Staying Cool Read online

  "Really? I always thought a good pasta did the trick."

  "That too. With a big dash of honesty." When she glanced away from that remark, he said, "Let's get back to the human semi's form of pillow talk."

  Her chin lifted, but it couldn't hide the nervousness that made her mouth twitch the slightest bit. "You don't need to know. Trust me on that."

  "Hm-m, trust? Now there's a radical concept."

  That had her looking away again. And, damn it, he couldn't tell if she was pissed at him or hiding a shame face. By all measures, it should be the latter. Finally, she said, "Don't, Patrick. Just don't. Okay?"

  "Don't what? Ask why you walked out on me? Why you left me standing on a street corner with a fistful of flowers, waiting for a woman who—unknown to me—had already packed and disappeared without so much as a 'see you later'?"

  Silence.

  He went on, "Or does that don't apply to asking about your current lover's methods of getting your attention?"

  "Both." She practically spit the words. "Just get the hell out of here, will you? I can handle Igor and his boss."

  "Igor? Igor who?" He planted his feet, set his butt more firmly against the counter, every stubborn Irish bone in his body straight and ready. He'd grow roots before he left without answers. Real answers. Not dumbass crap about thugs and "boyfriends."

  "No idea. Just Igor. Now go, will you?"

  He ignored her. "When did you start messing with Coleman?"

  Her chin lifted, her eyes—as rich and chocolaty brown as he remembered—finally and truly met his. Burned into his. She started to say something, and then, as if she'd thought better of it, stopped, suddenly looking tired. The flannel, doggie-covered PJs helped the tired bit along. He marveled at how she could look so sexy covered in slathering Marmadukes.

  He waited, keeping his eyes on her.

  Then she said, this time with a note of pleading, "I'm asking—again—leave it alone. Leave me alone." She rubbed her palms down her thighs. "I'm sorry things didn't work out between us. Sorry that I skipped out on you. But really, this"—she nodded in the direction of Igor's exit—"has nothing to do with you. And Coleman is dangerous." She took a breath. "I'm asking you to leave." A pause. "Before you get hurt."

  "The hurtin's been done, darlin'. You just weren't around to watch me bleed out." Saying the words, Patrick surprised himself. He briefly looked at the ceiling over Gina's head, then back at her. "But, for what it's worth, I accepted your running off months ago. I'm good with it." A necessary lie, so don't be striking me dead, sweet Jesus. "Meaning we won't be starting anything over. But Coleman set me up, used me to find you, and time a kill." He scratched his jaw. "That kind of riles me, you know."

  "This is not your fight."

  He wanted to smile at that. "I'm an Irishman, remember? Every fight is my fight. So you either level with me, and we deal with Coleman together, or I call in the boys in blue and let them take care of it."

  "No!"

  He tilted his head. "I thought you'd say that."

  "You don't underst—Damn it! Damn you!" She ran a hand through her weird blond hair, paced a few feet away, and poured herself another drink, then took a chair at the kitchen table. She gestured to the seat across the table from her. "Sit," she said.

  He sat. This was going to be good...

  Chapter 4

  The kitchen table, small enough for them to knock knees under, had a vase of daisies as a centerpiece. Gina didn't object when Patrick shoved it aside.

  He hooked an arm over the chair back and watched her. Whatever was on her mind, it stuck in deep, because she was taking her time dragging it up.

  Finally, she took a drink, then a breath, and began. "Coleman tried to kill my brother."

  As an opening, it got his attention and pissed him off at the same time. "I didn't know you had a brother." When he thought about it, he really didn't know much of anything about this woman. Hence the pissed-off thing. He knew her skin was soft, her laughter bright, and her eyes miracles. He knew every cell in his body quivered the second she walked into a room. And he knew he'd handed her his fuckin' heart on a gold platter . . . Pretty much the dumbest move he'd ever made.

  "Twin brother. His name's Marco."

  "Go on."

  "It happened in Abidjan—"

  "The Ivory Coast?"

  She nodded, but her face was blank. "He was held there and tortured for three days on Coleman's orders by one of his—for want of a better word—customers."

