Chapter 1

“There must be a better way to get this job done.”

Dagan Zoelner noted his own thunderous expression in the mirror hanging on the wall near the front door before returning his attention to Chelsea, sullenly eyeing her when she leaned close to her reflection to apply lipstick in a shade that could only be described as take-me-big-boy pink.

When she blew a kiss at him in the mirror, a coiling awareness tightened his gut. Then she turned and gifted him with a look that would have made a lesser man instinctively reach to protect his balls.

“Lands sakes alive, Z! You’re going to whip out your misogyny every morning?” That husky voice of hers…it did things to him, and she planted her hands on her fantastically curvy hips. The woman was built like a Kardashian, no doubt about it, but the familiar stance reminded him not of Kim or Khloé, but of a pint-sized Wonder Woman.

All she’s missing are the gold cuff bracelets and the flowing black hair.

Because while Chelsea’s hair was dark and shiny, it was as short as a little boy’s. A pixie cut, he thought it was called. And that word described Chelsea Duvall perfectly.

With her smooth café-au-lait skin, her copper-colored eyes that frequently glinted with mischief, and the sprinkling of freckles like cinnamon across the bridge of her button nose, she was an ethereal creature. One he wanted to put in a gilded cage so he could keep her safe from the cruel world. And, more importantly, from the likes of Roper fuckin’ Morrison.

“It’s not misogyny. It’s a cold, hard fact. You’re not qualified for this kind of work.”

“Oh sweet Jesus!” She tossed her hands in the air. She was unaware that the movement caused her blazer to gape open, revealing a set of spectacular breasts that stretched tight the fabric of her lavender blouse. “It’s déjà poo. As in, I’ve heard this crap too many times before.”

“Frequency doesn’t make it any less true.” He ripped his eyes away from the vast landscape of her chest because…you know…he refused to be that guy.

Even so, it didn’t escape his notice that her amazing rack was partly to blame for the position Chelsea currently found herself in…the position of pretending to be Morrison’s personal assistant when, in truth, she was waiting for an opportunity to plant a virus in one of his computers. Once she did that, the Black Knights back at headquarters in Chicago would hack into Morrison’s systems and get the information they needed to prove, once and for all, that he was the notorious Spider.

For months, they had tried to ferret out Spider’s true identity with no luck. Then, with the release of the Panama Papers, the detailed attorney-client information for more than 200,000 offshore companies and the identities of those companies’ shareholders and financial transactions, they had found the proverbial needle in the haystack. The papers had uncovered a tie between Morrison and a diamond mine in Angola. Which wasn’t all that unseemly on the surface, right? A man of Morrison’s means—estimated net worth fourteen billion dollars—who owned a media empire of a hundred newspapers and dozens of television stations in both the United States and the UK, had investments all over the world, Africa included. But it just so happened that the Black Knights and the CIA had reason to believe that that particular diamond mine was owned by the shadowy Spider.

It had been a clear case of a transitive relationship as far as everyone had been concerned. If A equaled B, and B equaled C, then A equaled C. Morrison was Spider. The trouble came in trying to prove it. They hadn’t been able to hack into Morrison’s systems from the outside because, according to BKI’s hacker extraordinaire, the renowned Ethan “Ozzie” Sykes, “Morrison’s firewalls have firewalls.” So that had left them with only one option: Get someone on the inside.

Enter Chelsea Duvall.

She had volunteered for the job with one unforgettable sentence: I’ll get so close to Morrison, he won’t be able to take a piss without me giving it a shake.

Dagan had exploded. He’d told her and everyone else at the early-morning meeting, “There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell Chelsea will be the one to do this. She’s an analyst, not a fuckin’ field agent!”

But he’d been outvoted.

Apparently Chelsea was the perfect pawn to use in the chess match with Morrison because the man was known to hire and surround himself with women who possessed certain…physical attributes. Read: Ladies built like brick shithouses. And Chelsea’s backstory about wanting to quit her job with the Bureau of Land Management—that was her CIA cover—move to England, and go to work for Morrison was exceptional for two reasons. One, it was believable. And two, it happened to be one hundred percent true.

