Chapter 9

Dagan had been calling himself an idiot for the last hour. But as he turned down the road leading to the Dover docks, he decided that was an insult to stupid people.

His reaction to the feel of Chelsea pressed against him, the warm weight of her amazing breasts on his back, the sultry heat at the junction of her thighs, not to mention the sheer delight of having her small arms wrapped around his waist, went beyond idiotic and veered helter-skelter toward insanity.

We’re talking straitjackets, padded walls, and gurneys with straps attached, folks. Because even though his rational mind knew that a woman like her wouldn’t want anything to do with the likes of him, and that he had already strayed way over the line with that kiss, that didn’t stop his irrational mind—the base, instinctual, animalistic part of his brain—from wanting her.

He had been hard the whole ride, and the subtle vibration of the Ducati’s well-made engine hadn’t helped his situation one bit. It was agony times one hundred. And he was terrified her hand might slip down. If it did, there was no way she wouldn’t notice the effect she had on him. Then he would have something else to apologize for, in addition to that ill-timed, ill-advised, all-consuming kiss.

A parade of images marched through his head: Chelsea seated at the conference table back in Chicago, admitting to having a monkey on her back and fearlessly volunteering for the job to infiltrate Spider’s household; Chelsea bent over her laptop, poring over Intel, her fierce mind hard at work; Chelsea sitting in that chair in Roper fuckin’ Morrison’s office, tied and helpless and willing to give her life for the cause.

Chelsea…

Jesus H, he was going to have to grovel for her forgiveness. Then again, perhaps grovel was too sanitized a word. What he needed to do was to get down on bended knee, kiss her feet, and beg her to absolve him for taking advantage of the situation, for taking advantage of her.

The trouble with that plan? Well, once he began kissing her feet, he would be tempted to continue the journey upward. Nipping her delicate ankles. Biting her lithe, muscled calves. Licking her smooth thighs until—

Oh, for God’s sake!

“Look how pretty!” Chelsea yelled over the Ducati’s engine, pointing at the towering cliffs of Dover when they finally came into full view.

The cliffs were composed almost entirely of chalk, a bright, blinding white. Dagan couldn’t shake the feeling that they were angry teeth, snarling across the Channel at continental Europe and daring anyone with ill intent to set foot on the island. But it charmed him that after all Chelsea had been through in the last couple of hours—hell, what she’d been through in the last month under the employ of Roper fuckin’ Morrison—she could still look at those bleached cliff faces with a sense of childlike awe.

“Don’t you think that’s just about the prettiest thing ever?” she enthused, her breath warm against the nape of his neck, sending a cascade of chills down his spine.

Instead of answering—afraid she would hear the lust in his voice—he simply nodded and followed the others into the gravel parking lot beside the docks. One by one, he and his teammates cut the bikes’ engines. The sound of low, growling horsepower was replaced by the shush of waves lapping against rocks, the clink-clink of mooring lines against rigging, and the forlorn cries of the seagulls that dove and darted overhead.

Having grown up in Cleveland, on the banks of Lake Erie, and then having worked the last handful of years in Chicago, perched alongside Lake Michigan, Dagan thought there was just something about the water. He loved the fishy smell of it. The devastating…vastness of it.

Those rare times when he’d had a day off and had gone sailing with friends, he’d realized that he could only truly grasp his smallness, his infinitesimal worth in the grand scheme of the universe, when he was out in the middle of all that unrelenting water. And for some reason, that made him feel better. Made all his mistakes seem somehow less important, less grave, just…less.

“Emily Scott! As I live and breathe!” A big-chested man who looked like he should be playing cornerback for the Chicago Bears trotted across the lot toward them.

“Rusty!” Emily hopped from the back of Christian’s rented motorcycle, tossed Christian her helmet, and turned to throw herself into the arms of the approaching man.

When she kissed the newcomer smack on the lips, Dagan was sure he heard Christian growl. He glanced over, brow raised, but was immediately distracted when Chelsea hopped off the back of the bike, taking all her feminine warmth and softness with her.

He felt the desertion like a physical ache. His body longed for the touch of hers.

Then he wasn’t feeling anything but annoyance when she blinked at Emily’s friend in wide-eyed wonder and muttered, “Goodness sakes. That man is a specimen.” Now it was his turn to growl. “I swear. I feel like I’m in some sort of sexy man laboratory. Each new experiment is hotter than the last,” she added.

Dagan didn’t register that, in fact, Chelsea had just called him sexy. He was too preoccupied by the latter half of her statement. The part where she thought New Guy was hot.

A sense of possessiveness he had absolutely no business feeling spread through him.

“You look good, Rusty!” Emily grinned up at the fisherman. “The simple life agrees with you.”

Rusty had wild, unkempt hair the color of black cherries, and he wore dark foul-weather bib-and-brace pants with yellow suspenders that stretched over massive shoulders covered by an oatmeal-colored fisherman’s sweater. Seeing him standing there, smiling down at Emily, Dagan changed his mind about that Chicago Bears thing. Emily’s friend belonged on the cover of a Cabela’s catalog. He was the epitome of every rugged, wild seaman Dagan had ever seen. The rat bastard.

