So he waited. And the patience paid off. The bathroom door edged open, and sure as hell, there she was. Like the sun edging over the mountain. Like a clear breeze easing through the stench he could sometimes feel gathering around him.
When he moved, he realized he was almost too slow. Or she was almost that fast. His hand went over her lips, his body braced, pushing hers against the wall face-first, his free hand pressing the barrel of his weapon against her neck warningly.
She didn’t make a sound. Damn her. She didn’t even fight him. She relaxed into his body instead. Her rounded buttocks cushioned his hips, her shoulders curved against the wall, and she bared the slender line of her neck as his lips pressed close.
Hair that should have been long and black was cut close and blond. Gray eyes were hazel, clear silky flesh had a coarse appearance. There was nothing of the woman he had seen on his last mission, or the mission he had found her on before that. The Chameleon was as ever-changing as a woman’s emotions.
“I like the black hair better,” he whispered at her ear. “And the gray eyes. Natural, weren’t they, sugar?” He rubbed his nose against the ultrasoft lobe of her ear.
Her tongue flicked against his palm, almost surprising him, almost making him drop his guard. He chuckled softly at her ear instead and felt the smile against his hand.
“You shouldn’t be here.” He laid his forehead against her shoulder. “A man should be able to say goodbye to a buddy without an audience, don’t you think?”
She looked back at him, hazel eyes cool. There was no fear there. No anger. No impatience. But beneath the calculating chill there was a hidden flame. One he never failed to respond to.
“Wrong time, wrong place.” He stared back at her as she watched him over her shoulder. “Wrong life.”
He let himself experience the feel of her for just a few seconds more, long enough to let the regret in his gaze telegraph to hers. Long enough to watch the flicker of indecision in her eyes. That second where he knew she was weighing her options and her escape.
“I’ll miss you,” he breathed against her ear. “I’ll miss you more than you know, Kira.”
A deft move of his hands, just the right pressure, and a second later she slumped against him, thick lashes drifting over her eyes as darkness closed over her mind.
Ian swung her in his arms, lifted her from the floor, and stepped to the chair on the other side of the room. He placed her there, cushioning her head with a spare pillow against the back of the cushions and brushing the blond bangs back from her face with regret.
Wrong place, wrong time, wrong life. Because blood would tell. And this time, the hated blood that ran through his veins was telling in ways he had never imagined possible.
One
Six months later
Palm Beach, Aruba
HE WAS ROGUE.
Could there be any other explanation for the dark, avenging force that swept through the night?
The Chameleon scrambled through the warehouse, ducking behind crates and using the heavy support posts of the building to deflect the bullets raining around her.
The small team of highly trained Fuentes soldiers tore into the warehouse where the small cell of terrorists were waiting for the go-ahead that Ian was arriving for a scheduled weapons buy. They were there to kill him. But it was Ian who was killing instead.
She hadn’t managed to learn how they had received that information, or from where the leak had originated. Her work within the cell had gleaned her nothing but a certainty that the determination to assassinate Ian Fuentes was escalating.
The assassins had been on the island less than twenty-four hours. The final two had arrived just hours before with the details of the strike they were to make against the heir to the Fuentes cartel.
None of them had known for certain that they were striking against Ian until some hours before. Even the Chameleon hadn’t been certain of the plan until the French assasins in charge had arrived, their eyes cold, hard, and outlined the operation.
They had no sooner given the final order than death had swept through the night.
She flinched as a bullet tore across the beam several inches above her crouched form. Ducking and rolling, her weapon ready, she pushed herself deeper into the shadows as she lifted her weapon and aimed at one of the few remaining lights shining overhead.
The bulb shattered, sparks raining down on the assembled crates and packages prepared for shipping the next day.
She moved, sprinting from her hiding place, as bullets tore into the crates around her. Her gaze swept around the room and she grimaced as she saw the black-clad Fuentes soldiers moving through the shadows with stealthy certainty.
They were trained, disciplined. These weren’t the drug soldiers they had been when Ian Fuentes first arrived a year ago. This was a highly trained, effective fighting force. A team of dark, dangerous, SEAL-trained weapons.
Damn. The director of the Department of Homeland Security was going to have a cow when she sent in the report on this one. The rumors that Ian was taking out drug and terrorist forces alike hadn’t been substantiated. Everyone who could talk somehow ended up dead.
She was going to have to make certain she didn’t end up as dead as the rest of them.
Dammit, she had worked hard to get herself into position within the small terrorist cell working out of Aruba. A year of busting her ass and eating dirt with worms to get in place here, and now the team the terrorists had put together was just dead.
Moving quickly, quietly, she skirted the edges of the crudely built warehouse, working her way to the far wall where the loose boards there would allow her an easy exit. She didn’t dare attempt to use the door.
“Not so fast.”
The Chameleon froze as the barrel of the weapon was laid, almost casually, at the back of her neck.
She knew that voice. She knew the feel of that heated body behind her own.
She held her hands out carefully, allowing the Glock to fall from her gloved fingers to the dusty floor as she restrained the impulse to release the lever holding the knife beneath the sleeve of her light jacket.
Her backup was at her ankle; but it was dark, he might not see it.
Before she could do anything she was jerked upright and slammed into the wall hard enough to knock her teeth together. If she hadn’t been anticipating it.
Eyes narrowed, her arms kept carefully at her sides, her head jerked up as powerful fingers locked around her throat and held her in place.
Icy brandy-colored eyes locked on hers in surprise.