Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs. Jina Bacarr

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СКАЧАТЬ cameras and reading the lips of the men ogling me, to posing nude for amateur photographers who have military secrets to sell, but I’m a professional. I don’t fool around on the job for my own pleasure. More than likely, a long-range telescope is trained on me right now, a field agent from the bureau watching my every move. It’s their way of keeping me in line and not allowing my hormones to take over and compromise my mission.

      “I have to go,” I mutter. “I’ve got a date—”

      “He can wait, Fräulein,” says the one-eyed Jack, not smiling. “I want to fuck you.”

      “I don’t fuck punks,” I say, spitting at him. My stomach twists into knots, my mind catching fire as I realize where this is going. Straight to hell. If he tries to take me, I’ll have to kill him. I don’t have time to play nice, not when my ass is on the line. I wipe my mouth with my hand, waiting. The next move is up to him.

      He snorts, lowers his rif le and shoves it into my ribs. I swear I see fire coming out of his nose. He’s sweating. Big-time. And did the bulge in his pants just get bigger? I hit a nerve.

      “You’ll find out I’m no punk, Fräulein.”

      I pull back but not fast enough. He grabs me around the waist and crushes me up against his bare chest. Hard. Oh, has he got muscles. Tight, taut and perfect. I take a deep breath. No way am I going to lose control eyeing a set of abs glistening with sweat, while he flexes his biceps like an actor in a straight-to-DVD flick. Sure, he’s good. Really good. But I’m better. I have more to lose.

      I go into auto mode. I raise my boot and smash him in the knee with my metal toe cap. He curses and stumbles backward, but recovers before I can execute my next move. Damn, he must have steel plates for kneecaps.

      “What the—” I cry out when he slams me hard against the wall of the brick building, rattling my brains. I’m breathing hard and I can’t catch my breath. He points the rif le at my breasts.

      “Don’t try that again, Fräulein, or—”

      “Let me guess. You’ll splatter my fake boobs all over the alley?” I say, teasing him, but I’m not done with him yet. “I’ll take that chance.”

      He grins. “You little—”

      “Watch your language,” I say, letting my left hand stray down to my waist while my right hand cups my breast. Never let your right hand know what your left hand is doing. “You never know what’s coming at you.”

      Before he can react, I rip off my skirt, revealing my bikini thong. Red. His eyebrow shoots up above his black eye patch. He grunts, rubs his crotch. I smile. Men. Give them a look and they’re putty. I’ve got him right where I want him.

      Before he can grab me, I toss my flimsy pink jersey skirt at him. It lands on top of his head, covering his face.

      Bull’s-eye.

      I take off down the alley and race toward the riverfront hotel to meet the Russian, leaving him to tackle with my skirt. By the time he gets it off his head, I’ll be gone.

      With considerable regret, I attempt to zap my meeting with the one-eyed Jack out of my mind, but a redolent aroma makes my nose twitch, though not in an unpleasant manner. A funky body odor arouses me, making me touch my crotch. Fresh. Yet earthy. Intoxicating. I savor the teasing smell lingering in the air. I’m wet, but it’s not my own scent turning me on. Black leather and musk oil. The one-eyed Jack.

      I’m drenched in his sweat.

      2

      “You’re late.”

      The Russian looks into my eyes. Curious. Puzzled. What does he see? A sex kitten? Or a TA special agent doing her job? Does he care? I doubt it. Sex is addictive, I’ve discovered, and cuts across intelligence. He isn’t the first informant I’ve known to risk blowing his cover to satisfy his perverted cravings.

      “You weren’t at the bar,” I protest, keeping my voice light, hiding the ambivalent pleasure I felt being crushed up against the bare chest of the one-eyed Jack. I experienced an intimacy with him I could never expect to find in badinage with a target.

      “I got tired of waiting for you,” he says, speaking in Russian. I understand him, though my Russian is merely adequate. “Where were you?”

      I purr, he smiles, hiding his anger behind the cold mask of his face. “I was delayed by the street parade,” I tell him, jiggling the handcuffs at my waist and tantalizing him with the promise of naughty games. I had no problem finding his hotel room. Every Russian informant I’ve dealt with checks in under the name Ivan Ivanovich. John Smith.

      “What’s important is, you’re here now.” He slides his hand up and down my body, frisking me.

      “Why the pat-down, Ivan?” I coo in his ear. “Don’t trust me?”

      “I like my pussy clean. No microphones. No wires.”

      “Satisfied?” I notice his dull gray shirt, no tie, dark jacket. Typical spy attire. He pulls out my Glock and stuffs it into his jacket. Disarming me wasn’t part of our agreement. I try not to appear nervous.

      “How can I be sure I can trust you?” he asks. “You have no creds.”

      TA agents don’t carry a gold badge and credentials like regular agents. I’m not sanctioned by the U.S. government like “the Gs,” special-surveillance groups from the Bureau that keep track of the movements of people under suspicion. If I’m caught, it’s up to me to get a signal to my handler to ask for help.

      “You were informed through the usual channels I’d be your contact.” I give him my code name, Gemini Blonde.

      His face lights up. “You’re a blonde under that black wig?”

      I smile. “Top and bottom.”

      His eyes widen though his face is lined with tension. From what I can see, he’s one nervous informant. Crushed cigarettes lying in a saucer. A bottle of vodka half-finished. I have no doubt he can hardly wait to get his hands on me.

      His mischievous smile widens. “I had a bet with myself you’d show up.”

      “Who won?” I look around for anything unusual, like a tiny red light indicating a camera. All I see is a bland brown-and-cream decor, double bed, round table and chairs, small white lamps and a scary modernist orange painting hanging over the bed. The overworked AC barely moves the humid air around.

      “I did.” He lights up another cigarette, drawing the smoke into his lungs, then blowing it out slowly. “I always do.”

      “Always, Ivan?” I say in my sexiest voice, though I’m sweating in my dark-angel armor-corset, pulling in my waist so tight I can only take short breaths. A shiny, studded mistress leather bracer protects my right forearm, and bracelet coils of black leather snake around my other arm. Rings decorated with medieval motifs of chains and flowers and cheap gemstones adorn my fingers. Pointy rhinestone studs on my collar dare him to get close enough to kiss me.

      I smile. If he wants to bad enough, СКАЧАТЬ