The Spy Who Tamed Me. Kelly Hunter

in Belarus and I’ll put someone on it. Discreetly. You can run them from here.’

      ‘I don’t work that way.’

      ‘No? Maybe you should.’

      She stood and headed for the door, but he wasn’t ready for this interview to be over, and he hadn’t yet let go of the rough edges he’d acquired after two years playing thug for Antonov.

      He shot out his hand to keep the door closed and got up in her face.

      Up close, he saw her eyes had little flecks of chocolate-brown in amongst the amber. He could smell the fresh lemon scent of her hair, feel the puff of her breath against his lips, and he knew that he was too close, that his lips were far too close to hers. Another inch and he’d be tasting her—and he wanted to. God. He wanted to fall into this woman and take his own sweet time climbing back out, and it didn’t matter that she was a section head or that his behaviour was way out of line. Maybe he’d forgotten what normal behaviour was. Meet a woman, like a woman, ask her on a date. Maybe he should start there.

      ‘Have dinner with me.’

      ‘That’s your next play?’

      Nice to know he could surprise her. ‘Why not?’ He could feel the warmth in her, sense the steel in her, and he wanted both. ‘You can toy with me. Mentor me. Discipline me. I’m young. Impulsive. Smitten.’

      ‘I’m not.’

      ‘Could be why I like you.’ He eased back, just a fraction, and watched for signs of arousal in her—the faint flush of her skin or the hitch of her breath—but he didn’t find any. Just a soul-deep caution that matched his own.

      ‘You need to back off, Agent West.’

      ‘How about I take you to lunch? I promise to behave.’

      ‘No.’ She pushed her knuckles into his injured ribs—not hard, but a warning nonetheless. ‘You’re out of line.’

      ‘Would you hurt me?’ He leaned into her hand. ‘I don’t think you would.’

      ‘I’d rather not have to. Doesn’t mean I won’t, Mr West—

      ‘Call me Jared. Call me by my name.’ He hadn’t answered to his real name for such a long time—two years or thereabouts. He’d been Jimmy. Jimmy Bead. ‘Just—use my name. The way you did before. I want to hear people say it.’

      ‘Is your last name not enough?’

      ‘First name’s better.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘There’s more me in it.’

      ‘Jared—’

      ‘Yeah. That’s the one.’

      He stepped back all the way this time, and gave her the room she deserved. Her hand fell away and he felt the loss of warmth as if someone had dipped him in the Atlantic. He had a feeling that his psych report hadn’t covered half of what was wrong with him at the moment.

      Or maybe it had.

      ‘If I say that my next question is for your benefit as well as mine, will you believe me?’ she asked quietly.

      He ran a hand through his hair. He’d been doing that of late too, and it wasn’t something he’d ever done before—either as Jared or as JB … Jimmy Bead. ‘What’s the question?’

      ‘Do you know who you’re hunting? Antonov’s last insider. Do you know who it is?’

      ‘I— No. I think it’s a director, but I don’t know who it is. If I could have nailed a bullseye to his forehead I’d have done it.’

      ‘That much I do believe.’

      ‘Get me to Belarus,’ he begged.

      ‘No. Not yet. You need to rest. Take some leave. No one’s going to send you back out into the field in the condition you’re in. Get some sleep and let your body heal and then we’ll talk again. And, Jared …?’

      ‘That’s me,’ he muttered, and there was a joke in there somewhere, though it was probably on him.

      ‘Welcome back.’