Second Chances: A Romance Writers of America Collection (Stark World 2.50)

And he knew it. Her heart knocked against her ribs and her scalp prickled with the intoxicating mixture of lust, passion, and competitiveness that only Brandon could elicit, and she saw the flash of triumph in his eyes.

So much for not letting him get to her. Ever since she'd seen him in the pub yesterday and had nearly lost her lunch at the shock, she'd been fighting against the current of memories threatening to pull her under, trying desperately to exude cool indifference. But under that gaze, and with that smile, she was quickly melting into a puddle of nostalgia and hormones.

Her mind flashed back to the beginning of their relationship. They'd met on an assignment for Aegis, and their highly competitive natures had found them at each other's throats--and in each other's beds--before the assignment was over. They'd fallen hard and fast, the intensity of their feelings heightened by youth, by the danger around them, and by the exotic locations to which they'd traveled. Thanks to Brandon, she'd had orgasms on every continent except Antarctica.

God, the sex. She'd never been able to get enough of him, and in the years since, no man had come close to satisfying her the way Brandon had. She gave her head a small shake, sweeping away the memories like broken shards of glass.

"No," she said, leaning over the opposite side of the table and mirroring his posture, giving him a generous view of her cleavage. His gaze dipped. "I'm worried you'll fuck it up and make me look bad. Then I'll have to rescue your ass, and I don't have time for that. This time tomorrow, I'll be back at Langley."

Something flickered across his face that looked a hell of a lot like disappointment, but before she could be sure, it was gone. In an achingly familiar gesture, he raised a hand to his face, thumb under his chin, his index finger stroking the bridge of his nose. He ran his tongue over his teeth, and in another familiar gesture, let his tongue linger on the slightly crooked eyetooth on the right side of his mouth. British dentistry jokes aside, it was his only imperfection.

Only visible one, anyway. The others only became apparent when one knew him on a deeper level.

The moodiness, the competitiveness, the cockiness. Granted, they'd been twenty-two, and if memory served, she hadn't been all rainbows and sunshine either. She'd like to think that now, at thirty, she'd matured somewhat.

"Fine. Yes. You're right. We'll stick to the plan." He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, shooting her an apologetic smile. He crossed to her side and propped a hip against the table, facing her with his arms crossed. For several long seconds, he studied her, and then sighed. "It's not easy for me to trust you, Tash."

His words hit her with the force of a hurricane, almost knocking her over. She took a step away and folded her arms in front of her. "That's fair."

His brows knit together. "You're bloody right it is." He lowered his voice to a fierce whisper. "You just fucking left. I returned from that mission in Baghdad and you were gone."

/> "Let's not pretend we weren't making each other miserable, C. D."

His expression softened at the old nickname. "I wasn't miserable."

She snorted and rolled her eyes. "We fought constantly."

He leaned in close, bringing with him the warm scent of his woodsy aftershave. "We fucked constantly, too." Butterflies exploded in her stomach as heat curled over her thighs, and she fought the urge to rub them together. "It wasn't perfect, but it was us, Tash."

"It was dysfunctional."

Hurt flashed in his eyes, replaced quickly with anger. "So your solution was to walk without giving us the chance to fix it?"

She ducked her head, blood rushing to her cheeks. They'd hit a particularly rough patch, and she'd panicked. She'd run, giving in to her immature, selfish fears, and by the time she'd realized the magnitude of her mistake, it had been too late. She couldn't put the pin back in the grenade. She'd wrecked the best thing that had ever happened to her because she'd been too young to handle the complexity of marriage.

She could've tracked him down at any point over the past six years if she'd wanted, but she hadn't, too terrified he hated her guts for bailing. But it didn't seem like he hated her. And she wasn't sure what to make of that.

Harry cleared his throat as he approached, rubbing his hands together as though warming them. "All set for tonight then?"

Brandon pushed off the table and returned to his side, putting distance between them.

Not that she could blame him.

Natasha skimmed her hands down the front of the skintight, revealing black dress that all of the catering company's waitresses wore and sucked in a steadying breath. She smoothed her hair over her ears, further concealing the nearly invisible microearpiece in her right ear that linked her both to Brandon and to headquarters.

She hadn't initially understood why Harry had insisted on Brandon for this mission, but seeing him now, she understood perfectly. He'd assumed the identity of William Drummond, heir to a European banking fortune with several semi-illegal investments in his portfolio. Drummond was exactly the type Silayev's people would invite to a party like this: rich, connected, and crooked. She had to give MI5 credit--given the short notice, they'd done an excellent job of creating a deep and convincing cover for Brandon. Googling William Drummond brought up pictures, several news articles, a LinkedIn page, and an investment profile, all courtesy of MI5's Digital Intelligence team.

And now, chatting with guests, a tumbler of scotch in hand and wearing the hell out of a navy blue Hugo Boss suit, complete with light blue dress shirt and deep red silk tie, he looked perfect.

For the role.

Right.

She lifted the tray of champagne glasses from the counter and pushed through the kitchen's swinging door, her eyes scanning the open living and dining space currently filled with several dozen guests, all drinking champagne and feasting on toast points smothered in caviar. The decor of the large Wilton Street townhouse was opulent and over the top, with marble floors, intricate crown molding tracing across the ceiling, and lush, textured wallpaper in rich browns and blues hugging the walls. The entire place screamed wealth, power, and questionable taste.

She wove her way through the crowd, her eyes landing on the curved staircase by the kitchen that led to the second floor. Silayev's office and the safe within it were upstairs, and the next step in the mission was to get into his office undetected and start working on the safe. A guest's stray hand squeezed her ass in passing and she ground her teeth in disgust, suppressing a snarl.

"I saw that. What a cheeky bugger. I should break his hand." Brandon's voice came crisply through the earpiece, his accent having the same effect on her as always, sending sparks dancing across her skin.