“Right back atcha, dollface.” Rat Bastard winked.

Dagan hopped off the Ducati and opened the seat to haul out his backpack. Shrugging into the shoulder straps, he turned in time to hear Emily say, “Well, don’t you all just stand there looking like wet weekends. Everyone, come meet Rusty Parker.”

“You’re American,” Christian said, shaking Rusty’s hand. His tone made the observation sound like an insult.

“Born and bred in Pittsburgh.” Rusty grinned. “But I hope you won’t hold that against me.”

Of all the things Christian was likely to hold against Rusty Parker, Dagan figured coming from Pennsylvania wasn’t one of them.

“When Emily said she had a fisherman friend who was willing to sail us across the Channel”—Ace shook Rusty’s hand—“I expected missing teeth, an eye patch, and a hook for a hand.”

Rusty’s rat bastard grin deepened, revealing a set of dimples. Unless Dagan’s ears deceived him, Chelsea sucked in an awed breath. Okay, and now he wasn’t just feeling possessive, he was feeling downright murderous. His hands curled into fists. To keep himself from using them, he shoved them deep into the pockets of his coat.

“I’m a cod fisherman, not a pirate.” Rusty chuckled.

“I don’t think I was thinking pirate as much as eye cabbage.” Ace tilted his head, eyeing Rusty up and down.

“Eye cabbage?” Rusty raised a brow.

“Opposite of eye candy,” Ace explained.

“Okay, that’s enough out of you, Romeo,” Emily cut in. “Let’s finish the intros and get moving. Dagan Zoelner.” She turned. “Meet Rusty Parker.”

Dagan had more than his fair share of calluses, but shaking Rusty’s hand was like grabbing hold of an old leather shoe. And if Dagan squeezed with a little more pressure than was strictly necessary, you wouldn’t know it by the impassive expression on Rusty’s face.

“And last but not least,” Emily said, “may I present Chelsea Duvall. The lady of the hour and the reason we need to bust ass across the Channel.”

Rusty’s big paw of a hand swallowed Chelsea’s. The asshole had the audacity to bend and kiss her knuckles. “Hello, Hot Cocoa,” he said with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

When Chelsea giggled—giggled, for God’s sake!—Dagan was hard-pressed not to rip her hand from the fisherman’s grip.

“Pleased to meet you.” Chelsea dipped her head demurely and looked at Rusty through the veil of her sooty lashes.

What’s that sound? Oh right. It was Dagan’s back molars being ground to dust.

“I don’t know about you, mate,” Christian whispered from the corner of his mouth after coming to stand close to Dagan’s side, “but I should think I hate him already.”

Dagan grunted his agreement as Chelsea gushed, “And thank you so much for doing this for us, Mr. Parker.”

“Please, call me Rusty.”

“Okay…Rusty,” Chelsea said in that husky sex-operator’s voice of hers.

Dagan had had all he could stand. “Yes, thank you, Rusty.” Why did it sound like he had been swallowing rocks? “Now, if it’s not too much trouble, let’s go. The longer we stay in this country, the more I feel the Earl Grey and incessant rain seeping into my bones, making them soggy.”

“You grow to love soggy bones after a while.” Rusty winked at him.

Like we’re best buds or some shit? Just because I didn’t pop you in the puss the moment you laid those filthy lips on my… Dagan wasn’t certain where he was headed with the rest of that thought, but whichever direction, he decided it was best to hang a swift left.

He found himself sorely tempted to challenge the fisherman to a wrestling match so he could…what? Prove to Chelsea that between the two of them he was the better man?

Christ in a cardigan sweater!

“Come on, then.” Rusty motioned over his shoulder. “Grab your gear, and leave me the keys to the bikes. I’ll make sure they’re returned to the rental agency.”

“Rusty, my love,” Emily said as she followed him across the gravel lot, “you’re a lifesaver.”

“Anything for you, dollface.” Rusty threw a beefy arm over her shoulders, and Dagan glanced at Christian. The poor man’s florid face pretty much summed up what Dagan was feeling.

“Let’s go.” Chelsea grabbed Dagan’s hand to give him a tug. “Quit lollygagging.” When she tried to release his fingers, he instinctively tightened his grip.

Turning back, she looked at him, then down at their joined hands, then back up at him. “What in the world has gotten into you today?” A seagull darted overhead, its desolate cry calling to something inside Dagan’s soul. Some lonely, aching part of him.

What had gotten into him? Her! She had gotten into him!

After years of denying himself the taste of her, like an anorexic denying himself food, he had finally caved. And now all he wanted was to gorge himself on her. Binge again and again, over and over until he couldn’t take any more.

Of course, he said none of that.

With a shrug and a roll of her eyes, Chelsea turned to traipse after the others, who were already making their way across the parking lot toward the dock and the waiting fishing boats. Still, he didn’t release her hand.

Why? Well, probably because he wanted to mark his territory in front of the oh-so-dreamy Rusty Parker. Which just proved he was an even bigger idiot than he had suspected.