Code Name: Bikini. Christina Skye

he said quietly. “A she. Just a friend, in case it’s important.”

      It shouldn’t have been.

      She barely knew the man, so his friends and background were of no possible significance.

      Like hell, they weren’t.

      “You’re not—married or anything? Seeing anyone, I mean.” Great job, Ryan. Spell it out, why don’t you? Let him know you’re a complete tongue-tied idiot in a major state of lust.

      “No one.” He slid one hand slowly over her hair. Just that and no more, letting the warm strands play through his fingers as if they were infinitely interesting. “What about you?”

      Gina took a deep breath. “No one for me, either. No time for any of that stuff.”

      “Good.” The word was rough.

      He moved before she knew it, and his mouth brushed hers, careful and slow. Gina made a lost sound. Somehow her fingers were locked around his strong shoulders and there was no space between them. With her thigh to his, she felt the sudden tension of his body.

      “Hell,” he whispered.

      “What?”

      “This. You. It shouldn’t be happening.” His tongue slid against hers, hot and searching, and Gina’s fingers tightened. He kissed her hard as if he couldn’t stop himself, but had to try. His arousal was unmistakable.

      The suggestive pressure at the base of her stomach made her greedy for more.

      The sharp vibration of her cell phone jolted her back to reality. She shouldn’t be doing this. She had never been interested in casual sex. She hadn’t been too good with long-term relationships, either. But the slick, damp feeling between her legs told Gina that her body was making up for lost time.

      The vibration continued, and she dug in her purse, found her cell phone and answered breathlessly. “Yeah.”

      “Chief, where are you?” Andreas sounded worried. “I’ve got Reggie at bat, but the natives are restless. You’ve got four food critics and six reporters up here, and they want you, not us.”

      “I’m on the way. Ask Reggie to grab an extra white jacket in my size and leave it out, okay?”

      “Why—”

      “Don’t ask. Just stall. I’ll be there in five.”

      “You got it. There’s a television crew here, too. Someone from the home office set it up and forgot to let us know.”

      Gina coughed back a sound of dismay. No need to worry Andreas more than he already was. “Not a problem. We’ll start with the bed recipe—I mean, bread,” she said quickly.

      Great.

      Silence. “Gina, are you okay? You sound…strange.”

      She struggled through a haze of major lust and stared up at Trace. He was focused on her entirely, his hands open on her shoulders. His attention—and his control—were nearly tangible.

      Another major turn on, she thought. How long since a man had listened to her, watched with that kind of total focus and concern?

      Never, a small voice whispered.

      “I’m fine, Andreas. See you in five.” She powered off her cell phone and shoved it into her pocket. There was so much more to say, so much more that could have happened then.

      But her time was up.

      “I have to go.” Her voice was strained. “I can’t let them deal with this without me.”

      He nodded as if he understood. “The elevator is beyond those stairs. Make a left and then a quick right. You can’t miss it.”

      “How do you know where the elevator is?”

      “I memorized the hotel floor plan. It’s a habit of mine.”

      She frowned, suddenly aware how different his life was from hers and how unlikely it was that they’d ever met.

      That knowledge made her push to her toes and rest her palm against his cheek, savoring the heat of his body. “Thank you.”

      She felt his jaw flex. “I did nothing special.”

      “Wrong. I’d forgotten there could be giving with no strings. I’d forgotten—a lot of things. You just reminded me.”

      She brushed her mouth across his, feeling the instant rise of heat.

      Him. Her.

      They both felt it. His body left no mistake about that.

      Wrong place, wrong time.

      Gina forced herself to climb the stairs. No point in dragging things out. “After I change, I’ll leave your jacket upstairs in the kitchen. It’s just off the ballroom. Good luck with the champagne.” She smiled briefly. “I’ll…see you around.”

      But she wouldn’t. They both knew that.

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      HE WATCHED HER GO, her hair swinging, her steps fast. Great legs, he thought. A woman with places to go and people to see.

      He wanted her to stay.

      She was mouthy and stubborn, but he liked her energy. He also liked her sense of loyalty to her kitchen team. Trace knew all about the importance of team loyalty.

      But five hours to make one cake?

      He felt a dull ache at his shoulder and grimaced. He was regretting his wrestling match with the big mixer, but he hadn’t done any real damage. Any pain had been more than offset by her smile of thanks and gentle kiss.

      Great mouth, too.

      Then he shrugged off the memory. She wasn’t his type. He’d always favored leggy blondes or sultry brunettes, women who liked to feel a man’s body fast and hard, without much discussion.

      He rubbed his neck and wondered why the other women he could remember suddenly seemed pale and uninteresting.

      He glanced at his watch.

      Vintage champagne, he thought wryly. But first he was going to chew someone’s butt for closing the loading door without maintaining direct visual contact with the area. There was probably an override switch somewhere, but it was nowhere in sight, and someone could have been killed beneath the heavy door. The hotel was damned lucky that their only casualties were a forklift truck and a Hobart mixer.

      After he retrieved his uniform jacket from the kitchen, he’d report that problem to security.

      “LOOKING FOR SOMEONE?” Wolfe stole through the crowd, his smile forced.

      “Just an escape route. I found the missing champagne. The senator’s wife seemed very happy.” Trace set his untouched glass of punch on a nearby table. “Is it just me or do these things keep getting worse?”

      “Yes,” Wolfe said cryptically. “Don’t look now but the senator is gesturing. We should go make nice-nice.”

      Trace uttered a sound of pain and eyed the open bar wistfully. “I didn’t sign up to play nice. I signed up for det cords and delayed rocket rounds.”

      “Welcome to the New Navy,” Wolfe muttered.

      TEN MINUTES LATER Trace stood at the back of the crowded room finishing a shrimp canapé that tasted like cardboard. To his left a journalist was trying to draw Wolfe into an argument about the necessity of collateral damage during wartime operations. Not that he’d succeed.

      Finally Wolfe broke away, looking harassed as a woman slid a business card with her phone number into his pocket. “If I’m not brain dead, I will be in another five minutes.” Wolfe glanced at his watch, then examined the thinning crowd. “We’re done here. Let’s roll.”

      “Hallelujah.”