––––––––

After Garth curtly dismissed Henri, Mike swiped his hand across his mouth and faced the CO. Nothing like being caught by the big cheese with your proverbial pants down. How much had Garth seen?

God, he was an idiot. But damn, he’d expected a head-butt, not a kiss. Henri wasn’t the type of woman who flirted around, either. The woman was far more likely to deliver a kick to the balls than a friendly pat on the shoulder—or a mind-blowing kiss.

And Mike had fallen for it. He’d not only fallen for it, he’d played right into her hands, practically fucking her right through those blasted yoga shorts that hugged her ass like a second skin.

Garth eyed Mike like he did when he had something up his sleeve—though this time it was probably an assignment in Antarctica. “She’s something else.”

Those words could mean anything.

“She is,” Mike replied.

“Then it’s a good thing I need you to leave for Pakistan in the morning. Jesus Christ, what is it about a mop of wild, red hair that women can’t resist? You look like Andy Capp on steroids if you ask me.”

Mike couldn’t help but smirk. “I’d rather think of it as Jamie Frazer on steroids, sir.”

“Who the hell is Jamie Fazer?”

“It’s a Scottish thing.” Avoiding an explanation of the American popularity of the Outlander Series, Mike batted a dismissive hand through the air. “So, are things heating up with Rodgers and Hamilton?” he asked, attempting to deflect the focus away from him.

“They are, and I aim to ensure they don’t do the same between you and Anderson.”

“No, sir.” He could bloody kick himself. Lord, he knew better than to get too close to an asset. What the hell was he thinking?

“Good to hear. By the speed with which you were moving when I entered the gym, I had my doubts.”

“I thought I was done when I collected my hundred quid.” Mike shook his head. “You can bet it’s time for me to head back out in the field. I’ve had enough recruiting and training. Besides, you could put Anderson in the field tomorrow and she’d be fine.”

“I’ll decide when she’s ready.”

“Of course.” Mike excused himself and headed for the showers. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Garth frowned on fraternization at ICE, though it happened all around him. Look at Hamilton and Rodgers—they’d spent their entire holidays together at his ranch in Montana. And dammit, who wouldn’t go off their trolley after being cloistered underground at ICE for a few months? None of the operatives were robots—possibly aside from Garth. The men and women who risked their necks for the clan were living, breathing people with human needs. They were all young and vibrant and smart and that included being sexually healthy.

If Garth didn’t like the idea of Mike kissing Henri, then he could go bite himself on the bum.

After a shower and a rare steak in the mess, Mike headed to the only place he could get a cold beer. The last crew had dubbed the bar the “Ice Cave” and the moniker had stuck. The director of administration even had a sign made and posted outside the door, though it wasn’t neon. It was silver and business looking, and followed the same font, size and standard as every other door sign in the compound.

The techie recruits were gathered around the bar, with Ed Sheeran blasting from the red jukebox that played tunes nonstop. But the music was barely louder than the tequila-swilling crowd pounding on the bar and shouting.

Moving closer, Mike homed in on the cause of the brouhaha. Natalie, the Brit from Liverpool, was on her back on top of the bar with her belly exposed. Aaron from Colorado was straddling her legs with a bottle of tequila in his hand while Pam swiped a lime along Natalie’s throat and sprinkled on some salt, then squeezed the juice into the lassie’s navel.

“Hiya, luv,” Natalie yelled from her back, grinning at Mike. “Come have a body shot.”

Aaron pumped his arm like a bodybuilder, which he was not. “I’m the body shot challenger of the world!”

Pam from Texas grabbed the bottle of tequila and held it up. “Are you ready?”

“Hell yeah!” Aaron shouted while Natalie sucked in her gut and Pam poured in the tequila.

The crowd pounded the bar shouting, “chug, chug, chug,” though all Arron did was lick the salt from Natalie’s neck, then slurp the tequila from her belly button. Roaring, he sat upright, flexing his muscles. “I’m the baddest man in town!”

Shaking his head and laughing, Mike moved behind the bar, pulled out an Icelandic Red Ale and popped the top. “You lot are having a piss up without me?”

“Only way to drown our sorrows, mate,” said Trevor.

“We nearly had you,” said the German.

Mike took a swig. “It’ll never happen.”

“Not as long as you have Hawkeye watching your back,” said Pam.

“You mean Soaring-Eagle?” He leaned his elbow on the bar, unable to stop himself from taking a long visual examination of Natalie’s shiny, wet navel.

Still on the bar, she rolled to her side. “Is she really an Indian, luv?” she asked with a slur to her Liverpool accent.

Aaron slid down from the bar and a pulled a beer out of the fridge. “Native American.” By the looks of the squeezed limes piled up in a glass, they’d been at it for a while.

“Her mother was a Paiute,” said Mike. He took a drink. ICE policy was not to disclose too much about an asset’s background, though they already knew Henrietta Anderson’s middle name was Soaring-Eagle. Garth had let that one slip.

Natalie ran her finger up and down Mike’s bicep. “She’s an anomaly.”

“She’s fucking unbelievable,” said Aaron.

Mike nodded and took another pull from his beer, hiding his smile. Unbelievable was right.

