Lear Read online

  Not bad, Cuddy, I tell myself. Not bad.

  Crap—I’m not Cuddy, right now. I’m Danielle. Never Dani, not even to Johnny.

  Danielle.

  I slowly dress, because putting on my going-out clothing is as much a process of gearing up for battle as when I donned BDUs and a bulletproof vest. From the skin-out, I let myself soften a little, and it was a mental process not unlike meditation. Let the bloodthirsty killer shark that is Cuddy sink to the bottom of her shallow pool, where she rests inside me, waiting to be summoned. Put on the bra, the underwear, and eye myself in the mirror—the way the lace cups my breasts, the way the silk hugs my hips and butt. Sexy, sultry. A gift for the lucky man I choose to let warm my bed, tonight; a gift for me—an indulgence in femininity.

  As a warrior, a professional killer, softness isn’t a common part of my life. It’s unwelcome. A liability. But I indulge in it on my own personal downtime, when it’s safe, when my team is far away, and no one knows that I’m Cuddy.

  It was the only way I knew of keeping my humanity at least partially intact.

  I slid the jeans on, focusing on the way they squeezed my legs and molded my ass into what is, very frankly: a work of art. Button, zip, smooth out the pockets.

  Damn—I looked pretty killer just like this, in nothing but black jeans and racy red bra. If I were gutsier in terms of fashion, I’d put on a pair of sandals and just go out like this. I could pull it off.

  Nah, that’s for someone else.

  Leave some mystery. Leave them something to unwrap.

  I buttoned up the shirt, shrugged on the bomber, adjusted the cuffs and the set of my boobs, and shoved the sleeves up my forearms.

  Hot damn, Danielle. Sexy.

  Ready for action.

  I nodded at my reflection and headed down to the garage—which was a big reason I chose this building in the first place: a secure garage with ample parking for my collection of go-fast toys. What to drive tonight?

  I decided on the one that fit my mood and looked best: a mint condition 1988 Ferrari 328 GTS, in a red as racy as my panties. I unlocked the biometrically coded lockbox, found the correct key ring, and took a moment to sit behind the wheel and appreciate this sexy beast of a car. Hell, yes. It snarled as I engaged the ignition, and positively howled as I squealed around and out of the garage, heading for my favorite haunt not far from the Magnificent Mile, a place where athletes and rich playboys liked to slink around.

  The valet was positively drooling—both over me and the car.

  I handed him the keys, and then let Cuddy out for a split second, just to scare the stupid out of him. “Take really good care of this car, kid,” I murmured, and that’s all I needed to do—he heard the threat, saw it in my eyes. “And if you see anyone sniffing around it, you tell me.” I flashed a hundred in such a way that made it seem like there was a lot more where that came from. “Get me, pal?”

  The kid, all of sixteen, maybe, nodded, swallowing hard. “Y-yes, ma’am.”

  I winked at him. “Good boy.”

  Inside, then. Dark, low ceilings, thudding bass, many shadowy corners and dimly lit nooks. Finding the right spot is key—I’m kind of like a Venus flytrap. Look pretty, lurking in wait, and then, when an unsuspecting fly wanders past, snap. They never know what hit ’em.

  I spotted a two-top booth along the wall near the bar where I’d get good service, but just shadowy enough that any potential prey had to get close to see me—close enough that I could decide if he was worth my time.

  I sat so I could see the room, noting the exits out of habit. I scanned the crowd and sipped a gin and soda with a lime—light, refreshing, low in sugar. I could drink roughly a dozen before I started to feel anything. For an hour or so, I was content to nurse a drink, let the noise wash over me, and wait.

  But I didn’t have to wait that long.

  “Hey.” He was young, smartly dressed, smart eyes, clean-shaven, eager, handsome in a boyish, innocent sort of way. “I’m Mark.”

  Cute, innocent—he had potential.

  I smiled at him. “Hi, Mark.”

  He wavered. “Um. Buy you a drink?”

  I lifted my glass, which was full. “Shoulda tried that one five minutes ago.”