Less than two weeks after that fateful meeting at BKI headquarters, it became known that Morrison had fired his PA. Twenty-four hours later, Chelsea’s résumé had been in Morrison’s hands. Forty-eight hours after that—time no doubt used by Morrison’s security team to vet Chelsea top to bottom—she had been on a plane to London to sit for an interview.

Just as had been predicted, Morrison had taken one look at Chelsea—and her…uh…myriad delightful features—and hired her on the spot. That was the good news.

The bad news? Well, on top of being an evil and lecherous old fart, Morrison was incredibly paranoid. In the four and a half weeks Chelsea had worked for him, not once had she been allowed to enter either his home office or the office he kept in downtown London to use the thumb drive she meticulously sewed into the lining of her jacket or slacks or whatever other item of clothing she happened to wear to work that day.

Morrison not only locked the doors to his inner sanctums, but gaining access to the rooms required a retinal scan and voice recognition. Getting around the voice recognition part wasn’t too hard. Chelsea had already made a secret recording of Morrison saying the pass phrase. But the retinal scan? Short of offing the asshole and plucking out one of his eyeballs, they were at a loss. Something has to give.

Dagan was convinced that something should be Chelsea’s job with the handsy bastard. They could prove that Morrison was Spider some other way. One that didn’t involve her subjecting herself to Morrison’s unsubtle leers, roving hands, and blatant sexual innuendos.

“I’m just saying”—he eyed her mulish expression—“if you were going to get the chance to plant the virus, it would’ve happened by now.”

“Says who?” She thrust out her chin. It was small and pointy, and he had the oddest urge to bend down and kiss it.

“Says me.”

She rolled her eyes and adjusted her glasses. “And you’re the ultimate authority…uh…why?”

“Let me see. Maybe it’s the hundreds of successful missions I’ve—”

“Lord have mercy,” she interrupted, slipping into the unhurried drawl that revealed her Southern roots. “You realize if I wanted to commit suicide, all I’d have to do is climb your ego and jump down to that place where you keep your humility.”

Before he could think of a good comeback, she continued. “And, sure, okay, let’s stand here and go through all the reasons I’m not qualified for this kind of work. Again. No, really. I love beating a dead horse. You go first. And when your arm gets tired, I’ll jump in. Ready? Go.”

“Bloody hell!” Christian, a former SAS officer who, for reasons known only to a few, had left Her Majesty’s Army to go to work for Black Knights Inc., called from the kitchen. “Would you two stop trading verbal punches? It’s too early in the morning. I’ve yet to finish my first cup of tea, and all that blathering is giving me a sodding headache!”

“Oh, now you’ve done it. You’ve gone and angered the Brit,” Colby “Ace” Ventura said, sauntering up beside them and planting a kiss on Chelsea’s cheek.

Before coming to work for the Black Knights, Ace had been a crackerjack Navy pilot, hence the nickname “Ace”—although there was some speculation that his last name and the Jim Carrey movies had played a part in his nom de guerre. Dagan respected the shit out of the guy. But right now? Well, he was hard-pressed not to punch the fucker in the mouth. If the guy’s lips were busted, maybe then he’d keep them to himself.

But the dude’s gay, one might argue.

Didn’t matter. When it came to a man’s mouth on Chelsea, Dagan’s green-eyed monster made an appearance. Because the fact of the matter was, despite their daily verbal boxing matches, he liked her. Had since the first time he met her back at Langley all those years ago when she’d given him an Intelligence report. Looking at her, he had seen nothing but soft curves. Listening to her had revealed a sharp mind.

It was a wonderfully complex juxtaposition, and Dagan had determined to get her in bed on the double. But since he had rarely been stateside back then, the opportunity had never arisen. And just as he had been poised to return to the United States for a good, long stint, an op in Afghanistan had gone horribly wrong, and five people had paid for his mistake with their lives. Afterward, he’d been fired from the CIA quicker than you can say, Clear out your locker, dickhead. And as if all that wasn’t bad enough, following his expulsion from the Company, he’d briefly gotten himself involved with a corrupt senator.

