Comeback. Doranna Durgin

a strangled noise as she offered up a little twist of her hips, her stomach muscles tensing beneath his hand. When had his other hand crept up to cradle her breast? He had no idea. He pulled her tighter, but it didn’t keep her from turning in his arms and wrapping one long leg around his hips so they met properly, all the right spots in all the right ways. While he was still gasping from that, she somehow shucked out of that spandex.

      “Oh, thank goodness,” he said fervently. And he wasn’t sure how he ended up on the floor on his back, or when she’d gotten his jeans off, or how she’d so quickly positioned herself to take him in, but it didn’t matter. He gasped, and he rocked his head back, and he said, “Oh…thank—”

      And she laughed, and she took him on.

      Chapter 2

      Selena rustled in sleek aquamarine silk and pretended the opulence of the faux ballroom didn’t strike chords of the Berzhaani capitol building; she ignored the czar-like splendor, the chandelier and filigree and rich wallpaper. She smiled at the trainee beside her, stuffed into a tux one size too small and pretending it didn’t matter, and she rattled off a final, emphatic Russian phrase. He frowned in concentration.

      “Bzzt!” she said, imitating the Jeopardy buzzer. “That was a joke. The daughter of the Russian diplomat sees that you aren’t charmed by her, and goes to look for better company.” She turned her back on him, spotted Cole on the other side of the room wearing a tux that fit him very well indeed, and gave him a slow wink. He hiked his eyebrow just enough to let her know the dress did indeed perfectly match her eyes and turned a bored look to the young lady who was so earnestly trying to impress him.

      Young. They were so young. But they were good, or they wouldn’t be here. They’d learn.

      Behind her, the desperate young man said, “But it wasn’t funny.”

      She had pity. She turned back to him, champagne flute elegantly balanced in hand, the ambience of the staged diplomatic reception surrounding them both. “It is if you’re Russian.”

      As this student should have done—but probably hadn’t—Selena had already memorized the exact layout of the room. She knew who stood where, and which student had slyly disappeared from public view to attempt her assignment of bugging a small reception room—nothing too challenging, this first time out. She knew which of the instructors circulated, relaxed and enjoying their role-playing for the evening. She knew the location of the special guests—such as Cole—who added extra flair and a sense of unknown for the students. She’d spotted one of the other students on special assignment simply by his withdrawn nature, and knew there was a third, someone good enough to keep her or himself unnoticed so far.

      The injured trainee wasn’t the only one conspicuous by his absence. Others had left the Farm—dismissed, or dropped out. Those remaining were halfway through their training, and tomorrow Selena would take up the counterterrorism classes with intent. Until now the instructors had bled counterterrorism work into the other classes—token introductions to favored weapons, to profiling, to interrogation. She’d assisted them as needed, but she hadn’t put her own program into full bore. Not yet.

      It hadn’t worried her. Her entire career consisted of educating the right people in the right way so they could best work with the United States to prevent terrorist actions, sometimes even when those people had no intention of learning at all. These trainees, on the other hand…they could only be called motivated.

      And now the young man who had been flirting with the daughter of a Russian diplomat lifted his head and said, “I get that! The joke! ‘Czechs sitting in Red Square eating matzo with chopsticks’!” And as she inclined her head at him, his eyes widened slightly in a way that had nothing to do with their conversation. Just enough to get her attention, not quite enough to tell her anything.

      Until someone slammed into her from behind, hard enough to knock her off balance. Never so off balance she couldn’t recover, though her champagne splashed across several surprised faces as she lost her glass. Never so off balance she couldn’t whirl in response, heeding the flare of fierce reaction that immediately sparked deep within her chest.

      But no. This wasn’t the Berzhaan capitol building it resembled. It was a group of people in a fake embassy playing fake roles with the earnestness of those who understood their lives might one day depend on it. So Selena clamped down on the fierce impulse to do fierce harm and drew herself up into her most offended huff, spewing Russian invective even as she turned around.

      And came face-to-face with Steven Dobry.

      She knew in an instant that this had been no accident at all. That Dobry had known just what he’d been doing— this venue, this moment—and that he’d meant for her to turn on him. To prove she’d overreacted several days earlier when his trainee had gone down at her hands. To prove that she’d do it again.

      Except he’d lost this chance. She’d done only exactly as she should have. She saw in his eyes that he knew it, too—but he didn’t have the wherewithal to stammer an apology in character. She spit a few more Russian words at him and turned her back to stalk away.

      No one in the room was stupid. They’d all know he’d acted deliberately, even the students who had no real clue about her days with the Kemenis. She’d be lucky if there wasn’t speculation…if someone didn’t sort through rumor to find truth so they’d all know.

      It’s what they were training these young men and women to do.

      As Selena huffed toward the exit of the grand ball-room—stairs that led to a richly appointed hallway and then out the door to the very ordinary eastern Virginia countryside—a dashing figure cut her off. Deliberately dashing, with that very charming, that so irresistible look on his face. Extreme self-confidence—cockiness, even— and a lick of bashful charm. He offered his elbow and said, “May I find you conveyance?”

      She said, “That would be most kind.”

      “And may I kick yon gentleman’s balls up into his throat on your behalf?”

      Selena pretended to consider. “Why, yes,” she said. “Yes, you may.” And then she glanced at Cole and said, “Just don’t get me fired.”

      Cole cast a regretful look back into the theater of the evening, finding Dobry in discussion with someone by a side exit. “Maybe not, then,” he said, and led her up the short, wide tier of steps. “Maybe another time, when my perfectly justified response might be less easily traced to my perfectly reasonable self. I do like that dress, by the way.”

      “I wore it for the poor young man who received most of my flying champagne. Easily distracted, I’m afraid.” But as they turned into the hallway, Selena hesitated, her hand still on Cole’s arm. Hmm, a nice welcoming committee, the Director of T&E himself. And coming out a more discreet exit into that same hallway, Dobry and the supervising instructor. A third man, unknown to Selena, seemed to mean something to Cole. Tension hardened the muscle of Cole’s arm under her fingers, and she gave a little squeeze.

      The director looked at Dobry and said, “Are you done with this?”

      “For the record—” Dobry started.

      “No,” said the director. “I mean, are you done with this? Because I am. These scenarios are to train our incoming employees. They are not springboards for your own clumsy whistleblowing. If I have a concern, I’ll handle it. If you have a concern, then you tell me and I’ll handle it.”

      Selena listened with remote respect, showing no sign of the surprise she felt; Cole’s arm relaxed under her touch. “Sir,” she said, when the director turned to her after receiving immediate assent from Dobry.

      “And you? Are you done with this?”

      “I was never part of it.” Simple words, sincerely said.

      The director considered them a moment, then nodded. “Good. Now, I’m expected inside. I believe we’re just about to reveal one of our evening’s operatives.