But there was something so open and sincere in Jammer’s face that Callie couldn’t seem to get out the off-the-cuff words Gina would have said.
“Not when I deal so damn well,” she said, finally dodging that odd feeling that Jammer was looking right through her masquerade and seeing her, Callie Carpenter, peering out.
But that wasn’t possible, or they wouldn’t be having this conversation at all. Callie wasn’t under any illusion that if Jammer even suspected who she was he would come anywhere near her. What he had going with Fuentes was going to pay out big, and she was sure the Ghost wanted his score.
But this time Callie was going to be ready to nab him and fulfill her mission, a mission that had foiled more than one operative before her.
Jammer seemed disappointed in her answer and stepped forward. “You’re not tired of constantly looking over your shoulder? Wondering if the next deal is going to be the last? Giving up so damn much?”
She didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t expected this from him; each time she was with the man she found a different, more fascinating facet to him. He wasn’t a muscle-bound lackey at all, but an intelligent, forceful personality that kept her constantly on her toes.
“Jammer,” she said softly, reaching out to touch his face, his stubble rough against her palm.
He moved in closer, crowding her against the wall, his big body trapping her. Why couldn’t she resist him?
Because the sexual tension hadn’t abated one whit. But also, she told herself, because she could give in to him-commitment had nothing to do with lust. She could be as lustful as she wanted, crave his touch, want to know what he tasted like, felt like…and have absolutely no intention of settling into a relationship with him. She had a job to do.
Circumstances being what they were, she could be forgiven for simply taking what she could have. Him.
The silence expanded in a way that lent texture to the very air between them. He was so warm, the temperature rose a considerable notch.
“What do you want me to say? I don’t know-”
He buried his face in the crook of her neck and shoulder and sighed deeply. “Don’t say anything. It really won’t make a difference.”
He raised his head. His lips curved then, and her thighs-or more accurately, the muscles between them-suddenly felt a whole lot more wobbly.
His eyes were so dark, so deep, she swore she could fall right into them and never climb back out. And that part sad, part whimsical smile made it dizzyingly clear that Jammer was more than physically dangerous.
She was a trained operative, trained for all aspects of the clandestine job she performed, but Callie found the compassion she felt for people was a detriment. Like what had happened with Miyagi, a man whom she had originally tracked down-on her own and without the agency’s knowledge-because she’d empathized with another man, Jason Kyoto, who was trying to rescue his sister from Miyagi and a life of forced sexual slavery, and she’d vowed to help him. She’d gone rogue from Watchdog for just a short period of time. Sure, she’d made an enemy of Miyagi and almost got herself and Allie killed because of it, but she’d fulfilled her mission and saved Jason’s sister.
So it was disconcerting that the same compassion she’d felt was once again going to get her in hot water unless she resisted the impulse.
“What brought all these questions on?”
He lifted his hand, barely brushing the underside of her chin with his fingertips, and tipped her head back a bit farther.
“I think about you,” he said, his voice nothing more than a rough whisper.
Her skin tingled as if the words themselves had brushed against her.
“Too often. You distract me.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“It’s…an unexpected thing,” he said.
“I hear you. In our business distractions can get us killed.”
“Bingo,” he said. He smiled.
“Getting this close to me is going to help in some way? Although you won’t hear me complaining.”
His smile broadened as his mouth lowered slowly toward hers. “Either that, or make all this distraction a lot more worthwhile. Let’s seal our deal with a kiss.”
It was never a question of not meeting his lips. Her body was fairly humming in anticipation and it was all she could do to refrain from grabbing his head and hurrying him the hell up.
It was just a kiss and a contract.
His lips brushed across hers. Warm, a little soft, but the right amount of firm. He slid his fingers along the back of her neck, beneath the hair on her nape, sending a delicious little shiver all the way down her spine.
He dropped another whisper of a kiss across her lips, then another, inviting her to participate, clearly not going any further unless she did. She respected that, a lot, even though part of her wished he’d taken the decision out of her hands. It would make all the self-castigation later much easier to avoid. Given his aversion to commitment, somehow she figured he knew that. They were either in it together or not at all.
She held his gaze for what felt like an eternity, and then slowly lowered her eyelids as she closed the distance between them and returned his kiss.
His fingers fluttered against the back of her neck when she opened her mouth on his, then pressed a bit harder as he accepted her compliance and nipped her bottom lip with a sensual tug before deepening the kiss.
She had no defense against this, against him. It was too delectable, and he was impossible to resist. Especially when she didn’t really want the contact to end. She shut out thoughts of what would happen next, and tried hard, very hard, to just enjoy this for as long as it lasted.
He pulled away. “Get packed. I’ve booked us for the States and the plane leaves in three hours.”
Then he was slipping out the door. Her mouth still tingled as she slumped against the wall. The door hadn’t fully closed when he leaned back inside and gave her a bad-boy smile.
“Get going,” he barked, and she flipped him the bird, but he only laughed.
3
THE LONG FLIGHT FROM Minsk put them into San Francisco just before dawn, and as they drove into St. Helena the sun was rising over the countryside, showcasing beautiful green vineyards, oak-lined streets and antique hotels. Callie saw a lot of activity for so early in the morning, but September in Napa was no time to rest, as it was the beginning of the grape harvest.
After they passed through the quaint town of St. Helena, Jammer turned off onto a road that led to a stone castle estate with lush vineyards nestled in the rolling hills beyond. The sign out front read Ceo Draiochta.
“What language is that? Gaelic? Do you have Scottish ancestry?” Callie angled around to look at him.
He made a faint curl of his mouth, not quite a smile. He seemed remote, somewhere far beyond her in his thoughts, even though he was only two feet away. “It’s Gaelic and my background…is complicated.”
“What does it mean?” she asked.
“Magic Mist.”
“Ah, how pretty. For the fog that blankets these hills?” Callie had seen plenty of photos of Napa Valley obscured by thick fog.
“Yes, reminiscent of the hills of Scotland with their mysterious mists,” he said.
“Hmm, very poetic, I’d say.”
“The fog is legendary here. It rolls up the valley or makes its way through the gaps between the Mayacamas from neighboring Sonoma Valley. There are days when I wake up and find the valley ‘was gone; gone were all the lower slopes and the woody foothills of the range; and in their place, not a thousand feet below me, rolled a great level ocean.’”
“Robert Louis Stevenson?”