Chapter Three
The struggle was real, but I managed to peel my gaze from Jack to the other three men in the room.
One of these men had to be Mia Keniston’s brother, Saint ‘Pete’ Young. My guess was the tallest one, who shared Mia’s brown hair and brown eyes, but more than that, they had the same high cheekbones. On Mia they looked striking, on Pete they looked chiseled.
I moved to the side where the men were standing and took my chances, offering my hand.
“I’m Catarina Keys. Saint, right?”
The man took my hand in a firm grip. No smile. Assessing gaze of a former Team Guy.
“Pete,” he corrected, offering his nickname. “Nice to meet you.”
When Pete released my hand, the man next to him lifted his in offering.
“Mason Hughes,” he introduced.
This man smiled and his grip wasn’t quite as firm. I’d bet he charmed the panties off many a woman with those green eyes and that mop of sandy-blond hair. But it was the devilish grin that stated plain he was up for a good time, however that good time came to be.
“Good to meet you.”
“Fallon Harris,” the last man greeted.
He was shorter than the others, but what he lacked in height—not that he wasn’t tall, just not as tall as the giants in the room—he made up for in width. The guy’s biceps looked larger than my waist, and his shoulders were so broad I wondered if he had to turn sideways to walk through a doorframe.
“Now that that’s out of the way,” Jack interjected, “let’s talk about why you’re here.”
I ignored Jack.
“Please excuse Mr. Supremely Bossy Pants. He seems to have forgotten his manners,” I told Fallon. “It’s good to meet you too.”
Fallon’s extremely large shoulders started shaking. “I think we have a winner.” He chuckled. “Mr. Bossy Pants just rolls right off the tongue.”
Jack made a rude sound, clearly not liking the nickname.
Oh well. That’s what he gets for snatching me off the street.
“Why. Are. You. Here?” Jack enunciated each word.
With a sigh, I turned to face him. Unfortunately, I forgot to brace for the wallop his good looks packed.
Jack had the whole Henry Cavill thing going on—minus the cleft in the chin—with Ryan Gosling’s smile and the body of Mark Wahlberg circa his underwear modeling days.
It was a mash-up that had a powerful effect on my lady parts.
“Why are you here?” I returned.
A dark brow lifted, and not even his clenched jaw could stop the muscle in his cheek from jumping.
I was trying his patience. It wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Jack found me exasperating. I found it fun to poke the beast.
When he didn’t answer, I matched his brow lift and added a hand to my hip.
“Why don’t we head back to the office? We can sit and talk this out,” Pete suggested.
“Or, we can stay here and see if they challenge each other to a duel at dawn. My money’s on Miss Catarina Keys. Something tells me she’s got some tricks up her sleeve,” Mason added as an alternative scenario.
“The only thing she has up her sleeve is my knife,” Jack huffed.
“Oh, ye of little faith. I see you still don’t trust that I know what I’m doing.”
“No, I think you know exactly what you’re doing. It’s your judgment I question.”
Ouch.
“Ah, right, now I remember.” I stopped to make a show of snapping my fingers. “It’s Jack’s way of thinking or it’s the wrong way of thinking.”
“My way of thinking doesn’t land you on some asshole’s lap, with his hand up your dress and his eyes on your tits,” Jack ground out. “Neither does it put you in a position of being forced to endure that fucker’s hands on you in the name of mission success.”
My body locked tight. Not at the familiar refrain but the vehemence behind it.
When I’d met Jack in Las Vegas, he worked for an outfit called Takeback.
His team was being used as a force multiplier to take down a high-profile sex trafficker.
After an eighteen-month joint investigation with the SOIB and FBI, we’d finally gotten a lock on Martin Jackson.
For some reason, a man who’d managed to keep his name clean by using front men and women decided to come out of the shadows and throw a weekend-long, sick-as-fuck sexathon preview party in his hotel suite before he’d personally hosted an auction.
A weekend I had spent at his side while working undercover.
The part I’d never understood was that, at first, Jack didn’t make a peep about me going in with the sole purpose of catching Martin’s attention. Only after Martin took notice did he have a change of heart and start questioning the precautions I was taking and insisting on more safety protocols.
But it wasn’t until after we had verification that the auction was actually taking place that he lost his mind and demanded for me to stay behind.
I defied his order. Not that it was in his power to order me to do anything.
Actually, I’d outranked him during that operation.
