Free Reckless Night by Lisa Marie Rice

color of the sea at dawn.

    Nick looked up from contemplating his black shiny wingtips and smiled into her beautiful gray eyes.

    “Actually, I was hoping that I could invite you out to dinner to thank you for your help. If I hadn’t done this preliminary research here, with your able help, my day wouldn’t have been half as productive.
    Asking you out to dinner is the least I can do to show you my appreciation.” She blinked. “Well . . . ,” she began.

    “You have nothing to fear from me,” he said hastily.

    “I’m a solid citizen—just ask my accountant and my physician. And I’m perfectly harmless.” He wasn’t, of course, he was dangerous as hell. Ten years a Delta operator before joining the Unit. He’d spent the past decade in black ops, perfecting the art of killing people.

    He was sure harmless to her, though.

    Charity Prewitt had the most delicious skin he’d ever seen on a woman—pale ivory with a touch of rose underneath—so delicate it looked like it would bruise if he so much as breathed on it. That was skin meant for touching and stroking, not hurting.

    “Ms. Prewitt?” She hadn’t answered his question about going out. She simply stood there, head tilted to one side, watching him as if he were some kind of problem to be sorted out, but she needed more information before she could solve it.

    In a way, he liked that. She didn’t jump at the invitation, which was a welcome relief from his last date—well, last fuck. Five minutes after “hello” in a bar, she’d had his dick in her hand. A t least she hadn’t been into pain like Consuelo. God.

    Charity Prewitt was assessing him quietly and he let her do it, understanding that smooth words weren’t going to do the trick. Stillness would, so he stood still.

    Special Forces soldiers have the gift of stillness. The ones who don’t, die young and badly.

    Nick was engaging in a little assessment himself. This morning he’d been bowled over by little Miss Charity Prewitt. Christ, with a name like that, with her job as chief librarian of the library of a one-traffic-light town, single at twenty-eight, he’d been expecting a dried-up prune.

    The photographs of her in his file had been fuzzy, taken with a telescopic lens, and just showed the generics

    —hair and skin color, general size and shape. A perfectly normal woman. A little on the small side, but other than that, ordinary.

    But up close and personal, Jesus, she’d turned out to be a knockout. A quiet knockout. You had to look twice for the full impact of large light-gray eyes, porcelain skin, shiny dark-blond hair and a curvy slender figure to make itself felt. Coupled with a natural elegance and a soft, attractive voice—well.

    Nick was used to being undercover, but most of his jobs involved scumbags, not beautiful young women.

    Actually, this one did, too—a major scumbag called Vassily Worontzoff everyone on earth but the operatives in the Unit revered for being a great writer. Even nominated for the friggin’ Nobel, though, as the Unit knew well but couldn’t yet prove, the sick fuck was the head of a huge international OC syndicate. Nick was intent on bringing him down.

    So on this op he was dealing with scumbags, yeah, but the mission also involved romancing this pretty woman—and on Uncle Sam’s dime, to boot.

    Didn’t get much better than that.

    “A ll right,” Charity said suddenly. Whatever her doubts had been, apparently they were now cleared up.

    “What time do you want to pick me up?” Yes! Nick felt a surge of energy that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the woman in front of him.

    “Well . . .” Nick smiled, all affable, utterly safe, utterly reliable businessman, “I was wondering whether you wouldn’t mind going now. I found this fabulous Italian place near Rockville. It has a really nice bar area and I thought we might talk over a drink while waiting for our dinner.”

    “Da Emilio’s,” Charity said.