  "And why would Coleman do that?"

  "He thought Marco was sleeping with his wife."

  "Was he?"

  She rubbed her forehead, in a gesture he remembered, using two fingers between her brows. "That doesn't matter. What does, is that Coleman isn't what he seems."

  Neither are you. Patrick kept that thought to himself; no sense getting her off point.

  "I'll back up a bit." She shoved some of her false blond hair behind an ear. "The Ivorian people recently elected a new president, and—nothing new here—there's a group of warmongering assholes who don't agree with the people's choice." Her expression hardened. "Their plan is to stage a nice little rebellion to get their way. And they need guns to do it. Enter Coleman."

  "Coleman? An illegal arms dealer?" He whistled softly. Patrick knew him to be a cutthroat businessman, nothing more. But he'd been a cop for fifteen years, long enough not to be surprised by ugly truths and crimes well hidden.

  "Name a war or conflict in the past ten years—particularly in Africa—and Coleman, along with his gang of uglies have profited. Big Time. They fly in the weapons, mostly AK47s and small missiles, then fly out with whatever legal resources they can, timber, tobacco... diamonds. Whatever the belly of the plane will hold. And Coleman's behind all of it."

  "You have any proof of that?"

  "Almost had proof. And we all know where that gets you."

  While she worried her lower lip, he drank some coffee. "Let's rewind," he said. "How exactly did your brother end up involved in this?"

  "Coleman's wife, Safi. She was going to give him a journal, a journal full of people, places, dates—and transactions. All of them implicating Coleman and at least three of his collaborators in the illegal arms trade. Enough information—proof—to deprive the world of their vicious presence for years to come."

  "And the wife was going to give Marco this? Why?"

  She shrugged, then glanced left. "Who knows? Coleman's a sick bastard. Safi had an ax to grind, and she wanted to bury it in Coleman's back."

  "And use Marco to do it."

  "Not exactly." She took a beat. "Marco... cultivated the woman."

  "Cultivated? Sounds painful." Now we're getting somewhere.

  This time her silence stretched out and filled the room. He waited for what she obviously did not want to tell him.

  "Marco works for a private security foundation called Raven Force." She toyed with her glass, turning it one quarter at a time. "So do I."

  "Something else you didn't tell me." I didn't know you. I didn't know you at all. He strangled his growing sense of hurt with anger and disappointment. Told himself he was ten times the duped asshole for believing that if a woman slept with you, laughed with you, made plans with you, she also trusted you. She'd suckered him. Big time. Dumb sap! Dumber still was he didn't regret a moment of the time he'd spent with her. Those cells of his seemed to be set on permanent high alert when it came to Gina Argento. Fuck!

  "No. And I wouldn't be telling you now if you weren't an ex-cop and seriously in my face." The words were tough, her smile oddly fragile. "Raven Force doesn't have a public profile. It's privately funded, and beyond private when it comes to its particular areas of interest."

  "Which are?"

  "In this case, the illegal arms and ammunitions trade. FYI, that's estimated to be between two and ten billion dollars a year, most of its nasty product destined for warlords and miscellaneous warped despots who prefer war and murder to the ballot box. Raven Force trac
ks both the buyers and sellers, and does what most governments haven't been able to do—identify and stop them." She paused, took a breath. "Coleman has been on the Raven Force radar for two years. Marco's a field guy. He met Coleman's wife and—"

  "—cultivated her. Yeah, I got that."

  She shrugged. "She told Marco about the journal. He went after it. But before he could get his hands on it, Coleman found out about his relationship with his wife, assumed she was cheating on him. He had Marco picked up by a couple of local thugs. They held him for two days before he—with Safi's help—managed to get away. He was barely alive." She trembled lightly. "Thank God, Coleman had no idea what Marco's real intention was."

  "Where's Marco now?"

  She shook her head. "Not sure. He called once, said he was okay, and that he needed to stay out of sight and heal up a bit. Nothing since."

  "And Safi?"

