Taken By the Spy
Don’t mess with a man on a missionKinsey Hollingsworth’s tropical-getaway plans didn’t include dodging gunshots. Or a speedboat chase with Mitch Perovski, the tall and tempting spy who’d commandeered her boat. But the socialite would handle anything Mitch demanded – whether it meant going undercover or under the covers. Mitch didn’t work with partners. Kinsey was more than a pampered heiress, but she was no match for the assassin targeting them…He only had to get through this one high-stakes task with her. Yet after a night in Kinsey’s arms, could he walk away from their partnership for good?
Mitch looked all the way down to her toes and back up again to her eyes.
Normally Kinsey didn’t give a flip what other people thought of her looks, but she wanted to meet with Mitch’s approval. Silence stretched out between them as he devoured her.
He moved so fast she hardly had time to jump. But all of a sudden he loomed before her, blacker than the night and more dangerous than sin. His hands were on her, climbing up her back, drawing her against him.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted back to her eyes. He murmured, his voice a low, tight rumble.
“I’m going to spend the entire evening imagining ripping that dress off you, throwing you down and making love to you until you scream.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cindy Dees started flying aeroplanes while sitting in her dad’s lap at the age of three and got a pilot’s licence before she got a driver’s licence. At age fifteen, she dropped out of school and left the horse farm in Michigan where she grew up to attend the University of Michigan.
After earning a degree in Russian and East European studies, she joined the US Air Force and became the youngest female pilot in the history of the Air Force. She flew supersonic jets, VIP airlift and the “C-5” Galaxy, the world’s largest plane. She also worked part-time gathering intelligence. During her military career, she travelled to forty countries on five continents, was detained by the KGB and East German secret police, got shot at, flew in the first Gulf War, met her husband and amassed a lifetime’s worth of war stories.
Her hobbies include professional Middle Eastern dancing, Japanese gardening and medieval reenacting. She started writing on a one-dollar bet with her mother and was thrilled to win that bet with the publication of her first book in 2001. She loves to hear from readers and can be contacted at www.cindydees.com.
Welcome to the H.O.T. WATCH! I’m so excited to get to share this new series with you! Over my years of working with and writing about Special Forces operatives, I’ve always been fascinated by their real-life, yet nearly superhuman, qualities. And now you and I get to really explore that aspect of these amazing warriors.
As I sat down to plan this series, I asked myself, how am I going to do justice to this elite group of operatives? First I decided to give them a cool hideout full of high-tech gadgets. Then I had to give them some seriously evil bad guys to battle. After all, a hero is only as awe-inspiring as the villain he defeats.
Of course, I had to throw in plenty of steamy tropical islands, sultry nights, pounding surf and glistening muscles. Add a heaping helping of sex appeal, and we have a recipe for plenty of yummy fun. So get out your beach towel and suntan lotion and pour yourself a tall, cool drink. Then prepare to be swept away by the supermen and women of H.O.T. WATCH!
All my best,
Taken By the Spy
This book is for my real-life superhero friends
whose names I cannot print. You know who you
are. And may I just say, you ROCK!
For mum and mother-in-law, who in their
courageous battles with cancer have taught
me that life’s short, live hard.
Smoking gun in hand, Mitch Perovski crouched over the crumpled form of the dead man and swore. One by one, droplets of blood plopped onto the boat’s deck in the charged silence. Glancing furtively around him for watching eyes, he crouched even lower and pulled out his cell phone.
“Go ahead,” a male voice said at the other end.
“Lancer here,” he muttered. “I’ve got a problem. My Plan B is dead, I’m caught out in the open at a damned marina, and I’ve got two, possibly three, gunmen on my tail. I need you guys to pull a rabbit out of your hats and get me the hell out of here.”
“We’ve got you on the satellite map in a marina near the south end of Tortola. The boss man says to stay put for a minute if you can. Meanwhile, say your status.”
For a moment, Mitch allowed himself to register the daggers of pain shooting from his left shoulder. Bad idea. He gritted his teeth, forced the agony back into a mental drawer, and slammed it shut. No time for that, yet. “I’m shot,” he ground out. “My left shoulder. I think the bullet passed through but I haven’t had time to stop and take a look. I’m low on ammo and way exposed on this freaking dock.”
