Just the Messenger Read online

  Her gray eyes shot him a piercing look, and in their recesses, he saw a longing that matched his own that made his heart ache and his jealousy rear up. “Oh, you’ve got a thing for him, do you? Get in line.”

  “Behind whom?” she said with a laugh. “You?”

  Marco glanced at her in surprise. She was a sharp one.

  “No. I don’t even know the man, plus, I’ve got other flesh on my mind.” He allowed his attraction to her to show for a few moments, raw and hard through his face, and enjoyed her startled expression before she turned her head in modesty. He put on his stoic IIB mask again before speaking. “What are you, anyway?”

  “Me?” Her voice grew soft. “I’m a messenger. Or, I was a messenger. Now I don’t know what I am, or what I’m doing. I was supposed to be a librarian, but…that didn’t work out.”

  A pang of regret hitched in Marco’s chest at what would have been a perfectly normal life for the curvy firecracker in front of him. “That’s a shame,” he said thickly. “You’d have been great with books.”

  Grace just stared at him, her eyes empty. “I like helping people,” she said in a flat voice.

  “So I see.” Marco knelt in front of her where she sat. “In some ways, you are in the right business, then,” he said, happy when her face brightened. “Hardy helps people. So do I. We just do it for different reasons.”

  “Can you just tell me what you do, and why we are doing it?” Her voice was full of hope, almost quivering with it.

  Again Marco felt need wash over him. To have that innocence and purity of heart wrapped around him in a tangle of sheets would put him over the edge. He bit back the urge to touch her. “I can’t,” he said. “Ask Hardy.”

  “I did!”

  “Ask again. Ask tomorrow, before you go to the fundraiser.”

  “What fundraiser?”

  Marco smiled then and shook his head. “Do you have an evening dress?” he asked. “You’ll need to buy one this afternoon.” Thinking it over, he spoke again. “Actually, the way Hardy works, I’d just go home. An outfit is probably waiting for you there.”

  He meant to send her on her way then. He’d give her directions back to the city then follow discreetly until she made it back to her apartment, making sure she was safe. The reporter had desk duty for the rest of the afternoon, so assuming he made it out of the coffee shop alive, Marco would go back to CableNette and speak to him about tagging along to the event tomorrow for experience. Marco would be back at the station before anyone realized he’d taken a double lunch. He meant to do all those things.

  Then Grace touched him.

  Her smooth, cool fingertips traced over his jaw, sending shivers of pleasure down his spine.

  “You really seem to care about me, for not knowing me at all,” she said.

  He opened his mouth to answer her, to tell her he couldn’t afford to care about anyone, to tell her she’d only get hurt playing with men like Hardy and himself. The look in her eyes silenced him, like a storm at sea, amber bits of light reflected within the gray, and Marco stared deeply into them, until they were so close the image blurred.

  Marco slanted his lips over hers and let out an involuntary groan. She was soft and giving, and the heat of her seeped into his mouth until he could no longer control his urges. She smelled of fresh summer raspberries, the kind he used to pick with his abuela in Colombia. She tasted like home.

  “Are you Colombian?” he asked, breaking the contact on a murmur.

  She shook her head. “Venezuelan. Good guess, though.” She smiled, and he leaned into those lips again.

  With a slight tease from the tip of his tongue, they opened for him, and he went about exploring the contours of her, until he was drunk on her scent and flavor. The kiss seemed to last forever, Grace’s fingers tangling in his hair, her breasts pushed up against his chest as she leaned forward off the sofa where she’d been sitting.

  Curving one hand beneath her thigh, Marco lifted her from the couch and brought her gently down against him where he knelt on the floor, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. Her apex felt hot against his straining erection, and he made a desperate sound in the back of his throat. He had to cease this. He had to send her on her way.

