Ready, Aim...I Do!. Debra & Regan Webb & Black

      Chapter Three

      Caesar’s Palace,

      Friday, November 21, 8:17 a.m.

      Jason rolled to his back and squinted against the bright sunlight flooding into the room. His head felt stuffed with cotton, which, in any logical universe, should have dulled the incessant ringing in his ears.

      “That’s your phone, sweetheart. You should answer.”

      He knew that voice. What the hell was Ginger Olin doing in his hotel room? And why would she be aiming any endearments his way? He flung a hand out in the general direction of the ringing only to have the move stopped short by a warm, soft touch. He dared to open his eyes a crack.

      “Careful. I’ve left you a glass of water.” Ginger smiled down at him with a bit too much sympathy as he curled his fingers around the cell phone. “Take the call. I’ll be in the shower.”

      Through slitted eyelids, he watched her saunter away, her body swathed in a hotel robe. He propped himself up on an elbow, struggling to clear the fog from his brain. What was going on here? What the hell was wrong with him?

      The phone started ringing again, and he saw the number and stern face of Deputy Director Holt on his screen. Damn. This was one call he couldn’t ignore. “Yeah.” He cleared the rough edge from his throat, wondering how Ginger had managed to get him so drunk he couldn’t remember squat. He never drank on duty. “Grant here.”

      “Where were you last night? You missed the scheduled check-in.”

      He opened his mouth to answer and snapped it closed again. He didn’t know. Based on his nudity, the state of the bed and the woman in the shower, it wasn’t a big leap to figure out what had happened. That still didn’t explain this nasty hangover.

      “I tried to contact you all night, but your phone was off. I learned this morning that you missed the recovery. If you have any sense of self-preservation, get your ass on the next available flight out of there or consider yourself relieved of duty.”

      “Sir?” How could he have missed the recovery? Agent Olin was safe, right here in the room with him. She’d been in trouble and he’d gotten her out of it. At least he thought that’s how it had gone down. “Sir, I made the recovery,” he insisted.

      “You’ve dropped the ball somewhere, Grant, because the package is missing and Agent Conklin never encountered you or your support.”

      “Give me a second chance. I can meet with security and—”

      “I can’t. It’s too late. Be on the next flight. We will debrief when you arrive.”

      The line went dead and for a long moment, Jason stared at the screen, utterly dumbfounded. If Olin wasn’t the recovery, how had she known the code phrase?

      She had given him the code phrase, hadn’t she? She must have. He wouldn’t have taken action unless he’d been sure. Although right now, he couldn’t recall exactly what they’d done before coming to the room. It was pretty damn clear what they’d done after they got here.

      He rolled to his feet, lost his balance when his vision wavered and landed back on the edge of the bed. He clutched at the mattress until the room stopped spinning. He’d been hung over a few times. Enough to know this wasn’t the same thing at all. He’d been drugged. But why? And who would do that?

      Carefully he looked around, taking in the view of his hotel room. Or at least a room that was identical. He spotted his luggage and wished like hell they hadn’t upgraded him to a suite. The suitcase across the room might as well have been on the other side of the world.

      Desperate, he entertained the idea of crawling over for fresh clothes when he heard the water stop running. He would not let her find him weak as a kitten on his hands and knees in addition to the troubling disorientation plaguing him.

      Slowly he turned his head from side to side, then up and down until his dizziness eased off.

      The shirt and slacks he’d worn last night were scattered across the floor along with a lace-topped stocking and garter. He half expected to see a bra draped over a lampshade. A memory teased him and he twisted toward the door. Yup. There was the blond wig he’d tugged from her head, eager to get his hands in her glossy red mane.

      Something had gone down in this room, or at least she’d made it look that way. He wasn’t sure which explanation he wanted to hear most: that it happened, or that he only thought it happened.

      He reached for the glass of water on the nightstand and stopped dead. The wide gold band on the ring finger of his left hand glinted in the sunlight. He rubbed at his eyes, but it didn’t go away. He was married?

      His head and stomach protested as he took in the strewn clothing along with this new information. It certainly looked as if they’d started married life with a bang.

      No. Impossible. No way in hell he’d forget his own wedding or the inevitable events leading up to it. No way in hell he’d marry a stranger—and Ginger Olin, CIA operative, fit that description. This had to be some ruse she invented to preserve her cover. Except Holt just said he should have rescued an agent named Conklin.

      “Damn it all.” He couldn’t make sense of the vague scenes flitting through his mind. She owed him some answers. This time when he pushed to his feet, he kept moving forward despite the sudden tilt of the room. He was grateful when the wall kept him from hitting the floor. He pounded a fist on the bathroom door. “Get out here.”

      She opened the door and a steamy cloud of spicy vanilla scent washed over him. It was so her: lush and tempting. He fought the urge to lean in and inhale deeply.

      “Oh, dear,” she said with a sly smile as her gaze slid over his body like a touch. He reacted as any man might when faced with the beauty of a gorgeous woman fresh from a shower. Whether his memory ever correctly filled in the details of last night, his body seemed convinced about what they’d done and there was no hiding the part of him demanding an encore performance.

      Damn. In his determination to stay on his feet he’d forgotten to cover himself.

      One long fingertip trailed across his jaw. “You’re looking rough.” She opened the door wider. “Come on in. A shower will fix you right up.”

      Was that a bit of Irish in her voice this morning? If so, was it real? He’d done a little investigating after their last meeting and knew she had a talent for accents. “What did you give me?” He looked past her, ashamed that he wanted to ask for her support to get him across the expanse of the luxurious bathroom.

      “The time of your life. Or so you said.”

      Looking at the woman who’d starred in his fantasies since their one brief conversation last month, it probably had been the time of his life. How unfair that he didn’t have full recall. “Not what I meant.”

      She tucked herself under his arm, keeping him steady as she walked him past the long vanity. “This way, big guy.”

      Something about the gesture felt familiar. “Did you do this last night?”

      “We can talk about last night when your head’s clear.” She eased back but didn’t quite let go. “Steady?”

      Barely. “Yes.”

      “Cold or hot?”

      “Pardon?”