“Are you bleeding?” the combat controller asked sharply.
“Hell, yes, I’m bleeding. I just took a bullet.”
“Apply pressure to the entrance and exit wounds with a clean pad, and hold it until the bleeding stops.”
“Gee, thanks, Doctor Kildaire. I had no idea what to do,” Mitch retorted dryly. All the guys in the H.O.T. Watch were qualified EMTs.
“Standard procedure to brief operatives on proper first aid when a wound is reported,” the controller replied, equally as dry. “That way when you die, your family can’t sue us over your sorry ass.”
Mitch snorted. He hadn’t spoken to any member of the Perovski clan in close to ten years and didn’t plan on doing so for at least another ten. The seconds ticked by at half speed while he scanned the area for signs of his pursuers. They weren’t showing themselves at the moment, but he didn’t doubt for an instant that they were out there, waiting. Seconds turned into minutes, and he wondered how much longer his pursuers would sit tight. Eventually, they would run out of patience and come after him. He was dead meat if they caught him out here like this.
A new, deeper voice finally came on the line. “Lancer, this is White Horse.” His temporary boss. Navy Commander Brady Hathaway. “I’ve got a Plan C for you. About a half mile down the beach, Congressman Dick Hollingsworth has a vacation home. He has a fast boat, and I just got off the horn with him. He’s given you permission to use it. The spare ignition key is taped to the back of a painting of a clipper ship in the below-deck cabin. You’ll have to break into the cabin, though. I told him we’ll repair any damage you do to the door.”
A half mile? Damn, that sounded like a long way right now. “What does the boat look like?” Mitch bit out.
“It’s a thirty-eight foot cigarette. And—” was that a wince he heard in Lancer’s voice? His boss continued “—it’s pink. Named Baby Doll. But it goes like a bat outta hell, apparently.”
“It had better,” Mitch growled. “If I die in a pink boat, I’m going to haunt you. And I won’t be a nice ghost.”
White Horse laughed shortly. “Call us when you’re safe. And take care of that shoulder when you get a chance.”
“Will do.” Mitch tucked the cell phone in his pocket and briefly considered swimming for the pink boat. But his shoulder was throbbing like hell, and the idea of adding the burn of salt in the wound was more than even his pain tolerance would stand. He eased down the dock, staying low. If his luck held, he could sneak into that fringe of palmettos and bushes up the beach, and then make his way to the pink Plan C.
If his luck held.
Just another lousy day in paradise. Kinsey sighed and sat up. She’d spent the entire afternoon napping on the cigarette boat’s sleek hull, which rocked gently beneath her as the waves rolled in. A strip of white sand beach stretched away in both directions, fringed by rustling palm trees and kissed by turquoise seas so blue they almost hurt to look at.
As dull as it was down here, it was still better than being laughed at. Laughed at! Her. The darling of Newport society. She’d fled rather than face the cruel scorn of the country club crowd and those who called themselves her friends. In a few months, when the scandal had been eclipsed by some new sensation, maybe she’d think about going home. But until then, she was hunkering down here at her father’s beach house. Okay, she’d admit it, she was hiding.
The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon. Not quite sunset, but the day’s quality tanning time was over. She didn’t feel like going inside yet, though. Maybe a spin in the Baby Doll would clear her head. She pulled a T-shirt on over her skimpy bikini and, jumping over to the pier, cast off the forward mooring line. She strolled down the dock to cast off the aft line.
A rapid, slapping sound made Kinsey look over her shoulder sharply. Feet striking the dock. Urgent. Staccato. Running full out. Nobody ran around here. It was too hot and humid in this tropical climate—too damned languid—for anything so strenuous.
A tall man was charging down the long pier straight at her. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Black clothes from head to foot. Bulky black duffel bag slung over his right shoulder. As mesmerizing—and lethal—as a panther charging on the attack. He never even slowed as he twisted to look behind him. She glanced in the direction of his gaze. Two more men were coming on the run…brandishing guns.