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Mike’s rules of war were based on his past experience and the writings of Sun Tzu. Garth had liked them so much, he’d allowed Mike to introduce his rules into the curriculum for new ICE recruits—at least the first two-dozen rules. The list was lengthy—Mike had developed over a hundred. Since he’d become a spy, one of his favorites was number twenty-six: All warfare is based on deception.

He sat cross-legged in the middle of the sparring mat. The training center was a labyrinth, from the paintball court to the weight room, from the flight simulator to the running track on the mezzanine that surrounded the sparring arena where he did his most intense training. On one wall were mirrors. Off to the side, a myriad of weapons including nunchucks, bow staffs, sparring swords and knives hung from hooks on the walls. Mike liked to spar weaponless the best. A man needed to be able to defend any attack with his hands—that is, as long as he wasn’t facing a gun further than ten paces away.

Henri was already a minute late, which gave him time to sink deep into a meditative state. After years of training in martial arts, Mike could reach a level of deep calm even when being smacked in the face, but sitting in the middle of an enormous space with no other sound was a rare and idyllic treat for transporting his mind, body and soul into a level of consciousness akin to floating. Eyes closed, his every breath rushed in his ears. His heartbeat hammered a rhythm in a slow cadence that kept time with the harmony of being.

A door to his right opened and closed. Soft, shoeless footsteps neared and stopped a good six feet away.

There was no need to open his eyes. Mike knew it was Henri. Her walk was like a gazelle’s, feminine and light. Men planted their feet harder and slapped the mat.

The air whooshed ever so slightly and Mike pictured her stretching in his mind’s eye.

“I think the paintball contest went well,” she said. “Natalie told me Garth intervened—gave them about two hours of coaching. It’s a wonder we weren’t obliterated as soon as we stepped onto the court.”

Mike inhaled deeply, keeping himself at his present level of consciousness. He already knew Garth had something to do with the paintball maneuvers. There was nothing the Head of Field Operations liked better than taking seasoned operatives down a notch or two, though it would take a lot more than a two-on-seven match to bruise Mike’s ego.

Henri took a step nearer, her gaze boring into the side of Mike’s head like a laser. He’d never started a session like this before. The air again whooshed slightly when she sat. “Okay, so we’re meditating today. I’m cool with that,” she said—almost whispered.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Mike continued to rise the level of consciousness until he felt weightless. His breath, his heartbeat intermingled and laced with Henri’s. He sensed her aura as it surrounded him. He’d grown to know her scent and it filled him, almost completed him. As their breathing became united, so did the rhythm of their hearts. His mind floating, his body grew aroused. Not exactly the level of consciousness he’d been aiming for but, nonetheless, he wanted to stay there on that plateau. Indeed, the physiological reaction below his waistband wasn’t supposed to happen. In fact, it never had happened while meditating. And if there was one thing martial arts had taught him, it was to conquer all his mortal weaknesses.

Time to move.

He opened his eyes to mere slits and gauged the distance between them. If he raised his arm straight to the side, he would be able to brush her shoulder with the tips of his fingers. But any movement on his part would be immediately sensed by Henri. Mike’s attack needed to be lightning fast and deadly.

Taking one more deep inhale, he closed his eyes and swallowed.

With a sudden burst, he sprang into action. Rising to his knee, in one fluid motion, he stretched for her shoulder, gripped it in his right hand and swung a roundhouse kick at her face. Knowing her only counter would be a crouch and block, he held back to avoid a crushing impact.

Henri surprised him. Dropping down and twisting toward his thumb, she slipped from his grasp and caught his thigh with an upward heel bump.

Thrown off balance, Mike ran his fingers along Henri’s arm and pulled her down to the mat. On his back, he wrapped her up with his thighs and clamped tight. God, his knees nestled in the arc of her slender waist as if they belonged there. His cock lengthened, but he ignored his body. Sexual reactions when sparring with a female weren’t new to him, only this surge of lust was so powerful, it pushed his self-control to the ragged edge.

Placing his hand against her elbow, Mike used a tad of hyperextension to roll Henri to her back. He pinned her hands above her head while his body turned to fire.

“You ass,” she seethed, her eyes drilling through him. The woman sounded like she was about as turned on as a hippo protecting her young. So much for lustful urges. Gnashing her teeth, she bore down and circled her arms, making Mike fall forward. Then, after planting a knee to his backside, she broke away with her braid following like a bullwhip. In one move, Mike was on his feet facing her.

