He had no intention of stopping. He didn’t think he could stop. It would take a—

“Hey, guys!” The door flew open a split second before, “Oh, hell! Jesus…uh…sorry.”

Delilah’s decadent nipple popped free of Mac’s hungry lips and he yanked his hand from her panties. Jumping in front of her, he shielded her from the view of their most unwelcome arrival. Her elbows bumped into his back as she frantically rearranged her bra and shirt, quickly zipping and buttoning her jeans.

“What the fuck, Ozzie!” he thundered, reaching up to pat his hair. He could feel it sticking up every which way, courtesy of Delilah’s exuberant fingers. “Ever heard of knockin’?”

“Sorry…I…” The guy actually appeared flustered—not at all usual for Ozzie. Then, that shit-eating grin split the kid’s face. He leaned against the doorjamb, wiggling his eyebrows. “So that whole Pat Benatar, hit-her-with-your-best-shot advice you were spouting out there on the highway was all a bunch of bullshit, eh? I thought so.” He nodded sagely.

“What are you talking about?” Delilah asked. “What Pat Benatar advice?”

“It’s nothing,” Mac said, then hastily added, “What do you want, Ozzie?” He asked the question while glancing over his shoulder at Delilah.

Mistake.

Her lips were moist and swollen from his kisses. Her chin and cheeks slightly pink from the abrasion of his beard stubble. And all he could picture right then was how the rest of her would have looked, so flushed and rosy, if he’d been allowed to finish what he started.

Or had she been the one to start it?

Honest to God, he couldn’t remember. His recollection surrounding how his lips initially met hers was a little fuzzy. In fact, his thoughts seemed to be flitting around his head like the honeybees used to skim around the meadow flowers on the east pasture back at the Lazy M. But one thing he was sure of was that an unpleasant sense of…he supposed he’d label it doom had settled in the center of his chest.

He felt as much as saw Delilah hop down from the dresser. And when she skirted around him, his eyes darted down to her jean-clad ass and that little roll of delectable flesh at the tops of her thighs just below the curve of her butt. The sight nearly had him going cross-eyed. Not to mention the fact that the exercise did nothing to dissuade Little Mac who was still beating persistently against his zipper.

But then, like a lightning strike from the clear blue, Mac remembered why he should never have let things get so far out of hand. Why he should never have allowed himself to kiss her. And why he should be falling at Ozzie’s feet and thanking the guy for barging in when he did.

Jolene! Jolene, come back!

And, goddamnit! Where was that recollection ten minutes ago when he needed it? The night when that broken voice yelled out in the dark, and the long string of days that had followed it when he’d mourned so much he thought he’d die? The one time, the one time, he could’ve really used the memory as a good ol’-fashioned kick-in-the-pants, it’d abandoned him.

“I, uh.” Ozzie tugged at his ear, still grinning and glancing back and forth between Mac and Delilah. “I wanted to tell you to come downstairs. Because I think Zoelner’s about to kill the adorable little CIA agent who just arrived on our doorstep.”

Huh? CIA agent? Well that was just what the doctor ordered, the perfect prescription to jerk Mac from his troubling thoughts.

The CIA? What the hell do they want?

Chapter Eleven

Life is a serious shit sandwich sometimes…

That was the thought that flitted through Dagan Zoelner’s brain when Chelsea Duvall cocked her head and, with one small finger, pushed her glasses up the length of her nose. Because imagine his surprise when, after escaping downstairs, he dialed her number only to hear the sweet sound of a Dolly Parton ringtone—Chelsea’s favorite and don’t get him started on that—emanating from just beyond the front door. Without a second thought, he’d wrenched open the ruined slab of oak, only to immediately start arguing with her as if it’d been mere moments since they’d last seen each other instead of a handful of years.

And, to top it all off—add the olive to the shit sandwich, if you will—how was it possible to be unaccountably pissed and unfathomably delighted all at the same time? The state should be a biological impossibility. Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t. Because, despite everything, she looked good. And it was good to see her. Even if her inauspicious arrival set his internal gyroscope twitching.

Taking in the black sedan parked out by the curb, an obvious government issue job, he narrowed his eyes and demanded, “How the hell did you find us?”

She rolled her eyes. “Seriously? You do remember who I work for, right?”

