CHAPTER NINE
Matt
Matt spent the rest of his day working in the garage. After the phone call with her mom, Grace was gripped by a blinding migraine. The fractured memories of her childhood proved too much to assimilate in one morning. She nearly passed out, so he put her to bed and ordered her to rest. Of course, she argued, wanting to go through her phone list, but Matt had been firm, and he had no problem being bossy. It was in his DNA.
He had tried to wake her up for dinner, knowing she skipped lunch, although breakfast had been heavy enough, so he wasn’t worried. She opened her eyes momentarily, told him to leave her alone, turned her back on him, and promptly fell back to sleep.
Now, he slipped into her room and switched the bedside lamp to its lowest setting. Soft tones lit over her features, and Matt caught his breath. Bruising on her face was still apparent, but it did nothing to hide the beauty that had struck him from the start.
Sitting at the edge of the bed, he continued watching her, and remembered the first time they’d met three years ago.
Matt walked into the DEA conference room, already annoyed at being put under federal agency oversight. There had been complaints from the DEA about CIA stepping on its toes. A rogue CIA officer had dealings with both the Russian mafia and Colombian drug traffickers, and it was only a matter of time before the Mexican cartel was involved. It was a multi-prong, multi-agency initiative to infiltrate the Carillo Cartel and capture its kingpin, Hector Vargas. Obviously, there would be jockeying for control among the agencies, and it had become a big bureaucratic clusterfuck.
He nodded at the other occupants in the room—members of SEAL Team 3 that specialized in small town incursions—and slouched in an empty chair beside a dark-haired soldier. Most of them didn’t bother shaving their beards and neither did Matt as he rubbed his fingers across two weeks’ worth of growth. He kept a trim beard most of the time. If they were going to blend in to the small Mexican town of Loreto, they needed to look inconspicuous as much as possible.
The conference room door opened and a woman walked in. There was something about her carriage that made every man in the room sit up straighter. The first thing Matt noticed were her curvy hips molded to a tight gray skirt. His eyes went up to a starched white top which did nothing to hide her heavy tits. The buttons were fastened all the way to her neck and if her intent was to take away attention from her generous chest; she had failed miserably on that front. Matt bet every man in the room was thinking about undoing each button slowly while waiting with bated breath for her tits to spill out.
A throat cleared.
Matt’s eyes snapped to the newcomer’s face. Eyes framed behind black cat-eye glasses were glaring at him as if saying, “My eyes are up here, asshole.”
He smirked, not in the least bit apologetic, as suppressed snorts of laughter rounded the room.
“Gentlemen.” Her glare softened as she addressed the room, but it was obvious she was still irked at the lot of them. Obviously, Matt wasn’t the only one giving her fantastic body a once over. Could she blame them? “Grace Levinson. I’m your DEA handler for operation Blood Bull.” She handed out case files about the Carillo Cartel and gave a rundown of operational logistics. Matt gave the files a cursory glance because he’d already done reconnaissance for the CIA on that town and the information was probably from his own intel. Instead, he observed how she moved around the room and how the fabric of her skirt stretched across her ass. When she planted her hands on the conference table and leaned forward, he imagined pushing her all the way to the flat surface, shoving her skirt up, shredding her panties, and then fucking her from behind.
Classic librarian fantasy.
She certainly had the look going for her as he noted how her dark hair was gathered tightly in a bun. And those perfectly formed lips glossed with shocking crimson? How in the world did she think a room full of men could concentrate?
“Mr. Foster?”
He smiled lazily at her. “Matt. You can call me Matt.”
She huffed in annoyance. “Mr. Foster, you’re to continue to maintain your cover as a surfer nomad interested in moving cocaine from Loreto.”
“A beach bum? I don’t think that’d be much hardship,” Matt murmured.
“I bet,” she said under her breath.
“What was that, Ms. Levinson?”