My bosses at the SOIB had cleared me to attend; the Marshals Service tended to frown on sex-trafficking twats and had been counting on me to help the FBI and Takeback, to make sure no one left without a pair of metal bracelets.
All of that to say—I’d heard Jack’s opinion on my judgment before, but I’d never heard him express it with anger tinged with hurt.
“I had it under control,” I reminded him.
“Are you talking about Vegas?” Pete asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “Jack has a problem with my work ethic.”
“Is that what you call putting yourself in danger?”
I drew in a breath in an attempt to keep a handle on my temper.
“No, Jack, that’s what I call doing my job.
I didn’t seek employment with the Marshals Service to sit behind a desk and sip coffee while gossiping with my workmates.
I signed up for the fieldwork.” I waved my hand around the open space.
“Which, just to point out, you yourself have a very similar job.”
The tight line of his body and his frown indicated I’d scored a hit with that, but I wasn’t done.
“Either you see me as an equal or you don’t.
Either you trust me to know myself, my limitations, and believe I’m damn good at keeping myself safe, or you don’t.
In other words, your thoughts on the matter are not my problem, they’re yours.
Obviously, I’m here working, same as you.
Your kidnapping stunt was amusing until it wasn’t.
Now, I have an assignment to get back to.
If someone would please take me back to my hotel so I can get on with my day, I’d appreciate it. ”
When I was done, three men were staring at their boots, and one looked like his head was going to explode.
Any guesses on which one looked ready to have a coronary?
“You’re right, it’s not my business.”
Good Lord, that hurt.
I didn’t want it to, but it did, all the way down to that place I pretended didn’t exist. The place that Jack had occupied for a few weeks, until he’d made it clear I wasn’t who he wanted, then it went back to being empty.
“Great.” I fake smiled. “Anyone up for giving me a ride or should I walk?”
And where the hell did my backpack go? I’d been so caught off guard with the hooding, I’d lost track of everything else.
As if reading my mind, Jack tipped his head to the side. “You’re not gonna ask, are you?”
His cheap shot pissed me off; so much so, I lost my temper.
Jack was no farther away than the length of the three-seater couch that looked like it had been dragged in from the dump. That meant I didn’t have far to go before I was in his face, which was unfortunate, because the minimal distance hadn’t allowed me to get a lock on my anger.
I rolled up on my toes, slammed my palms on his chest, and angrily clipped, “What’s your problem?”
“Me?” he smoothly rumbled. “I’m not the one—”
“Cut the shit, Donovan.”
His hands came up, circled my wrists, and tugged me closer. Mere inches separated our mouths. So close I could feel his exhales dance across my lips. Closer than we’d ever been, yet still not close enough.
How was it possible I wanted to kick him in his balls and beg him to finally kiss me at the same time? Well, not the same time. I wanted to kick him in his balls first, then after I had that satisfaction, I wanted to beg him to kiss me.
“You drive me insane,” I spat.
“Welcome to my world, woman.”
“I think I’ve seen a few X-rated films start like this,” Mason mused.
“Only you would call porn a film,” Pete muttered.
“If Mase starts talking about popping a boner, I’m out,” Fallon joined in.
Throughout this exchange, Jack’s gaze stayed locked with mine. There was something working behind those dark-blue orbs. Something I couldn’t make out. But whatever he was contemplating would remain a mystery.
“To answer the question you’re too stubborn to ask, Mase took your pack right before he zip-tied your ankles.”
I thought back, and I didn’t remember being divested of the bag, but I was struggling and wiggling, trying to regain my freedom, so anything was possible. I mean, obviously it was, because I no longer had my backpack.
“Way to throw me under the bus,” Mason mumbled.
“The answer to your other question is, no one is taking you back to the hotel until after we talk.”
Talk?
What the hell was there to talk about?
“A lot,” Jack answered my unasked question.
“Stop reading my mind.”
“Baby, your every thought is playing across your face.”
That wasn’t true. I had an excellent poker face.
One side of Jack’s mouth hitched up.
I narrowed my eyes, leaned closer, and inquired, “What am I thinking now?”
What was supposed to be an act of defiance backfired. I knew this when what I’d meant to sound snotty instead came out breathy.
“Do you really want me to answer that, Cat?”
“If your answer is anything other than me wanting to punch you in the face, you’d be wrong,” I lied.
Jack made a tsking sound. He lowered his head, veering to the side before his lips touched mine, but I felt them ever so gently whisper across my temple before his mouth was at my ear and he quietly said, “Such a pretty liar.”