  Before he could stop himself, he’d gently settled her on her knees before him so he could unbutton her jeans, then he slid his palm under the waistband of her panties. He slicked a finger through her and felt her shudder, her hips arching into him. The hot wetness drove him wild with passion, and he released his hand from her, bringing the digits to his mouth. She tasted of honey, light and sweet, and the sensations flooding his body nearly overflowed with the morsel he’d allowed himself.

  Enough.

  He pushed her back with gentle hands, her confused and hurt look nearly breaking him.

  “We can’t do this,” he said, his words coming out on harsh breaths. “You must go.”

  “But I…I’m sorry.”

  The melancholic tone of her words stung his heart, and he wished to take her into his arms and finish what they’d started, to show her that he hadn’t stopped himself because of her, but because of the work they both needed to do. There would be time enough for explanations later, though.

  And, honestly, better she hate him now than fall in love or some other feminine nonsense. That was why Marco had stuck to men these past few years. At least they knew how to fuck and run.

  “Maybe you’ll see me again,” he offered by way of consolation.

  But Grace was already straightening her sweater and heading for the door.

  “Grace, wait!”

  She never turned around.

  In spite of himself, Marco chuckled. He had been lying to her. She’d have made an awful librarian. She seemed the type who needed more action and excitement in her life.

  Chapter Three

  Grace pulled at the straps of the midnight blue evening gown, surveying her reflection in the mirror. She looked nervous. The smoky eye makeup she’d applied to her lids did nothing to ease the lines of doubt furrowed on her forehead. At least the regal color brought a ring of deep blue to her eyes. She liked the look on herself.

  Marco had been right. The dress had been waiting for her on the front stoop when she’d arrived. The note enclosed in the box said only “Be ready by 7:00 p.m. tomorrow.”

  With only a few minutes left, she picked up her small, white clutch then put it down again and headed to the window. Her hands were clammy. She didn’t want to wipe them on her dress, so she folded them together, the cool moistness only heightening her discomfort. She ran her fingers through her previously coiffed curls, giving herself an unintentional tousled look. Stalking back to the mirror to survey the damage, she decided to leave it. She’d only do the same thing again throughout the evening, and she couldn’t be running to the ladies’ room every five minutes to rearrange her hair.

  The only event she’d been to with a dress code had been the fundraiser for the college library at which she’d worked when she was earning her degree. Grace sighed. Her life would have been so different if only she’d been able to secure a job at the New York City Public Library. All bluster and no experience with a larger reference area, she’d been crushed when they’d turned her down. She’d turned to temp work as a time-filler while she searched for museum work or a permanent position at one of the many university bookrooms. Unfortunately, the time-filler filled too much time, and when she’d looked up, five years had passed. She had nothing but clerical notes to show for it. Maybe this job would change all that. A girl could hope.

  The rap at the door came, startling her, even though she had known to be ready. She glanced at her small, jeweled watch. 7:00 exactly. Gene Hardy was nothing if not punctual.

  He said nothing, just held out his hand. She slipped her arm through his, and he led her down to the town car.

  “The fundraiser is basically for show,” he said, as the scenery crawled by them outside the car’s windows. “I’m expected to make an appear
ance. I’m rather a name there. Once we arrive, however, I suggest we split up. I need you to be unnoticed. If anyone asks who you are with, say CableNette. Don’t get any more specific than that and do not say my name.”

  “What is CableNette’s business with us, anyway?” Grace asked.

  “Well, on the record, nothing. Off the record, they’re the largest news organization in the country, and Warren Bell is their number one money maker. We’re insurance, basically.”

  “And what if people ask me questions?” She cocked her brow at him.

  “Just say you’re new and still learning. Then ask them a question. The photography business is not to be mentioned. At any cost. Also,” Gene paused, raking his gaze over her curves before giving her a lopsided smirk, “you don’t know Marco Valencia. Understand?”

  “Is he going to be there?” Grace didn’t know if the thought of it made her excited or disappointed. Her attraction to Marco was strong, fierce even, but she’d been cultivating a crush on Gene Hardy for months, now. The sinking feeling in her gut told her that she’d been secretly hoping for romance tonight, and not from the beautiful Latino she’d kissed the previous afternoon.

