FBI
Special Agent Ty Dragon froze, glaring at sexy little Cassandra Fox through the
two-way mirror. Damn it all. What the hell was the spoiled little trust-fund
princess doing in the middle of this clusterfuck? He’d been shocked to see her
slumming at the tabloid yesterday. He’d never actually met her before but he’d
remembered Law’s furious reaction when a tabloid story came out about her
during their time in the Army. She’d been a neighbor of Law’s, and a nice if
troubled teen according to him. Something about her picture then had struck a
chord with Ty. He’d seen equal measures of determination and vulnerability in
her eyes. The vulnerable look was still there and the protective feeling it
brought out in him was hitting him even harder now as he gazed at her. She’d
shone like an angel in the midst of the gritty pros yesterday. On top of that,
Law was loath to talk about her—not like him at all—other than to mention that
she’d targeted massage parlors and lingerie-modeling scams. What the hell did
she have against sex anyway? The prim suit she was wearing said plenty.
Shit. Things were bad enough, seeing that he didn’t trust his new agent in charge, Nick Harrison. How fucked-up was it that the triumvirate from their unit should wind up here. Law, the Oracle, master of intelligence, now a freelance agent for Homeland Security; him, Swamp Thing, head of psychological warfare and now a lowly FBI field agent; and Nick, the Rules, enforcer of military regulations and now his boss. Hell, Nick probably had Rogers’ Rules of Ranging and the FBI handbook printed on his sheets. Old J. Edgar would have loved him. Well, screw that shit!
Ty would get the job done. It was what he was born to do, coming from a long line of public servants on his daddy’s side. But he wouldn’t be ruled by a dickhead AIC who cared more about rules than people, and he sure as hell wouldn’t let some jaded socialite mess with his case. It didn’t matter that she looked even better than she had at the tabloid office yesterday. It didn’t matter that she was dead right to think something dirty was happening here. It didn’t matter that she was bored and probably looking for a good time. She could go buy excitement elsewhere. He wasn’t for sale. He hadn’t thought she’d noticed him yesterday or snooped around on his briefing. Obviously he’d thought wrong and underestimated her. A mistake he wouldn’t repeat. Frustration made him go still as he pondered how to save her without compromising his mission.
She was wearing a wire tucked into the lapel of her prissy blazer. He could see it from where he stood. Lucky for her, the others in the control room seemed oblivious to the breach of security. He smiled grimly, deciding he’d have to strip her to take it away from her. The fact that he was looking forward to the prospect spoke volumes. He’d made a critical error staying celibate since Melina. Three long years.
Behind him, the club boss, Vincent Martinelli, crunched on another antacid tablet, a sure sign that “Vinnie the Bomb” was contemplating whacking someone. Fuck! Vinnie had come up in the Gambian family fast, through nothing more than dumb luck, ruthlessness, and fear. No one ever successfully testified against him, which gave him a clean record of sorts. Clean enough to run this club and supervise the money-laundering operation they were there to bust. Now the man was all bling, from his diamond-encrusted pinkie ring to his hand-tailored Italian suit. Vinnie had come a long way from the South Side of Chicago, but the same malevolent toad still lived inside him. Ty’s special-warfare instructor would have said Vinnie was fucking nuts; his psychology professor at Tulane would have said he was bipolar. Either way, he had to be dealt with.
Fuck! Based on the interested way Vinnie was gazing at Cassandra through the two-way mirror, chasing her away wasn’t an option. But taming her to his hand and making her behave for a week was. Newest trainer, newest submissive, and thank God for that, or he’d really have to kill someone. And damn it all, she’d truly deserve the red ass he was going to give her for pulling this stunt and putting herself in the line of fire.
Shit. Things were bad enough, seeing that he didn’t trust his new agent in charge, Nick Harrison. How fucked-up was it that the triumvirate from their unit should wind up here. Law, the Oracle, master of intelligence, now a freelance agent for Homeland Security; him, Swamp Thing, head of psychological warfare and now a lowly FBI field agent; and Nick, the Rules, enforcer of military regulations and now his boss. Hell, Nick probably had Rogers’ Rules of Ranging and the FBI handbook printed on his sheets. Old J. Edgar would have loved him. Well, screw that shit!
Ty would get the job done. It was what he was born to do, coming from a long line of public servants on his daddy’s side. But he wouldn’t be ruled by a dickhead AIC who cared more about rules than people, and he sure as hell wouldn’t let some jaded socialite mess with his case. It didn’t matter that she looked even better than she had at the tabloid office yesterday. It didn’t matter that she was dead right to think something dirty was happening here. It didn’t matter that she was bored and probably looking for a good time. She could go buy excitement elsewhere. He wasn’t for sale. He hadn’t thought she’d noticed him yesterday or snooped around on his briefing. Obviously he’d thought wrong and underestimated her. A mistake he wouldn’t repeat. Frustration made him go still as he pondered how to save her without compromising his mission.
She was wearing a wire tucked into the lapel of her prissy blazer. He could see it from where he stood. Lucky for her, the others in the control room seemed oblivious to the breach of security. He smiled grimly, deciding he’d have to strip her to take it away from her. The fact that he was looking forward to the prospect spoke volumes. He’d made a critical error staying celibate since Melina. Three long years.
Behind him, the club boss, Vincent Martinelli, crunched on another antacid tablet, a sure sign that “Vinnie the Bomb” was contemplating whacking someone. Fuck! Vinnie had come up in the Gambian family fast, through nothing more than dumb luck, ruthlessness, and fear. No one ever successfully testified against him, which gave him a clean record of sorts. Clean enough to run this club and supervise the money-laundering operation they were there to bust. Now the man was all bling, from his diamond-encrusted pinkie ring to his hand-tailored Italian suit. Vinnie had come a long way from the South Side of Chicago, but the same malevolent toad still lived inside him. Ty’s special-warfare instructor would have said Vinnie was fucking nuts; his psychology professor at Tulane would have said he was bipolar. Either way, he had to be dealt with.
Fuck! Based on the interested way Vinnie was gazing at Cassandra through the two-way mirror, chasing her away wasn’t an option. But taming her to his hand and making her behave for a week was. Newest trainer, newest submissive, and thank God for that, or he’d really have to kill someone. And damn it all, she’d truly deserve the red ass he was going to give her for pulling this stunt and putting herself in the line of fire.
