He threw his gear under the cot and fell on the narrow bed. There was one small window, high up, barred. The afternoon sunlight shone through, making a bright rectangle on the floor sliced with the shadows of more bars.
He folded his hands behind his head and stared at the timbered ceiling. This was what he deserved for doing Hawk a favor. Just a couple of questions, Hawk had said. Nothing big. Shouldn't take much time at all.
He should never have answered the summons of the heat-radiant signal under his skin. He should never have made the telephone call to Hawk's office.
He closed his eyes, thoroughly disgusted. Outside, machinery hummed. People talked, laughed. Children shouted in play. The smell of pines in the fresh mountain air beckoned. The time passed slowly.
He'd chosen New Zealand because it was a quiet nation in international politics. Not like countries in the Middle East, Southeast Asia, or Central America. It was two small islands, shaped like a comma at the bottom of the world: North Island, where he was now, and South Island. Its closest big neighbor nation was Australia, and Antarctica if one considered that frozen multinational continent a country.
The sheep behind the gas station bleated. Dogs barked and birds sang. Jeeps and trucks passed on the road. They were ordinary sounds in a country known for its peacefulness and lack of international intrigue. And this was where Nick Carter, the premier Killmaster, one of the best agents in the world, was jailed.
At last the door from the office opened. The chief sauntered in, followed by a tall woman with flowing chestnut hair. The drunk still snored, lost in his world of dreams.
There he is, the thief announced, his lined face wrinkling even more in an enormous smile. Relief had vastly improved his disposition He gestured grandiosely at Carter and unlocked the cell door. "He's all yours."
"Thanks," the woman said. She had vibrant blue eyes and a long shapely body encased in a light jump suit glued to her curves. She paced into the cell. "I'll interrogate him alone," she told the chief, her gaze fixed on Carter. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth. "Top secret," she explained.
The chief shrugged. "Whatever you say," he said, then locked the door as he left.
She was Michelle Strange, known in international agent circles as Mike, a top agent of New Zealand intelligence, closely allied with MI6 in London. Since New Zealand had so few agents, they could afford to be picky. With her, they'd gotten both brains and beauty.
Carter watched her from his cot, and grinned.
She threw her shoulder bag to the floor and glared at him.
"You bastard!" she snarled. "How come you're in New Zealand without calling me?"
Two
Michelle Strange vibrated with energy. The flowing chestnut hair that curled at her shoulders bounced angrily. Her hands worked the air as she talked.
"How dare you!" she stormed. "We've been together too many times. You insensitive lout! Where are your manners? If I know you're around, I always call you. Vacation. Ha!"
"Mike…"
Nick Carter rolled off the cot.
"Don't you Mike me!" She stamped her foot.
"Now, Mike," he said with a smile. "I was going to call you. Really."
He reached to stroke her cheek. She slapped his hand away.
"As soon as I got back from fishing," he said and grinned.
"Even when I'm on a job, I call you!"
"You don't want a smelly fisherman," he said. "You want an exciting agent."
She turned her back.
"Who says I want you at all?"
He slid a hand up under the mane of hair and kissed the back of her neck.
"A beard, too," she said. "Yeechh."
Her skin tasted fresh, of perfumed bathwater. He ran his hands down her back, over the rounded hips, up her sides. She squirmed but didn't move away.
"I'm not this easy," she said.
"You're never easy," he said. "Just beautiful. Desirable."
She leaned back.
Carter trailed his fingers around the outlines of her full breasts, then cupped them in his hands. She sighed deep in her throat. He rubbed his thumbs on the nipples. She ground her hips into him. Her head turned, taking in the four cells.
"We're not alone," she said, watching the sleeping drunk who continued to snore peacefully.
Carter turned her around. Her head fell back, the lips parted.
"Do you care?" he asked.
She pulled his head down.
They kissed, her lips hot and moist. He unzipped her jump suit, then leaned away to look at her. The breasts fell out, pink and ripe.
The chief could come any minute," she breathed.
He smiled, men pulled the shoulders of the jump suit down to her feet.
She was stark naked. Not a wisp of underwear. All curves and lines. Pink skin showed a reverse silhouette of a bikini, the rest tanned to honey by the New Zealand summer sun. The breasts swayed. The triangle of chestnut hair where her legs met were soft springy curls.
He slid his hand between the legs. She unzipped his pants and moaned. He felt the hot slippenness of her.
She grabbed him around the waist and pulled him between her legs, arching her back. Blood pounded into his head. She bit his ear.
Gently they began moving together, her hips grinding against him. Her movements became shorter, frenzied, fighting herself.
Until she exploded. Screamed into his shoulder. A muffled animal sound of defeat and triumph.
He picked her up, swollen with desire, and carried her to the cot. She raked her nails over his back, whimpering.
More. She wanted more.
He lay her on the edge, her feet dangling to the floor, and knelt between her legs. She lifted her head, looking at him with startled blue eyes. Eyes glazed into new need.
He pulled her legs up over his shoulders and thrust into her. Hard man, soft woman. She reared up, exploding again. Face twisted. Lips and teeth biting off a scream.
Thunder rolled through him. Rocked him into her until he too exploded in the black heat of victory.
Petit mort, the little death that man and woman achieve at orgasm. The thought made Carter smile. He lay sweating next to Mike. The little death that brought new life, new vigor. He should have called her.
She stroked his beard.
"It's very short," she observed, studying his jaw.
He chuckled.
"Right now I'm short all over."
She ran her hand down his belly. "Awww…" Damn that woman.
"I think you ought to shave it," she said.
"What??"
She laughed quietly.
The beard, you dope." She lay back, smiling contentedly. "We've got to leave soon. The chief was eager to pass you on to me, but his curiosity will get the best of him eventually."
"You're breaking me out?"
"I've got the authority. The chief will send you off with hugs and kisses."
"He's not my type."
She laughed again. He looked at his fishing gear.
"You like to fish?" he said.
"Stop it, Nick," she said and grinned. "We have to talk business. Then I'll see about getting you out. Now, what s all this about Mackenzie?"
"I don't know any more than what I told the chief."
She looked at him with narrowed eyes. She was changing back to the old Mike. Stiff. Professional. Distrusting. She rolled over him and stood, a suspicious virago with a halo of wild chestnut hair. More beautiful than ever.
He had to smile.
"Cut the crap. Nick," she snapped. "What the hell's going on?" She picked up her clothes.
"Far as I can tell, it's a civil air authority matter."