Both of those screwups were black stains on his character. He was convinced that a woman like Chelsea, a woman who was upright and true, wouldn’t give him the time of day. Not knowing what she knew about him.

“Do you have everything you need?” Ace asked Chelsea, handing her a travel mug of coffee. “Perhaps you could use some Mace? Or electric underwear so every time that old bastard accidentally”—Ace made air quotes with his fingers—“rubs your ass, he gets a nasty shock?”

“Thank you, Ace honey.” Now it was Chelsea’s turn to smack a kiss on Ace’s cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Dagan’s inner six-year-old stomped his foot and sullenly shouted, What about me? I’m always looking out for you! But he quickly reminded the little brat of Afghanistan and Senator Aldus. She wants nothing to do with the likes of us, and you know it.

“My pleasure. Teamwork makes the dream work, am I right?” Ace winked at Chelsea. He really was a handsome bastard. All blond hair, sea-blue eyes, and a physique that looked like it belonged in an underwear advertisement.

Dagan’s jealousy was ridiculous. But that didn’t stop him from wallowing in it when Ace opened the front door and Chelsea walked into the hall that led down four flights to the hustle and bustle of London’s streets.

After the door shut behind her, Ace took one look at Dagan’s face and sighed. “Come with me, Werewolf of London.” It had been a running joke since they’d taken up residence. The town. The beard. Dagan got it. He just didn’t think it was nearly as funny as the rest of them did. “Let’s get some of Christian’s tea in you. Maybe it will settle your nerves.”

“If only it were that easy,” Dagan muttered, allowing Ace to pull him through the living room and into the kitchen.

Sitting at the small circular table in the corner was Christian. The three of them made up the team that had volunteered to move to London to provide Chelsea with support. And after living together in such close quarters—the flat only had two bedrooms, so all three men were bunked in one room—and with no real purpose except spending their days poring over every bit of Intel and research they could find on Morrison, a.k.a. Spider, they’d taken to busting each other’s balls more frequently than usual.

Case in point…

“What happened to my bagel?” Ace demanded after opening the toaster oven and peering inside.

Christian glanced at the remains on his plate and grinned.

Ace spied the half-eaten bagel. “You shit-swizzling breakfast stealer!” He had a rare talent for coming up with imaginative insults. “I had that toasted perfectly!”

Christian picked up the bagel, studied it from all sides, then took a considering bite. “Indeed it was,” he said around a mouthful. “Thank you.”

“I should rip off your dick, shove it down your throat, and feed you your own ball sac for dessert. But rumor has it, you sport a microwang, and I don’t want to strain my eyes trying to find it.”

Aw, yes. The attack on the size of a man’s meat. Classic.

Dagan jumped into the fray, happy for the distraction. Anything to take his mind off Chelsea. “You going to let him dis your doodle like that, Christian?”

“This rumor is easy to refute.” Christian stood and reached for the top button of his jeans.

“I’ll thank you to keep your man stick to yourself.” Emily Scott sauntered in from the living room.

Whoops. Dagan had forgotten to mention her as part of the team that had come to provide support for Chelsea. Although for the life of him, he couldn’t understand how. Emily, the former secretary to an FAS—a foreign area specialist inside the Central Intelligence Agency—and current BKI office manager, was the one who had kept the refrigerator stocked these last few weeks in London and the one who twisted their ears when the laundry piled up. Without her and her mother hen ways, they’d likely be living on pork and beans and wearing three-day-old underwear.

“Hand to God, I’d rather have my right eye gouged out with a toothpick than see Christian’s dick,” she continued, projecting a toughness that he knew covered a soft, gooey center. Emily cared about all of them. She just didn’t like to show it. “There’s enough testosterone floating around this place without the addition of naked wagging wangs.”

“Once again,” Christian said, “let me point out that you didn’t have to come with us. No one twisted your arm.” His hoity-toity English accent made it sound like yoor ahm.

“And leave poor Chelsea to fend for herself among you three animals?” Emily snorted. “Not likely.”