  He frowned. “Oh. Right. Um.” He hesitated, not wanting to admit defeat before he’d even really started. “I could just sit, and we could talk. You know, decide if you want to get out of here with me.”

  I laughed at the unexpected ballsiness. “Nice one, Mark. Gutsy lines like that will get you pretty far.”

  He looked hopeful. “So, do you?”

  I smiled again, but it was the shutdown smile of sympathy. “Nope.” He looked so downhearted that I took pity on him. “I’ll tell you what—if I’m still here in a couple hours, try again.”

  He frowned even harder. “Meaning, if no one better picks you up?”

  I laughed. “You have that backward, Marky-Mark—they don’t pick me up, I pick them up.” I leaned forward. “Do I seem like the type to be picked up?”

  He searched me. “No, not really.” A sigh. “Point is the same, though. If no one better comes along, you’ll settle for me.”

  I patted his hand. “About right. But don’t take it so hard. You’re cute, and I’m tempted.” I scratched his chin. “Grow some stubble out, and act like you don’t give a shit. Girls go nuts for that. A hint of innocence, a hint of badass.”

  He laughed. “I’m studying to be a real estate broker. Hardly badass.”

  I shrugged. “Just sayin’.” I wave him away. “Now go. Find a pretty girl, and try the line you used on me. It’s a good one.”

  He slid out of my booth, and I watched him slowly amble around, not being too obvious as he scoped out the field. I did the same, and noticed a pretty girl about his age at the bar trying not to look too bored or eager. Mark’s eyes flitted across to mine, and I nodded at the girl. He grinned, and headed for her. Minutes later, she was laughing, accepting a drink from him, and a few minutes after that he was leading her out of the bar by the hand, with a quick grin for me.

  “That was nice of you,” a voice said, making me jump.

  I whirled back to face forward, and there was a man in my booth.

  I frowned at him, not liking that he’d surprised me, snuck up on me, but also impressed that he’d done so—it’s not easy to do any of that. “What was nice?”

  “What you did with that kid.” The man gestured at their departing backs. “Would you have actually gone home with him?”

  I blinked, trying to keep up. “Maybe. The cute, eager ones like that? They’ll surprise you.”

  I scanned my guest. Tall and lean, wiry. Sandy blond hair left messy—not intentionally, just…messy. He didn’t give a shit about his hair, which was sexy, somehow. Reddish-blond stubble on his jaw, sandpapery and alluring. Glasses perched halfway down his nose, thick black rims giving him an intellectual, intelligent, slightly nerdy air. The green of his eyes, though? There was something there. Something deep, and complex. He was wearing a black T-shirt, thin and stretchy, clean, ironed, and smelling faintly of fabric softener. It stretched around his shoulders and arms in a way that said he lifted weights and watched what he ate.

  Not my usual type. I liked them smart enough that I wouldn’t get a nosebleed trying to have a basic conversation with them, but not too smart. The too-smart ones tended to see the shark inside me swimming down in her shallow pool where I keep her caged. And let me tell you, nothing turned a guy off like letting him see that I can and will kill him six ways barehanded in less than fifteen seconds.

  This guy just flat out oozed intelligence. The kind of smart that worried me…or would, if it weren’t for the hungry way he was looking at me.

  He had a drink in one hand, a rocks glass filled halfway with some kind of scotch or whiskey, neat. He took a sip, emerald-green eyes raking over me from head to toe, blatantly. “You’re an incredibly beautiful woman.” A pause. A sip. “What’s your name?”

  “Tha
nk you,” I murmured, checking him out right back. “Danielle.”

  He extended a hand—large, strong, but not callused. Not soft, either, just not super rough. “Lear.”

  I grinned, thought it was a joke, but he wasn’t kidding. “Lear?”

  He nodded. “That’s me.”

  “Interesting.” I sipped my gin and soda. “What do you do, Lear?”

  A disinterested shrug. “I’m in computers. Cybersecurity…of a sort.” Not a topic of conversation, then. “You?”

  I gave the standard answer. “I’m in security, too.”

  He smirked. “One vague blow-off answer to another, huh?” He swirled the amber liquid. “How about we both just acknowledge that we’re in fields of employment which don’t engender a lot of personal sharing, and leave it at that?”

