that?’’ She lowered her arm and laced her fingers through his. ‘‘Let’s go.’’

‘‘Where did you have in mind?’’

‘‘Somewhere private.’’ She skimmed a pink-tinted nail down the front of his uniform. ‘‘Where I can have my wicked way with you.’’

The smile she gave him would’ve tempted a saint. Having never claimed to be bucking for sainthood, Quinn reminded himself he’d been straight with her from the start. Even before she’d started on all those drinks.

He glanced across the ballroom at Zach, who seemed to have hit it off with a brunette wearing a purple minidress that fit her very fine curves like a second skin.

‘‘Let me just take care of a little business first.’’

‘‘That’s fine with me. Since I need to make a little stop in the ladies’ room.’’ She did another of those skimming things, this time going a bit lower on the front of his tunic, stopping just short of where his body, which had been in a perpetual state of arousal for the past two-plus hours, was pressing against his white uniform trousers. ‘‘I’ll meet you in the lobby. Lucky for us, it’s not high-tourist season, so you should be able to get a room without any trouble.’’

Roger that.

Quinn watched her weaving her way through the tables and decided that she didn’t appear that unsteady. Sure, she was looser than she’d been that New Year’s Eve, but it wasn’t as if she was falling-down-drunk or anything.

After telling Zach he wouldn’t be needing a ride back to the Tremayne house, he went to the front desk, where he learned that while it might not be high tourist season in Somersett, the hotel was booked. Except, the clerk told him with a sly glance toward Cait—who was sitting on a brocade couch across the lobby, legs crossed, impatiently swinging one pink satin-clad foot—the Presidential Suite.

The nightly rate came to nearly what Quinn made in a month of fighting terrorism around the world. Still, he didn’t hesitate to book the suite. Because the lady was definitely worth it.

As soon as they entered the elevator, the tight rein he’d been keeping on his libido snapped. He claimed her mouth, fast and hard. Grasping his hair, she kissed him back. Just as fast. And just as hard.

Her taste—of rum, and sugar, and mint—was as potent as his passion. He could have drunk from her sexy, wet mouth forever.

More wildly wanton than he’d imagined in his hottest fantasies, she wrapped her legs around his. Crushing the stiff, crackly layers of bridesmaid dress in his hands, he cupped her butt and pressed her up against the mirrored elevator wall.

He’d miscalculated, Quinn realized, as her hair tumbled free from the pins that had been holding it in that upsweep and turned into a sexy silk tangle around her face. Just thinking about those fiery strands draped across his naked thighs had Quinn nearly losing it on the spot.

A distant ding managed to make itself heard through the pounding of hot blood in his ears. The elevator slowed. Then stopped.

Quinn was damning himself for not pushing the button to keep the door closed, when Cait, apparently also aware of what was going on, slid down his body, and was back on those skyscraper heels, smoothing down the wrinkled pink skirt as the metal door opened.

A middle-aged couple, dressed for the evening, enteredfrom the floor that featured a revolving restaurant. Although he was no expert on menswear, even Quinn could recognize the man’s suit as custom-tailored; the woman was wearing some sort of silk cocktail suit with fancy jeweled buttons. Diamonds winked at her ears and throat. Her scent, as heavily applied as her makeup, was thick and cloying.

They both skimmed an appraising glance over Quinn and Cait. Although the woman’s face appeared to have been Botoxed into an expressionless mask, it would have been impossible to miss the disapproval in her heavily lined eyes.

The man, on the other hand, after focusing a bit too long on Cait’s flushed breasts, which rose appealing above the deeply cut neckline, flashed Quinn a quick grin of approval. One that was laced, Quinn thought, with a touch of envy.

Then the couple’s eyes rose and stayed glued to the lighted numbers above the door as the elevator continued its ascent to the top floor, which housed the Presidential, Ambassador, and Honeymoon suites.

Cait and Quinn were watching the floors flash by as well, though a sideways glance revealed her white teeth biting her kiss-swollen lips.

The elevator stopped again. The door opened. The couple exited first, turning left. Cait and Quinn followed, headed in the opposite direction.

Neither spoke as he pulled the keycard from his pocket and opened one of the two ornately carved doors.

They were no sooner in the suite than Cait’s fought-for composure collapsed in laughter.

‘‘I think we scandalized them,’’ she said, pressing a hand against her breasts.

‘‘Maybe her,’’ he allowed. ‘‘But he would’ve given anything to be in my shoes.’’

She glanced down at the white patent leather shoes in question. ‘‘I don’t get it.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘You should look like a Good Humor man in that getup.’’

Since it was, ironically, the first thought he’d had when he’d bought it at the San Diego uniform store so many years ago, Quinn didn’t take offense. Instead he grinned leeringly.

‘‘Want a treat, little girl?’’

Her eyes lit up with a knee-weakening mixture of laughter and lust. ‘‘Absolutely.’’ Her gaze moved over him, lingering on the erection he was no longer even trying to hide. ‘‘And I want it supersized.’’

