Page 96 of Summer Heat
She tried to move away from the Antilla line of fire. She might’ve had a compromised operation, but she wasn’t going to pass out details of a covert operation because of past feelings. Too many unknowns. “Why were you out there? And Roman? Both of you decked out like—” Like snipers. Oh, holy hell. He raised an eyebrow, watching her connect a few scattered dots. She’d been on an adrenaline cocktail, then shocked by their meet-and-greet, and now, the jagged pieces started to align themselves. “One of you took Antilla out?”
One of them ruined her operation? Everything she’d put in for months? The good guys finally had a chance, and they destroyed it?
His jaw gnashed before it set, and he spoke through his teeth. “What’s it to you?”
That was confirmation enough. Cash and Roman blew up her mission, shattering any chance to further infiltrate Smooth’s world, to take out illegal arms dealers. No!
She lunged at him. It was the wrong move, an amateur move, but she wasn’t thinking like a trained agent. Screw her busted foot and arm. Nicola landed square in front of him. What was she going to do unarmed? Shake him to death? They’d already confiscated her only gun.
With her one good arm, she beat his chest, pounding out every frustration and emotion that ached within her. The bedroom door flew open revealing Roman and Rocco poised, ready to do… something. She looked up at Cash towering over her, his face cold. Emotionless. She realized she’d been screaming. Her cheeks were wet. Shit, fucking tears. Years of training with the best disintegrated in one night.
Roman looked at Cash. “What the fuck?”
“She’s upset that I blew her boyfriend’s brains on the carpet.”
Roman’s face fell until disappointment snarled onto his face. “Boyfriend?” He turned from her, muttering something to Rocco while walking back down the hall.
Cash whispered, “I can’t believe I ever loved you.”
God, no. This was all wrong. She didn’t know enough about who they were or why they were there. Explaining her part could have exponential effects on the CIA’s other operations.
Why had she run into them tonight? Aching to tell the truth, aching to remember his love, Nicola looked in the mirror as she collapsed onto the bed. Maybe she was too weak for the job. Self-dou
bt ate at her like she was back on the Farm, in her first week as a recruit when every man, and the handful of women, had eyed her like lunch. She hadn’t been much, just potential, and she still felt the need to prove herself.
She could do this: act like the agent she was trained to be and stop reacting. Emotions shouldn’t dictate action.
I can’t believe I ever loved you. Don’t react. Don’t move. His voice clanged through her memory. Her internal orders didn’t work.
“Wait!” Nicola jumped off the bed as best she could, and bounced on one foot to the door.
But Cash was gone, taking the phone and leaving her the clothes. She tore off the mess of a dress, moving as fast as she could, threw the t-shirt over her head and—
And, oh God, did the shirt smell like Cash Garrison. Clean soap and a masculine, peppery scent. On one foot, with one good arm, she balanced with the shirt covering her head and just inhaled, immediately transported back to college. She was in her second year, and he was finishing up his fourth. They lay in bed, naked. His balled up t-shirt served as her pillow.
This shirt smelled like her past. A distant memory. A deep hurt blossomed in her chest.
Oh, no. She was going to break her cover.
Nicola finished pulling his shirt on but grabbed the collar and held it to her nose. Just one more time. Just enough to relive the memory.
Cash told jokes. Always made her laugh, but at that moment, in that memory, he was dead serious and unsure how he would tell Roman they were together. At the time, they’d said together forever, and it’d been time to tell her brother. After she’d walked away, she’d cried for weeks. It still hurt.
She shook her head. Time to get this over with.
Nicola hopped down the hall, limped up the stairs, and found the men at the kitchen table, passing a bottle of Gentleman Jack. Roman stood up, staring at her limp. Cash threw back a shot.
Rocco waved. “Not much in the fridge. Power bars on the counter. But if you feel like joining us, shot glasses are next to the sink. We’re drinking to shitty days. Cheers.” He downed a shot.
“Nicola.” Roman eyed her. “Are you okay?” He smashed glare at Cash. “What’s with the yelling? Dickhead said—”
“She’s not welcome here.” Cash scowled and poured another shot.
This wasn’t going well, and she’d been in the kitchen, oh, two point five seconds.
“Shut your face, Cash.” Roman glared at the table. “Are you ready to, I don’t know, talk about this?”
“No.”
