Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs. Jina Bacarr

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, he’ll find a way. What he doesn’t know is my choker also contains a sensitive microphone hooked up to a sophisticated comms system embedded in the rhinestone-studded collar to capture every word of intel that spills out of him. I hid the receiver in a planter in the bar and a cell phone tower relays the signal back to the field agents listening on the other end in a nearby parked van. The agents can monitor and neutralize intel gathered as well as sexual goings-on. I hope they’ve got plenty of coffee. This could turn out to be a tense and wildly erotic all-night session. A cyber ménage à trois.

      “You must have a drink with me,” says the Russian, pouring vodka into a glass chilled with square ice cubes. “Before we get down to business.”

      He hands me the vodka while his dark eyes rivet on the bare skin exposed above my thigh-high boots. I swear I see him salivating at the thought of nibbling on me.

      “I prefer martinis.” Wiggling my shoulders, I reach inside the squatty glass and slide my fingers around a big ice cube. Wet and cold. “But I can use the ice to cool off.”

      The Russian licks his lips with his fat tongue, watching me glide the slippery ice down my neck to the swell of my breasts, leaving a shiny wet trail on my skin before dipping the ice cube into my cleavage. I shiver. The ice is cold, yet sensuous. The effect is so refreshing I let out a low groan. That heats up his excitement.

      Panting, saliva glistening in the corner of his mouth, Ivan puts out his cigarette, clenches his fists, then un-clenches them. He’s hot, but I’m just warming up. From mock orgies to perfect my multifarious sexual personas, to virtual-reality computer games to train my biometric skills and experiment with every sexual position imaginable, I’m well schooled in my job. I give BJs to die for, fake exquisite orgasms, execute the most delectable James Bondage knots, pull down my panties with style and use my grippers when necessary to give even the smallest dick a good time.

      But having sex with the mark is not my goal. Driving him crazy with pent-up sexual frustration is. According to my preop meeting with Rork, the Russian’s intelligence is so valuable my mission is not only to extract the guidance chip from him, but to protect him and preserve him as a long-term asset. Which means no penetration. Keep him wanting it.

      “Wish you could turn into an ice cube, Ivan?” I tease, letting the ice slide down the inside of my black leather basque. I shudder