Special Forces: The Operator. Cindy Dees

leaned back, looking disgruntled. In a heartbeat, she’d gone from stunningly beautiful to fluffy kitten cute.

      “You’re quite the chameleon, Rebel.”

      “How so?”

      “I’ve identified at least four versions of you so far, and each one is entirely different.”

      “Do tell.” She sipped the wine the waiter had poured for her, and abruptly, her attention riveted not on him but on her glass. “Holy crap,” she muttered.

      “Is it ruined?” he asked quickly. “Cork in the wine? Soured?”

      “No. I had no idea wine could taste like this. I don’t even like wine. But this is...amazing.”

      He leaned back, grinning. “Ahh. Welcome to the civilized world. Where pleasure is more than fleeting and people achieve actual happiness.”

      She scowled at him, back to being a hedgehog—prickly, but still adorable.

      He sipped at his wine, savoring the complex bouquet. “So tell me this. Why would men like Mahmoud and Yousef bother dumping chlorine in a pool? It’s a far too low-level attack—too amateur for men of their training and skill.”

      “Agreed. Unless it was some sort of test run. Maybe they were checking the emergency response. Or maybe they wanted to see if any sophisticated monitoring and detection equipment was brought out and used.”

      An interesting theory. He replied, “It’s not as if poisoning a bunch of people with a chlorine attack is likely to succeed without being detected. It stinks to high heaven, and people have some time to run away from the fumes, and in this case skin burns, before they’re seriously injured or killed.”

      “Obviously,” she retorted. “But what if they’re planning to use some other poison gas in a larger attack? Why go to all the trouble of setting up a lethal attack if you know the Olympic security team is prepared to detect it and stop it?”

      “But we are prepared to identify the usual nerve gasses.”

      She shrugged. “I know that, and you know that. But do the Iranians know that? Or are they testing the edges of our defenses to measure what we can and can’t respond to?”

      “Or maybe a few drunk hooligans thought dumping a bunch of chlorine in the pool would be a funny joke.”

      She studied him long and hard enough that he began to wonder what she was thinking about him. Only perverse stubbornness stopped him from asking. The same stubbornness frustrated his parents to no end, but had also saved his life on countless occasions when he refused to give up in the face of impossible odds. Hell, he was beginning to think getting this woman to relax and enjoy herself a little was one of those damn near impossible tasks.

      Clearly, she intended to keep the talk over dinner entirely business. So be it. For now.

      “Fine,” he conceded. “If it was, in fact, an attack, you’re likely right. It probably wasn’t random drunks. Have you considered the timing of the attack? Could it even have been your terrorists?”

      She shrugged. “Mahmoud and Yousef left the pool about thirty minutes before everyone started reacting to the chlorine. They would have had to use some sort of dissolving packaging or pellets that melted slowly for the timing to work.”

      “Okay,” he replied. “That’s a plausible hypothesis. Do you have any proof of it?”

      “There are no lights in that pool, hence no underwater video. I’ve checked the security cameras for last night, but the crowd is so dense around the pool I can’t make out anyone who might have dumped anything in the water.”

      “So your theory will have to remain just that. A theory.”

      “A scary theory that you and my bosses would do well to take seriously,” she retorted.

      “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you angry,” he murmured.

      “I’m not angry. Just worried.”

      “Fair enough. If you’re worried, I’m worried,” he responded gallantly.

      “Really?”

      He met her gaze squarely. “Yes. Really. Even if I don’t know you that well, yet, I do know Gunnar Torsten. And anyone he trains is someone to take seriously.”

      They waited in silence as the first course of their meal was served, hors d’oeuvres of wild mushrooms stuffed with crab, escargot and truffle paté.

      He silently took pleasure in watching the orgasmic expressions crossing Rebel’s face with each new flavor she encountered. She was a great deal more expressive than she likely thought she was. But then, a man like him was adept at catching every nuance of facial and body language, too.

      Eventually, he leaned forward. “I did get one interesting piece of intel from my people this afternoon.”

      She looked up expectantly from her potato-leek soup, abruptly all business, food forgotten. He sent a silent mental apology to the chef.

      “I’ll share it with you, but on one condition,” he murmured.

      “What’s that?”

      He stood up, went around the table and held out his hand to her. “Dance with me.”

       Chapter 4

      Rebel gulped. If there was one thing in the whole world she was terrible at, it would be dancing. “But, there’s no music,” she protested, praying the excuse would divert Avi.

      He walked over to an intercom panel on the wall and pressed a few buttons. Lilting violin music suddenly blared. He turned the volume down and then turned to her, holding out a hand.

      She looked around in panic. The room was plenty large enough to accommodate dancing. There were no apparent cameras to make an embarrassing record of her clumsiness. She resorted to confessing, “I’m a terrible dancer.”

      “Well of course you are. Dancing is about expressing joy. And we’ve already established you need a lot of work in that department.”

      She frowned, not appreciating being called a failure at anything, even if it was true.

      He captured her hand, which she realized in some shock was waving around nervously, and tugged her to her feet.

      “You’re going to regret this,” she warned him as he drew her into his arms.

      “Put your right hand on my waist and your left hand on my shoulder...assuming you can reach my shoulder.”

      She snorted. “Very funny. I’m not that short.”

      “In my world, you’re practically a midget.”

      Her eyes narrowed in challenge. “You’d be surprised the things I can do that a giant lout like you can’t even begin to do.”

      “Sounds like a fascinating conversation for another time. But right now, I’m giving you a lesson in waltzing. First, listen to the music. One-two-three. One-two-three. Do you hear the downbeat?”

      “Yes.”

      “On each ‘one,’ I’m going to step forward with my right foot, and you’re going to step backward with your left foot. Like this. I’ll take it slow.” He placed both of his hands on her waist and guided her through the step.

      Thank goodness. He just did the back step several times, and she caught on quickly.

      “Now, we’re going to step to the side on the second and third beats. Like this. Step-together.”

      She nodded after a few repetitions.

      “And now we put them together, and we find the rhythm of