Secret Agent Sheikh

So … while they’d been in the air, the Task Force had been busy devising a plan. Good enough. Tarik needed to keep his head in the game—and off his partner.

After they settled into the three-room suite and double-checked for listening devices and cameras, the driver nodded toward the dining table. “We couldn’t secure a penthouse suite on such short notice at this time of year, but I hope you’ll be comfortable here.”

Jass removed her jacket and plopped into one of the chairs around the table. “It’ll do for Celile and Zohdi. They’re not on vacation.”

“Well,” their driver began as he set up the rest of the chairs around the table. “This is the honeymoon suite. Part of your cover story is that the two of you are taking a romantic interlude while you wait for the upcoming auction.”

“Uh …” Jass jumped up, looking a little green around the edges. “Excuse me a moment.” She grabbed her jacket off the back of a chair and headed straight for the bedroom.

“Do we know yet when the auction is supposed to take place?” Tarik gladly reached for any excuse to put the spotlight back on the mission and take it off his errant libido.

The driver turned to him with his hand outstretched and not a trace of accent in his English. “We haven’t met, Kadir. The name’s Joäo Bosque, CIA station chief. Have a seat.”

Tarik joined him at the table. “What do we know?”

“Coincidentally, we’ve been keeping an eye on this Russian character you’re after. His name is Andrei Eltsin. He blew into Rio several months ago and immediately took over the territory and operation of one of our bicheiros—those are the gang operators of this city’s illegal lottery.” Bosque scooted his chair closer.

“We inserted a man inside Eltsin’s bicheiro about a month ago. Their headquarters is in a penthouse above a nightclub in the Lapa district.” Bosque poured himself a cup of the strong Brazilian coffee that had been placed on the table along with a basket of fresh fruit. “Our inside man is there gathering intel on their money-laundering operations. We’re sure some of those billions are going to fund terrorism operators in the U.S.”

Tarik nodded and sat back. “Okay. But what about the auction?”

“Our man isn’t positive where, but he believes it’s to be held on the last night of Carnivale. Fat Tuesday.”

“Makes sense. But …”

“It’s supposed to take place in Eltsin’s retreat in the mountains right outside the city.” Jass added the new info as she floated back into the room, looking light and airy in a floral silk pants outfit. “I received a message from Ed. He’s on his way into the country, taking a military transport. Seems the real Celile was … convinced … to contact Eltsin and put her name on the bidders list for Tuesday. We’re in.”

“Fast work.” Tarik couldn’t keep from staring. His real-life partner, the covert agent, had become a real-live piece of art in cool shades of green and blue. And her movements were those of a lithe dancer as she crossed the room.

“The CIA has a convincing team of interrogators working with Celile and Zohdi.” Jass picked up an apple and took a bite with relish.

Drooling at the sight, all Tarik could think at that moment was that he was glad his name wasn’t Adam. This Eve was already tempting him enough to send him straight to hell.

The honeymoon suite. Jass’s knees still wobbled at the idea, but she wouldn’t give Kadir the satisfaction of seeing her sweat. They could straighten out the sleeping arrangements later—when she’d taken control of the mission again. In the meantime she would sleep on the couch or in the bathtub if necessary.

“Do we know what item we’re supposed to bid on?” Tarik looked slightly annoyed.

What did he have to be annoyed about? He was on this mission despite her reservations. He should be grateful.

“No,” she managed past another bite of apple. “Celile honestly doesn’t know. And our interrogators couldn’t devise a way for her to ask Eltsin without sounding suspicious either. We’re going to need—”

“Reconnaissance,” Tarik interrupted. “Our intel unit will continue gathering info from the underground.”

And by our intel unit he meant the Kadir family? She opened her mouth to complain when Tarik stood and backed away from the table.

“Come on,” he said as he took her hand and pulled her to her feet beside him. “Put on your dancing shoes.”

He drew her into his arms and pulled her close. Too close.

“How rusty are your samba skills, darling?” He’d whispered those words into her temple, but she could swear she felt the pounding of his heart right through both their clothes. “Need a few quick lessons?”

With the way he was holding her, that question could have a double meaning. She tried to pull away, but he held her fast.

“I’ll match my samba skills to yours anytime, darling.” She could barely believe how parched her voice sounded.