She ignored him and spoke to the leader of the SEAL team, so Matt surreptitiously observed his new handler. Too bad they wouldn’t be working closely together, but maybe that was a good thing. Although he had some scruples about fucking people he worked with, he’d had lapses of judgement in the past, and those always ended badly. He remained unemotionally involved, just trying to blow off steam in the midst of an op, while the women he fucked became clingy.
“We have informants in Loreto.” Matt realized she was addressing him again. “I’ll give you their contact details when it’s time.”
Matt nodded. Timing was everything. Too soon and there was a risk of a leak.
A strange stab of regret pierced him as he watched her exit the room.
Matt’s thoughts returned to the present, his gaze tracked the length of the blanket covering Grace’s form. At first his interest in her was purely carnal, and it had fueled his fantasies for months. They had met several times over the next year, usually in backrooms of Mexican beer gardens, and they’d slowly become more acquainted, although Matt wouldn’t exactly call them friends. Unfortunately, Grace never did indulge in beer and tequila, preferring to remain sober during her check-ins with him. They did engage in small talk after the business end of the meeting was over. Several times Matt wanted to lean in, and take a nibble on that pouty lower lip before shoving his tongue into her mouth to kiss her senseless, but somehow he had managed restraint. Little did he know his self-control would be sorely tested soon after.
Matt wasn’t sure he read the text message correctly, telling him to pack up and move into another house in Loreto. It was in a busy part of town away from the lazy beach-front shack he usually stayed in where he did his cocaine pickups to maintain his cover. DEA and FBI, with the CIA in the background, were moving in on Vargas and all the pieces were in play. He had arrived at the house before Grace, but the SEAL team was already there. When she showed up, the sight of her knocked the breath out of him. Grace usually dressed in khaki pants and white linen shirts when she was down in Mexico, but today, she was in fatigue shorts and a cream tank. She’d had some sun as attested by the warm olive tone of her skin. One would think Matt would zero-in on the abundant cleavage on display as the other guys were trying so hard not to ogle, but no, he couldn’t take his eyes off her face. It was the first time he’d seen her in a loose pony tail and without her glasses. He’d admired her milky skin before, but this bronzed version with a light smattering of freckles made the hazel in her green eyes pop. She was breathtaking. Right then and there, Matt knew he was in a world of trouble. Before, he’d only considered her as a fantastic piece of ass he wanted to tap, but now there was an added desperation to get under her skin.
“You look different,” Matt blurted out gruffly as he reached out to take her duffel bag.
“No glasses,” she beamed.
“So, you finally did it, huh?”
They had talked about her desire to get rid of her contacts and glasses in one of their meet ups and she was gathering her courage to do laser surgery.
“Yes,” she grinned and then grimaced.“Damn, it’s freakishly hot today.”
“Weather waits for no one,” one of the SEALs said, walking up to them. Matt wanted to tell the man to get lost.
“Neither does the cartel,” Grace muttered. She turned to Matt. “What did Lt. Peña say?”
Lt. Roger Peña was their eyes and ears in the Mexico Federal Police. Corruption was rampant in that organization, and it was tricky to figure out who was honest and who was in the cartel’s pockets.
“There’s a seventy percent chance that Vargas will show up Thursday night.”
“Those are better odds than we’ve ever had in the past year,” Grace commented.
Like most cartel kingpins, Vargas was constantly on the move and his whereabouts were usually hard to pin down. He also surrounded himself with his trusted inner circle. Rumor also was that “El Segador” kept watch on his boss from the shadows, so no one really knew what he looked like. Also known as The Reaper, he was the cartel’s feared hitman who epitomized a cold-blooded killer. He had seen some of his handiwork and, Matt, as a former assassin himself, could only deduce that the man was also a sadist because he tortured his victims first before beheading them. The Reaper hung the heads on display for the public to see—a warning to the masses to keep their mouths shut regarding cartel business.
“Well, the house party on Thursday hints he’ll definitely show up,” Matt said. “His right-hand man invited me, seeing that I’ve hooked them up with a motorcycle gang that’d made them a fortune.”
