RISK OF EXPOSURE
by Emmy Curtis
Available 05/03/16
Book #6 – Alpha Ops Series
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Forever Yours
He is a trained professional—but nothing can prepare him for the hottest mission of his life. Assigned to protect his boss’s daughter, British former SAS operative Malone Garrett breaks the first rule of covert surveillance—don’t make contact. And especially don’t take your mark out to dinner, then agree to a rooftop quickie. But now that Mal has Abby in his arms, he has no intention of ever letting her go.
Abby Baston told herself it was a hit and quit, a one-nighter with a hot, handsome stranger whose hands were trained to take action. Working undercover for the CIA, she can’t risk anything more. But when an international crisis ignites, Abby must make a call: trust Mal with her secret—and her heart—and partner up, or lose everything in a split second . . .
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Emmy Curtis is an editor and a romance writer. An ex-pat Brit, she quells her homesickness with Cadbury Flakes and Fray Bentos pies. She's lived in London, Paris and New York, and has settled for the time being, in North Carolina. When not writing, Emmy loves to travel with her military husband and take long walks with their Lab. All things considered, her life is chock full of hoot, just a little bit of nanny. And if you get that reference...well, she already considers you kin.
The Alpha Ops Series:
(while books in this series are loosely connected, all function as standalones)
Dangerous Territory- Book 1- novella –only 99 cents!
Over the Line- Book 2
Pushing the Limit- Book 3
Blowback- Book 4
Compromised- Book 5
Five minutes into her short drive home, she passed another old beater Škoda with its hood up. She slowed down. It was pointing the opposite way, so it wasn’t like she could really offer him a ride. She was about to pass it, when she caught sight of the man, or more specifically, his jacket. It was bright red and emblazoned with MEDCIN SAND FRONTIERS. She pulled over. She wasn’t going to strand a fellow aid worker in the countryside at night.
“Ca va?” she asked.
“Eh. I’ve been better,” he replied in a deep voice with a distinct English accent.
“And you’re not French,” she said, slamming her door and striding over to him.
“Not even a little bit.” He straightened and blew out a sigh as he held his hand out to her. “Malone Garrett. Thanks for stopping.”
She shook his hand and looked into the engine. “Anything I can help with?”
He cocked his head and looked down at her.
A jolt of awareness flashed through her as he met her eyes. He was all man. Firm jaw, really blue eyes, way over six feet, and built to match. His jean-clad legs were long and clearly muscled. She suddenly wanted to see what was under his jacket and shirt…Her long-dormant libido kick-started in her stomach, sending unwelcome messages through her body. Jesus, girl. Get a grip.
“Are you good with cars?” he asked, a hint of a smile behind his words.
I can hot-wire them, siphon fuel from them, disable them, make them explode, and change a fan belt. But aside from that, not really.
“I’m good at giving stranded motorists rides back into town,” she said, as if she was admitting she knew nothing about cars.
“In which case, I’d be grateful to take advantage of that skill, if you don’t mind,” he said, closing the hood. He got back into his car, turned off the headlights, and grabbed a messenger bag from the backseat.
She got in her car and watched him in her rearview mirror. His accent did strange things to her. Maybe it was just speaking to someone who actually spoke English as a first language. Maybe it was something different. Holy hell. Did God send him because she’d been determined to meet someone? Or at least touch someone?
He opened the door and peered in. “Are you sure? I promise I’m not an ax murderer.” He smiled disarmingly, and for a second she considered that that was precisely what an ax murderer would say. She shrugged to herself. Anything to relieve the boredom of her life.
“Sure. Maybe you should be asking if I’m the ax murderer?”
A frown flickered across his face for a second and she laughed. “I’m not, I promise.”
He got in and put his seat belt on. “Isn’t that exactly what an ax murderer would say, though?”
She laughed again. “You’re the one who brought up ax murderers. Maybe I kill with a spork. Maybe you’re making me feel inferior with all your talk about axes.” She pulled onto the road and headed toward the flickering lights of the town about thirteen miles away.
“Then let’s drop the subject. Although, clearly, axes are superior in that line of business.”
She sniffed. “You haven’t seen what I can do with a spork.”
He laughed, a low belly laugh. “So perhaps I can take you out to dinner, to thank you for your assistance this evening. That way, I can see firsthand how proficient you are with cutlery.”
##
He did nothing other than blink, his guard down for a second, before she suddenly had another knife in her other hand. She pushed him against the wall and held the knife to his throat. What the fuck just happened?
He wasn’t scared. He could still kill her with his bare hands if he wanted to. This was nothing more than a slightly rough dance to him, but he begrudgingly admitted that she had some skills too. And there was a much higher possibility that it was she who had hurt and maybe killed the two men outside.
Her eyes blazed not three inches from his. If he hadn’t been a little curious about who Baston’s daughter was—indeed, if she even was Baston’s daughter—he would have been turned on by the fury she showed. By her physicality and her strength.
