dark ops 3 - Renegade (21 page)

He shifted back and forth in front of the stove with unmistakable ease, a paisley hand towel draped over his broad, naked shoulder. “I thought Phil said he was trained.”

“Phil apparently hasn’t taught him everything.” She stroked Boo’s head with her toe as he sprawled on the floor, chewing away happily on a knotted sock. “Or maybe we left him alone too long last night. That walled-in patio where we let him out to do his business doesn’t provide much room for exercise.”

Mason shot a sideways glance her way, his green eyes deepening to the same gem tone she’d seen when he moved inside her. “That could be. Hopefully we won’t be contained like this for too much longer.”

She sipped her mug of raspberry tea she’d found by the bedside when she’d woken alone to only the sound of him in the shower. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

He slid a pair of banana crepes on a dish, spooned warm sauce over them, and topped them with a dollop of whipped cream. “As much as I’d like to spend the whole afternoon here with you, Agent Barrera will be by to pick us up in a couple of hours.”

“He’ll have a plan in place for us to bait the serial killer?”

“That’s what he’s hoping.” He filled two small juice glasses with OJ.

“And what are you hoping?”

“What I want doesn’t always matter in these cases.” He spooned up a bite of banana crepe and brought it to her mouth. “Now eat. It could be a long day.”

Her lips closed over the spoon and . . . Oh. My. “You really can cook.”

“Those crepes aren’t only about looking pretty.”

She swallowed down the bite, taking the spoon and plate from him and feeding a taste to him. Mason probably wouldn’t appreciate being compared to a plate of pretty crepes, but she couldn’t miss the parallel as she learned there was a lot more to Mason than just his looks.

She leaned over the plate to kiss him. He tasted of caramel and a light sheen of his perspiration, the perfect balance of salty and sweet. “Amazing.”

“Yes, you are.”

She laughed and leaned back to take another bite. “I still can’t believe you used all those healthy cooking tricks in something so decadent.”

He tugged the towel off his shoulder. “You weren’t supposed to notice that. When folks hear something’s healthy, they expect it to taste like cardboard, and expectations are half of the eating experience.”

She shoveled in another bite. “My taste buds are too busy having orgasms to think that deeply.”

“Food orgasms? I’ll have to remember that.”

She dug into a second crepe, hating that she’d even thought about the calorie count. “I know firsthand that not all low-cal food tastes this good.” She tried to bite back the words bubbling up, then decided, what the hell? She’d grown beyond those years sitting at the school lunch table alone, whispered about on the bus, picked last in gym class. “I was an awkward preteen. I wasn’t just clumsy. I was the chubby kid.”

Mason stayed silent, his silence giving her the room she needed put her thoughts together. “Uncle Phil really supported me, helped me look beyond Mom’s hurtful asides. He never asked me if I really wanted that Twinkie. Or would I like to take a nice bike ride instead of reading another book? He just accepted me as I was and taught me how to blast a strobe light across a mountain.”

He stared at her intently. “Acceptance is a rare gift.”

The intensity, the insightfulness of his eyes made her uncomfortable. She’d bared enough of her body and soul for one day.

Jill cleared her throat, dabbing a napkin along the corner of her mouth. “Uh, where did you learn a healthy heart recipe? I’ve seen you eat, and you most definitely are not counting fat grams.”

He swiped the cloth along the counter. “One of the guys I fly with—Jimmy Gage—is engaged to a diabetic with a serious sweet tooth. I passed along some recipes to Chloe. She gave them two thumbs-up, so I thought you might enjoy them.”

“I hope you didn’t serve them to her the same way you dished them up for me.”

“Jimmy would kick my ass. I’m still walking, so you can safely assume I’ve never hit on Chloe.”

His fingers stroked along her bare arm. “Are you having regrets about last night?”

“No.”
Not much
. “I went into this with my eyes open. We’re both consenting adults in a high-octane situation. It’s only natural we would ride an adrenaline wave that could lead two single people, who were already attracted to each other—”

He kissed her silent.

“What was that for?”

“You were about to give me the brush-off.”

“Or give us an out.”