  She took her time thinking about his question. Still short in the trust department, he guessed, a fact he intended to ignore. Finally, she said, "She's with Marco. Which means Coleman won't stop looking for 'what's his,' and when he finds her—with him—he'll kill them both."

  Patrick met her gaze, a gaze thick with passion and fear. He took a hand off his coffee mug, used it to massage his chin. "That leaves one missing piece of the puzzle: the journal. Where is it?"

  Some of the worry left her face at his question, replaced by determination. She stood. "Safi said Coleman always keeps it with him—which means he brought the journal back from Abidjan with him." She took a few steps. "I know there's a safe in his house. And I know its make and model. The journal has to be in there."

  "And if it is, what then? How do you plan to open it?"

  After a brief hesitation, she said, "That won't be a problem."

  He stood, faced her. "You have the combination?" Patrick knew he sounded a bit stunned, but that's exactly what he was. "This Raven Force of yours obviously has clout."

  Without answering, she ran a hand through her hair. Another gesture he remembered, but this time it made his heart hurt, not warm.

  With Gina, it seemed, gestures were the only thing real, all else a facade. "I intend to shut Coleman down before he finds Marco," she said.

  Patrick studied her, gauged her intensity level, putting it somewhere way, way off the scale. She was too close to this, too damn angry. Anger rewired synapses, made a person rash, careless. And careless people had a way of getting themselves dead. He wasn't about to let that happen, which put him squarely "in her face" for the foreseeable future—whether she liked it or not. Maybe the only thing real between them was her lies and omissions, but he still wanted one question answered: why did she walk out on him?

  "So, despite Igor's recent visit, you're not going to leave this alone, are you?"

  "He's my brother." Said as if there was no more to be said.

  He nodded. "Then we better get to it."

  "We?" Her eyes widened, and she took a couple of steps toward him. "Wait just a damn minute. I told you all this so you'd... go away."

  "And go away I will. When the job's done."

  "No!" This time, her head shaking neared the violent zone. "It's not your job, has nothing to do with you. Just go. Let me do what I have to do." Staring at him, she narrowed her gaze, and lifted her chin. "I know what I'm doing, Patrick. I'm trained for it."

  "Yeah, the kind of training that has you playing the hooker card. You want to tell me how far you planned on taking that little act?"

  Ah, she had a blush or two in her. Good to know.

  When she didn't answer, he followed her lead and stepped closer to her. Mere inches apart now, he said, "It's we, me, or the boys in blue. Take your pick."

  While her eyes fired a volley of hot curses, her mouth softened to speechless, which suited him. Because a mouth not talking had other good uses. And he, being the imbecile he was, decided to take advantage of one of them.

  Oh, but you'll be hating yourself in the morning...

  Chapter 5

  Patrick went on testosterone-fueled autopilot, gripped Gina's shoulders, and pulled her to him. Chest to chest. The scent of tart lemon with something fine and flowery beyond its sharp edge drifted around him.

  He closed his eyes, took the scent of her in deep. Absorbed her.

  The past year eroded, slid away. All the anger, the pain, the goddamn awfulness of her disappearing on him turned to smoke. One whiff of citrus, two soft shoulders under his hands, and a pair of sparking eyes glaring into his, and nothing else mattered. She was here. Now.

  He wasn't about to let her go. No harm, no foul in just one kiss.

  His gaze fixed on her parted lips. He lowered his head, then paused, his mouth a breath away from hers—that old quivering in his chest. Then... a lurch of uncertainty. She might pull away.

  She didn't. Instead, she took his face in her hands, glared into his eyes, and cursed him.

  "Damn you, Patrick Byrne. Damn you!"

  And pulled his mouth to hers.

  His chest emptied of air. His legs, ignoring the fact they'd been running five miles a day for six years, went weak as old Guinness. Her kiss, like a lick from a blast furnace, blew him apart. He lifted his head, ran his hands through her awful yellow hair—registered it didn't feel the same—and said, "God, I've missed you. Why did—"

  "Shush." She touched his mouth with her fingers and shook her head. "Not now. Not when we have something so much better to do."

  "And what would that be?" Fool that he was, he couldn't help his smile. As if he didn't know where this was leading. As if he wasn't all for it. Whatever it was.

