That got a rise out of her. Oh, she didn’t stomp or yell or anything so crass, but abrupt anger rolled off her. Only a faint tightness in her voice betrayed her irritation. “I trust them with my life.”
Such control she had. Were it not for the inexplicable, but very real, connection between the two of them, he doubted he’d have had any clue she was so pissed off at the moment.
He asked reasonably, “Why them and not me? Is it because you and I haven’t come under hostile fire together yet? Do I need to take you out with my team the next time we take a stroll through hell to gain your trust?”
Her forehead twitched, but she never actually frowned. He waited her out while she mulled over his question. Finally, she replied, “You would have had to have been there when the Medusas formed to understand. The powers that be did everything they could to make us fail. The only reason we made it through our initial training is because we all-every one of us Medusas-committed everything we had to each other.”
He nodded in total comprehension. An operator’s team was much more than a bunch of coworkers. More than family, even. Facing death together time and again forged a bond unlike anything else. It went way beyond words.
He asked matter-of-factly, “You’ve worked with other special operators, haven’t you? Men, yes? Do you trust them? Or is it something special about me that causes you not to trust me?”
She sighed. “I do trust you.”
“But not enough to believe what I say.”
Her face went expressionless, her voice flat. “Why are you pushing this argument?”
She was pulling back from him. Again. Every time they approached a truly intimate moment, physical or emotional, she backed away like a big dog. Enough was enough. He wasn’t going to stand by and let it happen again.
He stepped into her personal space until she leaned away from him uncomfortably, and spoke silkily. “Am I making you mad, Kat? Is that why you’re shutting down on me? More of that stoic Eastern fatalism you’re so proud of?”
“Fatalism?” she echoed ominously.
“Yeah. And it’s a load of crap, by the way.”
He all but saw her hackles rise at that. “Emotional control is all well and good. But there’s a time and place for it. I thought balance was part of your precious Eastern philosophy. Where’s the balance in never allowing yourself to feel a damn thing?”
“I feel things,” she said, flaring.
Ahh. Better. “Right,” he grunted skeptically. “That’s why you always run and hide behind your superhuman self-control. Because you’re so busy feeling stuff.”
Her voice was very nearly snippy when she retorted, “Just because I choose not to wear my every thought or feeling on my sleeve doesn’t make me overcontrolled. If you want to live your entire life as a wide-open book for any old passerby to see, that’s your choice. But it doesn’t make my choice wrong.”
He allowed himself a smile at that not-so-subtle jab. Finally. He’d gotten a visible rise out of her. “Very good, Kat,” he said approvingly. “You’re learning. Now if we can just get you to shout now and then, you’ll be on your way to a healthier balance in your life.”
She stared at him, clearly surprised out of her snit.
“Honey, you’re not the only one who can mask feelings and motives. Just because I choose to express mine honestly and openly to you doesn’t mean I’m not capable of reining them in or disguising them outright.”
“So you set out deliberately to make me angry?” she asked, dangerously softly.
Instinct screamed at him to beat a hasty retreat from this lethal woman. Instead, he shrugged with what he hoped was enough arrogance to really tick her off. “What of it?”
Even though he expected the move, when she leaped at him, it happened so fast he had no chance whatsoever to react. Even if he had managed to throw up a block in time, he wouldn’t have done it today. If it took letting her knock his head off to get her to open up to him, so be it.
Her foot flew past his nose so close that he actually felt the faintest brush of it on his skin, as light as butterfly wings, but deadly in its explosive power. The edge of her hand, as stiff as a knife blade, stopped a millimeter from his neck. He dared to glance down and saw her other fist poised in front of his sternum, stopped midblow in a strike that would have crushed it like glass.
He looked up, capturing her furious gaze. He asked much more calmly than he felt, “Why didn’t you hurt me?”
Frustration seeped into her eyes.
“Go ahead. Say it,” he challenged.
Still the silent war within her raged, a lifetime’s worth of repressing thoughts and feelings winning out over what he knew she really wanted to say and do.
“Need me to help you?”
She opened her mouth but no words came out.
He reached out and wrapped her, lethal hands and all, in his arms, dragging her up roughly against him. He kissed her then, holding nothing back. She was too angry for finesse, too wrapped up in her repressed rage for anything other than extreme measures to register. Kissing an enraged woman wasn’t his first choice in self-preservation, but if it was what she needed, he’d take his chances.
There was nothing elegant about their kiss. He flattened her lips against her teeth as she fought him, flatly insisting that she acknowledge and react to him. She tried to hold out, but he tightened his grip on her, forcing her body to arch backward beneath his onslaught.
She fought, but not with real intent to harm him. She could’ve just as easily bitten his lip, kneed him in the groin, or executed a dozen other moves to incapacitate him. And yet, she did none of those things. As he’d thought. She wanted him to force her out of her emotional shell. And he was good and ready to have her emerge from it himself. She tested his strength, trying to pull out of his arms, and he obliged her by engaging his superior strength to hold her right there against him.
In spite of their wrestling embrace, he couldn’t help but register that she tasted like plums, rich and sweet and tangy. Her mouth was ripe and juicy, and he devoured her hungrily, sucking in the taste of her, drawing her into him until she became a part of him. He’d love to gentle the kiss, to savor the rich taste of her, to enjoy her languidly and completely.
But first, he wanted all of her-no reservations. He felt the piece she was holding back. It dangled tantalizingly, just beyond his reach. But he also felt her control of that piece of herself slipping.
He schooled himself to patience, following through on the forceful embrace cautiously, making dead sure not to lose himself in the violence of the moment. He would never, ever attack a woman in anger, particularly with a strong sexual element in the mix. He might be forcing the issue, but he refused to force the woman.
Finally, she tore her mouth away from his, swearing in several languages he did recognize and a couple he didn’t. “You’re a beast,” she hissed.
He maintained his grip on her, keeping her arms safely pinned between them. After all, he wasn’t a complete fool, and she was still one very pissed off ninja at the moment.
“Passion is not bestiality, Katrina. Nor is it lack of control. If I had no control, you’d be on the floor right now beneath me while I had at you like a true beast. Like it or not, darlin’, I’m bigger and stronger than you are. You might be a ninja, but I’ve got you in a position where I can outmuscle you. And yet, I’m not mauling you, nor am I falling upon you mindlessly. This is about you letting go-not me.”
She still vibrated with anger, but her explosive readiness to do violence seemed to diminish slightly.
He spoke gently then, silken strands of her hair lightly caressing his lips. “Human emotions are not bad things. In fact, they can be wonderful things. Why do you deny yourself pleasure-hell, real happiness-like this? Surely, your grandfather didn’t want that for you.”
More of the tension drained from her, replaced by something else he recognized very well indeed. A humming sexual awareness of him, of her body, of how he made her feel. Nonetheless, he didn’t loosen his grip quite yet. After all, deception was part of both their training.