She pressed the knife to his throat, not easing up the pressure even when he felt the warm trickle of blood down his neck. Shit. She was sexy, and violent.
He leaned toward her mouth, suddenly wanting to kiss her more than he wanted the knife away from his jugular. The knife held constant, but he didn’t. Even though she didn’t let up pressure for one second, in that second he valued the kiss more than the knife.
She startled when his lips touched hers, jerking away, and then back to his. He was kissing a woman who was holding a knife to his throat. Fuck, it was sexy.
###
“You’re fearless,” he said, running a hand over her stomach.
Clearly he hadn’t registered her near panic when she’d thought he’d left her—and her country—high and dry. “No one’s fearless. It’s too dangerous,” she said.
“I don’t mean on the job. I mean here. With me. You barely know me, and you’re not embarrassed, or scared, or anxious about me being here, seeing you naked when most people feel the most vulnerable.”
She frowned. “I don’t feel vulnerable. Should I?”
“Most women would,” he replied, running his index finger lightly around her nipple.
“I’m not most women,” she said, almost arching into his touch.
“You’re not. You’ve been trained.”
She knew what he meant. He’d clearly been through the same training. Do what you have to do to protect your country’s interests. Decide how far you’re prepared to go. Know you can handle yourself if things go wrong. Give your body if you have to but not your emotions, not your thoughts, definitely not your love.
“As have you. You know who trained me. Who trained you?” She wondered if he was MI6, or maybe MI5 before he’d joined her father’s outfit.
He paused, his eyes searching hers. “The Regiment,” he said simply.
She forced herself not to react. “The Regiment” was insider code for SAS, the British Special Air Service. The black-ops unit so hard-core that she’d heard that people died just trying out to attend their training course. She was elated that she had someone so qualified to help her, and concerned too. What if she was being played? She knew people in black-ops divisions often had questionable morals and bendable ethics.
“I don’t know if I’m scared or turned on,” she said honestly.
“You should be both, love. I was in for a long time.” He stroked her gently through her panties.
She wanted to question him further. In fact, she had a duty to her country to find out what she could about him, but it wasn’t that that was driving her curiosity. It was a desire to know him. And she had to fucking squelch that feeling immediately. She grabbed his hand and held it against her panties. She held his gaze. “I want to talk about that. But not now. Right now I don’t want to talk about anything. I don’t want to think about anything. I just want you.”
“I think it’s sweet that you think I’d tell you anything about my previous job, but I take your point.” He wasted no time in getting rid of her panties.
###
He reached for her.
“You can stop right there.” Her voice startled him. He dropped his arm to the covers.
“I was just going to shake you awake. You’ve been snoring like a bear,” he said, swinging his legs out of bed.
She ignored his insult, such as it was. “You were supposed to wake me when it stopped snowing,” she said, also climbing out of bed and seemingly not caring a whit that she was totally naked.
He sat still, taking in the sight. Her nipples puckering in the frigid air, her tight muscles moving in glorious efficiency toward the bathroom. “It was your watch. Technically you should have woken me.”
“Ass.”
“Don’t you forget it, love.” He stood and got dressed, having dug out his Under Armour thermals from the kit bag he’d brought.
She poked her head around the bathroom door. “What? Don’t forget what?”
“That I’m an ass. You’ve blackmailed me into helping you, and someone as well trained as you knows that isn’t a recipe for success.” He finished tying his laces.
She shrugged. “I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t. I have a healthy regard for self-preservation and even I don’t know what I’ll do if you get in the way of that. So you’re much better off not trusting me for anything. Just a friendly PSA.” He knew he sounded like a dick, but he just couldn’t help himself.
“I’m not worried. If you piss me off, or if you’re in the way of my self-preservation”—she punctuated with air quotes—“or my mission, I won’t hesitate to shoot you.” She disappeared again.
“There’s one problem with that, love. I’ve got your gun.”
She didn’t reply, but he heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being charged. “Fair enough,” he said, trying not to smile at her resourcefulness. “What else have you got in there?”
“Hairspray,” she said.
“Awesome.” She was such a smart-arse. His sister would love her. He made a mental note that no matter what, they would never, ever meet. Ever.
She came out of the bathroom as if she’d come through a Tomb Raider portal. She wore a white snowsuit that matched his, a white knife strapped to her thigh, a white holster holding a white handgun under her shoulder, and a white shotgun on a white strap over her back.
“I’m sorry. The CIA gave you all that gear but couldn’t give you a sat phone that worked? What the fuck?” Jesus. This was why he was in the private sector now. One too many times he’d been put in a sketchy situation without the right equipment. That didn’t happen anymore.
She shrugged. “I guess they thought snow was more likely than the need to use an emergency phone?” She frowned, though, as if she was only just now considering that herself.
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