  "If we're going after Coleman and Igor," she said, the edge of a tease in her voice, "maybe we should limber up. Do a few... calisthenics? You up for that?"

  "You had me at 'damn you.'" He played the game, as if by rote, because it felt so right, so fuckin' right! And his dick, always up for some trouble, urged him on.

  Go for it. Take her. Why not...

  Gina took his hand and pulled him toward the hall—toward her bedroom. He didn't resist. Puppet on her string, he was.

  Careful, Byrne. Watch it!

  In her bedroom, she maneuvered him so his back was to her bed, undid his shirt's buttons, pulled it from his waistband, then gave him a shove. When he was sitting on the edge of the bed, she straddled him and pulled her top off and over her head.

  That puppet string pulled taut, as did another part of his anatomy. This was crazy. He was crazy—going back for a second helping of heartache. This woman had told him lies, royally screwed him over. Something his fired-up-and-ready-to-go cock—notorious for its short-term memory—had conveniently forgotten.

  * * *

  Gina knew she was ten times a fool, but that knowledge didn't stop her. Every blood vessel in her body was a hot, flowing river, fed by streams of pure hormones.

  Two things were at work here, her coolly analytical mind chirped: her near-death experience with Plinth Igor, and Patrick Byrne's Irish magic. Born in Galway, he'd been fourteen when he'd moved to the US. And his low voice still held the edge of Erin in its vowels. She loved the sound of it, the mist in it, and used to wheedle him into reading Yeats to her.

  I bring you with reverent hands

  The books of my numberless dreams...

  He was a cop with a poet's soul, a love of words—and the body of David Beckham. A body she would use to forget Igor and Coleman, and to postpone the inevitable—dumping Patrick and getting on with her job, solo. The way she'd always rolled. The way it had to be.

  She wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

  A year ago, she'd let herself get too involved with Patrick. Gotten in too deep—over her head. She'd remedied the problem the only way she knew how. The way she'd always handled it—she'd moved on.

  She ignored the spasm of guilt that came as a side dish with that last thought. Patrick was a big boy. She had no doubt at all he'd broken his share of hearts. Most men who looked like him, moved like him, sounded like hi
m—and made love like him—had. It was a given. Hell, he'd probably told a dozen women he loved them.

  An all-too-familiar pain clamped her heart. Memories. Damn memories.

  Late summer evening. Under a red canopy at an outdoor restaurant. The scent in the air whispering of rain. Laughter. A piano playing. A woman on the sidewalk outside a wrought iron fence, selling single roses, each with a sprig of baby's breath. Patrick, smiling at her, buying one—the purest white. Offering it to her. His smiling giving way to a grave sincerity. Their hands joining. His low voice saying, "I love you, Gina." Nothing more. Nothing asked of her. Only words. I love you, Gina...

  Words that changed everything.

  She gave her head a mental shake. No way would she do a second drive down that road. What was about to happen now was sex—quick and orgasmic—between two people who... cared for each other. Yes. Only sex. That was enough for any man. Enough for her.

  Patrick's hands held her waist, anchored her to his lap. Shifting her closer, he wedged himself into the vee of her legs, his sex thrusting leisurely against her own building heat. Feeling her, letting her feel him. Her breath snagged in her throat. Her brain went crystal, all shiny and bright.

  Damn...

  She'd forgotten how good it felt, how good he felt, the length of him pressed to where she needed him most. He was hard, hot, and ready, his breath searing her breast the moment before he took her nipple deep into his mouth. He suckled her hard, then easy and slow, using his tongue—in that special way he had.

  Her breath left her body, left the damn room.

  She drove her fingers through his black hair, kissed it. Thick. Silky. Scented with midnight sin.

  Wanting more, she arched her back, pressed her breast to his hungry mouth. He groaned, switched to her other aching peak. Her head fell back, and her eyes closed against the darkness in the bedroom, against all but the sensation evoked by the man at her breast.

  "Oh, God, Patrick, I've missed you. Missed this." And she had. This was going to be fantastic, electric, then...