Which, of course, only caused another surge of heat through his penis, stiffening it so he wouldn’t have been surprised if it had burst right out of his pants.

‘‘The problem,’’ she said, ‘‘as I see it, is we’re both wearing too many clothes.’’ She reached behind her back. ‘‘Unfortunately, whoever designed this nightmare of a dress was also a sadist.’’

Grasping her shoulders, he turned her around, intending to take care of the row of tiny satin-covered buttons. ‘‘Let me help.’’

‘‘It’s okay.’’ Before he could stop her, she’d ripped the dress open, sending buttons flying across the room. ‘‘I can handle it.’’

Deciding that she was, indeed, handling things just fine, Quinn stood back and watched as she pushed the dress, petticoats, and hoopskirt over her hips, then stepped out of them, leaving them lying on the plush white carpeting.

Which left her standing in a beaded white corset that plunged to her waist and displayed her breasts in a mouthwatering way, a garter belt, white stockings, a pair of lacy white panties so skimpy she may as well have been going commando, and those pink stilettos, which had looked overdone with the dress, but now, with the rest of that Victoria’s Secret underwear, looked damn hot.

‘‘Well?’’ When she folded her arms beneath her breasts, lifting them even higher over the top of the corset, Quinn realized that while he’d been eating her up with his eyes, she’d been waiting for some sort of response.

He cleared his throat. ‘‘It’s a little difficult for a guy to talk,’’ he said in a voice rough with need, ‘‘when he’s just swallowed his tongue.’’

The explanation, which was the absolute truth, appeared to work. Her remarkably kissable lips twitched.

Then she said, ‘‘Your turn.’’

He’d never stripped out of a uniform so fast.

And then, although he’d stuck to beer and wasn’t anywhere near as drunk as he suspected she must be after all those mojitos downstairs, the next hours passed in a sex-hazed blur.

He recalled retrieving the condom from his wallet, sweeping her up and carrying her into the bedroom.

She’d laughed as she’d bounced on the mattress. Then shimmied out of the panties, bent her knees, crooked her finger, and said, ‘‘Hey, Sailor. Wanna get lucky?’’

Which pushed his last button. He’d barely managed to get suited up before plunging deep and hard, which immediately had him shuddering with an orgasm that seemed to go on and on forever.

‘‘Christ, I’m sorry,’’ he said against her neck, when he could speak again. ‘‘Believe it or not, I have heard of the concept of foreplay.’’

He’d collapsed on her, and realizing how heavy he must feel, he started to roll away, when her hands caught him and skimmed down his damp back.

‘‘Don’t apologize.’’ She turned her head and kissed him again, a long, slow, deep kiss that involved a lot of clever tangling of tongues. ‘‘I figure your line of work has you having to be like me in some ways. A control freak.’’

‘‘Roger that,’’ he said as lust rose again to steam-roller over his humiliation.

‘‘Well, then, I like the idea of making you lose control.’’ She slid her hand between them and danced her fingers down his chest. ‘‘Besides, we’ve got all night.’’ Her caress went lower. ‘‘And I’m not nearly through with you yet.’’

She hadn’t been kidding. Fortunately, between the both of them, they’d had enough rubbers on hand to last until sometime just before dawn. With a short time-out for pizza he’d ordered from room service. While claiming he’d needed it to keep his strength up, he’d also figured that after all those drinks she could use something in her stomach.

After a brief combat nap, he’d taken a shower and left her sleeping—or at least appearing to sleep—while he went out to round up breakfast.

When he returned, she was gone, without so much as a note.

Okay, so maybe she didn’t have to tell him that he’d been the best she’d ever had, but at least she could’ve used the gilt-edged pad by the phone to let him know she’d had a fun time, and hey, have a good life.

Wondering what the chances were of feeding the lady mojitos until he broke down the barricades she’d built up around herself again, Quinn put aside the memory, took his laptop out of sleep mode, went online, and wrote an e-mail to another former SEAL who’d not only kept in touch with each and every one of his own BUD/S classmates but seemed to have his fingers in all sorts of clandestine pies.

The rest of the world might believe in six degrees of separation, but in the Spec Ops business, you’d be hard-pressed to find four.

After sending off the message asking what the guy might know about rogue snipers, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and scrolled through the names and numbers.

Quinn figured Cait would probably show up at the free clinic Mike Gannon had established across the street at St. Brendan’s first thing tomorrow morning. He also suspected she wouldn’t be willing to share everything she knew with him.

Which meant he was going to have to beat her to the punch.

The voice mail on the priest’s home and cell phones announced the same message: ‘‘You’ve reached Mike Gannon. I’m currently at a conference in Baltimore, but I’ll be back in Somersett first thing tomorrow morning. If you’d like to leave a message, you know what to do.’’

Although it wasn’t his first choice, Quinn left a message for Mike to call him ASAP.

Then, deciding that other than chasing Cait down and sticking to her like glue, there wasn’t much he could do until morning, Quinn returned his mind to the Afghan mountains.