Page 63 of Six
She rolled her eyes at him, though how he knew that, he didn’t know since her back was to him as they entered her house. They’d stayed at Nora’s for several hours going over Violetta’s ridiculous plan, and each time he’d pointed out the potential flaws. There were so many variables, and variables meant opportunity for error. As far as he was concerned, the chances of tomorrow going all fubar were higher than a kite. Higher than the International Space Station.
The only good piece of news was that at least she hadn’t balked when he’d made the solo decision to come back to her house rather than return to his apartment.
“Only an English man would say that,” she shot back as she reengaged the alarm after he’d shut the door.
“What the hell does that mean?” he snapped.
She slid him a look, then turned and started up the stairs.
“Violetta.”
She looked at him over her shoulder but kept walking. “Are we having our first fight?”
“Don’t be flippant.” He might be irritated—okay,worried—about what would happen tomorrow, but that didn’t stop a little tendril of awareness from uncurling inside him at her words. If she referred to this as their first fight, that meant she thought they’d be having more of them. Which meant she anticipated his sticking around.
She entered her bedroom and he followed. His gaze swept over the muted walls, wide-plank floors, and colorful area rug. A huge abstract painting hung over her king-size bed, and she had a large picture window that, had it not been dark, he could have seen the ocean through.
“It will befine, Gavin,” she said, walking into what he presumed was a closet. He sat down on the end of her bed and waited for her to come out. When she did, she was wearing the same tank top, sans bra, and boxers she’d had on when he’d stopped by the house for the first time earlier that week. All that skin distracted him and even though he was very aware of what his mind—and body—were doing, he let it happen.
“You wear that to sleep,” he said.
She nodded and walked by him, entering a different room which, since it wasn’t her closet, he assumed was her bathroom. A few seconds later, he heard water running. Unable to stop himself, he started picturing all sort of things, most of which revolved around the two of them in the shower.
The muscles in his stomach contracted, and his shoulders tensed. He’d been watching her, learning her,falling for her,for months. He wanted nothing more than to walk into that bathroom and take her—the wall or shower would do fine. She’d have to make the decision about what would happen between them, though. He’d made a promise to himself, and he wasn’t one to go back on that. Even if he was currently hating himself for it.
Holding a hand out, he curled it into a fist, then uncurled it, his fingers itching to touch her. Then, placing his palms on his thighs, he took several deep breaths, willing his body to stand down. He was almost there when she walked back into the room. She paused in the doorway, and their eyes met. Any relaxation he might have achieved flew out the window.
The fact that she was as aware of him as he was of her—as evidenced through the thin material of her tank top—didn’t help. And yet he didn’t move. This wasa moment. This was a moment when she might make a decision; this was a moment when she might decide being with him was more important than clinging to her instinct to protect herself. Again, he—they—should be talking about what would happen tomorrow, but he found himself holding his breath, waiting for her to make a move. To walk to him or turn away from him.
Agonizing seconds ticked by, but when she finally made her decision, there was nothing tentative about it. In less than four strides, she was standing between his legs, his knees on either side of her thighs. She brought her hands to his face, then ran her fingers through his hair and tipped his head up to look at her. His hands curled around her legs above her knees as his gaze met hers.
“Do you really think the plan is bad, or are you just worried about me?” she asked.
“There are a lot of moving parts,” he answered, holding her gaze.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
He let out a deep breath. In truth, there were a lot of moving pieces and yes, that meant the margin for error was high, but that wasn’t what she was asking. Even if the margin for error was high, what was the level of risk if there was a slip? That’s what she wanted him to think about. There were errors that cost people their lives and there were errors that, though not planned, had no bearing on the outcome of an op. Given that they were planning to waltz into the Shanti Joy headquarters in the middle of the day, it wasn’t likely that they’d encounter the kind of error that could cost someone their life—cost Violetta her life. Contrary to what the movies would have a person believe, the chances were low that someone, even Shanti Joy security, would be carrying a weapon at work. They were even lower when it came to possibility of it being used to kill.
“It’s the best way, Gavin,” she said, massaging his scalp with her fingers. “I know it’s complicated, but we need to catch them off guard and we need to let them think they have the upper hand. I know these people—not these ones specifically, but ones like them. Ones that think that money is the god of all things and that it gives them power. They think they are untouchable, and we need to let themkeepthinking that until we have what we need.”
He closed his eyes and savored the feel of her hands in his hair and her skin under his fingers. “It’s not that I’m not used to covert ops, but usually, mine involve weapons and sneaking up on people. By the time they send me in, body count really isn’t an issue so long as I get the target. This is different though, and I know it.” He opened his eyes and looked at her. “What we’re doing tomorrow is exactly the kind of the thing MI5 would do, it’s just not…well, it’s notmygo-to. So to answer your question, I trust you when you say this is the best plan, but that doesn’t mean I’m not worried.”
She held his gaze for the space of several heartbeats, then she leaned down and kissed him. His hands tightened their hold on her thighs as she angled her head to deepen their connection. When she pulled back, there was no mistaking the look—part desire, part need, part curiosity—in her expression. It was clear she’d made her choice.
“Are you sure, Violetta? I’m not asking you to make any declarations about our future, but if we do this, it is a commitment to let this thing between us happen. It isnota one-night event. It isnottwo people burning off steam before an op. Itmeanssomething.”
Slowly, she nodded, then leaned in for another kiss. He adjusted his legs, moving them between her thighs, then pulled her down to straddle him. She yanked back and tried to pop up, but he held her steady.
“Your leg, Gavin!”
He slipped his hands under the hem of her shirt to her waist and tugged her closer to him, her chest pressed against his. “It’s fine, you’re not sitting on it.”
“Gavin, maybe we should wait.”
He lifted one hand and tangled it in her hair, tilting her head to give him access to her neck. He’d been waitingmonthsto run his lips, his teeth, over the sensitive skin there. If she thought even for a second that he was going to be willing to wait, she had another think coming.
When he didn’t respond to her suggestion, she spoke again. “Gavin.” But this time, it was spoken on a sigh. And despite the hint of admonition in her voice, her fingers tightened on his scalp, and she tipped her head even further to the side.