  A lump rose in her throat. It wasn’t as if she stood a chance with either man. As a plaything, maybe. Grace was beginning to feel like a plaything to them on the job, anyway. Though they claimed to oppose each other, there was a certain electricity that lit the air when either was forced to speak of the other. A chemistry that couldn’t be ignored.

  She looked up to see Gene’s smooth face clouded over. “I don’t know,” he said. “If he’s there, stay away from him unless you can get him in private.” He grinned. “If you can get him in private, get rid of him, and I’ll promote you.”

  His tone was serious, but his countenance playful. Grace didn’t know what to make of it, so she held her tongue, nodding thoughtfully.

  After some moments, she gathered the courage to speak. “I still don’t know what any of this is about.”

  Gene pulled at one of her curls gently before leaning into her so closely she could feel his warm breath on her neck and smell the spicy hint of his cologne.

  “It’s important that you don’t,” he whispered. “The less you know, the more protected you are.”

  “And the more dispensable,” she complained, her voice wavering as his scent filled her nostrils, distracting her beyond reason.

  “And the more dispensable,” he agreed, his lips grazing her earlobe before he pulled back as if nothing had happened.

  Feeling shivers running over her skin, Grace huffed and turned away toward the window, crossing her legs and making as if she were annoyed. It was the easiest way to mask her attraction.

  She could tell by the shaking laughter beside her that it hadn’t worked.

  * * * *

  Marco was at the buffet table making small talk with some of the news underlings when he saw Gene walk in. Raw power flowed from the man in the fitted tuxedo, and though the din of conversation didn’t pause at his arrival, heads turned in that direction. It was impossible not to take note of the lean muscle and tight control of the blond god who paused at the edge of the room, surveying the attendees. Not a hair on Hardy’s head moved out of place as he spotted Marco and made a beeline for him.

  But Marco couldn’t keep his eyes on the lithe businessman. Instead, they moved to the entryway. Graciela had arrived, stunning in deep blue satin, the straps of the elegant gown sliding stylishly down her toned shoulders. A single, small diamond hung from a chain around her neck, and Marco guessed she had added that jewelry herself. A beautiful woman’s touch to a man’s fantasy. She looked irresistible, and Marco started to head toward her, an apology already on his lips, when a hand on his elbow stilled him.

  He knew from the jolt of energy flowing through his veins that Gene had touched him, and he mentally cursed himself and his libido. He was here to protect Warren Bell, and since the pair had arrived, he’d lost track of the man. He hadn’t thought of the reporter once. Five-minute gaps in his service were unacceptable. That was plenty of time to kidnap or kill a man. Resigned, he turned toward the photographer.

  “What?” he asked, his gaze catching in the blue of the other man’s eyes, causing a pulse to race through his body.

  Gene stood a good three inches above him and leaned down to speak softly into his ear so that those standing nearby couldn’t overhear. “Don’t touch that one.”

  A feeling of territorial possession flared over Marco, though he didn’t know why. He’d only just met the beauty who now shifted from foot to foot by the open bar. She took away a pinkish drink, maybe a cosmopolitan.

  “Why?” Marco flicked a glance over the other man’s smooth face and chiseled features. At that close distance, Gene had to look down his straight-ridged nose at Marco, making the agent feel all the more chastised. “It’s not like you want her. You’re practically throwing her to her death.”

  Gene gave a dismissive snort. “She can handle herself. Have a little faith. Plus, she’s just the messenger.” His eyes flashed. “At least, she was just the messenger. I think I’ve got bigger plans for her.” The man moved inappropriately close and brushed against Marco’s thigh in a hidden, seductive thrust. “And you.”

  Marco backed away, angry at his immediate arousal. “You’ll kill her.”