Yes. He remembered. Which made it worse. She accurately read his expression, because the next words out of her mouth were, “Come on, Z.” That low, rusty voice of hers was so familiar it almost felt like a part of him. “I’m just here to help.”

Uh-huh. Sure. “You’ll excuse me if I call bullshit,” he said, crossing his arms, staring down at her as she continued to stand on the threshold of Sander’s house.

The early morning light filtered into the decrepit old neighborhood and glinted off her pixie-cut black hair and the warmth of her café au lait–colored skin until it glowed around her like a halo. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the heavens opened up with a chorus of angels singing awwwwww. Of course, in reality her sudden appearance should’ve been accompanied by the dum, dum, dummmm sound effect of a thickening plot. Because, baby, her being here meant the plot had definitely thickened.

“Why is it,” she asked, narrowing her copper-colored eyes and mirroring his stance, crossing her arms over her plain white, button-down shirt, the strap of a big, black carryall bag tightening against her shoulder, “that special operations and federal agencies tend to attract a certain kind of man?”

Annnnddddd, here we go. Let me put on my boxing gloves. Because no matter what else had changed between them in the years since he’d left The Company, it appeared their tendency toward, not to mention love of, verbal sparring hadn’t diminished.

“I’ll play,” he said, vaguely aware that Ozzie, Mac, and Delilah were tromping down the stairs behind him. “What kind of man is that?”

“A dog. A stubborn, unruly dog that tries to bite the hand reaching out to feed him.”

“Nice.” He nodded, marking up one point in her favor on his mental scoreboard. “So then what kind of women do those fields attract, Miss CIA Agent?”

She grinned. The dimples in her cheeks winking at him. “Why, bitches, of course.” She uncrossed her arms to give him a shove. When he stumbled back into the house, she followed him inside, allowing the front door to slam behind her. “It’s all in the tail-wagging family.”

And point number two for the lovely Agent Duvall…

“Uh-huh.” He refused to let his eyes dart down to the curve of her ass, hugged so tightly in a pair of black slacks. Chelsea tried to hide her figure behind severe clothes, but with a rack like hers, not to mention that bodacious booty, it was an impossible endeavor. She might be short, probably no more than a couple inches over five feet in Zoelner’s estimation, but she had the curves of an Amazon woman. There was a lot of boom and pow packed onto that tiny frame, and, if you can believe it, he’d once heard her lament being fat.

Fat? Oh, hell no. Well…according to the ridiculousness of today’s fashions—skinny jeans and whatnot—perhaps she was a bit…plump. But in his humble opinion, that little bit extra she was carrying around meant that she was straight-up, lip-smacking delectation on two legs. The kind of woman men dreamed of sinking into. Soft, warm…

Good to know that hasn’t changed either. Fuckballs…

“So now tell me why you’re really here,” he demanded, watching her nod to the people who’d gathered around her. His teammates wore various looks of intrigue, consternation, and…um…okay, so Delilah and Mac looked more like cats caught in the cream. And was that pinkness around Delilah’s mouth a beard stubble rash? Momentarily distracted, he mentally slapped Mac a high five, silently congratulating the guy on finally pulling his head out of his ass. Then Chelsea snagged his attention when she said, “Like I already told you, I’m here to help.”

“And like I already told you, that’s…survey says? Complete bullshit.”

“Wow.” She nodded. “With sweet talk like that, it’s almost hard to believe you’re not married by now, Z.”

“Many have tried, babe.” He smirked at her. “Many, many have tried.”

She rolled her eyes and lifted a hand toward Delilah. “Hi,” she said, flashing that friendly smile that had been the first thing he noticed about her during a sit-rep—situation report—down in some windowless room at Langley. Well, that, and her amazing rack. “I’m Agent Chelsea Duvall, and you must be the intrepid Delilah Fairchild. It’s nice to meet you. I’m so sorry to hear you’re short one uncle for the time being, but I’m hoping I can help with that.”

“H-hi,” Delilah said, making no effort to hide her curiosity as she took Chelsea’s hand. And on the introductions went—What is this? A goddamned tea party?—until finally Chelsea came to Ozzie. BKI’s techno guru grabbed her hand, lifted it to his mouth, and kissed the back of it while wiggling his blond eyebrows at her enticingly.