Secret Agent Reunion. Caridad Pineiro
as he said, “Who says anyone wants it to get personal again?”
Miserable, cold-hearted bastard, Dani repeated with each jab, punch and kick as she pounded the heavy bag in the gym, working out her frustration over the earlier meeting with Mitch.
Miserable, deceiving, alive son of a bitch, she thought, as with a final punch, she sank down onto the mat and leaned against the wall. Bringing her knees up tightly to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them, buried her head there and began to weep.
Mitch was alive.
How many times in the three years since his “death” had she wished for just that thing? Wished that they might have had a chance at a life together? A life without SNAKE and guns and violence and death.
How many times had she pictured the two of them, living in Leonia in a home near her sister, Elizabeth, whom she fondly called Lizzy Bee. Children running around them along the gardens and shore much as she and her sister had done before their parents’ deaths.
She wasn’t sure such a life was possible for her now. Maybe it never had been, she thought, and swiped at a tear only to scratch the skin of her cheek with the exposed edge of the Velcro along the wrist of the boxing gloves she still wore.
She snagged the edge of the glove’s wrist-wrap with her teeth while drawing a shuddering breath and pulled it open. Then, she tucked the glove under her arm and removed its partner.
As she stood she swiped the remnants of the tears staining her face and vowed not to cry again over the things she couldn’t change. Tears hadn’t brought back her parents. They hadn’t brought back Mitch….
Well, at least they hadn’t brought back Mitch during the three years when she had cried for him regularly. But now…
The door to the training room opened, and Mitch walked in.
Dani hurriedly dashed away the last of her tears, turned and executed a series of bare-handed blows against the heavy bag, although not as powerfully as before due to the absence of the gloves. The last thing she needed was to break something, she thought, watching Mitch’s approach from the corner of her eye.
When he stood about a foot away, hands tucked into the pockets of his tight jeans, she asked, “Is there something I can do for you, Agent Lama?”
She never broke the rhythm of her routine, nor directly faced him, and yet there wasn’t a thing about him that didn’t register.
He seemed more muscular than he had before. Bigger. His shoulders broader beneath the polo shirt that hugged them and the well-defined muscles of his chest. On his right arm was the intricate tribal tattoo that she had found undeniably sexy and dangerous when she had first discovered it beneath the elegant suits and clothing that Mitch generally wore.
His hair was a trifle shorter around his ears, but longer up top and stylishly gelled into slightly punkish spikes that brought out the sun-streaked highlights mixed in with the brown.
Again, not as elegant as the haircut she had known him to wear, but she liked this one more—it framed the strong lines of his face better and brought attention to his eyes. Startling slate-gray eyes that were following her every move and darkening with what she suspected was annoyance.
“We need to talk, Dani.”
“Talk?” She shot the bag a punch, slightly harder than the ones before, and faced him. “You have more from Lazlo about the mission?”
Mitch released an exasperated sigh. “It’s not about the assignment and you know it.”
What she knew was that she was torn between easing against him and having him take her into his arms and kicking his ass for breaking her heart.
She did neither.
Instead, she crossed her arms and inched her chin up a bit—not that by doing so she would make much of an impact. At six-foot three, Mitch had quite some inches on her average height as well as at least one hundred pounds more of muscle.
“I believe that you said you didn’t want it to get personal again, Agent Lama.”
“I don’t,” he replied curtly and then dragged a hand through his hair, making the spikes even more pronounced.
Pulling one hand from his pocket, he held it out palm up in a pleading gesture and leaned toward her to emphasize his point. “There’s a lot that went on between us. Some good. Some very good. But a lot really bad as well.”
Truthful, if not a bit blunt, Dani thought as Mitch went on.
“Whatever it was is in the past. Now we’re partners. I need to be able to trust you to watch my back. You probably need the same from me.”
A reasonable request, and even though what she was feeling toward him right now was major dislike, possibly bordering on hate for his deception, she had always intended to watch his back. That he had thought otherwise just added to her pique.
“I’m a professional, Mitch. Like it or not, you are my partner. I will guard your back, and I expect that you will guard mine.”
He straightened away from her then and tucked his hand back into his pocket. With a shrug of those broad, thickly muscled shoulders, he said, “Right.”
He stood there for a few seconds more, seemingly unsure of what to do next, until he yanked his hand back out of his pocket and thrust it out to her, as if to seal the deal.
“So, then, we’re partners,” he said, and, at her delay, gave a little shake of his hand as if to urge her on.
She looked at that hand and then up to his face, where myriad emotions played across his normally neutral features. Neutral because, as secret agent types, they couldn’t afford to allow their emotions to show to the enemy.
But as she shook his hand, his emotions were clearly etched on his face for her to see. Confusion. Regret. Desire, banked well behind the other two.
The handshake that lasted longer than it should have confirmed the final emotion wasn’t just on his part, and they both abruptly pulled away from the handshake.
Dani rubbed her palm and the back of her hand, almost as if she could wipe away the remnants of the one disturbing emotion that had been communicated with a simple handshake. With a curt bob of her head, she confirmed the agreement. “Partners, but that’s it.” She tucked her chin down and walked out of the gym.
Chapter 4
Troy Dumont sat back in his chair and took a sip of the Johnnie Walker Blue in his glass. The taste of the scotch was smooth but with some bite as if to remind him that it was older than he was.
Months shy of twenty, he had nevertheless seen more of the world than most others his age. Done more than most, including killing a man. How else did you learn to run one of the world’s largest crime syndicates if not by getting your hands dirty every now and then?
Although he had never met his grandfather, Maximilian Dumont, he hoped that he had inherited some strength from the man who had gone from being a mercenary to building a worldwide empire of assassins, gun smugglers and other assorted criminals.
Troy wanted to show his mother, who had inherited control of the syndicate after her brother’s and father’s deaths, that he could one day run their organization as well.
Taking another sip, he considered his mother as she paced back and forth while talking on the phone. A very important call had come in from one of their informants, interrupting their after-dinner conversation.
Annoyance flared through him at how often work pulled his mother away. How, for most of their lives together, one thing or another had always managed to interfere—although he understood just how much control was necessary to maintain power over such a vast network of bad asses. Control that his family kept in a number of ways, including elimination of anyone who got in the way—like Corbett Lazlo and his annoying band of do-gooders.
In the past few months his mother had grown more