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Washington, D.C.
There were many ways of kissing a woman. And many reasons to taste her. There were kisses that asked permission. And then there were kisses that sought an answer.
Steve McMillan had once assured the amused leader of Black STAR, his elite covert operations team, that there was a difference, at Admiral Jack Madison's bachelor party when things had gotten a bit rowdy, and the topic a bit ... salty among the men. In real, everyday life, Steve McMillan wouldn't have dared bring up kissing and women, but everyone was having a good time ribbing the admiral about his young bride, and how he was going to kiss her after the ceremony. When someone brought up the subject of kissing ... well, everyone started hooting his name to give advice to the old man.
It wasn't as if the admiral needed lessons, Steve reflected wryly, as he recalled the festivities from a year ago. If there was a man who didn't have to work at looking good, his leader was the one. In his early fifties, he still rated enough female sighs in the navy grapevine. But the navy grapevine had voted Steve McMillan the Best Kisser of the Millennium during some cornball poll on a website that had somehow became public snicker fodder on the naval bases. So now his buddies teased him mercilessly.
That was okay. Steve McMillan liked kissing women.
Which was not what he should be thinking about right now. He looked across the room at his target. She was a lot taller than he had expected; dressed in black leather, she made a striking figure standing against the bar, calmly sipping a drink. She didn't look like she was waiting for someone. Her stance was relaxed, her smile a little bored. One or two men had approached with interested smiles, but she had sent them away with a few words.
In the dark corner of the bar, he had been watching her for almost an hour now, and her patience seemed endless, because she hadn't glanced once at her watch or looked around at the patrons. She didn't fidget with her dark auburn hair. She didn't make small conversation. She didn't smoke. Once in a while she would turn around and lean back on her elbows to watch the baseball game in progress on a giant television set above the bar.
At exactly an hour later, she finished her drink, picked up the small suitcase by the bar stool, and walked off. She didn't look back, so she didn't see the appreciative glances admiring her long, leather-encased, shapely legs. Steve stood up and followed. It was dark and cool outside. He pulled on his jean jacket as he looked around for the woman. She was nowhere to be seen. He turned the corner, keeping to the shadows.
He was a trained operative. He knew not to show his training. So he allowed her to have the advantage for now.
Movement. Speed.
He was pinned hard against the wall, and a husky voice, whiskey-laced, drawled in his ear, "It's been an hour, sweetheart. If you plan to make a move, you mustn't make a lady wait."
Steve angled his head sideways, and the light out of the windows was just enough for him to make out her face. Her eyes gleamed back, no fear in them. Her lips were temptingly close and perfectly shaped.
There were kisses that stole. And there were kisses that gave away secrets. Steve wondered which kind would persuade a hired assassin to reveal who her target was.
Her strength didn't surprise him. After all, everything he had profiled about Marlena Maxwell showed a woman who knew how to take care of herself. What caught him by surprise was how his body responded to her. From his table watching her, he had appreciated her tall, sultry beauty, but up close and personal, the appreciation became a growing private interest.
"What's the matter?" she asked, when he didn't say a word. "Don't you like it when a woman comes after you?"
"It depends on what she's after," Steve answered.
"Oh? Like what?"
"I don't mind a lady after my body," Steve replied dryly, "but I do draw the line if it's my dead body."
She pushed an elbow hard against his lower back, forcing him to buckle against the wall. "Let's not bicker over details. It would save me time if you introduce yourself," she said, still in that husky drawl, "and I hope you don't mind. I have to make sure you aren't armed, sweetheart."
Damn, but the woman's elbow was sharp. The hard stucco of the building cut into the side of his face. "No problem," Steve assured her. "Look all you want."
She slid a hand into his jean jacket, checking for secret pockets. Then her hand glided down his chest to his jeans, obviously knowledgeable about the places a man could hide a weapon.
"Lower," Steve suggested, reckless desire spurring him now, "and you might find something loaded."
There was a pause. Her eyes looked into his for a moment, then she took up his challenge. And went lower.
Steve didn't blink. Or breathe. The woman, if nothing else, was bold. He supposed there was a first time for everything, even having his zipper down in front of a bar. He vaguely wondered what she would do if someone came out right now, but there was no time to think of such things when a woman's hand was down his pants. She felt cool against his skin, moving left then right. And she certainly was taking her time ...
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Into Danger by Gennita Low Copyright © 2001 by HarperCollins Publishers
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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