  I laughed. “So no asking personal questions?”

  “Precisely. Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.”

  I frowned. “Since we’re being honest, shouldn’t we admit we’re not opposed to lying?”

  He sipped, barely touching it to his lips but he made it look like he was taking a longer drink than he actually was. A trick I knew well. “Actually, I endeavor to never lie. It’s messy and overly complicated. Requires remembering the lie you told.” A roll of his shoulder. “I prefer to either say nothing, or as little as possible. Much simpler that way.”

  I nodded. “Smart policy.”

  “A practical policy,” he corrected. “And a necessary one. I have far too many important things to spend my mental energy on than to bother wasting it trying to recall which lie I told to whom.”

  I mimicked him, faking a sip. “So. If we’re not going to lie about who we are, and what we do, what should we talk about?”

  He watched me very carefully. “Simple. My place, yours, or a hotel?”

  “How do you know I’m going anywhere with you?”

  A long silence, his green eyes vibrant pools of moss and jade and oak leaves in the summer sun, and wickedly intelligent, poised, direct. “Let’s not pretend, Danielle.” He’d been lounging in the booth, leaning to one side against the wall, a foot propped up on the bench to show a bit of denim-clad knee; then he suddenly twisted to straighten, sat up and leaned forward, mere inches from me. “You have the eyes of a woman who knows exactly who she is and what she wants. So let’s just agree to be direct, shall we?”

  I mirrored his pose: elbows on the table, leaned forward with my drink clutched off to one side. “No bullshit games for you, huh, Lear?”

  “Indeed not,” he said. “My free time is limited. I prefer to spend it doing things I enjoy, and I do not enjoy pretending an interest I do not feel.”

  I smirked, felt heat gather in my belly. “What kind of interest are you feeling, then?”

  “The kind of interest which leads to us being naked.” He let his eyes lick over my chest and the hint of cleavage—I had my shirt buttoned most of the way up, just to make the hunt more of a challenge; if I were to unbutton even just one more, men would be tripping over themselves to get their hands on me.

  I let my own interest quicken and reach my eyes. “I see. In that case…a hotel.”

  “Good answer,” he said. “I have a room just across the street.”

  I grinned, more of a sexually charged baring of my teeth than a real smile. “Lead the way.”

  He indicated my drink. “You want to finish that?”

  I shook my head. “I’d rather drink afterward.”

  He swirled his whiskey. “This is hundred-year-old whiskey, and a rare indulgence for me so, if you don’t mind, I’ll just go ahead and finish it.”

  I laughed. “You were the one thinking ahead.”

  “Expressing my interests and my intent.” He sipped, slowly, carefully. “I’m in no rush, Danielle. When it comes to things I enjoy on my downtime, I prefer to take my time. Savor the pleasure, you might say.”

  I liked this game. Direct, but playful. “What’s your favorite pleasure to savor?”

  “A certain kind of scream,” he said, his answer immediate.

  My pulse hammered. “Oh? And what kind of scream would that be?”

  “One of helpless ecstasy.”

  I snickered. “Good luck with that one,” I said. “I’m not much of a screamer.”

  “Thus the use of the word helpless.”

  For some reason, my eyes went to his lips, and stayed there. “I see. You like your women helpless?”

  A casual shrug, but his eyes were bright with eager enjoyment. “Only after I’m finished with them.”

  I watched him take a long sip, this one a real drink, the level noticeably dipping. “Gotta admit, you’ve piqued my curiosity.”

  We were both nearly done with our drinks by this time, and it was a race to the finish for us, but in reverse. We were going as slowly as possible, to see which of us was in less of a rush.

  “If all I’ve done is pique your curiosity, then I’m worried I’ve lost my touch.”

  “Usually your game has more of an effect than that, huh?”

  He shrugged again. “Usually.” His eyes fix on mine. “But then, you’re not an average woman, are you, Danielle?”

  I shook my head. “No, not really.”

  “A challenge, then.” He nodded. “I like it.”