“Not bad, Anderson,” he growled menacingly, making damned sure she didn’t think he’d even dreamed about being aroused. If two weren’t ready to tango, there’d be no dance.

Henri chuckled as she circled her opponent. She’d known Mike had something up his sleeve when he didn’t respond when she walked in and told him about Garth’s intervention. Expect the unexpected—that was the rule to staying alive in this business whether you were working as a combat sniper or an ICE asset.

If she hadn’t sensed his attack, he would have nailed her in the face, the turd.

But Mike Rose was a quandary. It was both exhilarating and frustrating to work with him. She’d learned more in the past week than she had during her entire basic training—cool methods of smuggling weapons across enemy borders she’d never dreamed of, makeshift weapons, dismounted surveillance. Every day made her thirst all the more to be out there. And in the sit room, she’d heard the chatter about the free world’s greatest enemies with Fahd al-Umari and Omar Fadli topping the list. The excitement pulsing through her veins almost made her forget about the mine. Almost. Every night Henri looked at Grandfather’s picture beside her bed and was reminded of her purpose.

Mike lunged.

Henri skittered back, making him miss, but he stopped himself before he stumbled forward.

She threw a roundhouse at his head to distract him, followed immediately by a jab to the sternum. He blocked both. Dropping, he swung a kick at her ankles—trying to make her fall. Henri jumped, but his foot caught her toe. She landed off balance and stumbled backward.

True to form, Mike advanced, giving her no quarter. Before she knew what happened, she was on her back with her wrists pinned but, this time, she couldn’t move.

Struggling, she looked into those electric blue eyes staring at her with intensity as well as amusement.

“What are you planning to do next, Anderson?” he teased with a wriggle of his hips. Didn’t he know how much that affected her? Damn, the guy made her knees grow weak just by being in the same room. When they sparred, she had to mask her feelings behind a tough-bitch, sergeant persona.

Typical, Mike embodied the bad-boy alpha—the type who always made her melt. All it took was a grin. He perfectly played the part of the smartass flying by the seat of his pants. But that was the draw. Who could resist a guy on top of his game and knew it?

Mike was good.

Too good.

Worse, he constantly needled Garth about getting back into the field. He could be on a plane out of there tomorrow. They had no possible future together. For the love of God, she was half-Paiute and he was a Scot. They had absolutely nothing in common.

“Well?” he persisted.

“Come closer.”

He narrowed his eyes. “A head-butt to the snout? I like it.”

Henri’s tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth. “I dare you.”

A low chuckle rumbled from his throat, making vibrations swarm across her skin. But a man like Rose never shirked a dare. As soon as he dipped his chin, Henri stretched up and planted a smooch on his lips.

Mistake.

Major mistake.

With the flash of his eyes, his body crushed over hers as his mouth dove in for the kill with a full-contact, wet-tongued, disarming kiss that would make any woman swoon. Thank God Henri was on her back, otherwise she would have melted into a heap of boneless limbs. Within two swirls of his tongue, she was ready to tear off her clothes and offer to bear his children.

She didn’t have a hope of weaseling out of this one. Big, hard male covered every inch of her body. His chest molded into her breasts. But the most shattering feeling of all was his rock-hard cock rubbing back and forth along her crotch. Henri was dizzy with desire and, as he released her wrists, she wrapped her arms around him and clung on for dear life.

His fingers plunged into her hair as his hips relentlessly rocked, disarming her of any thought of attack.

Of course, the bad-boy ace from the Highlands could kiss. He was like a walking advertisement blasting out, “take me ladies, there’s none better”. He’d probably made love to every woman he’d ever worked with. But right now, Henri didn’t care. She tugged up his t-shirt and sank her fingers into the thick bands of muscle on his back. No one was around. He could take her right there on the mat and she’d let him.

He trailed kisses to her ear. “Round, set and match to you, lass.”

Could she melt a bit more? Sighing, she chuckled. “I should have known your weakness from the first time I laid eyes on you.”

“I—”

A door closed.

Mike rocked onto his haunches, moving faster than a cobra. “Garth?” His voice shot up like an adolescent. “What news from the upper deck?”