“Do sharpshooters turn you on?” Natalie’s tongue slipped out the corner of her mouth while she poured a shot of tequila and held it up to him. When Mike refused, she chugged it.

He gave Arron an elbow-nudge. “How long have you lot been at it?”

“Came straight here after Garth chewed us out.”

Mike chuckled. He should have known Garth would have had something to say. “Got an old-fashioned, military arse-whipping, did you?”

“Not only that, we’re hitting the slopes in the morning—ice climbing.”

Gesturing to the near-empty tequila bottle and countless empty beers, Mike shook his head. “Do you have a death wish? All of you will be knackered and chundering up your guts.”

Trevor raised his beer bottle. “This is the last round.”

“Good thing.” Mike lifted his beer to his mouth, but Natalie caught his wrist.

“I dare you to have a body shot,” she said, raising her eyebrows and giving him a suggestive bat of her eyelashes.

He gulped, his gaze shifting to her abs—pretty nice abs at that. But he wasn’t fooled. This was a bad idea on too many fronts. Though it almost killed him to turn down a dare, Mike shook his head. “Maybe some other time.”

“You got it bad for Henri. I knew it,” said Pam.

“Beg your pardon, but she’s an asset.” Mike gestured with his beer to make his point. “And I’m training her, mind you.”

Natalie rolled to her back. “Then you need this, luv. It’ll help you sleep.” She glanced down to his crotch and waggled her eyebrows. “Or not...”

The bloody team started in smacking the bar and shouting “chug, chug, chug.”

Mike hesitated while he guzzled his beer. He shot a glance toward the door. He couldn’t slip away now. Doing so would make him look like a coward.

And I’m no bloody chicken liver.

Pam swiped the lime along Natalie’s neck and sprinkled salt, then picked up the tequila. “Are you afraid, Scottie boy?”

“This Highlander isna afraid of anything.” He climbed onto the bar, straddling Natalie while Pam poured the poison.

Natalie gazed at him with half-cast eyes, looking like she wanted a lot more than a lick in the umbilicus. “Come get me, luv.”

“Bottom’s up.” Mike dove in, licked the salt off her neck and slurped the tequila from her stomach, then tried to sit back. Unfortunately, Natalie wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his face to her lips. He opened his mouth to object and she shoved her tongue inside, giving him a sloppy kiss and finishing it off with a snarky bite to his lip.

Dazed, Mike pushed himself up and rocked back on his haunches. “Didn’t see that coming.”

Pam slammed the tequila bottle on the bar. “Next time, instead of paintball, we should have a kissing contest—maybe we’d win.”

The music stopped.

Everyone looked.

Henri stood beside the silent, light-flashing jukebox looking like she was about to kill something—namely Mike.

Aaron pulled Natalie off the bar. “Come on, Ringo, I’ll walk you to your bunk.”

Ignoring her teammate, Natalie ran her hand down Mike’s thigh and gave his knee a pat. “They call me that on account of my Liverpool roots.” She blew him a kiss. “See you later, stud.” With a self-impressed snort, she sauntered out the door with the others, waving to Henri.

The problem?

The woman Mike had been dreaming about every night for the last few weeks stood akimbo, her arms crossed, her lips disappearing into a white line, and her eyes looking like they were about to shoot laser beams. Rather than give him an earful, she emitted a dissenting grunt, turned on her heel and headed for the door.

Hopping down, it took Mike three strides to stop her before she made it into the hallway. “Whoa there, lassie.”

She jerked her arm from his grasp. “Don’t call me that, you goddamned jerk.”

“It’s no’ what it looked like.”

“No? So you weren’t on the bar straddling a woman, doing body shots, then licking her tonsils.”

“You dunna understand.” He threw his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bar. “They dared me—and Natalie was shitfaced.”

“Oh, so you only take advantage of women if you’re on top of them in the sparing ring, or if they’re steaming drunk.”

Mike thrust his palms out to his sides. “I didna—”

“You did. I saw you.”

“No. Natalie grabbed me by the neck and kissed me.”

“And you kissed her back.”

Jesus, if only he could grab her by the shoulders and show her again what a real kiss was bloody like—if the angry Pocahontas didn’t knee him in the balls in the process. “What was I supposed to do, throw a fist?”

Henri looked to the ceiling and groaned. “What should I care?” she shouted. “You’re my trainer. And you’d better not kiss me with that filthy mouth again. Not. For. Fucking. Ever!”

Mike’s jaw dropped as he watched her disappear out the door. A chasm spread through his chest while he stared, silence roaring in his ears.

What the hell just happened?

And like she said, what should she care? They weren’t an item.

Maybe this misunderstanding was for the best. They hadn’t pledged their undying love. They’d shared a single kiss. A hot, bone-melting, passionate kiss that had set his balls on fire, but it had only been one. Anyway, he was leaving in the morning. God only knew when their paths would cross again.

He moved behind the bar and opened another beer. When that was gone, he drank another. Nothing helped. He’d still be a lout come morning, no matter how much alcohol he consumed. He popped one more top.

The thing that really bit was leaving in discord. It was like walking away from unfinished business. Quarrels always made the muscles between his shoulder blades tense and needle at the back of his mind for bloody months.

Damn it!