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

Brandon's heart pounded furiously against his ribs. As soon as those men had gone upstairs, he'd excused himself from the party, made for the loo, and then charged up the stairs the second he was sure no one was watching. Natasha was unarmed. He couldn't let anything happen to her. Not that he'd let anything happen to a fellow agent, but this was different, somehow. The idea of something happening to Natasha sent him spiraling into a near panic, urged on by the sound of her laugh skimming along the surface of his brain, her lavender scent ghosting through his nostrils. Even now, after all these years, after the way she'd left, she had the ability to utterly and completely captivate him, even when he wanted to strangle her.

Bloody fucking hell. He was still in love with his ex-wife.

On silent feet, he approached the open door of the office. Two muffled shots reached his ears, and he broke into a sprint. Like Natasha, he was also unarmed--it hadn't been possible to sneak any weapons into the party. Two men stood just inside the room, advancing on the large desk. Swiftly, he grabbed the first assailant's arms from behind, slamming his hands against the doorframe and forcing him to drop the gun. Brandon moved in front of him and landed a hard right hook to his jaw, sending him sprawling backward. Brandon dove for the gun and recovered it as a shot whizzed by his ear, splintering into the wood paneling behind him. He rolled to his back, sat up, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit the first man square in the chest, and he slumped heavily to the floor.

Brandon pushed to his feet, the gun trained on the second man, whose own gun was aimed directly at Brandon.

"Drop your weapon," Brandon said, knowing he was going to have to kill him. He couldn't leave him alive and risk having both his identity and Natasha's exposed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her rise from behind the desk, a gun clutched in her hands. He kept his eyes on the man in front of him, not giving her away.

"Drop yours," sneered the man in a thick Russian accent.

Suddenly, Natasha was behind the man, the barrel of her gun pressed against the base of his skull. "You're outnumbered. Drop it."

"Fuck you," he spat, and spun, knocking Natasha away. Her gun flew from her hands, and the thug now had his gun trained on her. Without hesitating, Brandon fired two shots into the man's back, and Natasha scrambled out of the way before he fell.

"Did you get the vials?" he asked. Without a word, she dipped behind the desk and emerged with a small metal briefcase. He stuffed the gun into his waistband and closed the distance between them, his hands landing on her shoulders. "You're okay?"

She nodded. "Thanks to you."

He pulled her into his arms, unable to stop himself. She laid her head against his chest, and something deep within him settled, blood flowing like liquid gold through his veins. She pulled away and their eyes locked in the dim room, heat pulsing between them. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, letting his thumb trace along her cheekbone. She was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her. Beautiful and smart and brave.

"You gonna go all James Bond on me and sweep me off my feet?"

Mentally, he added smart-ass to her list of attributes. Funnily enough, it also went in the pro column.

God, he'd never told her that, had he? No, he'd only given her grief for what he now realized were some of her best qualities.

He'd been a royal prick at times, but he'd been too young and stupid to realize the extent to which he'd pushed her away. Small wonder that she'd left when he could've done so much better by her.

"Let's get the hell out of here." He shoved the window open and scanned for guards, but the alleyway at the rear of the house was empty. He eased his feet out onto the narrow ledge and grabbed the drainpipe, climbing down quickly. Once he was safely on the ground, Natasha tossed the briefcase to him and then followed, her athletic body making quick, graceful work of the short descent. Without a word, he took her hand and they started to run, their feet slapping against the pavement as they wove their way toward St. Peter's in Eaton Square, where a car had been left for them.

The towering wrought-iron street lamps cast a warm glow against the darkness, reflecting against the puddles dotting the sidewalk and street. Within minutes, they'd reached the black Fiat parked in a far corner of the church's car park.

Both Brandon and Natasha stepped up to the driver's side, and just as she yanked the door open, he pushed it closed again.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm driving. I'm the better driver. I'd like to get to the Embassy before, oh, I don't know, tomorrow."

He laughed. "I don't think so, Top Gear. You'll drive on the wrong side and kill us. My country, my agency's car. I'm driving."

"I think--"

"Shut up and get in the fucking car, Natasha." He leaned his hands on the roof of the car, caging her in as he beat back the urge to kiss her until neither of them could think straight. Jesus Christ, the woman was infuriating. Sexy and smart and irritating as hell.

He fucking loved it.

She inhaled sharply and pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. "Fine. You're right. You drive."

Before he could fully process the miracle that was Natasha telling him he was right, headlights flashed as a car turned around the corner, and she scurried around to the passenger side. In what he felt was a generous compromise, he pulled the stolen gun from his waistband and handed it to her as he dropped into the driver's seat. She tucked the small briefcase containing the vials under the passenger seat.

He started the car, threw it in gear, and gunned it, heading toward Belgrave Place. The same headlights flashed again and then disappeared as the driver extinguished them. Brandon's stomach knotted, and he flexed his fingers around the leather steering wheel.

He floored it and took a sharp corner toward Belgrave Square Garden, and the sedan followed, tires squealing. "Shit," he hissed. "They're on us."

"Don't worry. I've got it." Twisting around in her seat, Natasha opened her window just enough so she could wedge her head and upper body out.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" If he hadn't been so intent on steering and keeping them in one piece, he would've reached over and hauled her back inside.