Prologue
London, England
“Christ in a cardigan sweater, if Ace ever tries to talk me into binge-watching Ray Donovan until oh-three-hundred in the morning again, remind me to tell him to go take a flying leap, will you?”
As far as Chelsea could figure, Dagan Zoelner—or “Z” as she liked to call him—was talking to no one in particular. This was confirmed when he didn’t wait for an answer, simply stomped across the living room of their rented fourth-floor flat toward the kitchen.
Even barefoot, grumpy, and wearing a rumpled T-shirt, he was still a spectacular superhuman creature. And he had a voice like fine Southern moonshine, all smooth and distilled. Hearing it warmed her insides ten degrees.
So what else is new? she thought sourly, taking a bite of her morning bagel and adjusting her glasses to get a better look at his phenomenal denim-clad ass—oh my!—before he disappeared through the kitchen doorway.
Dagan had been screwing with her internal temperature for… Well, sometimes it felt like forever. Back when they were both working for the CIA, it hadn’t been so bad. She’d been a counterterrorism analyst, which kept her chained to her desk. He’d been a field agent, which meant he had been away in parts unknown far more than he had ever prowled the halls of Langley with that loose, long-legged stride of his. But fast-forward eight years—and throw in an odd twist of fate—and now they were both working for Black Knights Inc., the most clandestine government defense firm in the United States. Which meant that now it was impossible to avoid him.
Just to be clear, as the official “liaison” between the CIA and the Black Knights, Chelsea was still technically employed by the Central Intelligence Agency. But she’d been living and working exclusively with the Black Knights for months in an attempt to uncover the true identity of the head of one of the world’s most nefarious crime syndicates. A man responsible for human trafficking, illegal weapons sales, piracy, and so much more. A man who went by the bone-chilling nickname of Spider.
That meant she’d been on a body-temperature roller coaster for a heck of a long time.
Think that sounds fun? Well, you’d be wrong. And to make matters worse—Yup, it gets worse—Dagan had grown out his beard.
Before the dark, sleek pelt of facial hair had appeared, she’d thought his face was…nice. All-American-male nice. Guy-next-door nice. Nondescript nose, high brow, and solid jaw nice—his heavily lashed, storm-cloud eyes being his best feature. But after the beard? The Beard? Well, it took his nice face and made it hotter than Southern summer nights. That would be hot spelled H-A-W-T. All severe and foreboding and…hubba, hubba.
Combine his new visage with wicked tattoos and a body that was broad of shoulder, lean of hip, and made for sin, and that subtle fsssss anytime he got near was the sound of Chelsea’s panties melting.
That seemed to happen a hundred times a day too.
It was pathetic. She was pathetic. Especially since he had never expressed similar feelings for her.
Although, come to think of it, perhaps it was better he hadn’t expressed any interest. After all, there was the Big Bad Secret she was keeping from him, and—
“You should just invite him to come meet your cat and get it over with.” Emily Scott took a seat on the sofa next to Chelsea. Emily wore silk sleep pants and a ratty sweatshirt that looked like Methuselah might have had it made during his younger years.
“Huh?” Chelsea frowned, slathering a fresh spoonful of cream cheese onto her bagel. She enjoyed her food, and it showed in the extra fifteen pounds she hadn’t been able to shake since she was sixteen. Not that she had tried all that hard. According to the chart in her doctor’s office, her BMI was in the healthy range. So who cared if she jiggled when she wiggled?
Not me. She took another happy bite of bagel and thought, Life’s too short. “What cat? What are you talking about?”
Emily rolled her eyes. “It’s a euphemism, silly.”
“For what?”
“For a little sideways hi-how-are-ya.”
“Oh, you mean…” For some reason, the word stuck in Chelsea’s throat like it came with a set of barbed hooks.
“Sex,” Emily finished for her far too loudly.
“Shh.” Chelsea glanced toward the kitchen where the three BKI men who had crossed the pond to provide support for her and this mission were gathered, talking in low tones as they waited for the second pot of coffee to brew. “What makes you think I want that?”
Emily shot her a look. “Uh, maybe because every time you see him, you aggressively eye fuck the hell out of him?” Emily’s South Side Chicago accent emphasized the a sounds of her words, drawing them out.
“I do not.” Chelsea felt her cheeks burst into flames.
“Oh yes. You do.”
Usually Chelsea enjoyed a no-bullshit, speak-her-mind kind of gal. But right then she’d have sold her left boob if Emily would shut up. Unfortunately, it appeared the market for left boobs was woefully saturated. No one was buying.
“I don’t see what the problem is.” Emily adjusted herself on the sofa, taking a sip of coffee. “You’re not seeing anyone back home, are you?”
“Just Junior Patrick.” Chelsea figured the straight-up, honest-to-God truth was the most expedient way to extricate herself from the conversation.
“Who’s Junior Patrick?”
Chelsea gave Emily’s words back to her. “It’s slang, silly. Don’t you ever watch the BBC? Junior Patrick is another name for a lady’s best friend.”
“Ah. Right. Good to know I’m not the only one in an intimate relationship with that guy.”
Chelsea chuckled and stood to slip out of her favorite Dobby the House Elf slippers—she was an avid reader and collector of all things fantasy-related and nerdy—and into her kitten-heel pumps. Draining the last of her coffee, she set the empty mug on the table and sighed. “I’m off. Another day, another dollar.”
“And hopefully another chance to plant that bug in Morrison’s computer.” Emily grinned up at her, showing a set of crossed fingers and an expression of true sympathy.
Right. Roper Morrison. Otherwise known as…Spider.
The name was enough to make Chelsea’s skin crawl.