“Troy deLamar’s gang?”
“Yes.”
“Will he be there?”
Matt shook his head. “Troy arrives Saturday, so he’ll miss all the fun.”
“Either of them suspect you?”
“I’ve been careful,” Matt replied. “Don’t worry, babe.”
Grace’s face turned ruddy under her tan. It was the first time he’d ever used the endearment on her. The SEAL beside them coughed into his closed fist and strode away. Matt didn’t flinch or budge but kept his eyes steady on her.
“Uh. Okay,” Grace broke eye contact, stared to the side and then returned his look. “That was a bit too familiar, Foster,” she chided.
“I don’t give a fuck.”
Grace narrowed her eyes and grabbed Matt’s arm, dragging him outside to the scorching heat and humidity, but out of earshot of the occupants inside.
“Matt, I’m not trying to be a bitch,” she said. “But I have an op to run and your being too familiar is undermining my authority.”
“We’re friends. I meant nothing by it,” he lied. He definitely wanted to stake a claim in front of the other guys who’d been showing more interest than he’d like.
“I know, but not every man in there knows that,” she explained with exasperation as she ran agitated fingers through her hair that dislodged her pony tail. A mass of loose dark curls fell on her face in a way that sent Matt’s thoughts on a different track. “It’s difficult enough that I’m a woman and there’s a shitload of testosterone in there.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Matt agreed tightly because she just went from sexy to downright fuckable. He had to concentrate doubly hard not to get a hard-on while speaking with her.
“Glad we understand each other,” Grace said with a relief he hated. She smiled tentatively before pivoting and heading inside. He didn’t immediately follow, contemplating what just happened and what his next move would be.
He’d never been drawn to a woman like he was to Grace. After this mission, he may never see her again and his whole being rejected the idea.
So, he made a decision. He was going after Grace after Blood Bull was over. He wasn’t sure what they were going to be. He lived in a small town; she worked for the DEA. Would they be lovers who met once or twice a month, a year? He had to find out where this attraction was heading. He was tired of jacking off to a fantasy and having sex with nameless women trying to exorcise her from his flesh.
Little did he know that forty-eight hours later, he would change his tune.
Forty-eight hours later, he would never get out of that house party.
He would be captured by the Carillo Cartel and subsequently tortured.
He would blame Grace.
Forty-eight hours later, he would end up hating her.
Matt stood up and cursed himself for dredging up the past. He moved away from the bed, blinked his eyes, and pressed the heel of a hand against his brow. It wasn’t her fault, he reminded himself. That he’d been strung up, clubbed repeatedly by a piece of 2 by 4, and bled drop-by-fucking-drop by a razor across his back, wasn’t her fault. If Matt had been a lesser man, he would have faced a long road to recovery, but he was an Enhanced Soldier. Even when his superhuman strength deserted him at the age of twenty-four, he still healed faster than the average human. He hid the scars on his back under layers of ink, and he had seen enough horrors of war to survive mentally intact. He’d been successful at keeping people at an emotional distance, but somehow Grace had gotten past his wall. Her perceived betrayal had been a crippling blow to that wall, leaving a gaping crack. Even when the rumors had surfaced that it was Holden who had given the order, he continued to ignore her pleas to meet. He knew she could get into trouble with the DEA for it because by the time he’d gotten Stateside, the CIA unit he served had broken ties with the DEA. But that wasn’t his only reason.
He lied to Grace that morning.
He did do feelings with her. They were complicated, and he kept them battened down by a load of jackass behavior instead of dealing with them. Their one night together was forever etched in his mind and he freaked out that his craving for her had only intensified. He was appalled that he liked the idea of spending the weekend with her so much that it had spooked him. That led from one clusterfuck to the next, but no more.
He turned and looked at Grace’s sleeping form again.
Could there be a chance for an ES to find happiness?
He hoped so.