And great. Dagan had enjoyed a brief reprieve, but one mention of Chelsea and his brain was firmly fixed on her. He hated that she was alone in that big penthouse with Roper fuckin’ Morrison. He hated worse that he couldn’t come up with a better plan to prove Morrison was Spider so that she wouldn’t have to be alone in that big penthouse with Roper fuckin’ Morrison.

“And speaking of Chelsea…” Emily continued. When she turned to Dagan, she rocked the eye daggers of doom. “I really wish you would refrain from giving her grief every morning. The poor innocent woman has enough on her plate without you piling it on.”

Innocent? There was a word. When it came to Chelsea, Dagan’s thoughts didn’t live in the same zip code as innocent.

“All that shit on her plate is precisely the point,” he insisted. “She’s not—”

“Qualified or trained to do this kind of work. Blah, blah, blah. But news flash: she’s doing a bitching job regardless. And instead of sending her off every morning feeling like a can full of squashed assholes, maybe you could try sending her off feeling like she can conquer the damned world. Step up your game or keep showing up as lame, man. Jeez.”

“And how would you suggest I make her feel like she can conquer the damned world?” He took a sip of the tea Ace passed him. The Earl Grey wouldn’t do a thing to soothe his nerves, but it would soothe the roiling in his stomach at the thought that his words to Chelsea, meant to be cautionary and to express his concern, were instead making her feel bad about herself. Shit.

“A dozen body-shaking orgasms should do it,” Emily said.

Dagan choked on his tea. “Excuse me?”

“It’s as obvious as the nose on your face.”

“What is?”

“That you’re hot to trot for our resident undercover CIA liaison.”

Was it just him, or had someone cranked the heater up about twenty degrees? “How do you figure that?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Emily rolled her eyes. “Maybe because if it were possible to impregnate someone with a look, Chelsea would be carrying around octuplets?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That’s what he said. What he thought was fuuuuuuck.

“Oh, for the love of Shoeless Joe Jackson.” As a born-and-raised Chicago South Sider, Emily’s White Sox fangirl was never far from the surface. “You’re so full of manure that if you laid in the dirt, you’d start growing little versions of yourself. How you’re always sniping at her? That’s your inner six-year-old’s way of getting her attention.”

Emily knew about his inner six-year-old? Double fuuuuuuck.

“And here’s an idea,” she continued. “Instead of walking around like a boy in a man suit, how about just manning up and telling her how you really feel?”

When Dagan got good and pissed, or when he was homed in on a target, he went completely still. Spooky still, some had said. And following that stillness was always some sort of explosion. “Are you calling me a coward?” he asked quietly.

“I’m not calling you a coward. I’m calling you a fool and a man suffering from unappeased lust. They are often the same thing.”

“So by your logic, verbally sparring with Chelsea is just a cover for me wanting a little push-push-in-the-bush, huh?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Well, I wouldn’t have described it that way, exactly. But, yes.”

He had her. Target locked. Time to let the lead fly. “That must mean you’re aching to knock boots with Christian then, right? I mean, you chew his ass every chance you get.”

“Uh…” All the color drained from Emily’s face, and for a beat or two, silence reigned in the kitchen.

It was Ace who broke the tension. “I swear.” He shook his head. “I start my days in a good mood. But within ten minutes of being around all you heteros, I have a serious desire to kill someone.”

Emily ignored him, glaring at Dagan. “S-stop trying to change the subject.”

“I’m not trying to change the subject.” That was a lie. “I’m just pointing out that your accusing me of fighting with Chelsea to cover up the fact that I want to sleep with her is a little like the pot calling the kettle black.”

Now Emily’s cheeks were fire-engine red. “For the record”—she stole a quick look at Christian—“I fight with Christian because someone has to. It’s the only way to keep his ego in check.”

Christian’s eyebrows slammed into a scowl. “Bloody hell. How did this get turned on me?”

Before anyone could answer, their phones came to life. The combined sounds had Dagan’s spine going ramrod straight. Pulling his cell from his hip pocket, he thumbed on the screen. They had received a group text message from Chelsea, and a dizzying mess of emotions tumbled through him when he read her two simple words: I’m in.