He passed her the plate again. “Eat your breakfast.” He drained his glass of juice. “We don’t have much longer here in safety. Don’t bring the outside world in to wreck it.”

She looked away from the intensity in his eyes she didn’t know what to do with. “Okay, for now.” She eased her plate back to the counter. “But I need to give Boo some water, and he needs another trip out onto the patio.”

Mason’s hand fell to her arm. “I’ll let him out. Enjoy your food.”

He walked to the table, reached into the bag of supplies Phil had sent for the dog, and pulled out the bottle of vitamins Phil insisted Boo needed for some condition or another. He shrugged his leather jacket over his naked chest while slipping his bare feet into his loafers. He could stand in the open patio doorway and watch both the dog and Jill at the same time. “Come on, big guy.”

He slid open the patio door and twisted the bottle to squirt a few drops into the water bowl just inside.

Boo growled low.

Mason’s body tensed. He scoured the small patio, looked at Jill and back out again. “It’s all clear,” he reassured her, then snapped his fingers for the dog. “Come on, fella. It’s just your vitamins. See?”

Mason held up the eye-dropper.

Boo sprang forward and body-slammed Mason’s legs. Jill gasped at the dog’s uncharacteristic aggression and hopped off the counter. Mason extended his hand to keep Jill back. Boo headbutted him again. Boo nipped at Mason’s jeans and tugged, snarling. What the hell?

The bottle of vitamins fell to the carpet, the liquid spilling out and bubbling along the carpet.

The bubbling increased to a frothing volcano that steamed an acrid stench. The carpet melted away under the liquid.

Jill’s chest went tight with horror.

Tears stinging her eyes as hotly as whatever seared the carpet, Jill raced across the room and hooked her arm tightly around Boo’s neck, fear stinging like acid over her nerves. “I don’t think we’re going to be able to explain this away to housekeeping.”

Rex rolled open the silver server on the breakfast buffet at the Officers’ Club, probably not the wisest place to have brought Livia Cicero for their “date,” given the crowd, a very
curious
throng of people in uniform along with the occasional civilian family member, most of whom recognized his famous breakfast companion. But he’d been more concerned about keeping things with Livia low-key and quick. Breakfast wasn’t even lunch, which was certainly less of a relationship statement than dinner.

Unless people assumed breakfast followed a night together.

Damn, he wasn’t any good at this kind of thing. He’d only ever been with Heather. Not that this was a date. This was about turning a page and moving forward with his life.

His work plate was even fuller than the warmed stoneware in his hand—currently piled with eggs, sausage, hash browns, and a side dish of pancakes. He often missed lunch and ate supper late, if at all, so he always doubled up in the morning. Or rather, Heather had gotten him in that habit after realizing how often he skipped meals so he could cram in more work.

He dipped the ladle through the heated syrup and poured it over his stack of pancakes, added some melted butter, and done. Nothing left to do but return to his table for two. He balanced his plates and turned back toward Livia.

She perched on the edge of her chair with her fruit compote and tall latte, linen tablecloth brushing the top of her bare knees. She almost managed to hide a yawn behind her napkin. Livia obviously wasn’t a morning person, not surprising, since he would guess music industry people worked more in the afternoons and evenings.

Or maybe she just preferred pampered snooze-ins.

Regardless, she’d sure made the effort to look nice this morning. Her sleek black hair brushed her cheeks as she yawned, oversized gold hoops peeking through the strands.

Wearing a beige baby doll sweater dress, she could have been a kid home from college out for breakfast with Dad, which made him feel like some kind of pervert for checking out the way the crocheted overlay along the top of the dress accented the gentle swell of her breasts. If he looked at her long length of legs stretching from the short hem, he would be toast. He eyed her gold knee boots—no heels—and reminded himself that leather covered scars. Her crutch was propped against the wall. She was frailer right now than her temperament would indicate. He needed to remember that.

