Free Rogue Soldier by Dana Marton Page B

whispered near her ear, his hot breath playing with her hair.
    A quick succession of pictures flashed into her mind of the last time they had made love. He’d made her want him until she’d lost all thought of caution. He’d been gentle and sweet, humming with barely restrained passion as he made sure she was ready, touching her body with awe and reverence that had turned her to mush inside.
    â€œI prefer not to dwell on the past,” she said, and ignored her body, which demanded a return trip to the happy place.
    Heat spread between her thighs as she remembered him parting them, the way she’d caught her breath as he’d settled over her. They’d had to be quiet. There were men sleeping in tents all around them, two to a tent. She’d reached up to link her fingers together behind his head and pulled him down for a kiss. He swallowed her moan when he entered her. He’d been infuriatingly slow, careful not to shake the tent, not to make the slightest noise.
    He’d been careful but thorough. He had made her his that night, in every way possible, and if she’d had an ounce of energy left, she would have begged for more. She hadn’t realized back then just how dangerous that was, to give herself so fully, to open herself up to so much possible pain.
    She cleared her mind. “I don’t remember much. I haven’t thought about us in a long time.”
    Mike ran a hand down her arm. “You know what they say. Those who can’t remember history are bound to repeat it.”
    â€œThere’ll be no repeating of anything. Period.” She willed her body to cool.
    He put his arm around her and pulled her tight against him, ignoring her warning, always taking more than she was prepared to give.
    â€œThat hand better be in the exact same spot when I wake up in the morning.” She had to draw the line somewhere, show him he wasn’t fooling her one bit. “Move it an inch and lose it.”
    She couldn’t let him know what a pushover she really was.
    Â 
    H IS MEN WERE three days behind. It made him nervous. The Boss switched his phone to voice mail, not wanting to listen to another scathing call from Tsernyakov. The man was not one to cross, nor were the Chechens, the final destination for the cargo.
    He had to make sure to leave happy customers behind. He didn’t need those kinds of people trying to track him down.
    The delay wasn’t his fault. He’d done what he could. He couldn’t very well predict the plane crash. And there was no time to send in an extraction team. The alarm had been sounded by then, the area under extensive search. The best he could do was plant enough false information to make sure that the search centered on the stretch of land between the pipeline and the Canadian border.
    Did Tsernyakov appreciate how risky that was? Did he thank him for sticking his neck out? Of course not. The bastard was frothing at the mouth, enraged about the delay, tossing around threats like snowballs.
    The Boss kicked off his shoes and lay back on the bed, crossed an arm over his eyes.
    He had other things to worry about besides being late—the witnesses. Two! The thought filled him with cold fear alternating with anger. He had hoped Alaska or the CIA would take care of them. He’d made sure they were considered suspects, had made a damned good case, but couldn’t push beyond that. Not without raising suspicions.
    He had missed his chance to take them out at the edge of the woods, cursed himself for that mistake still. There was no telling what his men had discussed in front of the woman, and whatever she knew she’d probably told McNair. Being the smart-ass he was, who knew what McNair had put together by now.
    Damn. He let out his breath, willing himself to sleep, too wired to actually do it. Why the hell did McNair have to get involved? Never did know when to stay the hell out of everybody else’s business. This was