  Gene smiled. “Then I guess it will be up to you to protect her.” He straightened, swiped a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, handed it to Marco then turned toward the bar. “You can start tonight, actually. In the sitting room over there. I’ve got a little plan to prepare my messenger for the bigger tasks ahead.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to have her kill you,” Gene deadpanned.

  “What?”

  “Oh, she won’t do it. She can’t kill someone. It’s not in her.”

  “Unless it is, and then I’m dead.” Marco shook his head.

  “You are a highly trained spy. If a little Latina can kill you the first time she’s ever held a gun, after you’ve been warned about it, well, you probably deserve to be dead.” Gene smiled perversely. “But, in case you survive, I’ve got us covered.”

  He flashed two foil packets and a tube at Marco before pocketing them again. Then he walked away, leaving Marco to stare at his sculpted ass. The agent pulled himself together quickly, averting his eyes, and scanned the room for Warren Bell and found him in the back corner, speaking to LJ Rinkleton. Their conversation looked heated. Marco placed the champagne on the table and sidled over quietly, putting Gene and Grace out of his mind. He caught the end of the conversation.

  “…would really advise against going to Colombia,” Rinkleton was saying. “It’s dangerous there, and you can do your work right here. I’ll help you. I’ve got the connections. There’s a woman who works in a restaurant there who is highly trustworthy and highly involved in the cartels. I’ll get you her information if you’d like. You could simply call her from here.”

  “I’ll think it over.” Warren tilted his head as if he were actually considering staying in the States. “You bring up good points, plus, I know I can trust you.” Just then, the reporter’s gaze fell on Marco over Rinkleton’s shoulder.

  Marco held up a finger to him and pointed toward the sitting room off the ballroom reception area. Warren nodded, and Marco gave a sigh of relief. If Bell had introduced Marco to his old boss, Rinkleton, there would have been a lot of explaining to do.

  He headed toward the back room. Moments later, Warren joined him.

  “You’re going to Colombia?” Marco asked him.

  Warren shifted his gaze to the door leading out to the ballroom. “I’m thinking about it. I don’t want many people to know, though. If these gang members find out what I’m up to, they’ll kill me before I finally crack them.”

  Marco smiled and clapped the man on the back. “I grew up in Colombia,” he said. “Would you like an escort?”

  * * * *

  Gene trapped
Grace outside on the terrace behind some birch trees, decoratively planted for tourists and lovers. She looked lovely and pure, standing bedside the snow white trunks, looking out over the city skyline, her bronzed skin bathed in moonlight. It was all he could do not to run a hand over her strong shoulders. He shivered as he imagined his fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of her neck as he pulled her into a scorching kiss, dipping her down, his hands slipping under the hemline of her gown. It was something they both wanted.

  He steeled his will. There was no time. Marco was right. If he didn’t want to kill the poor girl, he was going to have to give her at least some basic information.

  “You can speak Spanish, no?” As he spoke, he approached her and enclosed her in his arms so that her backside rubbed against him. He noticed her sharp intake of breath. His cock stirred, but he kept his body under militant control. The touches were part of a cover if someone came across them. They would merely be two drunken lovers taking in the view. They would be far less likely to arouse suspicion that way, although in this position, other things were becoming aroused, and quickly. He shifted just an inch away from her.

  She shot him a look over her shoulder. “What am I doing here, Gene? How can I help you if you never tell me anything? I haven’t even delivered anything for you for weeks.”

  Gene nodded, her hair brushing against his cheek as he did so. “That’s because you’re no longer a messenger, Grace.”

  “Well, then what am I?”

  “You’re a spy. A messenger spy.”

  She laughed, the sound lighting on the air’s stillness around them. “I’m an awful spy then. They’re the ones who are supposed to have all the answers.”

  “Well, answer my question, then,” Gene replied. “Can you speak Spanish?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “No reason.” He took a deep breath. “I’m going to give you some background. It goes nowhere. Understand?”

  She nodded.