Shaking his head, he snagged a biscuit and headed back to his table. Maybe this meal would finally convince the diva to move on. Meanwhile, he might as well eat to pass time until his oh eight hundred meeting with Special Agent Barrera to move Mason Randolph and Jill Walczak, then he would head straight into mission planning for the final test flight to clear before the big unveiling. They would have to bring in another loadmaster from the squadron, which made his gut clench with frustration, but the change couldn’t be helped. He only hoped that with one near-fatal accident in this test, he wasn’t tempting fate by changing up things just to stay on schedule.

A very high-profile schedule with billions of defense dollars riding on the outcome.

He angled sideways, weaving through the closely packed tables, nodding at the occasional called-out greeting, and ignoring the inquisitive expressions. He took his seat at the table across from Livia, and his boot started tapping before he could even pour hot sauce on his eggs. This was a really crappy idea. She had to see that.

She blew into her steaming latte, her glossy lips pursed in a display that sent his pulse into overdrive.

His foot tapped faster. He averted his eyes. Across the room at a corner table, he saw Annette Santos, the woman Livia had said was dating Chuck Tanaka. But she wasn’t dining with the wounded airman. She stood at the omelet chef’s workstation with Tanaka’s physical therapist . . . Rex searched his memory. He’d learned to be good with names, a must in his job. Garrett Ferguson. Right. The guy was a civilian contracted to work at the base hospital, since the facility was short-staffed.

What was Annette Santos doing with Chuck’s physical therapist? Neither made any overtly romantic moves, but of course this wasn’t the place for PDAs—public displays of affection. The woman damn well better not be stepping out on Chuck. He’d been through enough already.

The couple took their omelets and returned to sit with Vince Deluca and his fiancée, a nurse who worked at a local free clinic. The meeting probably had something to do with Chuck’s care. Rex made a mental note to ask Deluca—a gossip hound anyway—for the scoop later. And later would come sooner if he got this breakfast over with.

He jabbed his fork into his eggs. Maybe if he could get her talking about herself, they would be through with this ill-advised idea once and for all, and he could put Livia Cicero in his past. “What made you want to be a world-famous singer?”

“What made you want to fly airplanes?” She sipped her latte, leaving a light pink gloss lip outline on the bone-white china.

“It’s what I do.”

“Exactly.” She forked a strawberry with mangling force, and when he didn’t speak, she finally continued, “Actually, my mother was an opera singer.”

So Livia came by the diva personality naturally. “Have I heard of her?”

“Likely not. She is quite the star of Italy, but she never quite made the leap to international fame.” She shoved the smashed fruit into her mouth.

“Unlike her daughter.” He doubled over a sausage link on his fork.

Livia dabbed her glossy lips, looking down and away. “Ah, but I am not a true artist. I am what you in America would call a sellout.”

Now that wasn’t what he’d expected in sharing time. He’d figured she would regale him with overly dramatic tales of her life of success. Instead, she hung her head.

Seeing this in-your-face woman’s spirit cowed pissed him off. “That’s a crock.”

He slathered grape jelly on his biscuit.

“A crock?” Her napkin slid away to reveal a hesitant smile. “I assume you mean that word in my defense.”

“You assume correctly.” He leaned forward on his elbow, butter knife still in his hand. “You’ve achieved fame and fortune beyond what your mother did. You deserve to be proud.”

She set her napkin by her crystal dish, smoothing wrinkles on the linen tablecloth. “Classical artists don’t always see it that way.” She glanced up. “Needless to say, the whole Las Vegas possibility has horrified my mother.”

As a life rule, he made a point of playing things cool, tactful, but he couldn’t hold back. “Your mom doesn’t sound like much of a parent. Parents are proud of their kids and make sure they know it.” Like he’d done with his sons, who he spoke to about once a month?

Shit.

He stuffed half a biscuit into his mouth.

Livia shrugged, drawing his eyes straight to her breasts moving enticingly under her sweater dress.

“Music is her passion. My father, her family, everything else comes second. I understood the rules when I made my choice for the popular music.”

His gaze snapped up to her face, where it belonged. He placed the rest of his biscuit back on his plate. “I heard you sing back in Turkey, that time you did some warm-ups with your friend Chloe playing the piano. It sounded to me like you’ve had classical training.”