Tarik chuckled and released her. “We’ll see about that. Now go put on your sexiest shoes—and take off most of your clothes. Nightclubbing in the Lapa district is always undertaken with a lot of skin showing. Especially during Carnivale. You need to be nearly naked to capture the true beat of the samba.”

Two hours later, Jass decided she hated a know-it-all. As they entered the nightclub and found a table, she could feel Tarik’s so-called true beat of the samba right through the soles of her shoes. Even with a skintight red dress and dangerously high stilettos, she almost felt overdressed inside Carioca da Lapa, one of the Lapa district’s pioneering samba clubs and Eltsin’s headquarters. People should be naked when experiencing music this sensual.

Looking around, she discovered many people in the club came close to that description. Some women wore shirts made out of thin metal strips with nothing underneath. While other statuesque mulatas wearing glittery Carnivale garb clung to their partners as if they couldn’t stand on their own. Even by glancing twice, Jass would not have been able to swear to the true gender of every woman she saw on the dance floor.

As it turned out, however, it was Tarik who looked overdressed with a lightweight linen jacket covering his sleeveless T-shirt. All the other sweaty young men in the joint were clad only in their undershirts. And as the evening progressed some of those T-shirts had come off in time to the beat. Everyone in the place seemed to have begun their drinking well before noon.

Tarik ordered them the local drink: cachaca, sugarcane alcohol tempered with crushed ice, sugar and lime juice. Then he held out his hand. “Couples come to Carioca da Lapa for only one reason, love. Let’s check out those samba skills of yours.”

She let him pull her into his arms. “I thought we were here to do recon,” she whispered. He hugged her tightly against his body as they moved onto the crowded dance floor.

“Oh, but we are. Let’s see if anyone here recognizes Celile and Zohdi.” Tarik pulled her even tighter to him, until she felt completely surrounded by his masculine presence. Hot and spicy and full of rigid male power.

The samba in this club played in time to a reggae beat. Slow. Sensual. Steamy. Keeping the beat with conga drums, cowbells and primitive sticks that thrummed the music right to her bones. Tarik began to move, swiveling his hips like a pro. He took her by the hands and pushed her an arms’ length away. But his eyes locked onto hers, sending the hypnotic rhythm straight through her veins by the force of his formidable gaze.

She felt it in every inch of her body. The sexual gaze, the heat, the noise. Her nerve endings came alive in a dull burning flame.

Jass had been in a lot of tricky situations on those missions when she was acting the part of a girlfriend. But she had never felt so completely wrapped up in the moment as she did right now. Shaking her head, she tried to throw off the spell of Tarik’s personality. This mission should be no different than all the rest—despite her having to work with rogue agent Tarik Kadir. She wouldn’t let it get to her.

She tried closing her eyes, but that was little better. She could still smell his virile musk and feel his gaze raking over her body, making her sweat in places no one could see.

He pulled her close again and swung them around. “Your samba act is fine, love,” he murmured in her ear. “But your reactions to your lover aren’t quite up to the mark. Remember to behave like Celile would on the dance floor with the man she loves. Loosen up.”

He was telling her how to behave undercover? How dare this outwardly charming reprobate tell the best under cover operative in the business how to do her job?

Straightening her spine, Jass pulled back and smiled, though she let her eyes tell the truth of what she was feeling. “I’ve studied the woman for years. Celile Kocak is never loose, love.”

She’d gritted out the words so only he could hear. But Tarik’s reactions to what she’d said weren’t what she’d expected.

He manhandled her back against his chest and plundered her mouth with a kiss that was deep and hard and took her breath away. “I’ll bet she comes undone in bed,” he whispered against her lips. “Wanna go practice?”

Jass’s first reaction was to jerk away in panic, but Tarik held her fast. “Remember your act, darling.”

Exasperated, Jass narrowed her eyes at him and spoke in a loud clear voice. “You’ll need to excuse me for a moment, darling. I must use the restroom.”

Tarik stepped back and opened his arms, holding up his palms. “Of course, my love. But hurry back. I’ll count the minutes.”

Swearing under her breath, Jass headed through the throng of dancers toward the back of the club. This was mission impossible. But their assignment should’ve been her salvation, making up for the fumble with the Nigerian.

Instead of her usual feelings of control and being ready for anything, when she moved across the room and looked for a back entry, she felt the solid premonition of doom.

You’re one intense little cookie, aren’t you? Tough guy. One cool agent. More alpha than most of the men you meet.