  We were down to a sip each, but neither of us was willing to finish first.

  He laughed, held his drink out to mine. “Clink, and drink,” he said. “On three.”

  “On three,” I agree.

  I clinked my glass against his, and he counted slowly. “One…two…three.”

  On three, we both tossed back the last of our drinks, and then my companion for the night unfolded himself from the booth—tall, lean, and narrow-hipped. He wore dark blue jeans and zip-side combat boots that were well worn, a black leather belt behind which his black V-neck was tucked.

  I slid out of the booth, and was surprised to find him extending his hand to me. Even more surprising was that I took his hand and let him lead me across the bar, to the exit. Upon our first step outside, we both paused in unison, and scanned the sidewalk in both directions.

  We noticed each other doing it, and he laughed. “Security, huh?”

  “Computers, huh?” I shot back.

  “Clear?” he murmured.

  “Clear.”

  He moved forward, and then, apropos of nothing, dropped into a practiced, professional tactical crouch—automatic reflex had me following suit, my hand tugging free of his to reach for my weapon…which wasn’t there.

  I straightened, stopped, and glared at him; he was laughing. “Very funny, Lear.”

  “Just messing with you,” he said.

  I stared at him in silence for a moment, and then, without warning, snapped my fist out toward his face. Not full speed, because he was too pretty to mess up that face with a broken nose, just sparring speed. His hand whipped up and slapped my fist aside in as much of an automatic reflex as I’d just demonstrated.

  “Careful about throwing punches, Danielle. Those reflexes are more instinct at this point.”

  I stepped into him and threw another straight—he backed up, blocked, and stepped aside before lunging into me with an elbow and a cross-body palm strike. Had either connected, I’d have broken ribs and nose, and he was clearly pulling back quite a lot.

  I heard a murmur, somewhere to my left—the valet, perhaps, or someone waiting to get into the club; we both ignored the bystanders.

  I countered with a block and redirect, and that led to a quick series of chops, punches, blocks, and redirects.

  He was good—practiced, smooth, automatic. To someone as highly trained in hand-to-hand combat as I am, though, it was obvious that this was rote for him, going through the katas without thought, and that his skill, impressive as it was, was not often used to damage others, but to keep his skills sharp in case he had to.

  We reached a standoff, my right wrist in his left, and vice versa—this is where I lost any
advantage of skill or speed, because he was just far stronger than I was due to simple physiological fact, and because I was not willing to actually hurt him, which is what it would have taken to break the hold.

  Instead, I let him maintain the hold on my wrists and I stepped forward, into his space, changing the game from sparring to flirting. “We gonna trade punches all night, or go to your hotel?”

  His answering grin was all teeth and no humor, only raw, sensual hunger. “Hotel.” He did something complicated and fast with his grip on my wrist, and somehow I found myself turned so my back was against his chest, my wrist bent up behind my back, my free hand still gripping his much larger wrist. His breath was hot on my ear, and I was more turned on than I should have been at how fast he pulled that move.

  I was about to try a reversal when he flicked his wrist, breaking my grip—his teeth nipped at the side my neck, and while I was busy being distracted by that, he freed the top button of my shirt, exposing more of my cleavage.

  “Hey,” I breathed, laughing. “Quit that.”

  I struggled against his hold, and he had me good, but—instep stomp, back of head to nose, twist and break grip, reverse hold on his wrist, palm strike to back of elbow, hammer fist to ribs, knee to balls…six seconds max, he’d have been on the ground broken in several places. I just didn’t want to do that. I liked this guy.

  Plus, his move was unexpected and sexy, and I was turned on like crazy by it.

  He kept his grip on my left wrist, leaving it tugged up behind my back as leverage, and he left my right hand free. Slowly, deliberately, he undid the next button down, and now a hint of red lace was visible.

  I wasn’t used to being helpless, but unless I crossed over into breaking bones, I wasn’t getting out of this hold. There was no leverage or angle with my right hand to strike at him effectively and he knew it, which is why he was leaving it free. But I also wasn’t about to let him strip me any further on a public sidewalk.

  “Lear?” I used my warning voice. “No more.”